I stand on the threshold of my hostel, ringing the doorbell. I suspect it is not working as it has been 15 minutes and no one has answered yet. It is 6.30 AM and the street is desolate. I decide to sit on the stairs near the door and wait for it to open. I feel tired and frustrated. I left the comforts of my Mumbai home early yesterday morning, with barely any sleep the night before out of excitement of this trip. It took 10 long hours to travel from Mumbai to Istanbul with a fuel stop at Doha. Then an 8 hour stopover followed by an early morning flight to Baku. The excitement of being in Azerbaijan soon turned to anxiety as I found to my dismay that Turkish Airlines had misplaced my check-in baggage.

I sit on the doorstep hoping that the bag with all my clothes and toiletries will show up soon. The airport officials I met that morning seemed very confident that it would.

“You go to your hotel and sleep. When you wake up, the bag will be there.” The middle aged official of the Lost and Found Department at the Baku Airport had told me when I reported the loss.

Baku is a beautiful city. Easily one of the prettiest I have been in. The Soviet-era buildings, the extravagant metro-station decor, the kiosks, the parks and the street names reminded me of my time in Russia. I expected Baku to be conservative at least visibly, but as an outsider, it was anything but. You could see people wearing the latest in fashion, hanging out in the city’s numerous outdoor cafes and bars till late in the night.

The area around the Fountain Square is always buzzing. Lots of great restaurants, cafes, well maintained parks, shady trees, a giant merry-go-round reminiscent of Azerbaijan’s Soviet past, and of course, the gorgeous fountains have made it popular with locals and tourists alike. When you feel fountained-out, take a left from the busy hot-dog stand that also served doner kebabs, take the right alley from the Hard Rock Cafe (You could also take the left, but the right one is a bit more chilled out), cross the road and then enter the promenade.

One of my favorite things to do in Baku was going to the promenade in the evenings. The Baku skyline is dotted with some very interesting looking buildings. There is the Carpet Museum, which is shaped like a rolled up carpet, the Soviet-era Puppet Theatre, the giant flag of Azerbaijan and ofcourse, the Flame Towers. With these in the background, the boulevard paints the perfect picture with families relaxing by the waters of the Caspian Sea; kids showing off their roller blade and skateboard skills; adults playing chess on life-sized boards or just strolling along the strip, enjoying the cool evening breeze.

A car screeched to a stop and parked partly on the sidewalk and the street. A scruffy middle aged man got out, carrying a bagful of bread. Turned out he lived next door to the hostel on the first floor and was kind enough to let me in. The door of the hostel was open and I let myself in. The reception was unattended. Turns out the man sleeping on the couch in the spacious common room was the receptionist; a couple of empty bottles of beer lay around him. I did not feel like waking him up. After all, only a tired, sleep deprived soul can understand the value of a good, sound sleep.

Next door to the common room was the kitchen, consisting of a couple of tables with cushioned chairs, cupboards, fridge and a sink full of unwashed pans and bowls. After waiting for a bit, I paired up a couple of the chairs and fell asleep, hoping by the time I get up my bag, full of fresh clothes, will arrive as promised.

It didn’t, of course.

About an hour later, when we were all up from our slumbers, I explained to the receptionist, who is a chain smoking guy in his early twenties, what had happened and requested him to call the Lost and Found Department at the airport. They spoke in Azerbaijani for a bit and when the call ended he told me that they had asked him to check back at around noon.

I freshen up the best I can and decide to explore the neighbourhood a bit and grab some breakfast. The street my hostel is located on is named after Leo Tolstoy and was one among the many identical ones that branched out from a bigger road. The big stony buildings around the street, with their giant iron gates, that were mostly locked shut, gave the street a grim look. The road was much livelier. I decide to walk along the road, towards Sahil metro station, near which I had seen a park earlier that morning.

