Near my gate at the airport, I sat and waited. In my head, I was sitting and laughing with my friends in our undergrad school cafeteria from 20 years ago. In-between, I heard that flight to Hyderabad, India was boarding. Hyderabad. We grew up together. The city and me that is. When I first traveled there, the dusty road that took me from the railway station to my undergrad school was flanked by mom-and-pop grocery stores, wooing the passersby by showing off sparkling silver covers with chips and biscuits on them. A few barbershops were set up under the Peepal trees. Shops selling sweets had huge glass bellies displaying colorful arrangements, carts on the roadside sold fresh produce – the seller sprinkled water now and then to wash away the dust. Talkative birds in the Peepal and Gulmohar trees were interrupted by traffic horns. It all seemed a much bigger, scaled-up version of the village I came from. But home enough.
By the time I graduated four years later, our campus stood like an old sage in-between the giant glistening towers of the biggest tech companies in the world. The roadsides had transformed into parking spaces for people seated inside restaurants or getting manicures in the salons. Birds were not able to keep up with the pace or the incessant horns won’t let me hear them. Hyderabad was on its way to being one of the biggest cities in the world, and I had secured a very competitive job with the best tech company in the world. Just four years was all the time that was needed to build leaders. Had I done enough in the two decades since? How many times do people need to reinvent themselves in a lifetime? Had the city outpaced me? Would it even recognize me with all its glitter?
It was after midnight when the plane started its descent. I could feel throbbing in my stomach. I put a hand on it and squeezed it. Raising the window shield, I looked out and … the city had indeed “made it”! It had grown a city line and looked like a world-class metro with lights marking boundaries of all the things that are essential for modern life – the highways, buildings, bridges, hotels, stadiums. There must be people in those dark spaces in-between.
The rumbling in my tummy asked me about my plan when I meet my batchmates. Ex-batchmates rather. Why does time have to change the things we didn’t touch during all those years – will they pity me for having lost my chance to have either a family or a career? It would be 10x worse if Sahil comes there flashing his new wife and kids while he led a world-renowned research group. Dear Lord, you know how I act miserable when people expect me to; let’s please don’t do that this time.
I checked in to the hotel where rooms had been booked for each batchmate and their families. In the morning, I called for room service. I decided to get a shower and I heard someone walk past the door. Was it Keerthi? It sounded like him! Should I pop out and say hi? Maybe I need a shower first.
During the day, I slept and read and made my bed and did not step out into my city until the sun was setting over the horizon. The time for the official reunion party was near. I dressed up in my navy-blue gown and felt as confident as the girl who was sent out to tackle the world decades ago. What happened then? I sat on the edge of my bed. Did you lose and squander the opportunity? This was a familiar route for me. No biggie. I brushed my hair again, and took a cab till the back entrance of the college, and decided to walk till the administration building, the venue for the party.
After entering my name in a register at the entrance, I walked towards the roundabout lined with marigold flowers. It was dark, but I could see how they looked. The weather was always cooler inside the campus than outside. The trees did the shielding from the city air. As I walked past the younger plants, they rustled and murmured and greeted me. A shade of wind accompanied me. It was quiet. Maybe most of them were driving and will go through the front gate.
Wait a minute … this car … a worn golden sticker to the right of the number plate says “Aham Brahmasmi,” in Sanskrit. I recognize this! When I had first seen it, I had memorized the words and looked it up later. It means, “I am the Absolute.” The car itself was unique – not because of its newness, but oldness. Not antique, but I was humbled by its owner’s persona. A white Ambassador. It was once a symbol of prestige in the post-independent India, officials used to be chauffeured around in this car; but now it symbolized the aging bureaucracy where things evolved slower than life. I bent and peered into it. The front seat was the same old – a dark red couch just like the one behind; no separate seats for the driver and passenger. The gear stick was bent over the seat for access. All the parts were old. Older.
All my life I wanted to be him. To have a mind as steady, to have goals as clear, to live a life as simple. I could not resist to live his life for a few moments. I touched the front door and saw a keyhole. I took off an earring and stuck into it and shook the handle. The knob on the inside of the window popped up. I sat in the drivers’ seat and felt the compression of springs inside the seat! Dim yellow light from the street light shined on the dashboard. I touched it as if everything here was so sacred. He still drove this car? I touched the seat beside – does his wife ride this car? How old are his twins now? I spotted a paper on the floor on the passenger side and picked it up. An electricity bill. I rolled it up and held on to it like a kid to candy. Slowly, I put hands on the steering wheel. It was cold to the touch. There was a shorter concentric silver circle inside it with spokes meeting in the center. The designers of that era might have thought it cool.
He should be nearby! And as I looked up, it was the same gait – a slight movement from side to side while walking, albeit slower. His walk felt quiet, calm. A protruding belly, trousers tied right on top of it with a belt. His hair held back near his neck in a ponytail, a huge U-shaped white tilak on his broad forehead. His face had weathered a few more decades than me. I instantly felt something lift off my head, followed by a physical destressing of stress lines from my forehead, my ears pulled back; my doubts vanished – he still had the same effect. I smiled. But probably the street light was not falling on the driver’s seat. I slowly rolled down the driver side window; would he recognize me?
He stopped in his path, blinked. I waved my hand and stuck my neck out the window. A slight hesitation passed by on his face, but then the relief of recognition. “How are you?” he asked in his Tamil accent and sheepish manner. It was the light, conscious voice that had introduced him in our first class of Theory of Computation.
“I am good, professor.”
“So, a long time. Tanya.”
“Yes,” I said as I opened the door to his car to get out. “How’s your research going, professor?”
“Ya – it’s good. You tell – what have you been up to?”
“Me? I found out that I did not like tech much, so I started writing and planting trees.”
“Okay.” The brevity of the sound did not carry any judgement. No disappointment. It was all the badges that I needed for the night.
I stepped aside. “You are here for the reunion?”
“Yes, professor. Are you going there?”
“Oh no. It’s already 8 pm. I have to be at home.” After a pause, he said, “My son called and I have to take him to the market. It’s for school.” He said goodbye and drove away.
How many times do people need to reinvent themselves in a lifetime? For some, never. He was the one who defined life for me; I knew exactly what a successful life was. Self at play. Always.