I remembered the neon lights. The quiet amidst the mad rush. The fresh fish. The calming sound of the local dialect. Large Kanji characters hanging off sills. The Shoji. The steaming bowls of noodles. The bows. The discipline. The pride. The grandeur.

I wanted to go back.

I needed to go back.

And then, after fours years of yearning, it finally happened. I was going back to Japan.

…

It was around ten at night when I reached Kolkata airport. The pleasant early February breeze, coupled with the Bengali chatter all around, teased my already excited nerves. I had been in Kolkata for a few days to attend a family function and had the pleasure of revisiting some of sights of the city that I once called home.

Kolkata’s Netaji Subhash Chandra International Airport and I go back a long way; years before it got renovated to its present form. Back in 2011, on a humid June night, I nervously stood in one of its security queues, about to embark on my first solo trip, feeling a strange mixture of nervousness, excitement, and a newfound sense of independence. As fate will have it, almost a decade later, I will walk through the same gates and take the same flight again. The 2 am, Thai Airways flight to Bangkok.

They say you get jaded after a while but for me, over the last decade, the excitement has only grown with each trip. I still feel the butterflies in my stomach as I head out to the airport to start each trip; leaving the comforts of home for a few weeks of the unfamiliar. It still kills me when a trip ends; probably more so now than before. When I am home, I still find myself daydreaming about the places I have been and the places I want to go to. Though almost a decade older, the zeal to travel is very much alive in me still.

As far as I am concerned though, there have been two recognizable changes since that first trip. One, I am a bit more confident now; not about everything going according to plan but about my ability to deal with it if it didn’t. And two, I am a bit more thankful- don’t know to whom exactly but still. I feel thankful and blessed to have seen some incredible places, for not many people are fortunate enough to do the same. Of course, needless to say, there are many, many more places left to see and I intend to see as much as I can before my time ends.

…

With four hours still left for the departure of my flight, I spent a few minutes reading the names of different cities that are served by the airport on the giant electric Arrival and Departure boards. A lot of flights to places like Kunming and Hong Kong had been canceled; the words frantically blinking in red, warning us about the dark days ahead.

The dreaded Coronavirus outbreak was still at its early stages back then; restricted mainly to China, with a few isolated cases reported in other countries. But the word had traveled and I saw the airport guards and some of the travelers wearing masks as they entered the airport premises.

“Fucking sissy.” I thought to myself, as I saw a middle aged man, using hand sanitizer.

At the time, perhaps more than the virus, the thought of getting sick in the cold weather made me nervous. This would be the first time I would see snow in my life and experience temperatures in the negatives. The trolley bag that I dragged alongside was full of the best warm clothes my budget and my old wardrobe could offer; a new jacket, a pair of ski-gloves bought from Amazon a few days ago, two sets of thermals, an ugly fleece cap, a muffler that I borrowed from someone and conveniently forgot to return, and an old sweater with a mysterious hole near the right elbow.

I was flying to Tokyo with a stopover in Bangkok. I was looking forward to the couple of hours I had at Suvarnabhumi airport. During my travels in and around South East Asia, this airport had played a big part in my transits and if my memory serves me correctly, I had spent at least a couple of nights sleeping on its uncomfortable chairs. Though I was not going to leave the airport premises, I had enough time to have a bowl of pork noodle soup at the food court, chug down a Chang beer and let nostalgia take over.

This was not to be, however.

The situation at Suvarnabhumi Airport in Bangkok was scary. There were masks all around; posters everywhere were making people aware of the virus outbreak and advising them on the course of action they needed to take if they started showing symptoms; long, slow-moving queues at the security checks where tense faces acted as a window into the mind and psyche of those passing through. This was not the same “Land of Smiles” I knew and loved.

The couple of hours that seemed too short a stay to reacquaint myself with one of my favourite airports till just a few hours back suddenly seemed too long. I skipped the noodles and the Chang and waited at the gate, with a carefully wrapped Subway sandwich, for my next flight to start boarding.

…

Few months back when I was finalising a place to visit for this trip, a couple of names came to mind: China and Japan. After much thought, it really came down to whether I wanted to cruise around the islets of Guilin or see the Winter and Snow Festivals of Hokkaido.

As much as I like China, Japan has a very special place in my heart. I went to Japan back in 2016 and from the moment I landed in Tokyo to the moment I caught my flight back home from Osaka after two and a half weeks, the country kept me in complete awe. It mesmerized me with its unique culture, humbled me with its hospitality and amazed me with its rich history. From the people I met, to the places I saw, to the food I ate, I just kept falling deeper and deeper in love with this place.

So, the decision was made, flights were booked and visa was applied for. For the next month or so, I daydreamed as to how it would feel to be back in Japan; constantly counting down to the minute when my flight was scheduled to leave. But as the days drew near, news of the virus spreading started making rounds and my friends and colleagues started expressing their concerns.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” I was asked over lunch at office.

“Dude, are you seriously still going? What the fuck is wrong with you?” I would receive over Messenger and Whatsapp.

