return arrival

The inter-terminal bus at the Mumbai airport is dark and pungently smells of sweat. It’s 3 AM. One more flight to catch to Bangalore.

It’s interesting, the familiar unfamiliarity of seeing Hindi scripts on signs and hearing languages I can’t understand. It doesn’t feel as though it’s been almost a year since I was here last. I’m arriving alone this time, and navigating it all feels surprisingly natural. I’ve accepted that I will often have the look of a bewildered foreigner, asking lots of questions and inevitably doing silly things like trying to board a bus from the right side. Airports in particular seem to remind me of how American I am.

The bus crawls along a winding service road at a very slow pace. The makeshift homes build up against (or on?) airport property directly border our path. A number of rooms (or one-room homes?) are wired with electricity, and the bus passes close enough for the passengers to easily see inside. I feel privy to an invasive glimpse into someone else’s life. The stark inequity triggers an uncomfortable feeling.

As we disembark at the domestic terminal a few minutes later, I ask the driver if I am getting off at the right stop. He shakes his head gently from side to side, meaning yes.