{"id":1068,"date":"2026-01-12T07:03:56","date_gmt":"2026-01-12T01:30:33","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/books.kalantri.co.in\/?page_id=1068"},"modified":"2026-03-03T09:16:20","modified_gmt":"2026-03-03T14:46:20","slug":"sweet-box-airport","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/sp.kalantri.co.in\/gmc73\/student-at-forty-seven\/sweet-box-airport\/","title":{"rendered":"The Sweet Box at the Airport"},"content":{"rendered":"\n

My transition from a settled life to a student life began not on a plane, but on a rain-soaked platform in Wardha. On the evening of 9 August 2004, Bhavana and I boarded the train to Mumbai. As the train picked up speed and the familiar yellow signboard of Wardha station disappeared into the monsoon mist, the weight of my decision finally sank in.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I was forty-five. A Professor of Medicine. A father. And yet I was leaving everything I had built, my home, my hospital, my family, to study across the ocean. A lump rose in my throat. I turned to the window and watched the green fields of Vidarbha slide past, hoping the year ahead would be worth this separation.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

***<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n

Mumbai in the Monsoon<\/strong><\/h3>\n\n\n

Mumbai, in August, was doing what Mumbai does best. It was raining as if the city had offended the clouds. The sky was a stubborn grey sheet and the roads looked like shallow rivers.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

We went to see Mr PL Tapadiya\u2019s cousin, Mr Kamal Gandhi, who had come from Kolkata for an emergency angioplasty at Jaslok Hospital. Even getting back to Thane after that visit felt like a small exam. We boarded a Mumbai local in peak hour. The compartment was packed with wet clothes, damp hair, and people pressed so close that you stopped trying to find space and simply surrendered.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It was chaotic, uncomfortable, and strangely familiar. The kind of energy you only notice when you are about to leave it behind.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

***<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n

The Sweet Box<\/strong><\/h3>\n\n\n

My flight to San Francisco was scheduled for 2:00 AM. At the airport, Bhavana and my cousin Surendra stood with me near the departure gate. My niece Jyoti could not come. She had just delivered her son, Daksh.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I was preparing myself for a proper goodbye, when the check-in counter produced a small disaster. The staff told me my luggage was overweight.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

For a moment I felt my stomach drop. I did not have the money for excess baggage. I did not have the patience to argue. I simply unzipped my suitcase right there on the polished airport floor and began pulling things out like a man searching for his own common sense.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Clothes. Books. Files.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Then my hand touched a large box. Bhavana had packed a kilogram of homemade sweets for me. A piece of home, carefully wrapped.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I held it for a second and then handed it back to her. \u201cKeep this,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It was a small decision, but it felt symbolic. I walked towards immigration a little lighter, and not only in kilograms.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

***<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n

Albany: My First Anchor<\/strong><\/h3>\n\n\n

San Francisco greeted me with jet lag and a strange kind of silence. Then I saw Madhu.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He was there at the arrivals, smiling, solid, familiar. I did not realise how much I needed that one known face until I saw him. He drove me to his apartment at 1040 Jackson Street in Albany, a quiet leafy neighbourhood about three miles from the UC Berkeley campus.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\"Dr
Sevagram, January 2006. Left to right: Dr Saranya Sridhar, Dr Jack Colford Jr, Dr Nikita Pant Pai, Amrita. Bhavana cooked; Berkeley sat down to eat.<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n\n\n\n

Nikita was waiting at home. She was doing her MPH too. She had cooked an Indian meal and the smell of dal and rice felt like a welcome that went deeper than words. That first evening, sitting in their living room, eating warm food after a long journey, my anxiety eased.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Madhu and Nikki were my first anchors in America. Their kindness told me something simple: you are not alone.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

***<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n

Studio MN 244<\/strong><\/h3>\n\n\n

A week later, it was time to stand on my own feet. I moved into Studio MN 244 at the Manville Apartments, at the corner of Shattuck Avenue and Channing Way. The building buzzed with student life. My room was on the second floor.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

When I opened the door for the first time, I noticed two things: light and silence.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It was a 260-square-foot studio, tiny compared to my bungalow in Sevagram, but neat and efficient. There were light-coloured cabinets, a clean countertop, and big windows that poured in California sunshine as if it came free with the rent.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The flat was unfurnished, but it had a built-in desk, a bookcase, and internet ports that worked without coaxing. For someone who had lived all his life surrounded by family or colleagues, the solitude felt odd. There was no one to talk to when I woke up. No one to share tea with.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But there was a novelty that fascinated me: a coin-operated washer and dryer in the unit. I felt ridiculously proud the first time I managed laundry without ruining anything.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

***<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n

Walking Shattuck Avenue<\/strong><\/h3>\n\n\n

Soon my days fell into a rhythm shaped by geography. I had Haste Street on one side, Durant Avenue on the other. The AC Transit stop was close, but I mostly walked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Every morning I slung my backpack over my shoulder and walked to the School of Public Health. The air was crisp and smelled of eucalyptus, roasted coffee, and something faintly salty from the ocean. I passed bookstores, caf\u00e9s full of students hunched over laptops, and the mix of street performers and homeless people that gave Berkeley its strange, restless character.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

In Wardha, I needed a scooter. In Berkeley, I needed only good shoes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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