Childhood Memories of Delhi Airport

— Without Ever Flying

What was I doing at the airport if I wasn’t flying? The truth is, coming from a modest, lower-income family, the idea of boarding a flight was out of the question. I went to the airport not to travel, but to receive or see off my uncles and cousins who lived in England and Canada.

The first time I visited Delhi airport was in 1966, when I was just six years old. Back then, it was known as Palam Airport — a small facility with only a few flights each day. In 1986, the airport was expanded and renamed Indira Gandhi International Airport, in honour of India’s Prime Minister. I had gone to see off my uncle, who was flying to London. A small airplane stood just 50 metres from the terminal building. I was in the visitor’s area, separated from the tarmac by a simple pipe barrier — much like the kind you see dividing sidewalks from the road. As I watched my uncle walk toward the plane, I slipped through the barrier and ran after him. When I caught up, he smiled, handed me a sweet from the box he was carrying, and gently persuaded me to return to my mother. That moment perfectly captures the relaxed airport security of the 1960s — something millennials today would find unimaginable!

Back then, almost all international flights arrived in Delhi around or after midnight. The biggest challenge wasn’t meeting someone — it was simply getting to the airport. We didn’t own any vehicle, not even a two-wheeler. In those days, owning a car was considered a luxury, even for the well-off.

The last bus to the airport left around 10 PM, so my mother and I would often catch that, hoping the flight would be on time. We’d reach the airport by about 10:30 PM and then wait for hours. There was no way to check flight status back then. No mobile apps, no airport websites — heck, most people didn’t even have a landline! We operated purely on blind faith and vague estimations.

Taking a taxi closer to the flight’s arrival time wasn’t an option either. Night fares were double, and well beyond what we could afford. As I got older, I started bringing a book to make use of the long wait. Once, we stayed overnight at a distant friend’s house near the airport and walked 2 KMs at 4 AM to meet the flight. On another occasion, I spent the waiting hours writing letters — there were no cell phones, so there was no social media to scroll through!

At the time, it never even crossed my mind — but looking back now, I can’t help but wonder: why exactly were we going to the airport to receive relatives in the first place? Was it a tradition? A social obligation? A secret family code written somewhere?

I’m still not sure whether our relatives genuinely expected a welcoming committee or if my mother simply believed it was our moral and cultural duty to be there, standing alert at the arrival gate, no matter the hour.

Interestingly, no one ever told us not to come either. Our relatives never protested, “Oh no, please don’t bother coming all the way to the airport in the dead of night.” Not once. Maybe they secretly liked the hero’s welcome. Or maybe they just didn’t want to be the ones to break my mother’s sense of ceremonial hospitality.

Seeing off our relatives carried a similar sense of commitment and quiet endurance. Most international flights from Delhi were scheduled between 1 and 4 a.m., which meant heading to the airport in the middle of the night. While we would accompany our relatives in a taxi, sharing those last few hours together, the journey back home was something we had to manage on our own.

The first bus from the airport wouldn’t arrive until 5:30 a.m., so we often found ourselves waiting at the airport for hours — tired, cold, and trying to stay awake. I still remember those chilly winter mornings, standing at the bus stop with my mother, wrapped in shawls, hands tucked in sleeves, waiting for the first sign of the bus headlights in the distance.

There were a few coffee shops at the airport, with warm tea and snacks on offer, but we never bought anything. Spending on such comforts simply wasn’t an option. We waited patiently, knowing this was just how things were. It wasn’t easy, but we did it anyway — because family mattered, and seeing someone off properly felt important.

After nearly sixteen years of visiting the airport only to receive or see off others, I finally took my first flight in 1982 — from Delhi to Bombay, now known as Mumbai. Ironically, after all those years of accompanying others, there was no one there to see me off that day.