The Airport
c3. The Airport.
The auto sped over the bumpy, undernourished roads of Bangalore. Quite unimaginatively the road was called ‘Airport Road’. As we turned into the narrow lane approaching the airport, I wondered how much time before ‘Airport Road’ would be rechristened after an ambitious politician.
It was 6:30 in the morning, the warm glow of the streetlights lit up the passage to the airport. I was early, as always. Thanks to this I had to pay the auto 1½ times the usual fare. Smiling, as I shelled out the cash, I swore at him in Hindi. The serene Kannadika wasn’t corrupted enough to understand, as he thanked me and fired up his 3 wheeler to life.
I rummaged for my ticket and showed it to the security guards. I could’ve sworn they didn’t give it half a glance, as I was ushered inside. I could have been a terrorist you know. With my baggage sufficiently violated, I collected my boarding pass and moved into the waiting lounge.
I sat down and proceed to open up a book I was carrying. From Beirut to Jerusalem, by Thomas Friedman. I couldn’t read more than 7 words as I found myself in a highly distracted state thanks to the cute girl I had deliberately placed myself next to. A green Tee proudly proclaiming the wearer to be Von Dutch, her blue jeans and white converse sneakers grabbing my attention. Or perhaps it was the cleavage which drew me in. A deviation from normal behavior, I didn’t feel the need to initiate conversation. It was almost entirely to do with the girl whom I just started to date. While I came to grips with this hold she seemingly had on me, the girl got up and left. While thinking, I had obviously forgotten perform the ‘mission critical 5 second cleavage look away procedure’. Cursing my luck I withdrew into my moth eaten seat, and just looked out of the huge glass window panes.
I don’t know what it is about airports and airplanes but it gives me an irrevocable high. I observe all and sundry and find the time to identify planes from the bright motifs on their tailfins. The international carriers are usually the larger four engine planes. The Indian ones are all either Boeings or Airbus’s, with the exception of Paramount which uses Embraer. Regarding the artwork, I find Air Sahara’s logo the most plaid of all. All at once I have this mental image of an out of work copyrighter coming up with the most non-original idea possible, a tri colour. I would understand, believe me, had India just gained her independence and the air fleet was newly established. Under the current scenario, I feel their brand managers should handle more mature themes – like Adult Diapers.
The Go Air motifs are definitely more eye catching. The colours on their planes, probably, don’t even have proper names – like red, blue and the likes. But the Indian Airlines planes are definitely the most unique. Half their Airbus’s sport one logo, and the other half another.
The people at airports, are inherently more ‘observable’. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that so many of the passengers there, have their trips financed my someone else – companies, the airline they serve candies on, parents, political parties etc. It’s a collection of people who find themselves in the confines of a brightly lit and highly guarded environment with nothing common among them.
In the corner sat a man with an IBM thinkpad series laptop plugged into a power socket, courtesy Airports Authority of India. Clean shaven wearing a shirt, and a jacket. His extra short cropped hair reminded me of farmers from the Hindi heartland. He had an unmistakable rustic air to him. The jacket was embossed with the logo of Bosch Machine Tools. It loudly proclaimed the slogan, ‘Invented for Life’; But not nearly as loudly as the music blasting from his laptop. A nauseating mixture of Ricky Martin and Westlife smashed into my ears at the speed of sound. He spoke on his expensive cellular phone, in a practiced street-smart Hindi. “I don’t have enough pieces with me to make the sale”, he said for the benefit of the passengers sitting more than 50 meters away. I assumed he was a salesman doing brilliantly in the company, thus rewarded with laptop and air travel privileges. With some nostalgia I remembered my days in consulting, when I’d lug around a laptop and feel important.
I caught sight of Von Dutch girl again, this time a glimpse of her fanny heading into the transit bus. I got up and made my way to the bus as well. As the bus lurched forward, I reflected on my Bangalore trip. It had been a wonderful experience. I felt a lot better and more enthusiastic about life in general. She had obviously contributed more than she’d ever realize. In a way she got me reading again. Somerset Maugham and Virginia Woolf were new words in my vocabulary. Delhi was going to be good again. I could feel it in my bones.
