I write this post because
1. I just stayed in Delhi for 3 days, and my TDC is at it’s peak. My sense of balance will not be restored till I write a bit.
2. I had the worst flight of my life today and I NEED to rant.
With the last post, I feel like I’m making a trend here, explaining my blogging activities like you’re supervising me against posting. But I like this trend,(because who doesn’t like the trends they initiate) and I’m going to keep it up.
I had to travel from Delhi to Hyderabad today, a journey of a little more than 2 hours with Indigo Airlines, and more than a little turbulence in my head. If you ask why, there are two reasons again,
1. You know those days when you wake up with a throat as sore and dry as a sandy vag, and you try to treat it with your own saliva, and it feels like you’ve just eaten a boulder ? Today was that kind of a day for me.
2. Delhi. Where the guy driving the imported sports car and the guy who delivers milk to this guy with the sports car, both own an iPhone. Where you hear more foreign accents from Indians than the foreign tourists, and we all know that number is huge.
But this flight was the shithole, Delhi Shawshank, and Hyderabad my freedom. I had to go through it. No other option. So I just reached Delhi airport with a cabbie who tried to act very ignorant and took me by as long a path as he could, unaware that there exists something called Google Maps. But it was just the beginning of the hole for me. Getting through security formalities took a really long time, and that’s not a good thing in a shole. This was taking too much time for me to remain sane. Standing in the queue for the baggage check-in, I was thinking about how people are always in a hurry. They’re in a hurry wherever they are. They’re in a hurry to come, they’re in a hurry to leave, they’re in a hurry to do everything. I glanced at all the Airport officials at the numerous counters. There were three of them; one guy and two women, one of them extremely captivating in her beauty, or maybe it was just the make-up, I couldn’t really tell. I got to check-in at her counter. I had the chance to go to the guy, but I chose to let the poor 60 year old woman in her tank top and yoga pants behind me go before me and got the counter I wanted. Karma works in mysterious ways, yeah.
“Would seat number 15F work sir ?” she said with a warm smile.
Obviously that smile was fake. I think the first lesson in their training is always how to fake an authentic smile in all situations. I’m sure they ask people to jump out of the airplane with a broad smile and a warm “Welcome sir” or “welcome ma’am” and you’ll be so captivated by their smiles that you’ll jump off with a smile yourself.
“Sir ?”, she said in the same smile.
“Uh, yes ? Yes, yes”, I said, smiling broadly myself.
And I had absolutely no clue what was making me smile so hard. As soon I said yes, I regretted my decision. 13 was my lucky number, and I almost said, “Actually, could you give me seat number 13F ?” But before I could say it to her, she had printed my boarding pass. “Well, whatever” I said in my mind and moved on.
Back in a queue, I was starting to feel weary about the idea of queues, and the many troubles it gave people. Someone pushes from behind you, the guy in front then gives you a murderous look, worse still, if it’s a woman, her husband will look at you like he’s going to knife you to death right in front of the airport police and they’re just going to watch, if you even looked straight at her again. You decide to take the safe road home, and stand still, resisting the push of the guy standing behind you. At this point, you realize that even you can give the “will knife your ill-mannered ass” look to the guy behind you. Sadly, he’s either just looking at his phone or out the glass wall at the planes like he’s never seen one before. He doesn’t care about who is looking at him with murderous rage in their eyes. Dead end there. I gave up and started scanning the other faces. A few families with infants, a couple couples, a group of businessmen joking about something, a lone uptight businessman who reminded me of Dawood Ibrahim all with his intricately trimmed moustache and his shadily designed sunglasses that he was wearing indoors. But my eyes weren’t on him for long. I found a new, more pleasing resting place for my sight. A very pretty girl, who seemed to be in her mid 20s and was travelling with an elderly lady who seemed to be her mother. I couldn’t tell yet, but maybe she was the mother. The girl wore a very clean simplistic little blue dress and little pearls that were quite delightful to look at, to say the least.
Now the thing about seeing your co-passengers beforehand is, you make a mental list about who you do not want to be sharing seats with, and who you would consider extremely lucky to get to share a seat with. I guess it’s how we see the people in our life too. But staying on track, what I was really happy about, was that I could just look at the girl in full anticipation, waiting for her to turn, because I’d just seen her from behind yet. I didn’t have to worry about an angry husband or boyfriend to give me the look and me having to look away pretending as if I was just interested in what material her dress was made of. However, I just continued to look and pray. And she turned around, allowing me a look at her face. It was clearly her mother travelling with her, with the same hairline and face structure, anyone could tell. Now I really wished her seat number was 15E. But I knew that was next to impossible, since they almost never paired single guys with any female persons who haven’t booked tickets with them. I prayed, nevertheless. The queue moved slowly, and people were hurried along onto the bus. There was a part where I was standing on the bus, which was really crowded. I was standing near the front door, and there was this very suave looking guy, who looked like he was about 30, and extremely rich, who was standing near the back door. He looked so rich, that for a moment I thought he was just getting a lift to go to his private hangar, if not his private chopper ready to take off somewhere. It wasn’t like he was in a really posh suit, or I saw any really big brands on him. He wore a V-neck buttoned t-shirt and a pair of shorts with loafers, and these very fancy sunglasses which looked like the first model ever, made by DaVinci or someone. All that paired with the most businesslike, organized haircut, not even one strand was out of place. It really looked like a rich haircut. He was talking to someone, and the pretty girl’s mother was standing somewhere behind him. I thought he was talking to the pretty girl, and I really just hoped I would get a chance to talk to her. I really just had to wait and see.