As always, Khush’s mum was sending me off with lots of goodies. The chhunda — Gujarati version of mango chutney, pickle, chidwa, khakra, thepla, what have you. No, I wasn’t a kid returning to boarding school. I was just a North Indian returning to Delhi after a wonderful weekend with a Parsi friend and her family in Baroda. Khush and I have been the closest of friends since school.

Homeward-bound, at the airport, the young man at the security check at Baroda asks me if I am carrying bottles of pickle. Roshan Aunty has packed three. Could I open one and show it to him? I oblige. Open backpack, remove packets of chidwa, khakra, bhakarwadi one by one, pull out the bottles at the bottom. The plastic basket someone has just handed me is overflowing with food packets. Everyone is watching and I am as embarrassed as can be.

But this is Gujarat, used to food-travellers. Security guy smiles, brings his hand-held device close to the open bottle, it goes beep-beep, (he) says fine, go ahead. That’s when I discover that the double layer of plastic packaging is leaking on my laptop. You can seal a pickle jar, give it double packing, but it’s Murphy’s law — the oil will leak. I spot a newspaper on the other side of the security belt, ask the young man if I may have that. He passes it to me, asks if I need some more, and promptly gets me some.

His demeanour sort of says: Be grateful, you have an elderly woman who’s packed you home-made goodies.

... contd.