This one goes back a few weeks. The first-born of a new generation in our family was planning to tie the knot, and the Missus decided (uncharacteristically late; perhaps my eminently avoidable influence) that we ought to make the trip to Ranchi to add to the congregation assembled in Jharkhand's capital city for the occasion. Post the usual motions that accompany such marital confusion-making (sorry, decision-making), the argument was settled in the customary fashion (after all W is for Winning) and the vanquished assigned the menial task of booking flight tickets. Skipping any remonstrations vis-a-vis our misconceived munificence, well deserved as they may be, let me get to the chase.
My favourite fare search engine revealed the penury of choices in connectivity between the national capital and the pride of Soren-land (this predates the ignominy of Tamar where Guruji achieved a near impossible first: loss for a sitting Chief Minister of an Indian state in a by-election to sanctify governing rights). The alternatives were limited to three, of which our much-maligned national carrier and the reincarnation of no frills-pioneer Air Deccan, were known offenders on service and timeliness counts. In fact, the third option with its early morning departure fitted us to a t; arriving JIT for the inviting festivities of a Big Fat Indian Wedding. Mention must be made too of this transport provider's alluring tagline: a promise to touch sky-high (standards of excellence, presumably)! Hence, setting aside any Shylockian considerations, a new personal high in domestic one-way transport purchase damages was scaled in a few clicks.
Come the anointed day and we rose at day-break, a chore that typically guarantees to dampen the spirit among us weak-fleshed. But, as foretold, the prospects of a delightful family reunion and concomitant abundance of good cheer (and food) beckoned. Meru deposited us uneventfully at the airport and we found ourselves at the relatively nondescript check-in counter in no time. Service was quick, although, as the resident critic noted with a mild chuckle, one could discern the incongruity in the ground-staff's commercial finery, namely the colour palette and, yet more so, grooming (or absence thereof). Regardless, in a state of partial sleep deprivation, one was more than relieved for a quick scoot through Security. Indeed, such was the jubilation at the extra moments of rest thus afforded, that a repeat appearance of the check-in staff at the terminal exit door was met with benign appreciation, forgetting momentarily that costs cut thus had not found their way to the fare calculator.
Such economic considerations were promptly thrown out the window a few minutes later: after all, one can withstand only so many jolts when expecting a quick dash to the aircraft, and presented a cross-country drag race ride instead. Seconds turned to interminable minutes, and minutes to many aching more, as our joy-ride lasted the entire length of the runway, across the breadth of the domestic terminal, and then halfway again through the runway at the opposite end. Not just once during the twists and turns in the morning chill, there being no air-con (more cost saving perhaps?) on the rickety bus, did one get the feeling we had taken a road trip and not a flight to Ranchi.
All good things come to an end one supposes though, and a few years later we found ourselves in terra incognita, a secret nook of the certainly-not-so-large-as-to-be-uncharted Delhi airport. Two dusty aircraft in hues of aluminum silver and occasional blue greeted us but, in a mocking wave of destiny, we were told we could not begin boarding, or disembark the rickety safari ride, for ostensible 'security' reasons. The lorryload of co-passengers soon gave ample voice to their frustrations though, and we managed to convince the driver to open the door. Acceding to our entreaties, he relented for its use but only as an inlet for fresh air and not a passage to the aircraft. Blessed be these small mercies.
Moving with the script, after a wait of another few minutes, a Sumo driven at quasi-breakneck speed made its appearance, revealing what seemed to be the ground staff. Notable of them was their supervisor: quite the Italian job: hair gelled back, day four stubble and toothpick dangling from mouth corner completing the Cobra Crime-is-a-Disease-I-am-the-Cure look. His malevolent glare dissipated in a jiffy our desires to alight the diesel contraption we had rode in, yet failed to work its magic on the rest of his platoon who soldiered somnolently to remove stoppers under the aircraft wheels and assorted other motions to ready the plane. Yet more time gone and not a sign for us to start to board, the aircraft door to open, or, for that matter, of the cabin crew. In all, a veritable mockery of my hitherto flying experience.
It was at this juncture that an entirely new set of actors decided to enter the plot - the erstwhile Sumo's twin, at equally breakneck speed, and a few more passengers ferried therein - but sorry, no cabin crew yet. My Out-of-Africa parody was complete when Cobra announced (if that be the appropriate verb to describe those unwilling oral motions accompanied by rapid flicks of tooth-pick from one end of mouth to the other, producing unintelligible sounds wholly unaccompanied by any hint of apology) that there was a 'technical snag' and they would have to check for an alternate airplane.
By this time, frankly, one was at a stage where mere acknowledgment of existence of a back-up aircraft in this hillbilly service was like a manna from heaven; and my cuppa joy was definitely overflowing, having sighted too the elusive reclusive cabin staff at a distance. God was certainly in his element and all right with the Wodehousian world, as the replacement carriage was serendipitously discovered to be the one parked next door, saving one the blushes of another jungle safari. In any case, we were all confessedly beyond a state to speculate on the existence of a third bird in the fleet!
