The Pony Express - Part 1

APRIL 14th, 2008: BANGALORE:
The second hand of my watch ticked over to 12:00 AM. Happy New Year! This is one event I cannot escape with my dual or confused identity – for it’s the dawn of both the Tamil and Mallu New Year. This year there would not be any Vishu for me. No waking up before the sunrise for a glimpse of the Vishukkani (something that’s never been missed even during my Chennai days, when we used to switch on to Asianet to view the virtual Vishukkani), and fall asleep again. “Happy New Year, Sir!” I exclaimed to the startled old Tamilian couple who stood at the coffee kiosk with me. They gleefully wished me back. “It’s a strange way to spend your new year isn’t it? Travelling across the globe to various countries?” I quipped. It was indeed strange for me. Last year’s Budapest trip had changed my fortunes – for better or worse. I wondered what fate had in store for me the next year.

The first moments of the New Year was spent in the huge waiting hall of the (soon to be old) Bangalore Airport, under the auspices of its huge air conditioning ducts with vents sticking out like the tendrils of some mutant reptile creature from a Hollywood science fiction movie. This place is so old that one can still spot long fans hanging from the ceiling at every twenty-odd feet. I sat there for close to 3 hours swatting mosquitoes, reading, listening to songs and observing others. Perhaps someone else, like me, would be writing on me – I made quite an appearance sitting there with pieces of my baggage around me, clad in my favorite Singapore T-Shirt with a thick grey pullover wrapped around (in this climate), an I-pod sticking out in the front, reading short stories of Somerset Maugham.

The various pieces of luggage had been my first problem during the journey. I was charged for exceeding the baggage limit by 3 kg – guilty as charged! I did not bother to argue. Then came the shock. After checking my ticket, the check-in officer informed me that the rebooking charges had not been paid. I applied some quick thinking. In those few seconds I conjured up some ingenious swear words I could use on our travel desk counterparts. Thankfully, I didn’t get the opportunity to use them, as he waived it or decided to ignore it. The Lufthansa counter was conspicuous by the absence of a check-in queue. 10:00 PM was perhaps a bit too early for a 2:00 PM flight. Hence I was a little astounded when he informed me that the flight was fully booked and I would not get a window seat. I wonder why I don’t ever bother to do the e-check-in.

I had 3 hours to spend in the lounge. Somerset Maugham was not entirely the foremost of my priorities then. With no Pragati around to write about, I sat across the security check section and began observing people. There was a proliferation of babies with their grandparents, presumably travelling to the USA, some of them decked up in gaudy pattu sarees and veshtis, probably to celebrate the New Year. There was this plump girl going to Barcelona (I know because she was next to me at the check-in counter), who was continuously on the phone for those three unearthly hours. Where I had sat down seemed to be the reading corner. Everyone seemed to have a book for the occasion – from the obscure Bengali novel to R.L. Stine’s Goosebumps series to “Not Without my Sister” that Isabelle, the beautiful girl on the Air France flight was reading. The Swiss couple was engrossed in skimming through their photographs of India.

Across the floor, the wide-eyed cute little girl in pink was restless. She kept blabbering to her mother, who was finding it hard to keep herself awake. The girl would have none of it. From sweet-talking her mother to consciousness to showing her the pictures she’d make in her little book, she tried everything to keep her mother awake. She finally gave up and put away her green scribbles. She gradually leant her head against her mothers and went to sleep under the watchful eyes of all around who had witnessed her little spectacle. They disappeared on the Air India flight to Mumbai – just another set of strangers. But the evening sideshow was far from over. The best was yet to come in the form of the eight month old Anushka. Travelling with her mother and grandparents, she was one of those comic book babies, fully covered from head to foot, in a one-piece suit (again pink) with only her head visible. She reminded me of Jughead Jones’s sister, Jellybean. She was quite vociferous and seemed to possess great oratorial skills, as she had soon captured everyone’s attention with her baby goo goo. She seemed to be addicted to coffee as she kept jumping for the two cups of coffee her mother had got for her grandparents. I soon discovered another one of her hobbies – Somertset Maugham. Leaving the coffee aside, she sprang for my book, much to the chagrin of her ajji.

“Never mind!” I said and handed her the book.
“She’ll tear it” exclaimed Ajji.
“It doesn’t matter” I smiled. It would take some baby to tear THAT book.
Maugham, once again, was not entirely the foremost of my priorities then.

Observation: The worst seat you can get on a flight is next to the galley. Until dinner is served, our sensory organs are tormented by the sweet aroma of food.