The man on my left

by Tania Mitra (India)

I didn't expect to find Japan

16.09.2018. I trudged along the length of the bustling Suvarnabhumi Airport, frantically trying to find the gate to my flight. All around me, I could sense the urgent calm that exists only in airports, but I was far too fazed to reconcile with it. As I boarded flight TG672, the unbecoming realization that I was once again seated between two strangers dawned on me. My flight from Kolkata to Bangkok had been long enough, and this was going to be longer still. After finding my seat, I attempted to put away my 9kgs-over-the-limit hand luggage in the cabin bin above. Two failed attempts later, a stranger motioned to me and quickly put the luggage in its place. I barely saw his face, and frankly, I didn’t care. I thanked him, got into my seat, and like any 19-year old, immediately stuffed my earphones in my ears. As the airplane filled out, I noticed that several seats were left unoccupied. I kept an eye out for them, making a mental decision to shift as soon as boarding closed. A few minutes later, I happened to look to my left, and the man sitting there promptly smiled at me. I realized he was the same gentleman who had helped me out earlier and found him gesturing to me- almost like a request- to take off my earphones. And so began the questions. “Where are you from?” “Why are you going to Osaka?” “Are you a student?” Initially, I was reluctant to engage with him. “I’m from India.” “I’m going on an exchange program.” “Yes, I am a student.” My answers were short, and my mind, elsewhere. The seats in my periphery were still unoccupied. Yet his incessant curiosity compelled me to acknowledge him. He was an old man, easily in his 60s, with a receding grey hairline and lines settled into the corners of his eyes. He spoke softly in broken English, but seemed comfortable in himself. What stood out to me the most perhaps, was the kindness that radiated from him. In the next 5-and-a-half hours, I learnt several things about this stranger. He was Vietnamese and during the war, he fled from his home and went to the United States as a refugee. He loved travelling and presently, he was returning to L.A. from India. He showed me several pictures from his trip- the luscious naan’s and dal makhani that he ate, the extravagant colorful wedding he attended, the dandiya festival he participated in, and all the things that brought him intrigue. Oddly, I no longer cared for the empty seats. It was the first time that I was travelling alone, and the burden of loneliness had been tugging at my heart from the moment I left my family in Kolkata. The possibilities of a new future and the memories of my home both gripped me, but in that moment, what I truly experienced was overwhelming sadness. So when I started talking to this man, I felt, if only for that brief period of time, a little less alone. Our conversations were punctuated, but even the silence in between was comforting. We spoke of our worlds- the one he had left behind, and the one he was living in; the one I was leaving behind, and the one I was going to make home. He insisted on giving me snacks and $50 to take with me- in case I got hungry- and for good luck. We exchanged our e-mails with each other, and once I’d settled into my new life, I tried to contact him. He never replied to me; all I have left of our acquaintance is the single picture we took. And that’s okay. Because his kindness will always be something that I carry with me. It is a constant reminder of what warmth in cold feels like. I met him at the cusp of a new beginning and an end. Of who I was up until then, and who I was about to grow into. Of the life I knew, and the one I was going to become familiar with. In this journey, I later introspected, sometimes, all you need is a stranger in transit.