As usual, my return flight to Chicago from Bengaluru was at the ungodly hour of 3:35am. It was with that German Carrier Lufthansa, whom in an unusual display of inefficiency, lost my baggage in transit during my journey's first leg. They already announced a 30 minute delay to this one, and I groaned and moaned about whatever "Current Thing" I could blame the declining standards of customer service across all corporations on – supply chain shocks, the lasting effects of the pandemic, or Elon's latest hand salute fiasco.

The parents gently expressed a desire not to drop me off. Despite touting Jakkur as the closest non-village neighborhood to the airport, another 60 minute expedition after picking me up from there just 6 hours ago seemed an unnecessary inconvenience. So, I entered my Uber at about half past midnight, having respectfully accepted an application of Vibhuti on my forehead from my dear mother, and immediately disposing all traces of that wretched substance once I was safely out of sight.

Perhaps it was the time of the night, the extreme emotions I had just at the wedding of one of my closest friends, or the nature of our raucous celebrations over the last 3 days – I was out like a light. Completely cooked. I woke up when we reached the airport, grabbed my suitcase from the trunk, and felt a certain weight missing from my shoulders. Could it be that I finally received my green card? Rather, it appeared that I was missing my backpack.

The reality hit me like a wall of a bricks. That backpack, complete btw with that elusive little item called a passport, was currently snoring away back home. I frantically phoned my mom. Dad had refused to move from his bed when I announced the Uber's arrival, so she was the safer bet. Neither of these individuals are night owls, and by the fourth dial tone, I heard a voice.

BA: What happened?

It wasn't particularly asked with the milk of a mother's kindness. This isn't the first time I've had to be bailed out of an airport imbroglio. I explained the situation, and stayed on the line as my mother slowly descended the stairs and declared my backpack's absence from every single room in our house, before finally pinpointing its location on top of the hood of our car.

BA: Is the passport in there?

SRA: Yes! If you open the top zip…

BA: I'm not checking. If it's not in there, please come home and book the next flight.

And so they were forced into a second trip to Kempegowda Airport for this oblivious offspring. I lingered in the passenger drop-off zone, making eye contact with an airport aide twice before being asked to explain my jittery persona to a more senior, armed member of airport security. I guess my tight grip on the handle of the baggage I did remember was more alarming rather than reassuring. I'd love to recount the story of my broken Hindi, but rest assured, the phrase मेरा पैरेंट्स अभी तक नहीं पहुंचे didn’t roll off the tongue.

Now, I'm safely re-passported and waiting at the gate. I've another wedding in February, which I plan to attend without forgetting, misplacing, or any otherwise misadventures (at least, that's the official line). Who knows, perhaps my passport and I will finally align, in a fashion akin to those of my dear friends and their lifelong partners.

In the meantime however, I must ask the hive mind. What on earth can I get my reluctant chauffeurs as a thank you gift? My brother-in-law advised my to "get married and have children". Let me know if you have anything less extreme.