“It will take more than a virus to keep me away from Japan.” I would say, acting all cool and badass.

But that was back then; when not many people knew the scale of devastation this virus will bring. Now, I know that what I thought was “cool and badass” back then was just plain dumb. A lot could have probably gone wrong but thankfully, it looks like it didn’t.

But, who am I kidding! Even if I knew, I still would have gone.

After all, it will take more than a virus to keep me away from Japan.

…

The first time I really felt like I was back in Japan was not when the immigration officer at the airport checked my visa and stamped my passport. In fact, Narita airport looked less like an airport and more like a giant hospital. All around, you could see officials screening travelers for fever, and advisories asking you to present yourself to the airport medical personnel if you have been to Wuhan recently or showing symptoms; who in turn will check and confirm if you are infected.

I do not know the exact procedure they would follow if you test positive, but most likely, you would be quarantined, which I did not know what exactly meant at the time, but it sounded like being upgraded to business class or something.

“I went to Japan and the people were so nice. They quarantined me!”

…

It was already dark by the time I reached Kinsicho station. Riding a wave of salarymen heading home from work, I drifted towards the station exit. After a long day of flights, followed by an hour-long train ride from the airport to Kinsicho station, my exhausted legs carried me towards my hostel. It was a twenty-minute scramble through the sidewalks, dragging along my trolley bag, its wheels rattling as it hit the crevices of the pavement tiles, swerving it out of the way of passersby, all the while bitching in my mind about the cold evening weather. Deep down, I knew this 6 degrees Celsius weather will seem like a balmy evening once I headed off to Hokkaido. Hungry, tired and in desperate need of a shower, I walked as briskly as I could to make the blue dot and the red pin converge in my Google Maps application.

In all honesty, in the hassle of completing the immigration formalities, getting my JR Pass issued, catching the right train, transferring at the right station, following the map, the excitement of being back in Tokyo was somewhere a bit overshadowed.

The mood was however lifted when I entered the heated confines of my hostel and was greeted by a smiling receptionist and the smell of coffee brewing. The dorm though incredibly compact, was sparklingly clean and I decided to freshen up a bit before heading out for dinner.

And as I entered the toilet, the dim light turned brighter, the lid of the WC lifted slowly, with a blue glow coming from within. On the side was the elaborate control panel, full of buttons to select the right pressure, angle, water temperature, and different kinds of flushes. It felt like I had opened the door of the toilet and entered a sci-fi movie!

And, that’s when it truly hit me that I was back in Japan. A country so lovely and so weird at the same time.

…

The plan was to spend a couple of days in Tokyo before catching a train to Hakodate. During my brief stay in Tokyo, I planned on visiting some of my favourite sights in the city; the serene and historic Imperial Palace, experiencing the mad rush of Shibuya and seeing the lights of the city from the observatory of Tokyo Metropolitan Government Building in Shinjuku.

Early the next morning, I headed back to Kinsicho Station, flashed my JR Pass at the counter officials, and was gestured in with a quick bow. I feel like if James Bond ever rode the trains here, this is how he would do it.

JR Pass can sound a bit expensive at first but if you do the maths, it can actually save a ton of money, especially if you are planning to visit a couple of cities in Japan during your trip. The only catch is, if you lose it, you can’t get that fucker replaced. It disappears from your life like it never happened.

Now, I am not the most organized guy in the world and every now and then, I would find myself patting all my pockets, and my jacket had many pockets, looking for it.

I called this newfound hobby “Going Gollum”, the pass being the Precious.

…

To my pleasant surprise, the Imperial Palace had opened its gates to visitors without prior permission. I happened to be loitering around the compound when I saw that one of the walking tours was starting and instantly signed up. Entering through the heavily guarded, ancient gates of the palace was surreal, to say the least. We were walking on the same soil that the mighty emperors of this land had once walked.

The tour took us around the palace complex, dotted with many important historical buildings; like the old palace towers in which back in the day, archers were stationed to ward off invaders, the long reception hall where foreign dignitaries are welcomed by the Imperial family and the leaders of the country. The chirpy tour guide walked ahead of us, explaining to us the symbolic meanings of different icons and symbols we saw all around.

After an hour-long tour experiencing the historical, traditional and cultural elements of the Imperial Palace, I took a train to Akihabara. On the face of it, it was just a few stations away but technology wise, I had travelled a several centuries ahead. The incredibly modern, snazzy and colourful district of Akihabara is where the gamers, comic book nerds and electronic aficionados come to feed. Around the sidewalk stood girls dressed in maid uniforms inviting you to visit their cafes. Anime characters decorated the outer walls of different buildings; video games, Manga comics, and action figures to suit all tastes on sale in these glamourous multistoried buildings.

After browsing through some of the video game parlors and comic book stores, followed by a hearty bowl of soba noodles and a couple of cups of coffee, I took a train to Shibuya. Buzzing with the infectious energy of hundreds of people crossing a busy four-way intersection each time the traffic lights turn green, Shibuya is the place to be at dusk. The lights emitting off the giant LED screens adorning the skyscrapers all around made the evening sun seem a bit redundant.

