Kudos to the person who coined the term Cattle Class for the Economy Class which sounds more polite and politically correct. A la Cattles heading for QATAL (kill) loaded in trucks towards slaughter house, the economy class passengers are packed like sardines. While getting out of flight, they go helter skelter, scrambling to pluck their carry ons bags from the overhead compartments. Only the "HEK HEK" sound of the cowherd goading cattles as seen during twilight in villages of Odisha was missing.
My trip from Paris to Delhi was quite eventful. While I was taking a cat nap, I was interrupted when an elderly Sardar (Sikh) in bright brown turban and flowing white beard sitting behind tapped me, gasping in a very thick Punjabi accented Hindi complaining of breathing difficulties. I immediately alerted an Air Hostess, conveying her the same. She tried to communicate with the poor guy, but was having trouble as she knew only English and French, whereas our Sikh gentleman could speak neither, only Punjabi and a very thick accented Hindi which I could barely decipher.
So I became an in-flight translator and managed to figure out that the man was having breathing issues which started from his connecting flight from Canada to Paris which still persisted. The cabin crew made an announcement looking for a doctor. In minutes walked in a lady Doctor who was travelling from Virginia. The issue again was the Doctor, born in Kenya and settled in USA spoke only English and Gujarati. Glad I could translate the man's feeble Hindi, explaining his problem to the doctor. She measured his BP. It was much higher than normal. She suspected "Sleep Apnea" and suggested putting the patient on an Oxygen mask. It certainly helped as after sometime the Sikh gentleman uttered "Wahe Guru", announcing feeling better. Glad I could help. All the cabin crews, the Sikh man and not to mention the doctor thanked me for my cooperation.
Travelling without family has its share of other hazards too, when you have a stranger sitting next to you. Years back when I was travelling alone, had to to bear a unique mix of "Piarrhoea and Whiskey" wheezing its way into my nose, coming from a guy next to me, sleeling with his mouth wide open.
No wonder, those who forget history are always condemned to repeat it. Now this person next to me snores loud, with periodic sputters of exhale covering his straight, upright moustache with droplets of flegm. The moustache bearing both magnitude and direction, reminded me of equipotential vectors I studied during Intermediate Physics, with a huge potential to piss off any passenger next to him. Turning my squeezed and raised nose to the other side, I glanced at him, followed by surreptitiously shouldering his drooping head away from me.
This continued intermittently until my cup of patience was full. I elbowed him with a "not me look" on my face. Startled, he gets up wiping off the frosty, dewy stuff from his moustache using his finger tip and touch the screen to pick his channels. Didn't know that touchscreens needed lubricants. I wished our dude pinged the Air hostess for some tissue instead.
Reminded me of Tom Hanks from the movie FOREST GUMP - "Life is like a box of chocolates, you never know what you are going to get". What I was getting was certainly not the box of chocolates I wished for. So I made peace with myself, after gulping couple of stiff shots of Vodka and catching some much needed sleep.
My sole solace was sitting close to the screen separating between economy and business class which offered me occasional glimpse of business class service and derive a vicarious pleasure out of it. So felt extremely relieved, when kicked by a propelling tailwind the flight approached slightly ahead of schedule at Delhi Airport. The eight hour ordeal inside the Air France 🇫🇷 flight ended as the aircraft started to descend over New Delhi. From the pilot's voice he seemed to be relieved as he announced first in French and then English - "Welcome to New Delhi's Indira Gandhi International Airport. It's 12.30 in morning, hazy, 8 degree C (47° Fahrenheit) outside.
During one of my earlier trips just before landing at the Delhi Airport came abruptly the voice of an exalted teen sitting close to me exclaiming to his buddy next row, "OI UTTH, BAIN**OD DILLI A GAYEE" (Get up, So and So the sister slammer, Delhi has arrived). More than the pilot, I found the teen's welcome far more enthusiast and the most appropriate way of welcoming to Delhi. As "Jai Maharastra" goes with Mumbai, Oh' Calcutta to Kolkata, "Jay Jagannath" to Odisha, Behn**od (sister slammer) fits well to Delhi.
