The Terminal: Chapter III

Chapter III

The more I thought about her, the more psychotic I became. I guess I still am addicted to her, she still overpowers me from the inside. The focus as they say, lies external to me. Sipping coffee from costa, in the lukewarm sun which was tempting all of us from behind the clouds, was heavenly feeling. Slowly the mufflers, hoods, monkey caps, ear canopies, etc. were coming off of people. All of us wanted to feel the lukewarm rays of Sun on our skin. I could not remove my pullover, I could not afford to be spotted here. I didn’t want anybody who would come to pick her up to spot me there, there would unnecessary repercussions on her. And as I was thinking about this, I think I spotted her Dad.

After a couple of minutes and few steps towards the person who was looking like her Dad, I confirmed that it was her dad. It was ten minutes to her flights arrival then. She must be flying in in the 9:30 flight. Suddenly, I was feeling all sweaty and hot, my heart started pumping furiously, had started to feel goose bumps underneath the three layers that I was wearing. I so wanted to go and meet her Dad and touch his feet and talk to him. But I could not, I didn’t want any trouble for her. And that is the moment I realized my flaw in the plan, how could I meet her if her Dad was here. I could not have met him. I cannot meet her in front of her parents. She would get in real trouble if that happened. I could not let that happen. What should I do now?

As suddenly as the signs appeared, they disappeared. Her Dad suddenly turned and was looking straight at me. And then I realized, it wasn’t him. It was somebody who resembled him a lot, but it wasn’t him. And right at that moment, the people from this particular flight started to disembark. They were a mixed lot, with families coming for holidays, ill prepared clearly for the North winters as the kids were already shivering. Then a few South Indians covered in so many layers as if they were going to climb the Himalayas. But my eyes were trying to spot one particular person, and I could not find her. There were only two more flights which matched her travel patterns. Or could it be that her travel habits had changed. She could be travelling on any of the total 161 flights that day. She could be travelling in any of them, after all it had been sometime since I was in contact with her. People Change. I removed my pullover, I could be here for the full day now. I headed towards the snacks stall, better get re-charged.



What do these MNC snack vendors know about “lassi”. The actual taste is present in the long lost cities in Punjab, where the buttermilk is as thick and is topped with a handful of clotted cream or malai. The size of a glass is almost as big as a forearm and mind you it can give you such a kick of energy that you feel sleepy afterwards. The buttermilk you get at these kiosks is nothing but a cheap comedy stunt on the original version of the same. We, with our friends used to haunt this Ramu Halwai all the time, for the quality of lassi and jalebi he had to offer. Come to think of it, every city with some historical past will have a shop like his. His shop used to be so busy, for the standards of the outlying city of Ferozepur. Ferozepur being a city on the border of India-Pakistan and was still in almost as pristine state as the British had left it in 1947. It had those pre-independence remnants in the architecture of the city as well as the buildings itself. As it was a border area, only a small amount of development had been invested upon by the state government. Our college was a Govt. Engg. College on the outskirts of this city. Very few places were actually present in the city, which college students could call a haunt. For the girls, the number of places were even lesser. Ramu halwai was right in the middle of the cantonment market, and used to be really busy right through the day. Usually his world-class buttermilk would be finished before lunch and he would start making aloo curry with poori. He always used to be happy when he would see college students in his modest shop. He would start making jalebi’s only after 4 in the evening and they would sell as fast as he could make them. Whenever I used to come towards the city, which was 6 kms from the college, I always used to get her some samosa and jalebi packed. She used to love jalebi. 

I feel like having something sweet now, what does Costa have?

To Be Continued....