It is a blur; swaying side to side, I fumble with my backpack’s zipper trying to locate my phone and turn off the blaring siren before my fellow-passengers in my coupé wake up and throw wilting looks at me in the dark. I can almost hear the voices, “Who dares keep an alarm at 3:45 am? The train reaches at 4:40 am, child! 4:40!” as I turn off the alarm, furtively glancing around to see if there are any movements. All lie still. Peace prevails. Phew.
I lug the heavy rucksack and my backpack, and step into a long-haired, bearded auto-driver’s rick. My watch blinks 5 am. “Where do you want to go?” he asks in fluent English, catching me by surprise. I presume he must’ve overheard my poor attempts at making myself understood to another autorickshaw driver whose languages had no intersection with those I knew (He cancelled the ride too, after I had called him and told him I’m coming – but all for good since I wouldn’t have met the genial long-haired guy).
We drive in silence, as I thank the Lord for the long-haired, bearded, polite auto-driver. I had prayed the previous night that I should get a good auto in the wee hours of the morning. And I pull my hoodie closer, and tug the hood over my head as we dash in and out of the nearly empty roads in the crisp and cold morning air.
As he drops me off in the bright pool under the street lamp, he smiles, “You are my first passenger of the day.” I thank him, then make my way to the second floor of the hostel, and I knock then wait for one of my two roommates to open the door.
Once inside, I do my usual stuff – brush, change, stretch, read the Bible, and then mentally prepare myself to get ready for the bath. It is 6:30 am. The others are fast asleep, and my eyes feel super heavy as I fight to stay awake. Okay, 10 minutes – I tell myself. I set the good old alarm for 6:40am, then a backup alarm for 6:45, then one for 7:00, another for 7:05, and one at 7:15 am — for good measure.
I nestle into my blanket cocooning myself in the warmth, and I am out the minute my head hits the bed.
Soon, I find myself in the cockpit of an aircraft – buttons, blinking lights and stuff all over the place, and here I am gently flying the aircraft. Not sure when I took off. The Air Traffic Control gives me clearance to land on runway A39, and I begin my search of the numerous runways that span out in front of me. Everything is blinking too. One of the runways seems to be beckoning with much fervour and I guide the behemoth craft into its mouth. I don’t remember any landing – I guess it must have been so smooth that nobody even realized we were on the ground. And then I start driving the aircraft like a car – on the tarmac; whee, to the left! Whee, to the right! Oh, a hairpin bend now, and another U-Turn there. Ah, I seem to be quite good. Quite simple it is, I think. Wonder why those boys (and girls) spend so much time getting schooled to fly. It’s so simple, psshh. And I make a graceful, swan-like turn – and then I see it, a blue wing of another aircraft – whoops! I bring the giant tires to a screeching halt, while gently maneuvering my big guy away from the puny blue plane, which seems to no longer be on a plane surface.
A single noted buzz suddenly resounds near my elbow. Oh, is it one of the flying assist systems? About time, I think. I sure do need some help flying this thing around.
Oh, never mind, just the alarm. I wake up weirdly well-rested, funnily fresh and deeply satisfied — like I just woke up from a nap after a long flight, and managing not to decapitate the other aircraft.
My Musings and I 