One-Way Ticket Into the Unknown
The sudden acceleration pushed me back into my seat. The massive aircraft hurtled forward. I involuntarily closed my eyes. My high school physics class flashed briefly across my mind as aerodynamic lift kicked in. The plane’s loss of contact with the runway was visceral. I felt the front wheels — and then the rear — ascend into the air. I heard the landing gear retract noisily into the fuselage. And then — I was finally airborne.
Free of the Earth and its encumbrances — if only for a little while.
I was traveling alone on a one-way ticket from India to the United States. I was about to begin my higher education at a small liberal arts college in the Midwest. It was a few months past my 17th birthday. I had never been to the United States, not even to Europe, nor even outside the confines of South and Southeast Asia. As I took off that August evening, I had no idea when — or if — I’d live in India again.
That day, my parents had come to see me off at the old Mumbai Sahar International Airport. We hugged goodbye inside the terminal, under a yellow “Immigration” sign. It was dimly lit by a flickering tube light, one of the last vestiges of India’s socialist past. Weeks after — in standard-issue blue “airmail” letters — my mother described how I went unhesitatingly through the checkpoint that evening. How I never looked back once. That night, my parents went home and cried their hearts out. For what they knew they were losing — and for what they feared they might lose.
You know, twenty-seven years can go by really quickly when you’re busy building a life. College. Friends. Graduate school. An early consulting career. Buying a home. Girlfriends. An engagement. Business school. Travel. A marriage. New job. Moving. Having a kid. And another. Promotions. Layoffs. A change in citizenship. Through it all, my parents fully supported me and my dreams. They made it a point to make the long trek to the U.S. — again and again — to be present for every major milestone they could.
During that time, I made trips to India also. A few weeks between college semesters. A summer internship during graduate school when I couldn’t find one in the US. A trip to attend a cousin’s wedding. Another one to collect a visa from the local US consulate. Two weeks to get married myself. With the kids to introduce them to the extended family. A hurried holiday or two with my parents if I could spare the vacation days. Sure, I enjoyed these trips. But almost every time, I couldn’t wait to return to the United States.
It turns out twenty-seven years can also go by really slowly. When you’re getting older without your only child by your side to lean on. Late career job changes. Retirements. Moving cities. Lifestyle changes. Financial decisions. Falling out with extended family. The expected passing of grandparents. The unexpected passing of siblings. Chronic health issues. Accidents. Surgeries. Knee-replacements. Unexplained Falls. A life-altering diagnosis. A terminal illness.
A parent facing a terminal illness. It tends to put things in perspective. Suddenly, that promotion you’ve been working for doesn’t seem so important any more. Suddenly, you don’t care what your year-end bonus is going to be. Suddenly, you’re no longer counting your remaining vacation days. Suddenly, you don’t care how much that last-minute airline ticket costs any more. Suddenly, the thought of missing Halloween, and Thanksgiving, and Christmas, and New Years with your own wife and kids…. pales in comparison to the memory of all the celebrations you’ve missed in the years gone by.
So eager was I to build my life in the United States, I forgot about the very people who were responsible for making that life possible. Along the way, I missed milestone after milestone in India without much thought. My parents’ 25th wedding anniversary. Their 30th. My Mom’s 50th birthday. Her 60th. My Dad’s 70th. His 75th. Between 1995 and 2020, I spent exactly zero of my birthdays with my parents in India.
And now — all I can think about are the milestones I will miss celebrating together with them in the years to come.
Twenty-seven years passed before I flew alone across the oceans on a one-way ticket again. This time, it would be from the United States to India. This time, a few months before my 45th birthday. This time, I landed in Mumbai’s gleaming new Terminal 2 in the early hours of an October morning. This time, I have no idea exactly when I’ll be returning permanently to continue building my life in the United States.
What I do know is that I intend to make the very most of the time that I still have with both my parents in India.
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If only for a fleeting moment.
