The Sky Between

MUMBAI INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT – DOMESTIC DEPARTURE – DEC 5, 5:30 PM

Golden light spills through giant glass windows. The sun hovers low, painting everything amber.

IRA (late 20s) walks slowly, pulling her cabin bag. She stops near her favorite airport café —“Nashto”

She buys a vada pav (no green chili) and a steaming cup of masala chai.

She takes a bite. A faint smile touches her lips.

IRA sighed Warm. Familiar. Like touching an old photograph.

But even warmth fades quickly.

BOARDING GATE – MOMENTS LATER

IRA finds a quiet seat by the glass wall facing the runway. Outside, planes taxi and take off.

She watches silently. The crowd behind her hums — footsteps, chatter in Hindi and English, and announcements.

Her reflection overlays the planes, half in the glass, half in the sky.

IRA turned and looked out the window... This country was once the answer to every ache I carried abroad. But now that I’m here... I feel like a guest in a place I used to call mine.

IRA’s fingers rest on the glass. Her eyes soften.

Again IRA lost in her thoughts.. In New York, I feel too Indian. Here, I feel too far gone. I’ve slipped between definitions — not this, not that.

A plane rises, cutting through the orange sky.

IRA still lost in her loop of thoughts.. Society says you must belong somewhere.

A city. A language. A label. A name.

But maybe that’s just one more story they made us believe.

IRA leans back, quiet, as the terminal begins to glow under the fading light.

I think I’ve outgrown the idea of belonging.

Like these planes — always arriving, always leaving.

Never settled. But never lost.

Her boarding call plays. She stands, slips the boarding pass into her jacket, and walks toward the gate. As she turns, she looks once more at the runway, now deep in twilight.

IRA sighted.. Maybe I’m not meant to return to a place called home.

Maybe I’m meant to carry it — like breath, like memory — wherever I go.

“Some of us aren’t searching for where we belong… but for how to belong to ourselves.”