In a half drowsy moment, somewhere close to 3:30 AM IST, I looked at the in-flight entertainment screen which showcased the current location of my flight, hovering somewhere over Delhi, and the long direction arrow pulling to the west, where the Netherlands is located. Down below on the screen, it read 3,939 miles and 6,375 kilo meters — supplementing cold, factual numbers to the distance I already felt in my heart. I turned the screen off, not needing any more reminders of how far everything I have known until now is going to be. Moving continents can anyway be an overwhelming experience, and doing it in 2020 is a whole different ball game.
Back home, preparing for the big move, my parents and I had set to somehow contain 26 years of my life within 2 suitcases, mindful of keeping it within the flight baggage weight limits. It was no easy task, because I have been a hoarder of sorts through my life. How am I supposed to decide what to take and what not to? Packing before had never been so hard, because even if something important was left behind, it wouldn’t be a long time before I could get my hands back on it. In the current situation, however, I had to carefully ensure that what I “needed” took prominence over what I “wanted” to pack. Such as, Indian spices, which granted would be available in the Indian stores at Amsterdam but would need to be taken along from home, for a “just in case” scenario that my parents sold to me. What I wanted to pack, however, a huge paper bag which had letters, notes, cards, small trinkets, collected over the years; each having a special memory attached to it — had to be left behind because a) it was practical , b) it took up a lot of space inside the suitcase and c) baggage weight limits.
The conversations before the move, were mostly kept logistical. The night of the flight, everyone restricted themselves to reasonable questions such as — How soon should we be reaching the airport? Am I carrying enough sanitizers for the journey? (Albeit; in today’s time, is there anything like “enough sanitizers”.) However, my mind consistently posed questions ranging from: “On a scale of 1–10, how scared I am to leave behind the people, I love and see every day? Does home mean something new to me now? Will Delhi always be my one true home, or can a person’s home change? Is home even a place, or is it more like a feeling? Is it even real at all?” Quite evidently, my mind and I are not best of friends.
After a quick, teary goodbye to my family at the airport, I settled into my seat in the biggest aircraft that I had ever sat in. It was intimidating, to say the very least. But, props to the social distancing rules, I had nobody sitting next to me, which was a relief for the 9 hour journey that I was about to undertake. As the flight took off, I gazed down at the brilliant specks of lights below me, which essentially was the Delhi I had grown up in and known all my life, and I tried, hurriedly, to spot my home. To somehow match spaces and shapes of light, in the night sky, to the outline of my home. But obviously couldn’t.
The journey was mostly uneventful, considering I was travelling through the night, and majority of the passengers spent it sleeping. Though, I sat awake, switching between the Kindle and gazing at the window; counting the hours before I landed. The first view of Amsterdam came in the early hours of the day. Metropolitan yet picturesque, and I took out my phone to somehow capture the beauty of what I was seeing, in 48 megapixels.
The night before, my father had updated the clock settings on my phone’s home screen showcasing both Delhi and Amsterdam time zones, for easy access. The primary clock was Delhi and the Amsterdam clock was a small, secondary clock right below it. Owing to the change in my location, I noticed the primary clock was now Amsterdam while the Delhi clock resigned to being the smaller one. Maybe it’s just me, but sometimes the biggest of changes and experiences; such as a leaving home, flying solo in a cross continent flight may not rattle; but a small trigger like this clock swapping, just springs forth emotions which were kept well-guarded until now. The shift in the clocks just cemented the realization that whatever I do now, Amsterdam is a reality and the India time is now just a reminder to know when it’s too early or too late to call home.
Today marks a week into this new city, and even if it never feels like home (Home shall always be Delhi) — it is a haven, a refuge. A beautiful city with plethora of opportunities, and only because I’ve spent most of my life bouncing between points in a particular constellation, this feels hugely different. But, with a hopeful heart, it’s never too late to explore a different constellation! :)
