#scruf 98: on flying again

i flew, i thought, i scribbled

Oct 22, 2021

last week i flew again! not metaphorically, but literally. not that i was a big flyer before it all, but there was always a kick to be found in those handful fiery seconds when the airplane’s engines fire up, the plane rushes on the runway and the two wheels holding it stitched to the earth finally lift and we are above.

the rush at that acute angle is perplexing but also so freeing. the kind of freedom that gives anxiety. it’s the kind of a liminal space that i’ve craved and missed these past ages. by standards of constructed time, only 19 months have passed by, but sometimes it feels to me as if two or three winters have gone by. amid this claustrophobia, taking a flight, however uncomfortable, was a welcome distraction.

for those few hours i could complain and crib about something other than being holed up at home. i could be free of the city where i was bound up and tied in. i could create my own city, up in the skies. i could be free, by extension, from my own self.

the white blind lights of the skies allowed me to be in the moment in a way that’s just not possible on earth now. a spitting sense of newness seeped into me, and within a few seconds also slipped away.

the joy of leaving Delhi, with its acute alcohol crisis, its worsening air, its depleting sense of self assailed my senses. and when i returned, the city greeted me with a soft cab outage, followed by a bout of UTI, then a sprained wrist and a lot more horrible things. the usual, but for those few moments, in their brief levity, i was free.

(as i type these words my wrist is wrapped in crepe bandage, ordering which was a task this afternoon. i don’t exactly remember the last time i used one of these, but jim morrison poetry blasting on my speakers is a balm.)

airports are portals, lending purple meaning to our otherwise bruised consciences. on my way back i had beers at an ill-stocked bar, with microwaved snacks that were too old and hence too tasteless. there were also a ton of men at the bar-cum-restaurant and no music. two bald men returning from a work trip were striking up a conversation with a very young woman at the queue at our gate which made me think of an ex-boyfriend. at the airport bookstore i idly stared at the hierarchies of fiction and nonfiction bestseller titles, wondering how they decide who goes up there. is it only on the basis of number of copies sold? my hometown doesn’t even have a functioning airport.

when we got back to Delhi we waltzed lazily through terminal three. walking then, i realised that i’d come of age in this airport. it saw me transition from an eager school student, to a disinterested lawyer, to a precocious journalism student, to an already tired journalist and now a research (climate science) communicator. through all these years, this airport has been my place of secret dreaming where i thought of writing during every pressing and non-pressing second. i stared at bookstores, buying undeserving overpriced shit fiction. through all relationships, deaths, friendships and behaviours, it was the fight and urge to write that kept me company, especially through these airport rides, because travel to me meant being able to break free which has also always been the thing i do with my writing.

a relief and also a probable cause of worry about flying this time was that i didn’t cry. the tears they did well up, but did i let them out? no. every time i fly i feel like i come out an intrinsically transformed person at the end of it. sardonically, it feels as though that can be the only justification for flying. there’s no reason at all why i feel this way — once on a wretched flight from delhi to coimbatore i howled and wept sitting alone in my row of a half empty air india flight. when a guy sitting behind me asked if i was fine, i was flummoxed, unable to even mumble a reason to myself as to why i was crying at all. being in that dimension, i also look for my uncle, who i lost to death in december 2012, i take a photo of the candy floss clouds, and close my eyes to remember the details of his face. his tiny dark brown eyes, his cute, mysterious smile, the pointedness of his nose. in these flailing ways i try to acquire soulful wisdom, however momentary. it might read pretentious, but is inward-seeking and takes a lot from me.

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i believe in flying we are momentarily able to grasp at the other side. while in mid-air i feel greeted by a warm comfortable hand, reaching out to me. none of that is palpable in a real sense, but it feels like a calling, if only feeble. and as the plane lands, its tires striking those first sparks as they make contact with the runway, everything changes. as i de-board, clutching my tiny suitcase, trolleying it quickly in the aloof cool of the airport, i realise i never made any contact with the other side at all. i was very much the same person who had flown out of Delhi, just a little more tired, sleep deprived and pained at the clunky seat space and the lack of proper legroom in aircraft.

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