Chronicles of the Middle Kingdom [Part - I]

"Are you going to Canada too?" asked the girl who stood behind me in the relatively short check-in queue of Southern China Airlines at Terminal 3, Indira Gandhi International Airport, New Delhi. "No. To China." I said. We were both taking the same flight to Shanghai. "Oh, I thought you were on transit to elsewhere." Indians don't usually prefer to vacation in China, and Chinese return the sentiment. I asked her for a pen to fill up the immigration form. I learnt meanwhile that most of my fellow travelers were on their way to Vancouver, via Shanghai. There was only one Chinese man in line. He looked lost.

At the immigration check, my face was briefly scanned. The officer stamped my passport, then smiled and gestured at me to carry on. Others weren't quite so lucky. At the next kiosk, a man was under skeptical scrutiny of another ignorant officer.
"I have never heard of Bangui. Where is it?"
"It is in Central African Republic." said the man, nervously defensive.
"Where is that?"
"Err...in Africa."
"Why are you going there?"
"On work - in the construction industry. Being deputed by the government on a developmental project there."
The officer looked askance at the piece of paper which the man had produced as a work permit; it was sealed and stamped, and had some lines scribbled in French which were unintelligible to him. I wondered if I should intervene and tell him that CAR indeed exists - that it is in Africa and its capital is Bangui. I decided against it and moved on.

T3 attempts to look ambitiously avant garde - the aesthetic effect created by Bharatnatyam padams arranged in a welcome before the Duty Free shops, is however, mitigated by the dismal brown carpets that stretch on either side across the various gates. I wondered what happened to the poor man at the customs. On the flight, I sifted through the pages of "The Finkler Question". Having finished reading about a quarter of the book, I still didn't know what to think of it, so I dozed off instead. I got up to a recorded announcement in English that conveyed that we would land in Shanghai airport in a short while.

At the Shanghai Airport, there was no one to help the Indian(s) who had to take a domestic transit instead of an international one. I toured the massive airport, pointing out to people my printed e-ticket to Beijing and using the most rudimentary english "Flight to Beijing. Go where?". After a few "No speak English" responses, a guard directed me towards the domestic terminal. After another hour of figuring out how-tos and where-froms, skillfully employing animated gesticulations and stunted english, I was on the next flight to Beijing.

I had wanted desperately to go to China for a vacation; but more so, for a friendship. Naju is a friend - a kindred spirit rather - who I have known for 6 years now. Naj and I have been close friends since we were both studying in our respective colleges in Hyderabad. We Skyped and Gtalked often, updating each other about developments in our lives. I stalked her Facebook photos and very publicly envied all the fun she had been having without me. However, the trigger that finally brought both of us together, was that the year 2010 had fucked both of us (like it had done many others) and we decided, that some girl-time fun again, for the sake of good ol' days, had been long overdue. Yet, upon arriving at the Beijing Airport, excitement betrayed me - in a manner that it usually betrays you when you're aware that peregrination has come to an end and the destination has been reached. Besides - my blackberry wouldn't work in China and I had no watch - I had lost the concept of time. It was liberating, but also mildly frustrating, as, in between my slumber, day dreaming and traversing international time lines, I had no clue for how long I had been traveling.

The uncertainity of my China trip - which had continued till the very last moment owing to work commitments, had not allowed the excitement of a vacation to build up. I hadn't been perusing the pages of glistening travel magazines for spectacular photographs of the Land of the Dragon. I hadn't been looking for "10-out-of-ordinary-things-to-do-when-in-Beijing". I hadn't been dreaming about the fun I'll be having. Instead, I had been spending long hours in the office to be able to afford this break. And I had almost cancelled my tickets the week before. The cumulative effect of the process of ultimately reaching Beijing, was that this silly languidness had descended upon me. I made my way to the conveyor belt and waited.

"There you are - my dear Indian Hobbit!" said Naju, tapping on my shoulders and flashing that toothy smile. I should have hugged her. Instead I blinked and stared before I mustered a few words - "How did you get inside the airport beyond customs barriers?" In my defense, that was a valid question. "Did you forget that I am diplomat? My position comes with certain privileges bebe." She winked, while helping me with my luggage. Naj speaks English with a diction which I cannot quite place. It is a confluence of accents she has imbibed from the various places she has lived at - her native islandic Maldivian, mixed with a little bit of Indian or a hint of Sri Lankan, a trace of Singaporean too, maybe, but I'm not quite sure of that; definitely none of Chinese though. When she speaks, her lips curl into an earnest pout at the end of every sentence, which makes the light brown in her eyes sparkle. This endearing manner of articulation, along with her beautiful square face and small islandic features make her inordinately attractive.

Outside the airport, the city lay frozen and densely grey, like Picasso's Guernica. February is cold in China. For me, cold equals gloom. However, I expected to see snow; I have never had the opportunity. "Snow isn't overrated" quipped Naj, while in the cab. "Plus, I told you this is the best time to come to China. It is Chinese New Year time. We get a whole week off! Chinese people don't have religions and so they don't have many other festivals. They wait all year to celebrate the new year. It's so festive, with lanterns and fireworks and what not. It's a big event. The streets of Beijing won't be as crowded as they usually are because most of the working crowd go back to their hometowns. Oh, we have a New Year dinner tonight with friends. Let the fun begin!" Her characteristic enlivening warmth slowly extinguished the hebetude that had engulfed me after the journey.

We resumed talking about the past, the present, the year that had gone by. We talked about the end of her 7 year old relationship. We talked about my forced separation with the Man. We talked like old friends talk - empathizing and hopeful for each other.

By the time we reached her apartment in the Diplomatic Enclave, a thick dusk had engulfed the grayness and the city lights had emerged, blinking and gay. Finally the realization of being in Beijing, and not in Delhi; of being in 2011 and not in 2010, sank in.

Solace for a wanderlusting soul, albeit with an aching heart, lies in the act of motion. For escapists like me, travel physically and palpably manifests the progression of time - an irrefutable evidence of moving on - of leaving something behind, be it the past or the spaces we have occupied or the moments we have lived. So long as we're moving - some call it running away, others call it running towards - we hurt much lesser.

I saw the first firework shooting up the sky from a window of Naju's swanky apartment, rendered warm and cozy by central heating. This eve of the Chinese New Year insinuated a new beginning.

[...to be Contd.]