Flight - BA 276
It was a sudden trip to India after two and half years. Trips to India are always an adventure especially if taken after a long gap. This time, I had checked my tickets online which made it a whole lot easier to check my baggage at the airport. I wonder why it isn’t more popular since the infusion of the computer and internet in homes and offices. Underestimation of the whole process let me arrive at the airport two hours earlier which ultimately turned out to be too much time. The presence of different kinds of people waiting in my gate lead to my lack of interest in reading the book that I had taken along with me. Most major international airports have such a diverse community to offer and the O’Hare airport at Chicago was no different. You can see south Indian mamees (aunti’s) in their madisaar (a special technique to wear the sari, usually prevalent among women of the older generation of tamil iyyer origin) pulling their carry-on luggage and those of their husband’s who seemed affected with osteoporosis while inspecting their flight information with eagerness and anxiety for the tenth time to make sure they don’t miss it. Then, there are the white businessmen who pretend to be traveling in first class and club world sipping on their Heinekens and having no clue as to why they got to the airport so early when they could be browsing the internet at work. There are the single, young, blonde women who like to let everyone around them know they are visiting Europe for the summer on an exchange program and expect to get tanned under the sun thereby avoiding huge loads of makeup and tanning lotions from the luggage. There are also the young, single Indian men who travel in their business suits and laptops on a weekend pretending to be on business trips but after taking a closer look at their luggage you will find huge cardboard boxes in strange shapes and sizes that are wrapped in yellow tape for extra protection that resemble smuggled electronics from the middle east and Singapore regions.
As you can see, traveling overseas can be a lot more exciting than traveling in peanut flights within the U.S. The first leg of my journey consisted of me, a British woman, exit seats and tomato juice (with a British accent where tomato rhymes with nothing comparable to the American version). I was excited to get the exit seats since they have more leg room. I was just praying I should get an ok neighbor. A young woman with a European fashion sense sat beside me. We did not even exchange looks, striking a conversation was out of question. The closest to interacting was when we got our respective meals. She first got her meal but the smell that seeped through the gaps between the foil and the container that had the mysterious perishable made me suspicious of a fashionable European woman sitting beside a “fashionable male” trying to eat spicy Asian vegetarian food in a flight. Things got clear when I got my meal that turned out to be Italian style since our meals were swapped. The first leg of the journey ended at London Heathrow and turned out to be one hell of a wait. 5 hours seemed like a whole night of delusional activity that consisted of walking up and down the length of the airport terminal, brushing my teeth next to an international community of men in the public restroom, visiting expensive stores that deserve only my looks that closely resemble a citizen from an undeveloped country circling the aisles of every shop with their hands behind their backs to see the price of every item only to turn them down for the high costs (this theory does not work with Indians and whiskey alone).
The second leg of the journey was from London to Chennai that turned out to be more interesting and fun for a lot of reasons. The person sitting at the window seat, who vaguely resembled a tamilian (Most people can spot a tamilian from a crowd. They are the one group that stand apart from any other race or ethnic groups. Being a tamilian myself, I have always wondered why that was so, but its definitely something to do with the skin color, thick moustaches, neatly combed and coconut-oiled hair and their mannerisms that convey a sense or a mixture of dubiety, rough accents, loud voices and the blatant tamil pride.), in my aisle was so worried about placing the luggage on top that when I was just about to place it he pointed a finger first at me and then at a random man sitting behind my seat as though he was warning the two of us and said “ His bag. His bag. Mine on left. His right. Black bag my. Blue bag his.” The lack of prepositions confused me as to whether he was trying to warn or inform me, but later I realized that he was under the pretext that each of the luggage bins were assigned only for those passengers sitting beneath it. Then there was the techy hyderabadi who was assigned the same seat as another passenger who looked like a graduate student coming from the US wearing a yellow Brazil soccer jersey. The hyderabadi had an air of chillness around his demeanor as though he was on pot. Since I was assigned the aisle seat, I had to wait until the seat problem was resolved so one of them could sit in the middle seat. Then the hyderabadi struck a conversation with me which turned out to be a never ending one until I was transferred to first class. Later the graduate student was assigned first class and so I had to sit with the hyderabadi next to me which was fun for a little while.
Hyderabadi: I’m diabetic. If you don’t mind I will have to go out frequently.
Me: That’s ok. (I am generally pretty considerate about sick people and their respective problems)
Tamilian: You want to sit here. I want to sit in aisle.
