Normally my style would be a little
different; for example huddled amongst my backpack and a wall under the cover
of an alternatively utilized checkered scarf. A fort constructed by imagination
and innovation. Slipping into the subconscious to explore worlds ordinarily
veiled by reality.
But the scenery is different this time. A
tacky neon sign has lured me to play another game. In the movies it’s all first
class, sophisticated suits and cocktails. Elegant hostesses, men with
international business and a tab taken care of with a platinum card. The adult
game of waiting for a plane. I’ve got 330INR in my pocket, which is enough to
buy a beer and a seat in the cafeteriaesque bar, the only one, at the Chennai
airport.
My pint of beer sits on a candy striped,
paper placemat along with a plate of fried cumin treats. The menu proclaims,
“Golden Chariot,” in an overly enthusiastic way. An electric blue, double
barred bug zapper sits above the bar, slightly below and to the right of an analogue
clock that reads 11:27pm. I take another sip of my beer and place it back down
on the placemat that, by now in its soggy state, has torn at the perimeter of
the condensation left by the beer vessel. Some men sitting adjacent try to get my
attention, “Madam. Hello. Madam.” They’re just not direct enough so that I can
ignore them and go on writing. The One
Straw Revolution, place marked at “Nothing at all,” sits alongside an empty
side dish on the table in front of me and Sri Aurobindo’s Thoughts on Experience defragments in my mind. It’s a kind of
lonely place, with a few Indian blokes, who wouldn’t smile at me even if it
were culturally appropriate to do so.
Although the obscure corner that I occupy
is the perfect place to snag a few hours sleep I revert back to thinking about
my outdoor bivouac. I’m uninterested in this bar-game now. Walking back out
along the flyover walkway I scrutinise the characters already occupying the passage
and instead decide to assess the potential at ground level.
A few families and scattered individuals
have sprawled themselves on the grassy area in front of the departure gate’s
double electric sliding doors. In the middle of the lawn I spy a flowering
frangipani tree offering a covered alcove to pass the night. I pull out my
multi-use scarf and wriggle my backpack into a space to rest my head. Although
it’s not too cold, it’s humid, and in the Indian winter the temperature will
drop overnight – the scarf will hopefully keep me warm and protected from the
ever-present mosquito army.
It’s darkest just before the dawn and time always
passes slowest in the dense hours between four and six. I sleep intermittently
and if I wasn’t so comfortable I would probably search for my jacket that’s
buried somewhere deep inside my backpack. When a old man parks his bicycle, a
vat carrying hot milk propped precariously on the back, next to my frangipani
fort I notice that the other families and folk have long departed. The man, wrapped
in a traditional checkered cloth like the one in which I’ve been cocooned,
entices passers-by, “Chaaaii. Coffeeee. Chaaaii.” I wobble my head
appropriately and he shuffles over, shoeless, with a steaming disposable paper
cup. I rest back into my not-so-secret alcove and calculate 132 minutes before
check-in opens.
Earlier the day before I’d boarded the
Chennai Express and remained entertained by rolling scenery and tumbling
thoughts; contemplating the future of agriculture together with fragments of
the last 6 months. There’s something about being in transit, the movement,
which allows my mind to wander and expand. Anticipating my advancing departure and
return to a previously familiar place I feel an excitement of discovering
what’s around the next corner. In this mode my world is unmasked, bare and an
open book ready to be written.
Thinking about it I’ll miss the street
goats, hanging out at my local temple and the seemingly un-coordinated chaos.
Shit, I’ll probably even miss the ants. In the meantime I’ll savour the last of
this hot chai as the evening darkness finally fades.
