The immigration officer in Bengaluru took so long that I began to suffer a panic attack that any protracted interaction with a bureaucrat behind a counter brings on. “You go to Delhi too much,” he blurted out, poring over the stamps in my passport that were proof I had returned to India inexplicably often via the miles of mud-dyed carpets at Indira Gandhi international airport rather than the relative Swiss minimalism of Kempegowda in Bengaluru.
I had visited New Delhi six times in 12 months. Invites to friends’ weddings and a 50th — and even a 30th — birthday celebration
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