Chapter 4: Departure

Pune Airport at 6 AM is a study in controlled chaos.

Sush locks her scooty in the parking lot (₹100 for fifteen days — she'll deal with the retrieval later) and walks into the terminal with her backpack and her pounding heart. The departure hall smells like coffee and floor cleaner. Families cluster around check-in counters. A group of college students in matching t-shirts laughs too loud. An old couple sits in silence, holding hands.

She finds the Air India counter. The woman behind the desk is young, bored, efficient.

"Passport and ticket, please."

Sush hands them over. Her hands are steady. She's surprised by this.

The woman types something. Frowns.

"You have a layover in Delhi. Four hours. Terminal 3."

"I know."

"Your bags are checked through to Paris. You'll collect them at CDG."

"Okay."

The woman prints her boarding pass. Hands it over.

"Gate 12. Boarding starts at 7:30."

Sush takes the pass. Stares at it.

PUNE (PNQ) → DELHI (DEL)** **DELHI (DEL) → PARIS (CDG)

It's real. It's happening.

She goes through security. The female officer pats her down, checks her bag, waves her through. She buys a bottle of water (₹80, highway robbery) and sits at the gate.

Her phone buzzes.

Rahul: you at the airport?

Sush: yeah

Rahul: how are you feeling

Sush: terrified

Rahul: you're going to be amazing

Rahul: seriously

Rahul: this is the bravest thing you've ever done

She stares at the message. Her throat tightens.

Sush: thank you

Sush: for everything

Rahul: stop being dramatic you're coming back in two weeks

Sush: i know

Sush: but still

Rahul: go have the best time

Rahul: and tell me everything

She puts her phone away.

At 7:30, they start boarding.

She's in seat 23F — window seat. The plane is half-empty. The man next to her is reading a newspaper. He doesn't look at her.

She buckles her seatbelt. Looks out the window.

The sun is fully up now, painting the tarmac gold.

The engines start. The plane taxis. And then—

They're in the air.

Pune shrinks below her. The city she's lived in for six years, the city that's felt too small for months now, becomes a grid of roads and buildings and then just brown earth and then clouds.

She's leaving.

She's actually leaving.

The flight to Delhi is two hours. She doesn't sleep. She watches the clouds and thinks about nothing and everything.

When they land at Delhi, she has four hours to kill.

Terminal 3 is massive — glass and steel and luxury brand stores she'll never shop in. She buys a sandwich (₹350, even worse highway robbery) and sits near her gate.

Her phone buzzes.

Unknown Number: i heard you're going somewhere

Her stomach drops.

It's him again. Her ex.

Unknown Number: rahul told me

Unknown Number: where are you going

She wants to throw her phone across the terminal.

Instead, she blocks the number. Again.

She doesn't owe him anything. Not an explanation. Not a response. Nothing.

She deletes the messages and puts her phone on airplane mode.

At 2 PM, they start boarding for Paris.

This flight is packed. Families. Couples. Solo travelers like her. She's in seat 34A — window again. The woman next to her is French, reading a book in a language Sush can't understand.

The flight attendant comes by with a welcome drink. Sush takes the orange juice. Her hands are shaking again.

The engines roar.

The plane lifts.

And then India is gone.

---

The flight to Paris is eight hours.

Sush doesn't sleep.

She watches three movies (doesn't retain a single plot), eats two meals (pasta that tastes like cardboard, bread roll that's somehow worse), and stares out the window at the darkness.

Somewhere over the Middle East, she starts to panic.

What is she doing?

She's twenty-two years old. She's never traveled alone. She doesn't speak French or Dutch or Spanish or Italian or German. She has ₹40,000 to last her fifteen days. She lied to her parents. She's going to a continent she's only seen in movies.

What if something goes wrong?

What if she gets robbed?

What if she gets lost?

What if she hates it?

What if she's making the biggest mistake of her life?

She closes her eyes. Breathes.

Thinks about Aarav saying "ball."

Thinks about Priya-ma'am's tired eyes.

Thinks about her ex's messages. I crave you.

Thinks about the therapy room with its pale yellow walls and fluorescent hum.

Thinks about the way she's been living — small and safe and stuck.

She opens her eyes.

No.

She's not making a mistake.

She's making a choice.

At 6:30 PM Paris time (11 PM India time), the plane begins its descent.

The city appears below — lights and the Seine and the Eiffel Tower lit up like a postcard.

Sush presses her face to the window.

It's real.

It's real.

The plane lands. The passengers clap (why do people clap when planes land?). Sush unbuckles her seatbelt and stands on shaky legs.

She's in Paris.

She's actually in Paris.

---

Charles de Gaulle Airport is a maze.

Sush follows the signs for "Baggage Claim" and "Immigration" and tries not to look as lost as she feels. The immigration officer is a woman in her fifties with sharp eyes and no smile.

"Passport."

Sush hands it over.

The woman flips through it. Looks at the visa. Looks at Sush.

"Purpose of visit?"

"Tourism."

"How long?"

"Fifteen days."

"Where are you staying?"

"Hostels. I have the addresses—"

"It's fine." The woman stamps the passport. Hands it back. "Welcome to France."

That's it.

Sush is through.

She collects her backpack from the baggage carousel (it's still there, thank god) and walks out into the arrivals hall.

The air smells different. She can't explain it. Just... different.

She finds the RER B train to the city. Buys a ticket (€10.30) from a machine that's half in French, half in English. The train is crowded. She stands near the door, clutching her backpack, watching the suburbs of Paris blur past the window.

At Gare du Nord, she switches to the Metro. Line 4 to Château Rouge. The hostel is a ten-minute walk from there.

It's 8 PM by the time she arrives.

Le Montclair Hostel is a narrow building on a narrow street in Montmartre. The reception is tiny. The guy behind the desk is maybe twenty-five, with a nose ring and a bored expression.

"Name?"

"Sushmita Haldar."

He types. Nods. Hands her a key card.

"Third floor. Female dorm. Breakfast is 7 to 10. No noise after 11."

"Thank you."

She climbs the stairs (no elevator) and finds her room.

It's small. Six bunk beds. Lockers. A window overlooking the street. Three of the beds are occupied — backpacks, clothes, shoes scattered around. The other travelers are out.

Sush picks an empty bottom bunk. Puts her backpack in the locker. Sits on the bed.

She's here.

She's actually here.

Her phone buzzes. She forgot to turn off airplane mode.

Ma: did you reach goa safely?

Sush's stomach twists.

Sush: yes ma. just checked in. very tired. will call tomorrow.

Ma: ok beta. sleep well.

She puts her phone down.

Lies back on the bed.

Stares at the ceiling.

She's in Paris.

She lied to her mother.

She's terrified.

She's free.

She closes her eyes.

Tomorrow, she'll figure out what to do with that freedom.

Tonight, she just needs to sleep.

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