December 19-20th Calcutta The Departure

Part 2 The Departure

Sunday 19th December '11

I wake up to an unrelenting shrill ringing. 

Where am I and what is that sound? Thats not my mobile. 

My disoriented brain struggles to re-orient. Through sleep-blurred eyes, I hazily make out peeling wall paint and a prominent Mizo calendar triggering the fact that I'm in Mizoram House - a state run guest house located in an area of Calcutta called Salt Lake City. Dazed, I reach out for my mobile phone, my only time piece. 

8.30 am. Bloody Hell, we only checked in a few hours ago.

The ringing of the room phone persists and exasperated, I snatch the receiver from its cradle, nearly knocking it from the table.

My irritation melts away when I hear my dad's voice at the other end of the line.

"I'm afraid you have to move rooms now"

Lovely. Only then I remember my dad's instructions to me yesterday in Delhi, when, traumatised by our missing luggage, I only half-listened .

"I've arranged a VIP suite for your first night, normally reserved only for top government officials as you will be exhausted and need to be as comfortable as possible. However, you will have to move room the next morning as it has been booked for that day."

"Sounds good dad" I had replied without thinking.

So here we are, packing yet again to move to a room not only below in floor level, but also in grade. As usual, the girls are good natured in their acceptance of the inconvenience and the 3 of us wearily trudge down and collapse almost immediately on our new beds.

We do not manage to get on the flight to Aizawl that day (having missed our confirmed flights the previous day); even my dad's long arm of influence can do nothing about the already heavily overbooked flight. So - having no option but to resign ourselves to another night in this delightful city, we wander, once rested and refreshed, in search of an internet cafe in the early evening as we all acutely need to get online. Many stray dogs, stray cows, street hawkers, rickshaws and indigenous stalls later (but no internet cafe), we return to our room for a Bengali feast, the highlight of which is creamy Hilsa fish in mustard. Have to say it is almost worth getting stuck an extra night in Cal for…. even the girls who are highly sceptic of native Indian dishes, especially those that involve bony fish, thoroughly enjoy it. 

So much for our day in the Bengal capital.

Monday 20th December '10

Apparently, Indian Airlines officials flying the Cal - Aizawl sector occasionally "off load" passengers or luggage when flights are over-subscribed. 

Acutely aware that I could be in that category, I resolve to check-in early and reduce the risk. 

So, well ahead of others, the girls and I breeze through check-in. Nevertheless - my uneasiness will remain until we land safely in Mizo soil with all 3 cases accounted for. The magnitude of our recent travel disruptions has pushed my patience and endurance to the limit and turned me into something of a cynic. 

Although this sector usually has its fair share of Mizo travellers, I don't expect (or even wish) to see any familiar faces as I have been away for years. I'm therefore astounded to bump into my own dear aunt (mum's younger sister) and her family. Lots of exclamations, shrieks and hugs later, we settle down in our gate for our mutual flight to Aizawl which, as far as we know, is on time.

But it is not to be. 

Alas the flight has the potent disadvantage of having ill-fated Babli on the passenger list. My little niece manages to watch 2 movies on my laptop while announcements blare out delay and further delay of our flight. My uncle's frustration, swearing and ranting does nothing to alleviate the situation…. as for me, I simply find resigned comfort in food. 

I indulge in hot Indian beverages -  teas and coffees made in the way exclusive to this part of the world - milky and sweet and served in insubstantial little plastic cups which look far too fragile to hold the piping hot contents. They are delicious though, and at Rs.15 (20 pence) a cup, are a far cry from the £3-£4 I dish out for their equivalent in my local Starbucks in London. I sample away at the singaras, barfis and pakoras - drawing a strange pleasure from their nostalgic flavours. My excuse….. I'm easing the stress of flight delays and feeding the travel-jaded soul.

Unfortunately, this is also the start of my journey of over eating, which, much to my downfall, will take over a considerable part of this holiday.

And finally we board. The space of time between exiting the gate and the actual flight take-off is about 12 minutes, which has got to be the most efficient boarding & take-off I've experienced to date. However, in spite of the pilot's valiant efforts to make up time, the flight is still about 3 hours late landing at Lengpui Airport, Aizawl.

My eyes are plastered like suction to the plane cabin window giving me a panoramic view of the rolling Lushai Hills…. they are as beautiful as I remember them, lush, green and hauntingly melancholy. Hungrily, they take in hill after hill, valley after valley, mist and fog spewed gorges, long winding rivers and vast stretches of thick bamboo groves.

The gang is at the airport and in full force with their welcome, three vehicles in tow. The relief at seeing them is gargantuan, a sentiment I know they share. Our perilous journey to Aizawl has taken 2 additional days - thats 4 days in all. 

How many times, over the course of the 4 days, did I question if we would ever get here, and whether our long suffering luggage would make it with us?

For all that….

…. as I watch the girls melt into the arms of their grandparents, I know that every trail and tribulation we have encountered getting here has been worth every minute, every sweat, every ache and every tear. There is no doubt in my mind that I will be willing to endure all that again, and more, if this is what awaits us at the end of the journey.