Good-bye, and Hello.
Three of our nearest neighbours moved away in October. Though they moved just a suburb away, to
senior living, I would miss them, especially my next-door neighbour Sue, with
whom I’d chat on the phone, visit, commiserate, pray,go for an outing, and/or walk several days a
week over the last twenty years. Who can
replace a neighbour like that?
Three houses stood empty for two months as we
wondered what kind of families would move in, and when. For Sale signs were
posted Cars drove slowly by, appraising curb appeal and the neighbourhood,
Sunday viewings were held. A few days before we departed for India for the
winter, a SOLD sign went up in front of Sue’s house. We watched in vain for
signs of the new occupants. Finally, as we left for the airport around noon on
November twenty seventh, we saw a car in Sue’s driveway. We would have to wait
until our midwinter return to meet our new neighbours.
Our MSP-CDG Delta/Air France flight was stellar, smooth,
calmly and efficiently attended. Wheelchair service in Paris was prompt, and the extra-attentive attendant narrated details of the route and every
little routine during the transfer to our next flight. At the entrance of the
second terminal was a glut of wheelchairs and second-terminal attendants,talking excitedly, apparently at odds about how to proceed, causing
everybody a delay. Perhaps it was their shift-change time?
As I teetered on legs stiffened by hours of
sitting, one disgruntled attendant, a woman, abruptly jerked my arm, unceremoniously pushed me into a
wheelchair, plopped my very heavy carry-on in my lap despite my protests,
and, with a parting rejoinder to the others, set off without first placing the
footrests, careening around corners and complaining loudly to another passing attendant who was pushing a chair in the same direction.
At the gate
for our next flight, this attendant unnecessarily and awkwardly'transferred' me to a chair. What a relief! As I sat there, I enquired from a passing employee about a customer service desk, although I knew that I had neither the time nor the energy to
pursue the matter. Within a minute, however, an intermediary appeared and
hunkered at my feet, enquired gently about my welfare and the incident, and
advised me to report it, if only for the sake of other frail (frail? who's frail?) passengers needing wheelchair
assistance in the future. The disgruntled woman attendant later re-appeared,
all smiles and cheer, to wheel me right up to the door of the JET Airways plane.
She’d evidently gotten the message. (I filled in an e-report form Air France sent me later, but then promptly lost it into cyberspace.)
The Jet Airways
flight from Paris to Mumbai was less than stellar, understandably so,
considering the almost completely full flight, inadequately restocked with
meals and supplies, understaffed by a very young cabin crew, too inexperienced
, undertrained and/or tired to handle it all. However, to their credit, they
tried their best, on their feet the whole way.
Two Indian women pilots (there may have been more) navigated a smooth ride.
After an awkward exit, with no wheelchairs at all, and a lo-o-n-n-g jetway, we tired travellers hesitated at the unmarked corridor encircling the perimeter of the new Mumbai terminal, confused over which way to turn. Most
passengers eventually headed to the right. Thankfully, we old geezers could embark
on a cart which miraculously made its toward us through
the crowd. But, what is this: we hold our breath and/or murmur, when it heads to
the left, the driver assuring a querulous old gent that we’ll eventually get to the right place. (I mean, how far could you
high jack an air terminal electric cart?) Scolding loudly, old gent struggles to
get self, wife, and suitcase down off the cart, continuing his diatribe as they join the
trend trudging to the right.
Meanwhile a scroungy
looking, tall white ‘trekkie’ brashes his way along through the crowd,
trumpeting his excessively self confident self as being “not like the rest of you bastards.”
'Takes one to know one,' I murmur, as our cart sets off in the opposite direction, My fellow passengers in the cart are bemused. Our cart cuts through the center of the building, and we
find ourselves at the baggage carousel ahead of the walkers. Memory hazes over
regarding the remainder of the Mumbai-Hyderabad terminal transfer and flight. Two long flights have taken their toll on intended alertness. We doze.
Upon our arrival, Hyderabad’s Rajiv Gandhi International
Airport appears busy but running smoothly. We barely have to pause with a porter to claim our
luggage, and head for a quick shower and few hours’ nap in a tiny room of the
airport’s tiny, dimly lit Plaza hotel.
Never mind that there’s barely room enough to maneuver between bed, bathroom
and luggage, we have all the amenities you’d expect to find in a full size hotel. Who needs extra room when you're sleeping. And
it’s squeaky clean.
Owing to the eleven and one half hour time difference between US
and India, it is early morning on November twenty ninth. We’re the first
to inaugurate the Plaza's Indian breakfast buffet, and eat our fill of upma and idli/sambar before
calling Raghava, our driver, to bring the car around from the parking lot. A
wide brass bowl full of fresh rose blossoms fronts the checkout counter as we depart.
We alternately doze and listen to current updates from
Raghava during the five hour drive along an ever evolving national highway. Oleander bushes line the median most of the
way. We make brief stops for tea and toilet at a small restaurant and gas station, a pause for a toll station, and a half-hour halt to say hello at the PUSHPA sewing center in Rajupalem, which is on our way, before finally segueing off the freeway and entering dusty, rush hour traffic on the edge of Guntur. We pass through
the smog of a truck unloading area. Piles of rubble clutter the spaces in front of severed
buildings in a neighborhood awaiting road-widening. We gradually begin to recognize familiar streets and
lanes. One final turn brings us to the
cream colored gate of Mary Shree, our familiar, cream color apartment building named after my motherinlaw, Mary Margaret Gummadi.
Our
watchman ambles out to open the gate that is already ajar, Raghava glides the car through, and we disembark at last, glad
to stretch our aching bodies and limbs. We nod to the watchman and his watching family,
press the button, and pull open the
double gates of our tiny elevator. A
diminished but familiar, disembodied female voice greets us with her stern unfailing admonition,
“Please shut the DOOR!”
As we rise to our fourth floor, we see, first, feet, then bodies, and finally the smiling faces of half a dozen family members
and the housekeeper, waiting and ready to greet us with smiles, hugs, and a hot, late
lunch. .It’s
good to be at home again, in India.
