They are old. Maybe close to 80. The husband asks me, in halting practised English, if I know the check in procedure. Then he tells his wife, in a quieter voice, not to worry.
I look at his ticket and point him towards the first counter. "just hand it to them, and they'll do the rest." He looks stricken and grateful, all at once.
"Will they allow her to come till there?" He asks, pointing to the demure little woman who he must have been married to for much longer than I have existed.
"is she travelling with you?"
The wife says something, clutching the crook of his arm. She looks older and smaller than she was a few minutes ago. I switch to Marathi, after hearing her speak, and both of them are instantly more at ease, the conversation now in a language they've been born into.
"She isn't coming with me." He tells me and I feel a pang on his behalf. "They won't let you in, beyond that gate, unless you have a ticket."
It's a small thing. It's a few metres of being alone. It's something the rest of take for granted. Something that we secretly enjoy, to have a snatch of privacy from the parents who want to come drop you, or the lover you're escaping from. In that moment, I realize that when you're old enough to be standing at an escalator that only goes upwards, you want to hold onto every crumb of companionship you can manage to.

I help him with his check in, and he thanks me several times. He looks at his wife on the other side of the glass. His heartfelt farewell having found its way into an affectionate pat on her arm a couple of minutes before. Theirs isn't the generation of hugs and rushed kisses.

She waves at him, and he raises his hand. Then he turns and walks towards security, thanking me one last time. The wife waits and watches him walk away, until he is one with the crowd; just another husband in a sea of people.

Bombay airport, May 2013.