My UNHAS flight from Herat surprisingly had taken off on time, landed at Kabul without a hitch. Even the weather cooperated––no delays due to snowing or threats of RPGs. The airports weren’t under attack, luckily.
“The signs are positive,” I declared to myself. I desperately needed my R&R.
I wanted to reach Washington D.C. by 24th December, no matter what. My son had just moved to D.C., had enrolled into a master’s program at the George Washington University, and we had rented an apartment in downtown . . .
My flight from Delhi-NY-DC was full. Everyone was trying to reach their loved ones on Christmas. A jovial mood floated through the aisles as the powerful jet pierced through the darkness of the night-sky.
I watched some movies, tried to read . . . drowsed . . . still so many more hours to go . . . 19 hours non-stop to NY and then an hour’s layover before my connection to IAD seemed like life time.
We used to travel quite a bit in my growing up years, I remembered. My dad was a true military-doctor in the truest sense. Everything had to be according to (his) plans––deviations weren’t acceptable. We used to call it “forward-march” approach and giggled behind his back while he huffed and puffed over every-nothings, trying to monitor us through the travel-prep process. But we were too many. Together we gave him a hard time (I believe). The more we giggled and broke the “perp-plans” the more we annoyed him, and thoroughly enjoyed doing so.
I know now that he had the best interest in his heart for us. He didn’t want us to be late at any occassion, miss out the fun.
On every instance, however, we reached our destinations way ahead of time. We arrived at airports hours before the checking counters were opened. We had to wait outside the building . . . those days passengers weren’t allowed to enter the airports 2-3 hours before flight departure. Airport protocols in the developing countries were very different than the US or Europe.
At weddings, we were so early that we ended up receiving both the bride’s and groom’s guests and the hosts. He made sure we were on time . . .
That was my dad––affectionate, strange, a crazy-bad tempered-goodman!
. . . We landed very early at JFK, ahead of time. The morning was just breaking over the tall NY buildings, the vast skyline. I wobbled out of the plane into the whiff of morning-coffee. Starbucks beckoned me.
My son was waiting near the carousel inside the IAD airport in DC. In six weeks, he seemed to have grown––he looked taller, more mature. Gone was the undergrad-boyish-quirky-demeanor now replaced by a respectable-‘responsible-ish-ness’ (that was my term to describe his transformation). This new differentness was noticeable.
I instantly fell in love with his apartment in the heart of downtown. The aroma of life breezed in along with the brilliance of the sun rays. On that cold, awesome early-noon, we ate at a Chinese eatery. Even on Christmas, there were many like us at lunch––DC is notorious for diversity.
We maintained social distancing with rigid, stubborn, smartness. My granddaughter, Izara, was born in January of 2020. We wanted to keep her safe, stay alive for her sake. We began socialization, traveling with caution from end of 2021. She and I have managed to escape covid. Her parents contacted the virus this year as they had to venture out into the wicked-world of covid infested scenarios.
The travel to my niece’s house in Kansas City is our Thanksgiving-family-reunion gift to Izara this year. For the first time, she has met her aunt-Nadiah who she calls “Tuimoni.” Izara also met her cousin Lanah, Liam and uncle Frank (Nadiah’s husband), and their two cats––Jazzy and Leo.
The airport wasn’t jam packed for Thanksgiving yesterday as I had feared. Only a handful of travelers wore masks, including us. Izara wasn’t hundred percent committed to wearing hers––she’s getting used to it, though. I sat in a separate row but went to see her a few times to reassure I was still in the plane, flying to KS city with them.
When we landed, she walked up to me, turned around and said to her dad,
“I don’t know you, baba!” and got all the co-passengers laughing. She held my hand firmly in her tiny clasp and was determined to take the rest of the steps with me, this time.
Covid era fears and heartbreaks have made us realize (once again) life is so much fun; family and friends are important––covid has robbed us of precious times that can never be replaced.
(Note: I have decided to take a break from writing war time stories. It’s too tragic . . . Sometimes, it’s good to let the sleeping tigers sleep . . .).
Or write to her at nuzhatshahzadi@gmail.com
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