It was my first time back home in almost two years; a year
and seven months to be precise. Why was I going back to the land lost in time?
Why really was I?
The London rain has its own peculiar mood; subtly trying to
seep in the feeling of gloom on a supposedly warm summer day. A hood over the
head and I was on my way. Why does it feel so at home when there is some piece
of cloth blocking your vision? Is it just like the illusion when you check
under the bed for your child to feel safe?
A little excited to be amongst friends, I was there at the Heathrow, rushing through things,
owing it to the late evening London traffic. Apparently the checked baggage had
to cough out a little as I decided to check in my carry-on luggage case as
well. A snub comment from one of the staff about a guy who was apparently
trying too hard to balance his luggage (asking others to take his couple of
quid worth of nuts for him to save a big bill), was an apt reminder of the way
things would turn out in the Wild-Wild East.
I was looking forward to fly Air India, apparently because
at the time of the booking, the agent had courteously asked me for my meal
preference and obliged with requesting a Hindu Non Veg meal. Coming from the
land of Nawabs, I was sure that it would be a delight to be in Maharaja’s
company.
The 21:30 flight was a bit delayed, and I was all tucked in
my seat, sniffling away the London blues. In about half an hour the flight was
taking it to the skies, and after about an equal amount of time, the stewards
brought about a trolley serving drinks, the cold ones. Coughing and a little
cold, I asked for a cup of tea, and the one serving assured that there would be
someone else coming out with a tea trolley soon. I waited patiently, wetting my
throat with a glass of water.
An hour and a half later of browsing through the on flight
entertainment, dinner was served, apparently with little water glasses in a cup.
Tea was to be served soon after dinner, as this seemed to be all part of a
system that worked just fine for the government carrier. The small cup of tea,
served almost two hours late after I asked for it, was still a relief. Albeit
it was also because the dinner I was looking forward to, had quashed my
expectations by a dozen. Apparently, the Indian Railways could easily walk away
proud for being the generous one with both - the portions and the taste.
Giving myself up to the mercy of the inflight entertainment
to keep me amused throughout the night, I was surprised to find some of the
‘classics’ in Hindi movies. Surely, the copywriter was looking for a word that
was not ‘old’, and in the process didn’t care for the class in a classic.
The next morning was better, with tea and coffee served
simultaneously with breakfast. By now,
even though I wanted to, I had given up on my hope to ask for refills, as
surely the button on the remote to call for assistance didn’t work for me.
The flight was on its way to Delhi, flying through turbulent
weather as the Pilot’s crackling voice would pause the movie every 15-20
minutes. The ‘don’t take off your seat belts to go to the toilets’ warnings
were never followed by ‘It’s safe to use toilets’ announcements. Apparently
there was an unsaid three minute rule which I somehow was the only one not
aware of.
A few hours later, the flight was hovering over Delhi and as
soon as the flight descended from 20k+ kms to 8k kms, a sharp pain shot through
my right ear and rose up above my right eye as it felt like it would just
explode. Frantically pressing the Assistance button was an effort in vain, but
standing up to catch the attention of a steward who was busy sweet talking a
young lady sitting two rows in front of me, proved a little but helpful.
Holding your nose and blowing air in your cheeks really doesn’t help with the
pain, nor does drinking water. Somehow the flight landed, and I was happy to be
put out of my misery, for someone trusting to fly the official flyer,
apparently lured in by one free change for the return flight, I guess it was
still too much of a price to pay.
Waiting still for over 15 minutes before the arrangements to
disembark were made, I was left wondering if it would have been the same if I
was flying on BA and landing at Heathrow?
A few minutes of walk later, I was at the immigration check
desk, and as soon as I hand over my passport to the man in his mid-forties, and
as he struggles to find the last stamp on my passport and asks me for my older
passport, and as I tell him that I only have one passport, he makes a snub
remark ‘Hindi mein nahi bol sakte ho kya?’, and once again I am left wondering
at the professionalism of people in the Wild East.
PS: The Delhi heat is real.
