The kindness of a stranger-mom

'I'm not the kind of person who, when travelling, restlessly walks up to the gate every five minutes in a hurry to board the plane before anyone else.'

'I'm certainly not the kind of person who, when an older lady offers to let me go before her in a queue, fails to thank her properly.'

'But this is exactly what I found myself doing as I was getting on my first transatlantic flight.'

Neha Saigal recalls what caused her uncharacteristic behaviour.

Cut to a month earlier.

I've just confided in my boss that I need to move. My husband has been living abroad for three months now and, in these three months, we've realised that we just can't go on living on different sides of the planet.

"You should go be with him," my boss says kindly, "If you were my daughter, I'd tell you to go be with him." He reassures me that the weather where I'm headed isn't as bad as I fear. He wishes me well and that's that.

There's just enough time for me to give away or pack all the stuff we own. Not enough time for me to get overly nostalgic. I get to work.

When I was a kid, we moved a lot. The house I'm moving out of now is the one where I've lived longer than any other in my life. So I return to the familiar milquetoast -- box, duct tape, marker... box, duct tape, marker.

The hot October nights drain me as I get home from work each day and pack, pack, pack. No, I can't take all the stuff with me all the way. But many things are too dear to throw away. Totems of our life together. So I'm being hyper organised about packing and labelling things so that if I open these boxes after a year, things will still make sense. At least, I hope they will.

As one painting after the other comes off the walls, the house starts to looks hauntingly bare. This is exhausting, heartbreaking work. Especially when done alone. Into the wee hours of the morning. Every day. Week after week.

I run sleep deprived between banks, lawyers, notaries and farewells. There isn't enough time to say all the goodbyes I want to.

At the airport, I hug my family goodbye. There's a sense of rushing through it. What can we say to each other now that we haven't already? Or that we can't say over the phone a few hours later? But here they are here. And I feel loved.

My niece wraps her arms around my waist and just holds me. I break away from her to hug the others again. But she isn't done yet. She tugs at me and asks for a 'kissie'. I hug mom. She kisses me. It's time to go.

Inside the airport, I'm early. The flight is late. And Mumbai airport, while magnificent in design, feels clinical and impersonal to me right now. I'm leaving behind all that was familiar and comfortable and heading to a life of uncertainty. The exquisite lotus shaped lamps fail to comfort me. I don't know if I should be excited or anxious. At this point, all I feel is fatigue.

I have a long layover at Paris. The airport air-conditioning is very cold and shiver despite the layers I'm wearing. I zip up my big woollen sweater. My head is splitting. I pull out a veggie roll from my carry on. It's karela (bitter gourd) -- my favourite comfort food that mom has packed for the journey.

I try to call her as I eat, but the line doesn't connect.

I look for water so I can take something for the headache. The water in the fountain is chilled. The bottles in the restaurant are all chilled. Am I the only one who feels this aching cold reach my bones? I take a painkiller with the chilled water and sit down waiting for it to kick in.

I attempt the impossible feat of catching a nap while also keeping an eye on my belongings. It can't be done. I give up and resign to staying awake. But my body is in repose after so long that it still keeps trying to sneak in 40 winks. My head keeps bobbing up as I snap out of inadvertent sleep. Fatigue is winning. If only I could get into that aircraft, I would buckle up and shut my eyes.

When I walk up to the airline staff at the gate, I'm told the flight is delayed. I go back to sit. I let some time pass before I walk up to him and ask again. Delayed further.

As I sit back down again, I notice a large group of friends also waiting to get on the same flight, albeit more patiently. They all look like they are my parents' age -- easy-going folk heading home after a holiday in France. They're reading, sharing jokes, watching the luggage as they take turns to use the restroom. They're all relaxed and happy and watching them cheers me up a little.

While I look away for what feels like three seconds, a long queue has already formed to get on to the aircraft. I don't know how it's happened, but this large group that had fascinated me just moments ago is ahead of me in the queue too. Now, it will be another half hour before I'm seated.

Suddenly, something strange happens. An American reaches out to me.

Unbeknownst to me, a lady from the group of middle-aged holidayers had noticed me struggle to keep my eyes open, stay warm and get on the aircraft to sweet sleep.

And so this lady with a bright yellow shirt and a motherly smile offered me the spot before her in the queue. She was first in her group. And she was asking me to go before all of them.

She made some small talk to make me comfortable, something about how sleepy she (too) felt. She asked me where I was going and advised me on places to visit there.

I nodded and choked back the tears that threatened to burst.

All these months I'd been braving the fatigue and separation anxiety like a grown-up. Now this kind gesture from a stranger had shone a spotlight on the vulnerable and scared child that I really felt like inside.

I just wanted to hug this stranger-mom and sob and have her pat my back and tell me that it was okay.

Instead, all I could manage was a weak 'Thank you.'

But she heard the quiver in my voice as I looked at my toes to hide my welling eyes. She patted my back. And said to me kindly, 'It's okay.'

Illustration: Uttam Ghosh/Rediff.com