If you’ve got out of the habit of travelling, it’s scary to pack. You look at your open suitcase and can’t remember how to begin. You go through your checklist, look at the different weather-zones into which you will be travelling, and slowly sort the clothes into temperature-appropriate piles. You remember you always pack your flat stuff first. You wonder where to put the extra stock of the three kinds of masks you are carrying, how to store the big bottle of hand-sanitizer, what the weight limit is, and how to calculate if you’re going to go over.

If you’ve been static around one dwelling space for nearly two years, it’s a wrench to leave it. What will you do without your own kitchen knives? Oh, others will have kitchens in which they will use their knives to cook your food. What about your collection of South Indian podi powders, the ones you’ve carefully put together by shopping online? You are going to South India, remember? Where they literally bathe in podis — would you bring sandesh to Calcutta? — get on with it! Oh, remember to pack the box of nolen gur sandesh for your friends down South who miss Calcutta so much.

Over the last three or four days, you run down the fridge. You eat odd combinations of leftovers. You send off all kinds of perishables to friends, some of whom reply tartly (“Thanks for the three sausages and fifteen peanuts. Really, thanks.”). You stuff your fridge with stuff the bugs might start to party with once they realize they’ve finally got the joint back to themselves till someone reminds you that this is the cold season and there are very few bugs. You shut windows and tie ropes to handles in case there is a cyclone while you are away (unlikely in the next three weeks, but hey, with global warming, who knows anymore?).

On the day of travel, T-Tag, you go through your checklist again and again till the paper’s shredded with your tick marks. You disconnect the gas and put it in the balcony. You check your Uber app again and again to make sure it still works. All this makes you late in leaving for the airport and you find yourself in your two tight masks, sweating on the roadside while waiting for Samir and his Swift Dzire to appear. Samir pulls up and smiles cheerfully. You don’t smile back because you can see his full face while his mask is away playing carom somewhere. You gesture for him to put on his mask. Samir nods and pulls up a thing that covers his chin. You gesture, covering your nose. In reciprocation, Samir generously covers his mouth, his nose still smiling at you. Finally, you get Samir to look like a Crusader and you’re off. Except Samir thinks the shortest route from Minto Park crossing to Park Circus is via the flyover at Rabindra Sadan. You shout through your masks, cannoning aerosols into the car. Samir nearly takes out a minibus as he swerves right at the last moment. You head towards big Maa but you’re well behind schedule.

The clock ticks down as you whizz past parts of the city you haven’t seen in two years. Calcutta traffic has improved — no, it hasn’t. Yes, it has. No. You’re now at Big Ben, still 15 mins adrift of where you should be. And then you’re at this strange building you remember from old dreams which is the airport. You pay Samir extra and you rush. You reach the counter, out of breath, but you manage to call out the name of your destination city. The assistant standing next to the woman doing the check-in raises a calm palm and says, “Hoye jaabey, bhoy korben na.” Just as he summons you, a man in the airline uniform barges ahead of you, no mask, one check-in suitcase. The woman ignores you as the man breathes his naked aerosols into the counter area, chatting with her as if everyone is on holiday. Finally, you get your boarding pass and you get to security. Something is strange here. Everyone is standing at a proper distance. The trays carrying the bags are moving briskly, being checked through efficiently.

You make your way to the gate which is jam-packed with pushing and jostling janata. Some people are properly masked, most have what one could call artistic gestures in the vicinity of their faces. The airline staff make people queue and call out boarding by row numbers. People more or less obey. This is new for domestic flights in India and you are happy. The aircraft feels strange, both claustrophobic yet exciting, almost as if you are flying for the first time. The machine gathers speed and lifts under you. The darkling city drops away under its veil of dusk smog.

When food comes, you are tempted to avoid eating. But the mini-naans and chana masala look quite appetizing and you realize you are hungry, not having eaten properly before leaving home. You take off your mask and dig in. At the third mini-naan, the man next to you coughs violently into his chana masala. One of your hands goes out to protect your food from the spittle while the other half pulls up your mask. Your heart is thudding, your appetite is gone. You pull up your masks and sanitize your hands. Thrice. Soon, the plane starts to descend. Soon you are out in the hot tropical night outside the terminal and your friend is greeting you. You ask about masks and your pal shrugs. “Eeenhh. Masks! There’s nothing here anymore. People will look at you funny if you wear one.”