Mercury Rising

The PA crackles out loud: "...the outside temperature is 33 degrees" in a typically disjointed flight attendant's voice. It sounds ominous for the Cinderella hour, but Delhi May heat is rarely for the faint-hearted. Nonetheless, it offers me little succour: an uncommonly rude landing has woken me up rather unceremoniously, arms flailing, a few moments back. Perhaps its one of those pilots selected for nepotist reasons (I have followed that story with more than passing interest, including to check if my preferred airline finds dishonourable mention. None yet, but tonight's rough touchdown suggests that may merely have been good PR). Welcome to India's corruption capital.

These thoughts run through my half-awake mind as the aircraft taxis interminably to the dock. I wonder if I should switch the phone on (I ought to be contrite but I don't know any other rule that tempts me thus with any regularity). Perhaps I don't need to do this surreptitiously but my guilt has not lessened despite sharing with a planeload of passengers, flight after flight. A mental shrug later, I decide to wait. (It helps that the late hour rules out folks waiting with bated breath to hear of my progress through the space-time curve.)

At long last the aircraft reaches the gate. This is cue for two-thirds of its passengers (its a full flight) to rush into the aisle, much like our parliamentarians troop to the Well in Zero Hour. Everyone seems ready to risk life and limb (not their own, surely) to pull their carry-on luggage out of the overhead bins. A few moments of heaving and panting and they are ready for the charge, undeterred by the knowledge of a wait before the aircraft doors open (the continued analogy with similarly puerile calisthenics by our Hon'ble MPs is striking). I want to get up and stretch a leg but settle for making the most of the extra space in the exit row. It does little to uplift my mood.

Minutes later I am part of the Indian file, my solitary piece of luggage, a laptop bag, slung over my shoulders, negotiating my way out of the evening transport. I try my best to reciprocate the deliberate enthusiasm in the cabin crew's goodbyes, but make do with a smile I hope is bright enough. My perennially-in-meeting-mode phone whirs to life with sundry messages enticing me to assorted properties in Noida, and one that reassures me I am not alone in the world. It cheers me up a little and there is almost a bounce in my step as I climb aboard the travelator. One of the last flights of the day means that, but for my co-passengers, there are no milling many, sporting bored scowls and assorted attires that mildy hint at their ports of embarkation.

Not for the first time, passing many empty arrival gates, do I wonder why we docked at the farthest end. Perhaps it is FIFO but it sounds too simple and logical for any self-respecting sarkari decision-maker! In any case, even at the end of a long day, the physical exertion of a walk through the terminal's brightly lit but desolate confines easily outscores its mad-dash predecessor (unless you crave the excitement of a wildly careening bus-ride lurching your way over the asphalt in the darkness, desperately trying to retain a modicum of balance while the beast hunts intermittent islands of light in the daunting expanse of a large airport).

Used to long strides, my progress on the walkway is typically brisk, though in fits-and-bursts as I encounter slower moving traffic. My stock response to such interruptions is to wait and take advantage of the travelator's section breaks, and occasionally to edge in sideways. Today I stick to patience-pays, perhaps due to a renewed wave of grogginess as random sounds of our progress through the terminal prey on my mind. The muffled pitter-patter and bolder clickety-clacks of miscellaneous footwear distinctly lose to the grating noise of assorted stroller-bags being dragged over the metal. It is an uneven crescendo that threatens to jar the senses, much like an orchestra spinning out of control. This pipe music adds a laconic twist to the sight of one in stilletos, positioned plumb in front of the ladies room but thinking the corridor a better place to powder the nose than the privacy inside. Perhaps this one seeks comfort in the crowd. Whatever.

Down the escalator and past the palm-mudras arrayed in greeting, I near the exit. Expectedly I spot some of the prominent members of the push-away-like-no-tomorrow specimen of the flying species head towards the conveyor belt to await their registered luggage. Without such baggage (pun intended) I continue straight and hit the Meru counter a minute later. Surprisingly there are no cabs at the ready (I see smallish queues at the other radio taxi providers too) and I wait my turn, OCD-heavy as I count off the six folks ahead of me. Tonight cabs hunt in pairs, like fast bowlers, and my ride arrives soon enough. I jump in with a few minutes to go before midnight, but sure I have not had the last of the portended 33 degrees...

Plumbing Yet Deeper

It was with more than a slight spring in the step and twinkle in the eye that we scooted up the ladder to the little bird soon to soar in the sky. A half-hearted greeting at the door made for no pause in our upbeat mood and it was a benign eye that inspected our transport's relatively modest confines. Indeed, a token Club Class row (we were in the next) elicited but a friendly chuckle from W as we belted up. My throat was being a tad rebellious though and cabin crew intervention had to be requested. A stewardess appeared soon enough in response to the call button, promptly noting the request for a glass of warm water. Almost on cue, the pilot initiated runway formalities and, moments later, we were airborne.

Debating whether to attend to the companion paperback or grab a shuteye, my reminder for that glass of water to the in-flight hospitality team commencing snack service, was affable, to say the least. Be that as it may, the glass remained elusive as we devoted ourselves to contents of the breakfast tray. My demurral of surprise to W at not being asked for choice of cuisine was but a murmur (my partiality to meat not being a shared inclination in any case). Yet, despite her vote for things vegetarian, she could not suppress a crinkling of the nose at the quality of food on offer. She did educate me though as to why my lofty morning-omelette ambitions were thwarted, pointing to piece of misdirected evangelism from the airline's promoter-chairman in a tacky seat-pocket brochure. Seemingly, Mr Goenka was doing his zealous duty to spread satvik vibes in airspace by denying minor gastronomic pleasures to us lesser mortals.

Vexing as this presumption of choice may be, but my poise was severely tested by the sustained refusal for that fugitive glass of water to materialize. At this tug of the bell, the first crew-member made a repeat appearance, only to inform me on this occasion that no provision for warm water existed in flight (perhaps some satvik postulate was violated), turning nonchalantly away before one could ask as to why the last two requests had met assent promising future fulfillment. Bias for sustained civility forbore me from pursuing matters, though it was beyond my fuddled mind to fathom what was perverse about such beverage being in service. Indeed, likely things could get worse, given all that had transpired since the morning.

It did not take long for that piece of rhetoric to meet its answer. The indifferent fare on offer needed a strong garnishing in any case. The airline's choice of dessert dressing was dead mosquitoes, two in number, as revealed by a cursory inspection of what W had in front of her. Perhaps a mosquito or two was par for the course in screens for vegetarian staple per Mr Goenka's specifications. The cabin crew next summoned did certainly indicate that the proceedings were of routine nature: her blasé shrug of disinterest had an aura of finality, utterly dismissing any hint of corrective action.

A soul far braver may have persisted, not me. The airline had spared no effort in staging these intricate manouevers and consecutive nadirs in service benchmarks (Chhoo Lo Aasman, ha): an eminently reasonable explanation for the ticket price tag. Thus grounded, we slept. No more happened: much could have. Or perhaps they ran out of ideas. Or budget.

Plumbing Depths

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!]