The sun is out now and Baku had woken up. There are a lot more people and cars on the road, shops are opening and the leaves of the trees in the park sway with the gentle cool breeze. I buy a cup of coffee and a sandwich from a nearby cafe and find a bench under the shade of a tree. A little girl and her mother are feeding seeds to a flock of pigeons nearby. On the next bench an old man sits reading a newspaper; he smiles and nods at me and then goes back to the paper. The water from the big fountain in the middle of the park is touching newer heights with each thrust. On the other side of the park fence, I see people dressed in formals or uniforms rushing to work, with headphones plugged into their ears. They were probably to listening to the works of the greatest musicians through those headphones, but my side of the fence had chirps of birds and the sounds of the fountain. For a change, the grass did not seem too green on the other side.

Baku is a great city to explore on foot. The Ichari Seher (Old Town) with its cobblestone streets is one of the best in that regard. The museums, markets and quaint cafes makes for a great day out. Another place worth visiting is the Heydar Aliyev Center where you can not just learn about the life of the country’s most influential leader but be fascinated by its futuristic architecture as well. If you are a vintage car enthusiast, this place also houses the leader’s collection of super classy cars.

Though during my stay, Baku seemed like a peaceful, friendly place, if you read up about Azerbaijan, you would know that its government is known to be repressive and autocratic. You will find articles about the elections being rigged and the media freedom being curtailed. Dissidents and protesters are routinely dealt with an iron hand by the regime.

My problem was minuscule in comparison. I call the Lost and Found Department from the park and am told that my bag had still not arrived.

“When is it expected?” I ask.

“I don’t know. You should check with your airline.”

The sheer indifference in his tone drives me mad. This was the first time this was happening to me. I do not know what the protocol is for these cases, so I call my travel insurance company next.

“Do not worry, sir. I have mailed you a form. Please fill it up and mail it to us so that we can process your case.”

It was a long questionnaire asking me stuff like my name, date of birth, country where I am at, policy number etc. I fill it up and mail them back. As it turned out, the company did not share my sense of urgency as minutes turned to hours without a reply.

It is noon and is much warmer now. I feel uncomfortable in my old, stale clothes. It has been more than 36 hours since I wore these and I desperately need some fresh clothes. The hippie part of me tells me to chill out.

“It is just a bag, man. You are in a beautiful city. Enjoy it. Fuck the bag. It arrives when it arrives. If it doesn’t, let’s rough it out. Just a bunch of clothes. Don’t let it bother you.”

But my righteous Bengali genes tell me to revolt.

“Go to the airport. Find the Turkish Airlines office and sit on their heads till they find the bag. Enough is enough.”

I decide to retrace my steps to the airport. First, I take a train to the 28th May metro station. On the 28th of May 1918, Azerbaijan declared its independence from the Russian empire. But the joy of freedom wouldn’t last very long as less than 2 years later it would be invaded by the Soviet forces and forced to be a part of the USSR. The Azerbaijanis would have to wait till 1991, when the USSR disintegrated, to taste freedom again.

The area around the 28th May metro station felt like the heart of the city. Shops all around, traffic clogging the roads, sidewalks buzzing with locals, crowded malls- this was the Shibuya of Baku. I tasted the Azerbaijani cuisine for the first time the next day at a restaurant near this square and it was quite an experience. The interiors had wallpapers with elaborate designs and chandeliers that sparkled as it reflected off the rays of the afternoon sun. It was a holiday and there were a lot of families dining at the establishment. The waiter, probably seeing the confused look on my face as I browsed through the menu, decided to help.

“Try the dolma.” He said with a heavy accent. I nodded. I had no clue what that was.

“You want bread with that?”

“Okay.”

“Yoghurt?”

“Sure.”

“Drink?”

“I’ll have the orange soda.” I said, pointing at the menu.

“We don’t have that. I’ll get you another flavour, yes?”

I would soon find out that dolma was a dish in which balls of minced meat, probably beef, are wrapped and cooked in grapefruit leaves. And to wash it down, a big bottle of pear flavoured soda.

If I could go back in time, I would order something else.

I cross the road to get to the bus stand for the Airport Express buses. Having already taken the bus earlier that morning, albeit in the opposite direction, I am aware it would take about 40 minutes to get to the airport. Though I am a bit unsure what the game plan would be once I got to the airport, I feel convinced that this was the best option I had to get a real update about my bag. I was only staying in Baku for 5 days and the last thing I wanted to do was go shopping for clothes in Baku, before flying off to Kazakhstan.

