How difficult is it to have a bloody printout of the ticket, or at least the damn boarding pass, before leaving for the airport? Apparently, very difficult. You reach when the pilot is already revving up the engines and the line outside the terminal is long enough to test your faith in civilisation. Naturally, you start squeezing sideways and doing minor calisthenics to reach the security gate.
Then comes the question. “Ticket, sir.” Of course. The ticket. The one thing required to enter. You start searching your phone. No, you did not take a screenshot in the taxi because the Amazon courier guy was asking for an OTP back home and, at exactly the same time, someone had sent the seventh track-change version of an agreement with: “Just one small change, please check.”
Somewhere between OTP, Outlook, WhatsApp and Track Changes, the boarding pass has disappeared. You search mail, WhatsApp, Downloads, the airline name, then your own name. The security fellow is nice. “Sir, side mein ho jaiye. Aaram se dhoondhiye.” You stand aside furiously scrolling while the queue moves past, everyone thinking: this idiot knew he was flying today.
Eventually the boarding pass appears and you enter triumphantly, only to begin the next operation: cabin baggage.
You have always believed airline weight restrictions are broad philosophical suggestions. Your cabin bag weighs more than some people’s checked-in luggage because you are carrying your full bathroom inside it. Toothbrush, shaving kit, creams, medicines, perfume, chargers, power bank, spectacles, laptop, iPad, a book you will not read, a jacket in case the aircraft enters Siberia, and a change of clothes because you remain convinced checked baggage disappears every third flight.
The bag probably weighs fourteen kilos, but you carry it as though it contains a handkerchief and a newspaper. Airline staff look at you. You look away. Never make eye contact near a weighing scale.
Then security. Why, for God’s sake, did you carry that damn bottle? It has 200 ml written all over it. Not in fine print. But you still try. “It’s only one-fourth full.” The security guy says, “Sir, bottle 200 ml ka hai.” You explain there is hardly anything inside. Nope. Then comes the oldest argument: “Last time you allowed it.” Nope again.
Why do you do this? You knew the rule and still packed it, convinced airport security would assess liquids by remaining quantity, bottle geometry and your personal sense of fairness. Into the bin it goes.
Then they find the nail cutter and tiny scissors. Those were apparently essential because one irritating little hair has recently started coming out of your ear and could not possibly have waited until you reached the hotel. Now deal with it. You watch your grooming equipment disappear as though aviation security has launched a personal attack on your ears.
And boss, this is only the start. There is still the lounge. You love the lounge, not for the food, which you inspect critically and then eat anyway, but because some credit card says you are entitled to enter it. Not visiting feels financially irresponsible.
Today there is no chance. You are late. You mourn the coffee, idli and tiny sandwich, then pacify yourself. Good. At least it will be a brisk walk. Exercise.
So you grab your fourteen-kilo portable bathroom, look at the gate number and start walking with the purposeful expression of a man who has planned all this beautifully. Gate 62. Naturally.
By the time you reach the aircraft you are panting while pretending not to be. Ticket found, bottle sacrificed, ear-hair scissors martyred, lounge abandoned, Gate 62 conquered. Now just put the cabin bag overhead and sit down.
Except every bloody overhead bin is full. Someone has put a backpack horizontally across an entire compartment as if it has purchased its own seat. There are trolley bags, laptop bags, jackets and one mysterious packet containing enough food to sustain a family through a small war.
Your seat is 18C and the space above it is completely full. You stand in the aisle holding your fourteen-kilo bathroom while thirty people behind you try to reach their seats. You look like an idiot.
The air hostess says, “Sir, you can keep it a little ahead.” A little ahead turns out to be row 23, so you move against incoming traffic. “Sorry, excuse me, just one second.” Nobody believes you are sorry.
At row 21 you spot a gap and try to ram the bag into it. Halfway. Push. Nothing. Turn it. Push again. Still nothing. The gentleman below watches with growing concern as your bag hovers above his head.
Then comes the overhead-bin negotiation. “Whose bag is this?” Silence. You point to a small backpack occupying prime real estate. A hand comes up three rows away. You ask if he can keep it under the seat. He looks offended. Why should his backpack move because you have brought a portable household onto the aircraft?
The air hostess arrives. “Sir, this bag is quite big.” Quite big? Madam, this bag entered the airport as cabin baggage and it will die as cabin baggage. You do not say this. Instead you look innocent and say, “It normally fits.” Eventually, through engineering and social pressure, it does. Six rows behind your seat.
You sit down and realise what this means when the aircraft lands, but that is a problem for Future You. Present You is delighted to be sitting. The gentleman next to you has been seated peacefully all this time, boarding pass in Apple Wallet, one small backpack under the seat, probably arrived two hours early. You dislike him instantly.
Then the snack arrives. Chicken Junglee sandwich.
Who invented this name? Which copywriter decided two slices of cold industrial bread, anonymous chicken and green chutney deserved the word Junglee? It is cold, of course. Industrial, as usual. But the office guys bought that corporate ticket with a snack, so you must respect the economics and eat it.
One bite and you decide the cashew nuts are a better investment. Actually, the little tin box is quite cute.
The guy next to you is eating industrial upma, stirring it seriously with a plastic spoon as though a Michelin inspector may arrive. Then the smell comes from behind. Maggi.
Maggi? In the morning? Who eats Maggi in the morning? Apparently the fellow behind you does, happily. You judge him for about six seconds and then secretly wish you had ordered the damn noodles yourself. They smell fantastic.
You look at your Chicken Junglee sandwich, lying there like an abandoned infrastructure project, and remember the damn agreement. Aircraft mode has at least stopped the world from reaching you, but the seventh track-change version is already downloaded. You open it and scroll through red lines while the smell of Maggi drifts over your shoulder. Outside, the aircraft bumps through monsoon clouds. You look out, decide the pilot must be having more fun than you are, and return to Track Changes.
By the time the aircraft lands, everybody discovers urgency again. The moment the seatbelt sign goes off, people spring up. You, of course, have a different problem: your bag is six rows behind. So while everybody moves forward, you need to move backward. Excellent planning.
You squeeze past shoulders, retrieve your portable bathroom and make it to the door. Outside, the bus is waiting. Or rather, the first bus is leaving.
You make one heroic attempt, reaching it as the hydraulic door closes. You push. The door does not care. You push again as if determination can override hydraulics. Nothing. The bus leaves and you stand there looking faintly betrayed.
Fine. Next bus.
This time you are determined not to miss it; so is everyone else. The doors open and you are swept deep inside with your cabin bag trapped between strangers. “Shit, this is absurd,” you mutter.
One hand grips the overhead rail. The other holds your phone because the lawyer urgently wants to talk. You cannot release the rail because the driver appears to be qualifying for Formula One, while the legal future of the company apparently depends on the next four minutes.
You invent a new human posture: one hand above your head, the other half-holding the phone, neck bent, shoulder pushed upward to trap the phone against your ear. You look like a badly assembled coat hanger.
“Yes, tell me.”
The bus jerks. You swing. Your bag hits someone’s leg. “Sorry.” The lawyer continues. Another turn and the person next to you is involuntarily part of the discussion.
The bus brakes and everyone moves forward together. For one second you are closer to three strangers than to some relatives in years.
The lawyer asks, “Can you hear me?”
Perfectly. You are inside an airport bus with fourteen kilos of bathroom between your knees, one arm stretched overhead, neck at forty-five degrees and somebody’s backpack pressing into your kidneys.
“Yes, yes. Go on.”