Shopping malls, restaurants, cafes, departmental stores, fashion boutiques around the area were thronged by hundreds of locals and tourists alike. In this sea of superficiality stands a symbol of unconditional love; the statue of Hachiko, a loyal dog that would come to this station every day to receive his owner as he returned from his daily commute. One day, the owner suffered a fatal cerebral hemorrhage at work but Hachiko would continue to come to this spot every day for nine years, waiting for his owner to return.

With my eyes still dazed from all the lights and sounds, I headed off to Shinjuku to see Tokyo from above. As I walked along the sidewalks of Shinjuku, lit under the lights coming from the sky touching buildings all around, busy with Japanese salarymen making their way home from work, I felt like an extra on the sets of Lost in Translation. In one of the cars that zoomed past was Bill Murray waking up from his nap from the backseat of his cab, amazed by all the bright lights. Up on the window sills on one of the buildings, sat a bored Scarlett Johansson, looking down, deep in her thoughts. The mysterious chef of Netflix’s Midnight Diner sat somewhere up on a small balcony in one of the narrow alleys, smoking a cigarette, waiting for the clock to strike midnight.

From the stained glass windows of the observatory, I saw the city of Tokyo twinkling. The Sky Tree, Tokyo Tower, numerous hotels (including the one from Lost in Translation) and office buildings dominated the skyline. Dazzled by these famous structures, it is easy to overlook the clusters of smaller lights scattered around the city, presumably of the residential buildings, izakayas, and restaurants that added lustre to the city’s glow. It is there that the heart of this giant metropolis really beats. Chefs grilling delicious meat over smoking grills; people slurping ramen off steaming bowls, the stomach aching laughs over generous pours of sake and sochu, the busy subway trains, the never-ending, mind-numbing frenzy that Tokyo is famous for.

…

That night, I visited one of the izakayas near my hostel for some drinks and dinner to end the day. It was one of those places where the waitresses did not speak any English and the picture-less menu was full of Kanji characters. But I had done my research. Biru is Japanese for beer. I also pointed at an interesting looking dish of an adjacent table to go with the drink. The waitress nodded, said something in the local language, gave a quick bow and left.

By the time the beer arrived, I had taken a good look at the place and the people present there. The walls around the establishment, affixed with posters of local beers and different types of noodle dishes, were made of wood; the sliding doors with square grids on them, creaked as they slid forward and back. Though the place looked old, it carried a vibe of good maintenance and care.

The TV screen to my left was broadcasting a game show that the gentleman on the table to my front was really invested in. His eyes seldom moved from the screen while his left arm helped him take drags off his cigarette. The group of four, two girls and two boys, sitting on the table to my right seemed hypnotized by the screens of their respective phones. Three men in office suits sat at the corner on the other end, a plume of smoke clouding over them, their occasional loud laughs boomed across the small establishment. On the other side of the sitting area, behind a waist-high wooden partition, was the cash register. At the back, I could see a couple of cooks hard at work, conjuring up delicious-looking dishes.

As I knocked down a couple of bottles while sampling the tofu dish that I had apparently ordered, trying to make sense of the TV show playing on the screen, subconsciously the place became my evening haven in Tokyo. Weeks later, when I came back to the joint after spending time in Hokkaido and Miyagi prefectures, I was pleasantly surprised to know that the staff remembered me.

“Tsurai?” The waitress will ask. The Japanese word for spicy, as per Google translate. A word that I would often say after I placed an order.

To end the night, I pointed at a picture of a bowl of noodles on the wall to my left.

“Ramen?” I asked.

“Hai” The waitress nodded, smiling. Yes.

…

Soothed by the cold breeze, under the lights of the Tokyo Skytree twinkling up above, I walked back to my hostel late that evening. The area I was staying at was not as lively as Shibuya or Shinjuku. Most shops had closed and there were fewer cars on the road. Apart from a couple of tired-looking salarymen walking along the sidewalk on the other side of the road, there was hardly any sign of life around.

And then, as you do when you are deliciously fed and happily drunk, I had an epiphany.

We are all nothing but bowls of ramen.

When we are born, we are an empty bowl. Full of possibilities.

With education, we add ramen to the empty bowl.

As we develop our values and perpectives, we add broth to it.

With the people we meet and befriend, we add the vegetables and meat.

As we read books, listen to music, travel, work, and have different experiences, different spices, herbs, and sauces are added to the bowl.

As we go through life, making various choices and decisions, we act like the busy chefs behind the wooden partition, choosing different ingredients to prepare the best bowl of ramen we can. The choices the chef makes and quality of ingredients he uses determines how delicious the bowl of ramen turns out when its finally finished.

The steaming bowl of ramen then makes it way from the kitchen to the table of the almighty customer who gets to decide if the dish is good or not.

Whatever the judgment is, good or bad, it is the duty of the chef to try and make the best bowl of ramen he can.

Yeah.. I think of all kinds of nonsense when high and pass them off as epiphanies.