The Airport Farewell Tour

Leena said goodbye to her parents with the seriousness appropriate to a six-week work trip and the amount of food her mother had packed for it. There were hugs. There were photographs. There was a final warning about keeping the passport somewhere sensible, which caused everyone to check the passport again.

Her father carried the suitcase downstairs. Her mother carried a second bag containing emergency snacks. Leena pointed out that the flight served dinner. Her mother said airlines were welcome to contribute.

The cab driver, Feroz, secured the luggage, confirmed the airport terminal, and waited while the family completed a second round of hugs. The neighbourhood dog attended without being invited. It accepted half a biscuit and seemed broadly supportive of international business.

At last, they left. Leena waved through the rear window until the apartment disappeared. She settled into her seat, fastened her belt, and exhaled. The emotional portion of the journey, she believed, was finished.

At the first long signal, her dentist pulled up in the next car.

“Leena!” Dr Megha called after recognising her through the open window. “Travelling?”

“Yes! Work trip.”

“Lovely. Remember your night guard.”

Leena waved goodbye to the only person who could make an airport departure sound like dental compliance. Feroz smiled at the road ahead. “First farewell outside home,” he observed.

The second arrived near Hebbal. An office shuttle stopped beside them, revealing three colleagues through its enormous windows. They recognised Leena immediately. One waved a lunchbox. Another held up his phone with a message: YOU FORGOT TO SET YOUR OUT OF OFFICE.

She set it from the back seat while the cab waited. Then she received a call from the same shuttle.

“Can you quickly explain the reporting folder before you fly?”

“Absolutely not,” Leena said, in the warmest possible professional tone.

The colleagues laughed and waved again. Their bus moved ahead. Her cab caught up at the next queue. The lunchbox appeared for a second farewell. By the third encounter, the colleague merely raised one eyebrow and pointed meaningfully at his phone. Leena drew the curtain slightly.

Feroz asked whether everyone in Bengaluru knew her. She said no. At that exact moment, a scooter passenger outside a shop shouted her name.

It was her building’s former association secretary, Mr D’Silva, who had once sent nine messages about a misplaced recycling bin. He asked her to remind her father about the annual maintenance meeting. Leena promised nothing but waved energetically, hoping movement of the hand might conclude the administration.

Her mother called. “How far?”

“Still saying goodbye.”

“To whom?”

Leena listed the dentist, colleagues, and Mr D’Silva. Her mother sounded pleased. “Nice that people care.”

“The dentist cared specifically about my teeth.”

“They are also going abroad.”

The traffic eased beyond the next stretch. Feroz maintained a steady pace. Leena stopped watching the arrival estimate every thirty seconds and opened the snack bag. Her mother had labelled the containers according to urgency. One said FOR LATER. Another said IF HUNGRY. They contained the same thing.

At the airport, they reached with the buffer intact. Feroz unloaded her suitcase in the designated area and wished her a good trip. She thanked him for being the calmest participant in a journey involving half her address book.

As she entered the terminal, her phone buzzed. A photograph arrived from a colleague: her cab, seen from the office shuttle. Under it was a message: FINAL FINAL GOODBYE.

Leena replied with a waving emoji, checked that her passport was still somewhere sensible, and joined the airline queue.

Behind her, somebody said, “Aren’t you from our yoga batch?”

Read when you’re a passenger or safely off the road. Never while driving.