It is three a.m. in an airport that is technically somewhere but emotionally nowhere. There is a tiny, lukewarm paper cup of airplane coffee pressed into my palm, tasting scorched and astringent as if someone tried to concentrate bitterness into roasted beans and call it âserviceable.â Nearby, a businessman is arguing with a charging outlet as if it owes him an apology, and my body clock has become utterly incoherent. I’m alert at the wrong moments and drowsy when it would be most convenient to function (like at immigration). The boarding pass says Mumbai, but the destination feels postponed by distance, layovers and the slow unspooling of hours that do not belong to any one day.
I used to love traveling in that starry-eyed way, back when I was younger. Vacations meant my family and I were packing our suitcases and airports felt as mysterious as slipping through the wall at Platform 9Ÿ at Kingâs Cross Station. In those days, the ordinary rules of Muggle life seemed to loosen the moment we entered the terminal, and as strangersâ lives brushed past mine like pages I would never get to finish. Solo travel has a way of burying the novelty beneath logistics, responsibilities, and fatigue. Now I know what my girl Taylor Swift meant when she said, âI’m happy, free, confused, and lonely at the same time.â Except in my version, it’s more miserable than it is magical.Â
The Physics of Time Zones
Once I am airborne, the geography beneath the airplane wing from my tiny window keeps changing and it changes me with it. My identity becomes more pliant as time zones stack on my body. Los Angeles recedes into a grid of lights, and later Europe appears in fragments; not as countries in my mind, but as a slow procession of dark land and scattered light. Then the Middle East passes beneath us in that languid, half-dreamed way as I fall asleep and wake up to Dubai zooming into view. As we draw closer to the final destination, the Arabian Sea looks vast and unending, scrubbing at my sense of time, and finally, Mumbai becomes the next piece of land I walk onto.
As my sleep schedule gets rearranged, along with my patience, appetite, and emotional thresholds, I lean into self-made rules to stay sane. These rules are the ones I only permit myself in transit, suspended between the peripheries of the world with a reconfigured personality.
Rule 1. Calories do not count when I am in a strange place on the map of the Earth. A croissant at the wrong hour is butter wrapped into a warm pocket and the sugar acts as a truce with my nervous system.
Rule 2. At the gate, I am emotionally responsible for about fifteen minutes. This is when I reply to the texts I ignored for three weeks, because I suddenly have time on my hands and nowhere to put it.
âSorry I disappearedâ
âI miss youâ
âYes, I am alive, just academically fighting for my life.â
âLetâs catch up soon.â
Do I mean it? Yes, wholeheartedly. Then, boarding is called, and I remember I am in Group 5, so humbly, I continue clearing my social backlog as I am not going anywhere for a while.
Rule 3. I always carry two books. One serious, heavier book for when I feel alert and ambitious, and one calmer, chiller read for when my brain gets tired and I just want something easy to sink into. If I am being honest, I usually bring a comfort book too, because long-haul travel makes me sentimental. That usually means âThe Song of Achillesâ by Madeline Miller, âSomething Wonderfulâ by Judith McNaught, or literally anything by Elif Shafak, which I am obligated to recommend to anyone who wants a good read.
Rule 4. Duty-free offers a small burst of excitement and relief in the middle of a tedious journey. It is the one place where I get to choose something for no reason other than the fleeting feeling of control and a tiny decision that belongs only to me. Turkish sweets when I layover in Turkey, the viral Dubai chocolate bar in Dubai, and the Macarons in ParisâŠ. Clearly, I’m a bit of a sweet tooth.
Rule 5. Strangers become brief, important chapters. There is something both fresh and slightly frightening about it. Some ask where I am headed. Some pour their hearts out about their travels and adventures. Some make me wary. And some are simply kind, offering to lift my bag into the overhead bin when they see me struggle. Sometimes I give a made-up name in a made-up accent. Sometimes I switch into networking mode and end up trading LinkedIn profiles at 35,000 feet. And sometimes I choose silence, sitting next to a stranger for hours with nothing but polite smiles, a shared armrest agreement, and the occasional awkward request for them to move so I can use the restroom.
Homecoming
By the time I land, I am always a little undone and a little restored. My sleep is wrecked, my suitcase is heavier for no practical reason, and my phone is full of messages. Dry skin, puffy eyes, a tote bag full of snacks and unnecessary duty-free âemotional support purchases.â Last but not the least, I have slept in a position that will keep me sore for the week.
Then I walk out, and Mumbai hits me with familiar air, heat, smells, and sound. There is immediate recognition in my body and mind that I have arrived, like for a moment, nothing in the world could possibly be wrong. And I remember why I do the 24-hour ritual every time. Not because it is glamorous or easy, but because it brings me home.