Chinmoy felt a familiar tug in his heart as he left Cuttack, his hometown.
Mumbai, with its relentless pace, held him captive for most of the year, a mere fifteen days his annual reprieve. Twelve long years of this back-and-forth, a bovine odyssey of sorts, had taken its toll. But this time, it was different. This time, there was a wedding on the horizon – his own – adding a layer of charming chaos to the already precarious balance of life and work.
Stepping into Bhubaneswar airport, (20 odd kms away from Cuttack) his frazzled city nerves began to unwind, like a tightly wound spring finally released. The very air seemed to whisper a soothing mantra. Perhaps it was the reassuring presence of fellow travelers, a shared experience of transit-induced purgatory. This ritual, repeated some forty times over the last twelve years, had become a peculiar sort of homecoming.This airport, usually a haven of tranquility, was buzzing with the energy of four consecutive holidays. The Air India staff, bless their harried souls, were valiantly battling the tide of humanity. It took a comical forty-five minutes to procure a boarding pass.
Amidst the cheerful chaos, a dramatic scene unfolded near the entrance: a newlywed couple, locked in a tearful embrace with a small army of relatives. The bride’s sobs echoed through the terminal, a poignant symphony of farewell. Her relatives, instead of offering comfort, seemed determined to amplify the drama, adding their own operatic wails to the mix. The poor groom stood amidst the emotional maelstrom, looking utterly bewildered, like a man adrift in a sea of tears.
The spectacle continued for a good half hour before the CISF, with the gentle firmness of seasoned professionals, ushered the grieving party away, restoring a semblance of peace to the weary travelers. Chinmoy, finally armed with his boarding pass, settled near gate number five, seeking refuge in the rustling pages of a newspaper.
And then, fate, with a mischievous twinkle in its eye, intervened. The newlyweds, the very same couple from the entrance, took seats just a row ahead.
“Oh, for the love of…,” Chinmoy muttered under his breath. The bride, true to form, had resumed her gentle weeping. The groom, his face etched with a mixture of love and mild panic, desperately searched for a solution.
Chinmoy, a seasoned observer of human nature, correctly deduced this was a whirlwind arranged marriage, two souls still navigating the uncharted territory of newfound togetherness. An awkward silence hung in the air, thick enough to spread with a knife.
“Swarnima… please don’t cry,” the groom pleaded softly. “Have some water.” He offered her a bottle, his voice laced with tender concern. “Swarnima,” Chinmoy thought, “a lovely name.”
She took a small sip, her sobs subsiding slightly.
“Hey,” the groom continued, “would you like to eat something? You must be hungry. I could get you a sandwich, or maybe an omelet toast, perhaps a diet coke and a chicken burger?”
“Hmm, no,” Swarnima replied, her voice still trembling. “I don’t feel like eating anything. Besides, it’s Monday. I’m fasting.”
“Oh! Okay,” he said, a flicker of disappointment crossing his face. “Would you prefer a mug of coffee? I’m a big fan of black coffee. It helps me focus on work till late at night.”
“I love chai with two drops of honey,” Swarnima countered. “I don’t like coffee at all. Black coffee is too bitter. How do you even drink it, Ch… Ch…?” She trailed off, suddenly self-conscious.
“Chai!” the groom exclaimed, a comical look of distaste twisting his features. “I don’t like it. By the way, you can just call me by my name. It’s Chirag.” He chuckled at his own obliviousness, realizing the absurdity of assuming his wife wouldn't know his name. Swarnima offered a shy smile in return.
“Swarnima and Chirag,” Chinmoy mused, a warm feeling spreading through him. “It has a nice ring to it.” Sometimes, he thought, the silliest of exchanges could melt the iciest of silences.
Chirag, with a newfound spring in his step, headed towards the food court and returned moments later with two steaming mugs.
“What’s this?” Swarnima asked, a hint of surprise in her voice. “Two cups of masala tea? Where’s your coffee?”
“Well,” Chirag stammered, a sheepish grin plastered on his face, “you know, Swarnima, Chaiyos serves fabulous tea. I even told them to add a few drops of honey instead of sugar cubes. I’m sure they made it just right. Why don’t you try it?”
Swarnima’s smile widened. Chinmoy couldn’t help but chuckle. “Chirag, you adorable fibber. A black coffee devotee suddenly converted to honey-laced chai? Does he even know how tea is made?”
They sat side by side, the tension between them visibly dissipating. Slowly, Swarnima rested her head on Chirag’s shoulder. He gently took her hand in his, and they sat in companionable silence, sipping their tea, a picture of newfound intimacy.
“This tea is fabulous,” Swarnima murmured, her voice soft and content. “And I love the guy who customized it for me.”