Me: No I am happy sitting here.
Tamilian: I feeling very hot here. No air. So Aisle will be better.
Me: I don’t think the temperature is that different here?
Once the plane took off, we were pretty chill in our respective seats. The airhostess started serving drinks which was when the hyderabadi got really excited. When it was his turn to choose a drink, he said “no cold drinks. Only water. Two glasses please. Two glasses.” With excitement, he showed a small green label bottle to communicate that he wanted the water to mix it with the alcohol that he bought at Heathrow duty free. The airhostess was pretty surprised by his gesture and said “I am sorry sir. You are not allowed to bring your own alcohol in flight.” The hyderabadi wasn’t willing to give up that easily. He said “ I bought in London. What’s wrong? I paid for it.” The airhostess apologized and went to the next seat. Then the hyderabadi drank half the glass of water and sneakily filleds up the remaining half with whiskey to drink it all in one gulp that ended with a loud belch and a mile wide smile that showed a sense of satisfaction and victory over the airhostess. “Heehee. They cannot do anything. I want to forget worries.”
I immediately anticipated trouble next to me and did not want to be the benefactor of a mixture of intestinally fluids and alcohol that might exit from his food pipe if this trend continued for the rest of the flight. So I warned him not to drink anymore as he might fall sick and land in Chennai with a bad hang over.
Hyderabadi: I lost my credit card today. I would have lost 5000 dollars.
Me: Did you report your loss to the company?
Hyderabadi: But I was late by 30 min. They would have taken 5000 dollars.
Me: Do you know for a fact that they took that much?
Hyderabadi: No. But I have to forget. Whiskey will help me forget.
He again gave his mile wide smile, this time contracting his eye muscles. The smile transformed from an innocent drunkenness to a stealthily creepy one. Just moments later, he picked up his second glass of water and drank half of it to repeat the ceremony only to become more talkative this time. He opened his ultra light sleek laptop to play me a tamil song that he enjoyed.
Hyderabai: I listen to it many many times. If I listen I fall in love. Listen to it . Listen. You go into some world. Very beautiful. You will go into love. Entire world of love. Heee ehheee heee. (Stinky breath)
And so I listened to it. It was the Oyyirin Oyyire song from Kaaka kaaka. Although, I did not go into some other world as he mentioned. It was more to a world of precaution born out of suspicion and dubiety. After fifteen minutes, it was no more fun listening to the hyderabadi talk. His speech was no more coherent and words coming out of his mouth were broken and stammering due to the effects of whiskey immersed in hyderabadi blood. The airhostess had a clear idea of what was going on and asked me if I wanted a change of seat. I was very happy to be taken to the first class. This was my first experience in first class in a major airline and I thoroughly enjoyed. I was now in an “entire world of love”, sleeping flat on the bed under a freshly washed quilt and blanket that smelled of tide soap. It was all good until I reached Chennai when I still continue to drip in my own salty sweat, naturally oiled face and slimy armpits.
As you can see, traveling overseas can be a lot more exciting than traveling in peanut flights within the U.S. The first leg of my journey consisted of me, a British woman, exit seats and tomato juice (with a British accent where tomato rhymes with nothing comparable to the American version). I was excited to get the exit seats since they have more leg room. I was just praying I should get an ok neighbor. A young woman with a European fashion sense sat beside me. We did not even exchange looks, striking a conversation was out of question. The closest to interacting was when we got our respective meals. She first got her meal but the smell that seeped through the gaps between the foil and the container that had the mysterious perishable made me suspicious of a fashionable European woman sitting beside a “fashionable male” trying to eat spicy Asian vegetarian food in a flight. Things got clear when I got my meal that turned out to be Italian style since our meals were swapped. The first leg of the journey ended at London Heathrow and turned out to be one hell of a wait. 5 hours seemed like a whole night of delusional activity that consisted of walking up and down the length of the airport terminal, brushing my teeth next to an international community of men in the public restroom, visiting expensive stores that deserve only my looks that closely resemble a citizen from an undeveloped country circling the aisles of every shop with their hands behind their backs to see the price of every item only to turn them down for the high costs (this theory does not work with Indians and whiskey alone).
