You must be equally capable of experiencing anger and of controlling it

In purgatory. Or in transit, as the case may be.

Leave 2:30 am for Colombo airport looking an absolute horror in (are you ready for this?): black Sketchers, black socks, grey patterned leggings, white kurta, yellow tank top, oily as all heck, hair doing mad curly things with middle parting, terribly sunburnt and red all over, reeking of lemongrass and coconut. Do not look like 33 year old management consultant. Do look like tribal hippy of indeterminate origin.

Hoping the oil massage last night helps the burns. Very uncomfortable now. Want to rip off clothes and roll around in aloe. Think locals may not like that.

Lots of security around airport. Army checkpoints the entire way. Multiple bag screenings. Checked luggage is 22.1 kgs (allowance is 23). Will have to shed some load before can shop in Jaipur. Total shopping so far is two very lovely water buffalo leather bags and one wall hanging.

I shall now investigate my ‘breakfast packet’ that the hotel kindly prepared at 2 am, consisting of two hard boiled eggs, one very stale croissant, one banana and a fish sandwich. Because, you know, you want to mix bananas, eggs and fish for breakfast.

I know I’m on a flight to Delhi because behind me I hear one suit asking another if he wants namkeen snacks.

So the thing about Delhi airport in winter (or whatever you want to call 20 degrees C) is that there is fog. So “no landing or taking off is happening” said the pilot, after we circled for an hour. So we were diverted to Jaipur. Which, being my final destination, they naturally did not let me off the plane. We sat on the tarmac for 2 hours. They gave us “vegetable sandwiches madam” which consisted of three triangles of stale white bread held together with some creamy white stuff and some chopped up bits of what I dearly hope was carrot distributed from a cardboard box on round paper plates. Then we took off for Delhi, circled for another hour, landed, sat on the tarmac for another 30 minutes and finally disembarked. Ran to immigration where there were no landing forms to be found, hunted some down, discovered my pen writes on all materials except those issued by the Indian government and brazenly limped over to the Special Assistance queue since the regular one was too long to comprehend let alone join. Waited for an hour. Looked over wistfully at the regular queue but was gladdened to find it had not moved either. Immigration officer IS Ghanghas (yes, that’s his name) was yelling and abusing an over made up Afghani woman with child for being ignorant and useless. Ah India.

My turn. Apparently possessing an Indian passport isn’t enough to get you into India. You also have to provide evidence of last entry and exit. Which was in the last expired passport. Which is safely ensconced in its waterproof packet back in Boston along with the rest of the things-to-be-kept-safe. Plus when one’s passports have been issued from New York and Chicago, this triggers the hulk in IS officers who then start to abuse you for being ignorant and useless. This went on for about 3 hours. Everybody else around him had sympathy for my poor feet but not him. I was invited to sit in the immigration office for about 20 minutes before I had to get back in line to be yelled at some more. Giving them the last date of entry to be either Dec 1999 or 2000 (who remembers what happened over 10 years ago?!), and having endured lots of abusing on the subject of foreign-born Indians who have never lived in Delhi (that one really got his goat), they finally found me under a misspelled name in their records. Which he then grudgingly wrote up on two pieces of paper with a carbon in between as “most likely entered under…”, stapled lots of things together and waved me through.

I crawl, broken, filthy (stupid sofa in the immigration office bled on my kurta), dejected and morose to find fit and crisp Jet Airways people hanging on to my bag and rush in and out of various checkpoints to get to the domestic terminal. Wait in one line for re-ticketing (since have missed Jaipur flight by now) for 40 minutes. Told to go to another line. Waited in that line for one hour. Got reticketed for a flight in an hour. Ran to check-in and bag drop. Bullied my way through the front. Ran to security. Got yelled at for not having bag tags. Ran around looking for bag tags. Went through security – twice. Ran to gate. Got on sad little bus to be shuttled to the end of the runway system to board dinky two propeller situation with very hunky Surd steward. Fell asleep in seat. Woke up in Jaipur at 8:30 pm.

Car to hotel, lots of construction, check-in, long and painful shower, unpack, order room service, watch Kaalia, fall asleep at 11 pm. It’s been a long day.

Happy birthday, ma.