I got lost. At an airport. Thoroughly lost, in fact. So very lost that I ended up in the ‘Trolleys for excess baggage section’: I hadn’t even known it existed!
I detest airports. My reasons are solid. There are no open windows, and yet there are many pigeons. How? Plus, the comically high number of procedures! I cannot carry water. But I can buy water once I am inside. I am sorry but I miss the point.
Some of you may feel I am exaggerating some of the seemingly inane realities of life, and perhaps I am. But there must be something to the fact that I reach airports three hours early out of a fear of forgetting my luggage somewhere. Also, I must confess, I reach early so I don’t have to rush, lest I slip, fall, and become ‘the girl who fell’ at the airport.
To be fair, I am two hours early at a railway station as well. But that’s despite knowing that I could very well be there as the train is departing, and if I manage to successfully re-enact a famous movie scene, I would be securely on the train. And like a loving parent the dust-laden speaker would crackle, Aapki yatra mangalmaya ho.
There is another reason why the mere mention of air travel bothers me: the sheer amount of anxiety it inspires. At an airport, it seems, I am the only one who is looking at people’s faces, wondering what to do and trying to wear a confident look, all in vain. Everyone else is just too sure of themselves, walking with their heads held high, speaking in flawlessly accented English and even swaying their suitcases. I am the only one trying to handle my identity document, wallet, ticket and what not all at the same time. On a railway platform, everybody is just as lost as I am and it is such a relief. I think that is where the romanticism of platforms and train travel comes from — from the feeling of being lost and clueless and leaving it to destiny.
If you still think I am exaggerating, then this section hopefully merits some sympathy for your anxious writer. Are you familiar with situations where you sincerely wished the ceiling would come crashing down on you then and there, to avoid embarrassment? No? Well let me elaborate. I kept my suitcase on the conveyer belt for scanning and heroically walked to the check-in desk with (pretend) smugness and stood in line for 15 minutes. Like a super-nonchalant 21-year-old child of the times, I placed my ID and ticket on the counter and asked for a window seat. And this followed:
Check-in Uncle: Yes! Your ticket’s okay, ID’s okay. Student ID’s okay. That is your hand baggage okay. Is that all?
Me: Yes.
Uncle: No check-in baggage?
Me: One suitcase.
Uncle: (looks around the counter on my either side) Where is it?
Me: I mean, I already gave it (duh!).
Uncle: Where?
Me: Near the gate. There was a conveyor belt.
Uncle: Ma’am. Please, go get your suitcase. That is the scanner.
Me: Okay. A scanner for luggage.
Uncle: Yes. A scanner. It comes out from the other side. After scanning.
Me: Oh.
Uncle: Yes.
Me: …
Uncle: …
Me: Of course!
I ran. Like a frantic parent looking for a child left behind in a cab, I searched for my bag. I felt like the worst parent ever. After dramatically pushing through a couple of confused passengers who were jostling to get their own stuff ("Excuse Me!" they said in their "may I speak to the manager accent"), I found my suitcase lying face down near the scanner. I went down on my knees, pulled the suitcase towards me, and apologised to it. I have never forgotten my suitcase again. Yet.
Other things, I have forgotten plenty. The second time, I was at the Mumbai Airport, staring at the self check-in kiosk like an alien. The attendant told me it was easier, faster. But I said, no thank you. I kept my suitcase close to me, lest it wheeled itself away on its own. I checked in my suitcase, took my ID and ticket back and walked away. As one must in such situations, I plugged in my earphones, buried my hands in my pockets and thought, "Suitcase is deposited safely. I am getting better." And right in my state of grace, "Ma’am!" a hurried hand tapped my shoulder. I turned around to see a panting airline executive catching her breath. Clearly, she had been calling out my name for a while, and finally had decided to chase me to get my attention.
"Yes?"
"Ma’am, (pants) have you taken you boarding pass?"
"The whaaa..?" English is a funny language. Sometimes, it just leaves you.
"The pass. Boarding pass"
Where are loose ceilings and fortuitous accidents when you need them? Where are powers of invisibility when you find yourself to be the unfortunate centre of attention of an airport?
But this account started with how I got lost at the airport. Yes! I got lost without much celebration or fanfare. I simply was no longer in the ‘found’ section. I got off a plane and 15 minutes later realised this was not the Domestic terminal but the International terminal of the Mumbai Airport. To give you a sense of the scale, the former is your room, while the latter is your rich-but-good-hearted friend’s house. With that in mind, you can understand my awe and apprehension in the space.
This was not the good old domestic terminal which had been a loyal witness to my history of embarrassments. This was fresh ground.
I waited for 40 minutes for my suitcase. Finally, when I did spot it, I rushed to collect it and was on my way out when I was stopped by a rather attractive-looking person. Turns out, it was his suitcase. I feel the look of disappointment on attractive faces hits you much harder, as it did me that evening. After that, I returned to the luggage belt, and let my suitcase go twice around to make sure it was indeed mine.
Finally, I was left with one task before I could breathe a sigh of relief. I had to book an Uber. To where, I knew. How, I knew. From where? I didn’t have the slightest idea. It was while looking for this cab/taxi pick-up point, I got lost. My blue suitcase and I, we were just walking around peeking into gates. There came a moment when I was staring blankly at a camaraderie of trolleys, just on the edge of reason. It was in this that my phone rang. It was a message from Uber. Hail, Uber. It asked, "Do you want the Uber driver to come to P7?" or something like that. "Yes. Whatever. You tell me what to do, Uber. Please."
Things gradually got better, and like the ghost in Stree, I used my literacy to look at the signs, and finally reached P7. I was so exhausted by then I asked my Uber dada to find me. I told him it was easy, he just had to look for the most distraught person in the crowd. He was a gem and said, "Arre don’t worry madam, wait I will come." He came. We said our hellos and smiled our smiles and the radio played Shahrukh Khan songs all the way home. Wait! Am I sure I didn’t leave anything on the flight? I am not. I just hope I didn’t. Sigh.
This is not to say air travel is all bad. The speed is great. The staff are kind, and they put up with an astounding amount of stupidity with a perpetual smile. The clouds are pretty and inspire the philosopher in you.
Once I found myself seated beside a stunning old woman and her granddaughter, I presume, who were flying for the first time. I cannot forget the look on their face when the airplane took off. I cannot forget their eyes when they saw the entire expanse of the sea. I cannot, absolutely cannot forget their delighted screams as we flew over the clouds. This is the best that air travel has given me so far.
So, make no mistake, I will continue to take flights, complain about them, and be a shining example of hypocrisy for our species.