Final call. He sighs heavily and stubs out his cigarette. He picks up the small leather case carrying his favourite threads from Mates Boutique and Lord John. He travelled light; most of the things he loved had been left behind. He thinks of his guitars, the trunks full of LPs, the artworks he has carefully collected.
He is suddenly conscious how absurdly foreign his English possessions would look at home. He remembers India as backwards, dull and insular, painfully restrictive. He allows himself to imagine that perhaps things may not be as they were. He has heard about some of the ‘beat’ music bands from some Bombay musicians who came overland to London in a VW camper. His sister had mentioned in a letter that his old friend Ramzan had started a club, not far from their café, where these bands played covers of Western hits.
He turns and walks slowly towards the gate. The air stewardess smiles at him and checks his boarding pass. This time he smiles back, but he can’t hide the deep sadness in his eyes.
He pauses for a second and pulls the papers out of his breast pocket. He gazes at the return ticket in his hand before he puts it back his pocket, alongside the telegram. He steps out into the rain and onto the dark wet tarmac to board the plane home.
