Airport adventures
The Woman from Madras Musings was walking through the airport with a marked bounce in her step. She was feeling relieved at making good time; the city she was flying out from was an unfamiliar place, and she had no friends or family – or credit card, for that matter – to count on in the event of a missed flight. However, WMM soon discovered that she had much left to worry about. Her flight was delayed. She could have made peace with the hold-up but for the announcements made by the airline staff – much like an executioner who favours death by a thousand cuts, the attendant announced a succession of delays that each purported to be ‘only fifteen minutes’ but added up to two hours altogether. They also delighted inplaying a form of Russian roulette with the boarding gate which kept changing often enough to keep the passengers in a constant state of suspense. In fact, at one point, the boarding gates mentioned on the physical boarding pass, the digital display at the airport and the airline website were all different from each other. WMM had to call the Better Half for help who checked online and – to her horror – gave her information of a fourth gate. WMM was on the verge of relinquishing all hope of escaping the blasted place and was considering applying for a job at the airport when an attendant appeared megaphone in hand, loudly asking passengers on her flight to report at another boarding gate altogether.
And so, WMM and co began to make their way to the promised land. The airport signage made them walk a considerable distance – fifty kilometres in WMM’s opinion, a number B.H. is wont to suspect – and led them past all sorts of cafes and shops and down escalators. At one point, there were no more signs. The group reached a dead-end where there seemed to be nothing in sight but a smoking lounge. It was an eagle-eyed passenger who pointed out that a double-door adjacent to the lounge featured a faded placard that displayed their promised gate. WMM earnestly asks readers to believe her when she says that it was exactly like the sort of door one sees in horror movies. For one, it was closed. For another, it was sternly padlocked with not one but two rows of thick chains. WMM and the group lingered about for a while, unsure of what to do. An airport security official appeared presently, and jiggled the lock with a key; he then pulled at the chains in vain. He gave up and returned ten minutes later with a colleague. They battled the chains together until they gave way, and the doors creaked open to reveal an escalator that descended into a boarding gate with seating. WMM and the other passengers gasped at the sight and were thankful to see that there really was a flight waiting to take them on board.
The rest of the flight was uneventful enough, and WMM was feeling grateful when she landed home.
Why, she didn’t even mind waiting at the carousel for the check-in baggage to come in. WMM had grown rather used to the drill. One must linger until impatience makes itself known, at which point an astute airport official realizes that a display of action is required, and switches on the carousel. Then one must watch an empty carousel go round and round with no sign of a bag – or anything else for that matter – for the next ten minutes or so. It is only after this traditional period of waiting that the bags slowly appear and one gets to go home. This trip was no different, of course. WMM had plopped herself on one of the chairs at the airport, resigned to the long wait. She should have noticed then that the seats around her were filled with school students; they were presumably returning from an excursion (fourth or perhaps fifth standard, judging by the height). And so, when WMM went to the carousel when her bag appeared, she was swarmed on all sides by children; and when the teacher yelled at the kids to form a line, WMM was conscripted into the exercise. To her alarm, she found herself in the middle line of the formation, marching with the children to the exit. At one point, WMM moved too slowly for the teacher’s taste and was mortified to be subject to his ire. The child in front turned around with a commiserative air and assured her that this particular teacher did this all the time, and that she was not to mind his words. WMM thanked the boy for his reassurance and wished him goodbye as they parted ways at the exit.
Borders
The Woman from Madras Musings was visiting family in Thiruvanmiyur when she was ambushed by the neighbours at the gate. WMM knew them well. They were enjoying the evening breeze and having a bit of chit chat, and wanted to tell WMM a juicy story about their security guard. It transpired that one of them had broken their mobile phone, which had to be fixed at a service centre in Adyar; she was unable to go herself due to a variety of rather good reasons, and had sought the watchman’s help. She had asked him – quite nicely, WMM is told – if he could take the phone to be repaired; she would pay him the necessary amount for the commute, too. The watchman asked where exactly the service centre was located, and upon learning that it was “just across the bridge” he leapt back like a startled deer. He explained that he had never travelled that far and had no intention of doing so now, in the sunset of his life; why, he would even have to cross a river! No, he repeated, madam must forgive him for he could never make such a long trip. WMM learned that in the end, he caught an auto and bade the poor woman go by herself, refusing to even accompany her.
WMM was quite entertained by the anecdote, not least because it reminded her of the Pater back in the day. He also would exaggerate distances to wiggle out of activities that didn’t suit his fancy. WMM had thus grown up in the environs of Mylapore believing that any place that lay beyond RA Puram, the Marina beach and Nungambakkam was “too far” and that traveling there demanded a great deal of planning and preparation. As WMM expected, Pater was very appreciative of the watchman when she told him the story.