Traveling by the big bird and other stories

I cannot put my finger on what it is...but something about being at an international airport makes me nervous. The ones in India...I could walk through them in my sleep and still find myself on the right flight. The sheer magnitude of the place is daunting. There are signposts each step of the way. But we still lose our way! If only we would stop watching the planes - take off and land and follow the directions instead, may be, we would not land up at wrong terminals.

I find myself at the check in desk half an hour before it could even open. Yet I'm antsy. I see a man - in his 40's, mostly bald except the few strands of thin hair running from side to side. Beads of sweat magnify his thin tresses. He reaches the counter & finds no one there and panics. He finds out that check in for the flight has shifted to Zone G. He panics more and tells me to recheck. I re-check and turn around to tell him that we need to indeed shift to Zone G but by this time I find him running with his trolley towards zone G. I find myself running behind him. The adult in me chides me for running panic struck when there are 3.5 hours to board. My irrational self pays no heed, craning my neck trying not to lose sight of man running amok with his trolley. Half bald nervous man has suddenly become my official guide.

At the check in counter I feel a sinking feeling. The same that one feels when one is stopped at the railway platform and asked for a ticket which has suddenly decided to disappear in the deepest darkest corner of one's bag. Why people don’t make bags with a small light fitting in them is a different story. I examine my options. Should I go to the firang or settle for the Indian instead. Firangs derive their sense of power from the system - they hold their rules and regulations dear to their heart. Where as an Indian man feels his sense of power at being able to bend the system and its rules beyond recognition If I am excess on my baggage allowance there is a higher possibility that the Indian would bail me out. I try not to look nervous reminding myself that like dogs, even airport officials can smell it on you. It works, I am allowed to pass without paying

Inside the flight no sooner that they have got to their seats, I see people starting the barter for seats. 'If you let me take this one...then you can have the window there at the end where my wife is sitting' Nervous half bald man looks visibly less nervous though still restless to strike a good deal for his choice of seat. The strong blower in the aircraft has sucked away his beads of sweat and the edge of his hair is starting to fan up at the sides.

At 11 p.m. I am woken up by middle aged woman in red saree and asked...would you like to have your khaana beta'...I nod and am served. I like the mummy like hostess rather than a cold white ghost speaking to me with a twang. I have a new found love in my heart for Air India.

Bombay has a shinning new arrival lounge. The marble stair-case that once adorned the entrance with water falling from the top - has disappeared. The smell however is unmissable. Gregory David Robertson has an entire para dedicated to it in his book. Very well described. I am feeling less poetic though. To me it’s just a mix of some strong, cheap phenyl and un-serviced, musty old air conditioners. The cop at the exit gate stops me and utters the word 'pauti' (Marathi for receipt). I hand over my immigration slip and walk out. I know I’m home!

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