The second leg of the journey was from London to Chennai that turned out to be more interesting and fun for a lot of reasons. The person sitting at the window seat, who vaguely resembled a tamilian (Most people can spot a tamilian from a crowd. They are the one group that stand apart from any other race or ethnic groups. Being a tamilian myself, I have always wondered why that was so, but its definitely something to do with the skin color, thick moustaches, neatly combed and coconut-oiled hair and their mannerisms that convey a sense or a mixture of dubiety, rough accents, loud voices and the blatant tamil pride.), in my aisle was so worried about placing the luggage on top that when I was just about to place it he pointed a finger first at me and then at a random man sitting behind my seat as though he was warning the two of us and said “ His bag. His bag. Mine on left. His right. Black bag my. Blue bag his.” The lack of prepositions confused me as to whether he was trying to warn or inform me, but later I realized that he was under the pretext that each of the luggage bins were assigned only for those passengers sitting beneath it. Then there was the techy hyderabadi who was assigned the same seat as another passenger who looked like a graduate student coming from the US wearing a yellow Brazil soccer jersey. The hyderabadi had an air of chillness around his demeanor as though he was on pot. Since I was assigned the aisle seat, I had to wait until the seat problem was resolved so one of them could sit in the middle seat. Then the hyderabadi struck a conversation with me which turned out to be a never ending one until I was transferred to first class. Later the graduate student was assigned first class and so I had to sit with the hyderabadi next to me which was fun for a little while.
Hyderabadi: I’m diabetic. If you don’t mind I will have to go out frequently.
Me: That’s ok. (I am generally pretty considerate about sick people and their respective problems)
Tamilian: You want to sit here. I want to sit in aisle.
Me: No I am happy sitting here.
Tamilian: I feeling very hot here. No air. So Aisle will be better.
Me: I don’t think the temperature is that different here?
Once the plane took off, we were pretty chill in our respective seats. The airhostess started serving drinks which was when the hyderabadi got really excited. When it was his turn to choose a drink, he said “no cold drinks. Only water. Two glasses please. Two glasses.” With excitement, he showed a small green label bottle to communicate that he wanted the water to mix it with the alcohol that he bought at Heathrow duty free. The airhostess was pretty surprised by his gesture and said “I am sorry sir. You are not allowed to bring your own alcohol in flight.” The hyderabadi wasn’t willing to give up that easily. He said “ I bought in London. What’s wrong? I paid for it.” The airhostess apologized and went to the next seat. Then the hyderabadi drank half the glass of water and sneakily filleds up the remaining half with whiskey to drink it all in one gulp that ended with a loud belch and a mile wide smile that showed a sense of satisfaction and victory over the airhostess. “Heehee. They cannot do anything. I want to forget worries.”
I immediately anticipated trouble next to me and did not want to be the benefactor of a mixture of intestinally fluids and alcohol that might exit from his food pipe if this trend continued for the rest of the flight. So I warned him not to drink anymore as he might fall sick and land in Chennai with a bad hang over.
Hyderabadi: I lost my credit card today. I would have lost 5000 dollars.
Me: Did you report your loss to the company?
Hyderabadi: But I was late by 30 min. They would have taken 5000 dollars.
Me: Do you know for a fact that they took that much?
Hyderabadi: No. But I have to forget. Whiskey will help me forget.
He again gave his mile wide smile, this time contracting his eye muscles. The smile transformed from an innocent drunkenness to a stealthily creepy one. Just moments later, he picked up his second glass of water and drank half of it to repeat the ceremony only to become more talkative this time. He opened his ultra light sleek laptop to play me a tamil song that he enjoyed.
Hyderabai: I listen to it many many times. If I listen I fall in love. Listen to it . Listen. You go into some world. Very beautiful. You will go into love. Entire world of love. Heee ehheee heee. (Stinky breath)
And so I listened to it. It was the Oyyirin Oyyire song from Kaaka kaaka. Although, I did not go into some other world as he mentioned. It was more to a world of precaution born out of suspicion and dubiety. After fifteen minutes, it was no more fun listening to the hyderabadi talk. His speech was no more coherent and words coming out of his mouth were broken and stammering due to the effects of whiskey immersed in hyderabadi blood. The airhostess had a clear idea of what was going on and asked me if I wanted a change of seat. I was very happy to be taken to the first class. This was my first experience in first class in a major airline and I thoroughly enjoyed. I was now in an “entire world of love”, sleeping flat on the bed under a freshly washed quilt and blanket that smelled of tide soap. It was all good until I reached Chennai when I still continue to drip in my own salty sweat, naturally oiled face and slimy armpits.
posted by Mt. Heaven at 11:22 AM
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