It was a grand standing Welcome to Delhi, Punjabi style, where a sentence can start with Bain**od (occasionally sounds as Pain**od, interspersed with a few liberal dosages of Bai**od and ends with Bai**od. It is how the self proclaimed Dill walle (Big Hearted) Dilli walle (Delhites) often greet each other. Same goes in the Punjab province of Pakistan. When Sunil Gavaskar was batting in Lahore in 1978 in his first tour to the country, he was puzzled by some Pakistani players frequently uttering "Pain**od" which sounded like "Pant-Shirt" to Sunny bhai until his skipper Bishen Singh Bedi clarified him what it meant, Punjabi style.
Bai**od" is not such a bad word in Delhi and Punjab. Apart from usual meaning, it can stand for multiple euphemisms, to describe a scene or situation. "Bai**od KYA THAND HAI YAAR" (My friend, it's so cold), Bai**od MEIN GIR JAUNGA Bai**od (I will fall down, spoken after sighting a pretty girl), Bai**od KYA MATCH THA (what a game it was) ! Friends hug each other, Aa GALE LAG JA OI Bai**od (give me a hug, my dear friend, you the sister slammer).
At the IGI Airport in Delhi I breezed through the immigration which was a shoo in for me. The Terminal 3 is quite impressive. Restrooms (toilets) were maintained nice and clean. No strong smell of ubiquitous Phenyle and dark brown betel stains at corners of walls. Our International Airports can now be considered truly world class. I saw a digital bill board proudly displaying Mahatma Gandhi's picture, followed by a visual of Chivas Regal Scotch. Ironically our Father of Nation was never a fan of consumerism, nor he ever extolled us to drink Chivas Regal. Many streets in big cities in India bustling with consumerism are named as M.G. Road, after a man who preached simple living and abhorred consumerism.
I remember that in the year 1998, more than quarter century ago when I was bit excited as I was coming to India to get married, no sooner I came out of the IGI Airport in the middle of night than I was treated like a hapless hare amid hounds baying for my blood in form of haranguing touts. I was forced to do an about turn and beat a hasty retreat, only to come out at break of the dawn to be ragged again. It was not unusual then for hapless passengers like me to dish out a $20 note (Bill) to buy themselves out of harassment at the Customs department. Such things are long passe.
Throughout the journey I watched folks drooling over their smartphones. All heads down like Ostrich, they were busy fingering over the glaring screens of their devices. I have seen this in America, not unusual and unexpected in a nation where individualism rules the roost. But I have observed the same in Europe, Middle East, Singapore and in India. Asian culture is more social and group oriented, where people enjoy a tete-a-tete, even with strangers. I saw many, including Airline crew busy dragging bag in one hand and texting using the other, clinging to their phones and baby sitting their devices.
Growing up back in the days in India, we use to chat about anything and everything under the sun, covering topics ranging from "NANA BAHA GHARA RU, NANI BAHA GHAR PARYANTA" (From Dad's marriage to Sister's marriage). Perhaps we have gone electronic doing e-Khatti (chit chat) on social media. In the year 1979, barely a 10 year old, I accompanied my Uncle to a play at his Alma Mater Vani Bihar of Utkal University, Bhubaneswar. It was a symbolic Odia play which I could hardly understand, but still remember those lines by an actor on stage.
OTA PAKHI PARI JIBA BHAI
NAHI NAHI HOIRE,
JIBARE MANISHA SABU
OTA PAKHI HEI JIBARE.
Roughly transliterated,
You all will become a Ostrich,
Uttering no no,
Humans will become Ostrich as days go.
We have become Ostriches burying our heads inside our phones, the way an Ostrich buries its head inside sand. The same drama is now enacted in another era more than 40 years later. The nondescript person who wrote this Odia Drama (play) in 1970s was so prophetic and was certainly way ahead of his time. More later...
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