The auto sped over the bumpy, undernourished roads of Bangalore. Quite unimaginatively the road was called ‘Airport Road’. As we turned into the narrow lane approaching the airport, I wondered how much time before ‘Airport Road’ would be rechristened after an ambitious politician.It was 6:30 in the morning, the warm glow of the streetlights lit up the passage to the airport. I was early, as always. Thanks to this I had to pay the auto 1½ times the usual fare. Smiling, as I shelled out the cash, I swore at him in Hindi. The serene Kannadika wasn’t corrupted enough to understand, as he thanked me and fired up his 3 wheeler to life.
I rummaged for my ticket and showed it to the security guards. I could’ve sworn they didn’t give it half a glance, as I was ushered inside. I could have been a terrorist you know. With my baggage sufficiently violated, I collected my boarding pass and moved into the waiting lounge.
I sat down and proceed to open up a book I was carrying. From Beirut to Jerusalem, by Thomas Friedman. I couldn’t read more than 7 words as I found myself in a highly distracted state thanks to the cute girl I had deliberately placed myself next to. A green Tee proudly proclaiming the wearer to be Von Dutch, her blue jeans and white converse sneakers grabbing my attention. Or perhaps it was the cleavage which drew me in. A deviation from normal behavior, I didn’t feel the need to initiate conversation. It was almost entirely to do with the girl whom I just started to date. While I came to grips with this hold she seemingly had on me, the girl got up and left. While thinking, I had obviously forgotten perform the ‘mission critical 5 second cleavage look away procedure’. Cursing my luck I withdrew into my moth eaten seat, and just looked out of the huge glass window panes.
I don’t know what it is about airports and airplanes but it gives me an irrevocable high. I observe all and sundry and find the time to identify planes from the bright motifs on their tailfins. The international carriers are usually the larger four engine planes. The Indian ones are all either Boeings or Airbus’s, with the exception of Paramount which uses Embraer. Regarding the artwork, I find Air Sahara’s logo the most plaid of all. All at once I have this mental image of an out of work copyrighter coming up with the most non-original idea possible, a tri colour. I would understand, believe me, had India just gained her independence and the air fleet was newly established. Under the current scenario, I feel their brand managers should handle more mature themes – like Adult Diapers.
The Go Air motifs are definitely more eye catching. The colours on their planes, probably, don’t even have proper names – like red, blue and the likes. But the Indian Airlines planes are definitely the most unique. Half their Airbus’s sport one logo, and the other half another.
The people at airports, are inherently more ‘observable’. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that so many of the passengers there, have their trips financed my someone else – companies, the airline they serve candies on, parents, political parties etc. It’s a collection of people who find themselves in the confines of a brightly lit and highly guarded environment with nothing common among them.
In the corner sat a man with an IBM thinkpad series laptop plugged into a power socket, courtesy Airports Authority of India. Clean shaven wearing a shirt, and a jacket. His extra short cropped hair reminded me of farmers from the Hindi heartland. He had an unmistakable rustic air to him. The jacket was embossed with the logo of Bosch Machine Tools. It loudly proclaimed the slogan, ‘Invented for Life’; But not nearly as loudly as the music blasting from his laptop. A nauseating mixture of Ricky Martin and Westlife smashed into my ears at the speed of sound. He spoke on his expensive cellular phone, in a practiced street-smart Hindi. “I don’t have enough pieces with me to make the sale”, he said for the benefit of the passengers sitting more than 50 meters away. I assumed he was a salesman doing brilliantly in the company, thus rewarded with laptop and air travel privileges. With some nostalgia I remembered my days in consulting, when I’d lug around a laptop and feel important.
I caught sight of Von Dutch girl again, this time a glimpse of her fanny heading into the transit bus. I got up and made my way to the bus as well. As the bus lurched forward, I reflected on my Bangalore trip. It had been a wonderful experience. I felt a lot better and more enthusiastic about life in general. She had obviously contributed more than she’d ever realize. In a way she got me reading again. Somerset Maugham and Virginia Woolf were new words in my vocabulary. Delhi was going to be good again. I could feel it in my bones.
Excerpted entry,
Odd mixture of non-fiction and cheap thrills fiction and aviation nonsense.
