Airports as Theaters of Love

Edited by: Deshna Maheshwari

The sound of boarding announcements echo through the bustling terminal, synchronising with the occasional hum of swift-rolling suitcases and snippets of conversations in languages alien to my ears. I get in line at Krispy Kreme behind a big, burly businessman in a three-piece suit, a briefcase in one hand and an ever-buzzing phone in the other. He looks like he walked straight out of Wall Street, ready to arrange mergers and fire subordinates for slacking on the job. As he reaches the front of the line, I notice his pointy leather shoes and wait, almost expectantly, for an order worthy of his demeanour. But in a squawky high-pitched squeak, he orders,“Can I get a strawberry glazed doughnut?” I stare in utter disbelief. And if that wasn’t enough, he adds,“With extra sprinkles please.” As he picks up his extra-sprinkled doughnut and walks off with a spring in his step, I nod at the absurdity of the airport and place my order next.

Doughnut in hand (no extra sprinkles for me), I take a seat beside a girl, about seven years old, her hair slicked back in a braid and her eyes glued to her lap—another iPad kid, I laugh to myself. As I connect my airpods to binge yet another season of ‘The Mentalist’, I hear the obnoxiously loud tune of ‘Tujhe Dekha Toh’ and pause to peer over the little girl’s head. I find it odd for a seven-year-old to be watching DDLJ at eight o’clock in the morning—but who am I to judge. Only then do I notice the young girl’s grandmother seated beside her—watching just as intently. She’s wrapped in her ochre-crocheted scarf, her glasses perched far too low on her nose. It reminds me of the time I would be ‘forced’ to watch old Hindi television dramas with my Daadi as a child—the typical saas-bahu scrimmage with incredibly dramatic slaps replayed thrice from different angles, each more exaggerated than the last. Eyes peeled to the screen, all three of us are engrossed for the unnecessarily long duration of Hindi songs—spilling over five whole minutes. “Flight 6E278 to Delhi is boarding” blares from the overhead speakers, snapping me back to the buzz of terminal 2. 

Sitting across from me, I spot a lovesick couple— heads nestled together, fingers interlocked, smiles eternally pasted on their faces—the whole honeymoon package. They seem to be in that stage of love where distance feels unbearable, and every second apart is emptier than the last. She whispers something in his ear, and he laughs a hearty laugh from the very bottom of his stomach. To them, they’re the only ones at Gate 14; everyone else ceases to exist. Having had enough of their overtly affectionate, nauseatingly expressive displays of love, I look away, giving my eyes some time to regroup.

To my right, I see two young sisters holding hands in the Anand Sweet Shop. The slightly older one seems to be taking charge, leading the way through the aisle of mithais. They remind me of my sister and me—the younger one wearing the most atrociously mismatched outfit, and the older decked in everything pink. At the billing counter, the cashier gives them a free ladoo, and, as all siblings do, they measure it and break it in half. A tantrum ensues over uneven pieces, and the bigger sister eventually gives in, hushing the younger one until they’re outside.

Placing my earphones in, I take one more sweeping glance at the vibrant terminal. I see a man sound asleep—sprawled across three seats at Gate 13. I catch a glimpse of a mother rushing to change her son’s “accident” (the diaper looks full, and I feel deeply sorry for her). I’ve seen early-morning drinkers, people kissing, holding hands, hugging, laughing, crying. It’s all fleeting.

There’s a special magic about airports. Time feels warped—you can be anyone, anywhere. Love exists in extremes here: love leaving, love returning, love remembered, and love discovered. In the most impersonal of places, love presents itself in its rawest, most unscripted, and transitory form.“Flight 6E2341 to Bangalore is now boarding.” Grabbing the remains of my original glazed doughnut, I pack up my laptop and join the queue. Boarding pass in hand, I take one last look at Gate 14. I see the granddaughter-grandmother duo still bent over their iPad, heads nestled together in focus. I see the young sisters squeezing each other in a tight embrace—holding each other so dearly, no ladoo could ever come between them. The lovesick couple aren’t going on their honeymoon, I guess, because I watch as she cries in his arms, kissing him goodbye—messy and urgent. Lastly, I spot the big, burly businessman on his phone again, only this time he’s blowing a flying kiss to someone on the other end of the screen. A grin spreads across his face from ear to ear as he ends the call and takes another bite of his extra-sprinkled delight.

Seated on the plane, my phone buzzes with a text that reads: “Safe flight. Can’t wait to see you.” Suddenly, I’m overcome with a rush of emotion—maybe it’s love in some form. I’ve realized that airports are theaters for love, a compilation of every moment painted in dazzling technicolour. And as someone once said, “If you look for it, I’ve got a sneaky feeling you’ll find that love actually is all around.”

• airport
• ashoka
• fleeting
• love
• nostalgia
• theater