The Missing Magic

After a memorable evening of dinner, drinks and talk, in an expansive mood and a feeling of euphoria we came out of the Air Conditioned Pub of Noida Golf Club to suddenly find us in a different world.

A full moon in the sky, the emerald green freeways bathed pale, a pleasant mildly caressing cool breeze made us linger for a while longer, we had meet at the club to welcome Maliks, our common friends, on a short visit from USA, still talking of past with feelings dipped in nostalgia.

Earlier with the tables cleared, the Kulfies and Gulab-jamuns, savoured slowly, we had lingered at the table and later, with a feeling of bonhomie, at the car park, one hand on the car-door handle the other extended for a reluctant goodbye, unconsciously, trying to hold on to the magic of the evening a bit longer .

The moon and the cool breeze combine, unusual for the time and part of the world of Noida, brought back the magical memories of the legendary Malwa Nights: the vast landscape, lit by the full moon in the sky, stretching far towards the Bercaha lake, long back in time in Mhow and in the endearing company of Jeet, my late wife. Also evocative of similar nights of ‘The Dwars’ at Tezpur, the airfield area spread as far as eyes could see, suffused with the pale-white moon-light, the tall grass reeds swaying in the mild breeze with their silvery-white plumes shining bright, the high in the sky, full moon, of those winter nights was an ethereal sight: the sight, the peace and quiet of those special nights, though wove a sheer magic around one, provided no compensation for the pain and pangs of separation from the family far away in Dehradun.

I came home, parked the car, changed and came down once again to the park below. It was now past twelve , the full moon, and now high in the sky, was still bright as before, the breeze also blowing and the park suffused with the same evocative pale-white moon-light, alas, the magic that I had come in search of was missing and so was the company and the companion.

MY FIRST FLIGHT

MY FIRST FLIGHT BY IAC AND LATER

It was back in 1962, IA was then known as IAC, that then as a young Captain, I was posted in Assam, separated and far away from a younger wife, living in Dehradun. The only contact between the two pining souls was by the infrequent letters, which took days to move to and fro.

The daily IAC flight from and to Calcutta, flew low over our Regiment, located at the Sonbari Airfield, Tezpur, and landed and took-off regularly. The flight operated by a Dakota aircraft, which with its characteristic drone of the twin engines was both a friendly sight and sound.

A God-sent short training assignment at Agra made me realise that I could manage a couple of days at Dehradun by shaving-off some from the slow train journey, from Tezpur to Agra, if I took the flight to Calcutta and then the train to Dehradun .

It was a strange feeling of exhilaration when I had taken my seat in the aircraft and the door closed with a bang. I had flown earlier, as a young boy of fourteen, but only in a Royal Indian Air Force aircraft. A pair of Tiger Moths were on a war effort exhibition tour giving joy rides to district officials and local VIPs. It was just a takeoff, a single circuit around and then the landing on the grass strip at Saharanpur way back in 1945.

The Dakota flight was an entirely different experience, with its comfortable well-padded seat next to the window, looking down at the town of Tezpur, the majestic Brahamputra maundering on its way to Bay of Bengal and the slowly changing landscape down below. Seeing all, but possibly not registering much, with my thoughts at far away Dehradun.

Nearing Calcutta the aircraft banked, took a turn and aligned itself with the runway and slowly sank down making a smooth three-point landing. As we were walking towards the terminal I did manage to complement the Captain for the flawless landing, who gave me a pleasant smile in return.

The taxi drive to the Howarth Junction from the airport took more time than the flight had from Tezpur to Dum Dum Airport, Calcutta. However, I did manage some precious time with my wife and baby daughter, many times worth the princely sum of Rs 100, I had spent on the air ticket.

On the other hand, returning from Nagpur to Delhi by Flight 872 on the morning of April 5th 2004, this time in a Boeing 737 Jet, was a different flight experience. Unusually fussing-over cabin-crew, breakfast not served with shining cutlery but with a plastic knife for reasons of security. Different than flying in a Dakota, but similar in a respect.

Approaching Delhi, the aircraft started to loose altitude preparing for the landing, I could see it closing by the second, crossing the outer-fence of the Airport and then descending to contact the tarmac and the runway markers flying backwards. It was any moment now, by instinct and based on the experience of so many earlier landings in fair weather and foul that I braced myself for the expected thud and the accompanying jolt of the landing wheels making contact with mother-earth. My co-passenger made some remark but before I could respond I realised to my surprise that we had landed. No thud and no jarring note at the end of the flight. It was a strange coincidence, the non-event, suddenly brought back the memory of the landing at Dum Dum Airport way back on the afternoon of 24 March 1962.

There was no chance to complement the pilot this time; I could only request the cabin crew to do the needful.