The 30-Minute Ride Home

I walk out of the plane, sleepy and tired, flights always seeming longer than they are.

My eyes are half-closed as I follow the slow-moving crowd through the jet bridge, the air suddenly thicker, warmer. It is familiar in a way my body recognizes before my mind does. And then I see the familiar sign, the one that feels like the pyjamas I wear every day. Letters welcoming me to Gujarat, in words I fail to remember but never fail to recognize.

Something loosens inside me, just a little. By the time I collect my luggage and step out into the night, the city has already wrapped itself around me: a breath of air that is fresh, yet so ancient it feels like a part of me.

The first auto driver I hear speaks in Gujarati, and suddenly I’m convinced this isn’t a stranger I’m meeting for the first time. The face seems kinder. The words feel familiar. As if I’ve known them in another life. I sit in with a confidence I don’t have anywhere else. Late nights don’t bother me in this city.

The drive begins, the car humming gently under me. The roads stretch out like memory, some I know by heart, some I haven’t seen in years, and some I’ve never taken but somehow still feel like mine. I press my forehead to the window for a second, trying to absorb as much of it as I can, vowing to take in the rest in the days ahead. I’ll have chai here, I tell myself. I’ll visit this street and click a few pictures before it slips.

And it always slips.

Routine settles in quickly, almost impatiently. The next morning, I wake up in my room and the magic feels distant, like something I dreamt on a moving bus. By afternoon I’m back to being myself again, sometimes even counting down to the day I’ll step out of the city.

But it happens again, every single time. This quiet 30-minute ride becomes the secret highlight of my trip: the moment Ahmedabad reminds me that no matter where I go, a part of me still belongs here.