The 19th that wasn't...

What a way waste an entire day of your life. A day older, none the wiser, and strongly considering an addendum to my list of pet hates. The subliminally pointless exercise that is flying long haul on Air India, during the day. Air India is a venerable airline. A quality that demands a cabin crew are indifferent bordering on rude and seldom easy on the eyes, there are no individual screens, 14% of the buttons on any console within reach will not work, there won’t be any headphones (and you won’t even care), no duty free, and if you’re lucky, an absence of any safety demonstration. What they do have, is an abundant supply of bawling babies, whimpering toddlers, stridently blustering mothers, ineffectual fathers, deaf geriatrics, overhead bins jammed to barely shut capacity and the best Indian food any airline has on offer.
Breakfast soothes my neurosis and I systematically run through the papers, the Sudoku and an interview with Benicio del Toro. He’s Puerto Rican, strange and rather compelling. I’m three quarters through my pornographic purchase when the trolley trundles by, and my hand reflexively reaches for the proffered bag of crisps even as I nod my gratitude. I hate crisps, but the inexplicable compulsion to eat everything that is offered during a flight rides roughshod over any attempt at rebellion, and I listlessly plough my way through the popularly accepted imitation of what potatoes in foil ought to taste like and the uninspiring literature with determination. Lunch is marvellous. A fabulous gobi mutter, and chicken curry that reminds me of the chicken masala we used to order for lunch at Nariman Point, mountainous portions that we’d share, for all of Rs. 25. Delicious! I succumb to my inexcusable need to consume everything, and try the suspiciously goopy looking dessert, my brain only reacting halfway through the sampling with the definitive message that I really don’t like it… the lights are turned down, and I move onto Candance Bushnell, before I realise I’m now one of those grossly annoying people who leave the light on while everyone around me is surrendering to the pretended darkness. What a perfect way to spend what I know must be a brilliantly sunny day in London.
Consciousness seeps into my being along with the sight of the dude in the jump seat chummily sharing a joke over his Heineken. The lights are back on and I struggle with an insidious headache thumping its merry way between my eyes. An untimely nap (n. anything less than 8 hours of oblivion) headache. An orange juice assists recovery in a limited manner, and I waken more fully to the sight of apes undulating on trees. Bereft of headphones, my comatose intellect grapples with the image – why? Why would they be inflicting swinging apes on 400 trapped passengers? Granted, we’re this side of callous when it comes to health and safety, but surely the inchoate mix of 70’s Bollywood songs, world news, a bizarre Hollywood virtual racing flick and this, is too much for any but the most hardened psychology? An otter on its back, lushly revelling in the fat drops rain on its face, swims languidly across the screen, making me smile. I love the rain. It viciously bites the head of a fish, contentment writ large on its furry face. Dinner time.
0040. Only an hour and ten minutes later than scheduled. The muggy air, a relief, but that’s before I find myself on the tarmac with other mystified passengers as the only bus departs imitating a can of sardines. I smirk, as the realisation kicks in that there is no other bus on the horizon. I bite my lip to stop laughing out loud as I survey my abandoned companions, milling about, while the rest ponder the meaning of life on the steps, and in the aisles of the aircraft. 8 minutes and two buses arrive. We lurch off, our enterprising driver veering off, vying for pole position as a 747 rumbles past. We beat 2 jet airways buses, 3 airport transports and the other air India bus to make it back to the terminal first….. It’s good to be back.