My flight from Dublin came via Abu Dhabi, a frenzied hub of mainly transiting passengers.  I had an hour and a half between flights, plenty time.  Well that’s what I had thought before I saw the rows of bodies waiting to go through security.  The queue was about six lines long, zig-zagging back and forth as I shuffled my way along towards the x-ray machines, nervously glancing at the list of onward, connecting flight times…

A glance behind showed hundreds more travellers rapidly filling up the line after me.  What was this place???  The world’s most popular airport?

After about fifteen minutes, I was finally putting my bag through to be scanned.

“Um, I have a lap-top in there,” I told the suited official, expecting to have to take it out and put it in its own tray.

“No problem!” he replied, briskly grabbing my sack and shoving it along the rolling conveyor belt.  I shrugged to myself; guess that was why the line had been moving so fast.

On making it to the other side, I set off at my high-speed, got-a-plane-to-catch march.  No time to explore and enjoy the shops or extravagant interior of this airport.  Gate 28 was the only thing in my mind.

Abu Dhabi International Airport is bigger than I’d thought but nonetheless I made it to my gate with time to spare.  So I logged onto my Instagram account and added to it another image; the fabulous, life-sized, golden camel statue that sat elegantly and regally in Terminal 3.  Like a character from the Road Runner cartoon, I’d screeched to a halt and doubled back on my steps to snap a picture on my i-phone – impatiently waiting for the self-indulgent, pretty Asian girl to finish posing next to it.

Trivandrum airport.  Would it have that unmistakable, intoxicating, slightly sweet/slightly musty scent of India?  I had never flown into Kerala before, only Mumbai and Delhi.  And always once off the plane, that instantly recognizable aroma would greet me, almost as if to say, yup my friend, you’re back in India!  It even lingers on a person and their clothes when they come back to Ireland, as I noticed each time my husband arrived back, his hugs and his suitcase imbued with that potent Indian perfume.

But would Kerala, a tropical and vastly different part of the world, have the same magic in the air?  I made my way along the planes messy aisles with crumbs mashed into parts of the carpet and magazines and blankets in tossed heaps on the seats before I passed the automated smiling air-hostesses with their steady barrage of polite farewells.

“Thankyouverymuch!  Bubbye!  Bubbye!  Thankyouverymuch!  Haveaniceday!  Bubbyebubbye!”

Stepping off the plane, a smile twitched at the corners of my mouth as I breathed in the warm, muggy air that was redolent with that oh-so-special scent…. yup, Kerala might be very different to the rest of the sub-continent, but she’s still India!  And then I was in the airport’s cool a.c. and the fragrance was muted by the artificial chill.  But I knew it was there.  And I knew I was here again.

I approached the lines for immigration – yet more queues bursting with humans only these were Indian lines so there were bodies spilling out of everywhere and mixing and matching with all the others to create one vast, sprawling jumble of delightful, jabbering, chattering creatures.

A stern Keralan lady, in smart blue sari with oiled, curly, black locks took my passport and stamped it, with a few inscrutable frowns thrown at me every now and then.  At last she handed my special travel document back with the sternest smile I’ve ever seen.

And then it was time to join yet another queue.  Kerala is perhaps the wealthiest state in India and many Keralans have moved to live in rich lands such as Dubai, Saudi Arabia, Abu Dhabi and so on.  A swarm of planes had all landed within about an hour of each other from these places, with my flight being the last.  It seemed the population of Ireland was queueing now in typical haphazard Indian fashion to go through one final security check.  It was interminably slow with only one small machine and a nervous Indian security man to oversee the hoards of passengers, desperate to just get out already.

It was 3.45 am local time – 23:30 for my body-clock and I had been travelling now over 18 hours.  I was supremely tired (having watched too many movies on board my flights instead of being sensible and napping) and quite aware that I still had an hour’s taxi ride ahead of me before I could lie my weary head down on a horizontal, stationary surface.

But there was excitement fluttering in and around me too.  Despite not expecting to see this immense sub-continent for some months or longer, here I was back again.  And back to a month of relaxation, sunny beaches, leisurely time for writing and meeting fellow travellers and, more than any of that, back to my darling, annoying, handsome, infuriating, kind and loving husband whom I had not seen for nearly four months.

And so one more long, interminable security check was endured.  A quick visit to the bathrooms allowed me to change some of my Irish wintry clothing to garments more suited to the heavy, muggy heat I knew was waiting outside the airport.  My large backpack – my trusty companion for each and every journey spanning over 12 years now – came whizzing along the conveyor belt surprisingly early on.

Before going any further, I rummaged through it for my Birkenstock sandals, finally able to remove my socks and boots and let my feet breathe.  Now I was ready.  Luggage dumped on a trolley, exit in sight, following the crowd, past the point of no return, my eyes scanning the few people who had paid the small fee to be allowed enter the airport to greet their loved ones rather than wait outside.  Scanning, scanning… and there he was!

My best friend and my beloved life-partner, walking towards me dressed in his favourite grey cap, stylish blue-check shirt that I’d bought him from Next and smart cotton trousers.  His arms swinging in that oh-so-familiar manner, his face a mixture of delight and nerves.  We grinned at each other before we hugged, each of us a little tentative after so long apart.  But then the physical contact drew us back in together again, my body and mind softening, my head nestled in the crook of his neck, his arms strong around my torso, his skin warm and smooth.  I felt myself relaxing and that wonderful, healing balm of happiness filling up my tummy like a cat purring contentedly.

“Hi darling!” I finally pulled apart to look at him properly and to plant a peck on his soft, warm cheek.

“Oh hi!  Welcome back!” he grinned at me and grabbed hold of the trolley.  “Challo?” he asked in Hindi.  Let’s go?

“Challo challo!” I replied, grinning and squeezing his arm as we strolled out of the airport past the throngs of Indians all squished up together and peering in, awaiting their family/friends; past the taxis careering by with no lights on; through the sticky heat that wrapped around us like a heavy, damp cloak; bombarded by a dissonant symphony of car horns and an over-riding sense of utter chaos and confusion…

Yup my friend, there was no doubt about it – I was back in India!