The wait to get to Berlin has felt so enormous that this delay in baggage claim feels inconsequential. Illustration/Ravi Jadhav

I'm mired in three different time zones. My body is still being ruled by the one I was accustomed to, that marked the early morning hour of my departure out of Delhi. Then there was the re-calibration as I entered Gulf territory around 6am, when the Arabs had already begun their Ramadan fast, and my Fitbit is still counting those hours, even though I am, as we speak, hovering over Berlin. I can see spools of water, large suburban clusters, and vast expanses of intervening fields. At some point, in my dreams, my attempt to catch up with time through sleep, I think I fell out of it completely. I was geographically suspended over either Iran or Iraq or perhaps Turkey, so the pilot announced, suggesting our westward movement, though, subconsciously I was still tethered to the fixity of home. As I inch closer to Berlin, the buildings become larger, I can see the steeples of churches, tree-lined pathways, and sinuous roads edged by long, solid buildings capped by extensive red-tiled roofs. The wheels of the aircraft are drawn out, we are about to, no, wait… Touchdown.