My years in the Army have made me partial to open spaces. Being locked up in a metal tube for hours is definitely not my idea of fun. Thankfully, there’s a nice bar at the new terminal. God knows Mumbai needed it. The renovated airport, I mean. They’ve done a decent job, I must admit. The concourse is bright and clean. The queues aren’t a mile long. And I actually spotted one or two of the CISF guys break long-standing protocol by cracking smiles. I ordered a whisky and soda. Some would argue that nine o’clock in the morning is not the right time for it. I disagree. There’s no such thing as the wrong time for whisky. Besides, there was still an hour left for my flight to depart. I needed to kill time. I’m not much of a reader, you see. And I couldn’t bear to keep staring at the countless people milling around. Looking every bit like they lead normal and happy lives. I had received the email from Sara three days ago.