At the airport, the guards, no matter how much I explained, would not let me enter through the Exit gate where the Lost and Found department was located. They keep insisting that I use the Entry gate.

Finally, after a lot of back and forth, I give in and go through the security check and enter the terminal through the Entry Gate. It is the usual scene of a present day airport. People pushing luggage trolleys, long queues at the airline counters, cafes selling unreasonably priced mediocre coffee, uniformed guards patrolling with dogs as big as donkeys.

I follow the sign that read “Airline offices”. I take the elevator to the 2nd floor and then take a left along an eerie corridor that even the noises of the airport dared not enter. It was a long, lifeless corridor that made you wonder if the bag is even worth it.

Finally I reach a glass door with logos of different airlines. S7 airlines. Air Astana. Azerbaijan Airlines. And of course, Turkish Airlines AKA the assholes. I push the door open and enter in. It was an empty room with a couple of airport chairs, some cardboard boxes and a water dispenser. I peek through the open door of the cabin on my left. A middle aged man, dressed in formals and surrounded by files and papers sits, his eyes fixated on his computer screen.

I say “Hi”, keeping my voice as soft as I can, so as not to startle him. I hand him my copy of the Property Irregularity Report, lovingly known as the PIR.

“I’m haven’t received my bag yet.”

He takes a glance at the report and then asks me to go to the next cabin.

The next cabin is messier. Papers, boxes, folders everywhere. A man, wearing one of those florescent sleeveless airport uniforms sits, flipping pages of a thick folder.

I repeat the process. A soft ” Hi” and then hand him the report.

“Istanbul?” He asks after checking the report.

“Yes. Can you tell me when my bag is expected to arrive? I am in Baku for only a few days and…..”

Before I can finish he gets up from his seat and gestures for me to follow him back into the first cabin. The two men start speaking in the local tongue and then the one in formals, types something in his computer, as the other one peeks at the screen from over his shoulders.

After a few minutes of talking and typing the man in the uniform asks me to follow him.

As I follow him, walking a few paces behind, I realise that these two are the only ones in the entire office. Sitting at the corner of the airport, in a dimly lit office, surrounded by papers, files and folders. It has hardly been 10 minutes since I have been here and I can’t wait to get the fuck out. This place is miserable.

I see the man entering a cabin on the right and I prepare myself to repeat the soft “Hi” protocol. But as I enter, I realise I didn’t need to. The cabin is full of bags! Big. Small. Red. Green. Black. Trolley bags. Suitcases. Backpacks. Few Hockey sticks and guitars.

And there in the corner is mine!

Red and grey. Straps strewn about. Stained at the bottom from an earlier trip. It is not the prettiest or the fanciest bag in the room but it is the one that had traveled with me to 15 countries.

Remember the scene from Blood Diamond, when Solomon Vandy reunites with his wife at the refugee camp? “Jessie!” he shouted as he rattled the fence. In that moment, I felt like him. Except there was no fence to rattle.

I find myself running to it and picking it up. I did not have to check the tag. This was mine. And as the official finished the formalities to release the bag, I put it on my back and suddenly the world felt right again.

The corridor didn’t seem as grim on my way back. The guards didn’t seem as strict. And the coffee was actually pretty good.

And those dogs were definitely not like donkeys. More like noble steeds. (#Shrek)

That evening, after a long shower, wearing my favourite shirt, smelling and feeling good, I took a walk around Fountain Square, followed by visit to a nearby outdoor bar for a few beers.

It was the perfect setting. Cool breeze. A big screen showing a football match. I sipped a cold Efes while watching the evening traffic. It was the perfect way to end the miseries of a frustrating day. I was happy and finally, at peace.

But then the Bengali genes revolted again.

“Why didn’t the travel insurance company assist me? I paid them the premium. I filled up their long ass form. They didn’t even bother to reply back. This is unacceptable.”

I fished out my phone from my pocket and decided to mail the official I had been dealing with. I wouldn’t go into the details of what I wrote, but I wish I had waited till morning to press the Send button.