Flesh and spirit were more than willing, hence, as one gave the W a nudge and bounded up the few steps to the cabin - with thoughts a whirl of relief amidst sleeplessness and fatigue. In the blur too was hope, if one dare says it, for we were about to Chhoo Lo Aasman...
[To be continued!]
My favourite fare search engine revealed the penury of choices in connectivity between the national capital and the pride of Soren-land (this predates the ignominy of Tamar where Guruji achieved a near impossible first: loss for a sitting Chief Minister of an Indian state in a by-election to sanctify governing rights). The alternatives were limited to three, of which our much-maligned national carrier and the reincarnation of no frills-pioneer Air Deccan, were known offenders on service and timeliness counts. In fact, the third option with its early morning departure fitted us to a t; arriving JIT for the inviting festivities of a Big Fat Indian Wedding. Mention must be made too of this transport provider's alluring tagline: a promise to touch sky-high (standards of excellence, presumably)! Hence, setting aside any Shylockian considerations, a new personal high in domestic one-way transport purchase damages was scaled in a few clicks.
Come the anointed day and we rose at day-break, a chore that typically guarantees to dampen the spirit among us weak-fleshed. But, as foretold, the prospects of a delightful family reunion and concomitant abundance of good cheer (and food) beckoned. Meru deposited us uneventfully at the airport and we found ourselves at the relatively nondescript check-in counter in no time. Service was quick, although, as the resident critic noted with a mild chuckle, one could discern the incongruity in the ground-staff's commercial finery, namely the colour palette and, yet more so, grooming (or absence thereof). Regardless, in a state of partial sleep deprivation, one was more than relieved for a quick scoot through Security. Indeed, such was the jubilation at the extra moments of rest thus afforded, that a repeat appearance of the check-in staff at the terminal exit door was met with benign appreciation, forgetting momentarily that costs cut thus had not found their way to the fare calculator.
Such economic considerations were promptly thrown out the window a few minutes later: after all, one can withstand only so many jolts when expecting a quick dash to the aircraft, and presented a cross-country drag race ride instead. Seconds turned to interminable minutes, and minutes to many aching more, as our joy-ride lasted the entire length of the runway, across the breadth of the domestic terminal, and then halfway again through the runway at the opposite end. Not just once during the twists and turns in the morning chill, there being no air-con (more cost saving perhaps?) on the rickety bus, did one get the feeling we had taken a road trip and not a flight to Ranchi.
All good things come to an end one supposes though, and a few years later we found ourselves in terra incognita, a secret nook of the certainly-not-so-large-as-to-be-uncharted Delhi airport. Two dusty aircraft in hues of aluminum silver and occasional blue greeted us but, in a mocking wave of destiny, we were told we could not begin boarding, or disembark the rickety safari ride, for ostensible 'security' reasons. The lorryload of co-passengers soon gave ample voice to their frustrations though, and we managed to convince the driver to open the door. Acceding to our entreaties, he relented for its use but only as an inlet for fresh air and not a passage to the aircraft. Blessed be these small mercies.
Moving with the script, after a wait of another few minutes, a Sumo driven at quasi-breakneck speed made its appearance, revealing what seemed to be the ground staff. Notable of them was their supervisor: quite the Italian job: hair gelled back, day four stubble and toothpick dangling from mouth corner completing the Cobra Crime-is-a-Disease-I-am-the-Cure look. His malevolent glare dissipated in a jiffy our desires to alight the diesel contraption we had rode in, yet failed to work its magic on the rest of his platoon who soldiered somnolently to remove stoppers under the aircraft wheels and assorted other motions to ready the plane. Yet more time gone and not a sign for us to start to board, the aircraft door to open, or, for that matter, of the cabin crew. In all, a veritable mockery of my hitherto flying experience.
It was at this juncture that an entirely new set of actors decided to enter the plot - the erstwhile Sumo's twin, at equally breakneck speed, and a few more passengers ferried therein - but sorry, no cabin crew yet. My Out-of-Africa parody was complete when Cobra announced (if that be the appropriate verb to describe those unwilling oral motions accompanied by rapid flicks of tooth-pick from one end of mouth to the other, producing unintelligible sounds wholly unaccompanied by any hint of apology) that there was a 'technical snag' and they would have to check for an alternate airplane.
By this time, frankly, one was at a stage where mere acknowledgment of existence of a back-up aircraft in this hillbilly service was like a manna from heaven; and my cuppa joy was definitely overflowing, having sighted too the elusive reclusive cabin staff at a distance. God was certainly in his element and all right with the Wodehousian world, as the replacement carriage was serendipitously discovered to be the one parked next door, saving one the blushes of another jungle safari. In any case, we were all confessedly beyond a state to speculate on the existence of a third bird in the fleet!
Flesh and spirit were more than willing, hence, as one gave the W a nudge and bounded up the few steps to the cabin - with thoughts a whirl of relief amidst sleeplessness and fatigue. In the blur too was hope, if one dare says it, for we were about to Chhoo Lo Aasman...
[To be continued!]
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