Trouble on the tracks.

Warning: read it only if you’ve got a good deal of patience and time.

It was about eleven thirty and I had just awoken to the sound of some insane knocking on the door to my room. It reminded me of ‘The Raven’ by Poe. Although this time there was no gentle tapping or knocking or rapping. Just banging. So I got up and answered it with a twist of the wrist and a face of pure irritation. A technique I’ve perfected over the years. And there stood the butler (I was staying at a guest house), who went on to explain that I had booked to room only till today and its new occupants would arrive shortly. To which I asked whether it would be possible to extend my stay. No luck. So I ordered a pot of hot coffee and informed him that I’d be out by twelve.
Now this situation presented a problem. 1. I did not live in Bangalore and therefore had no place else to go. 2. To return to Chennai I would need to take some sort of transport that needed advance booking. 3. I was in one of those lazy moods. So what did I do? I proceeded to partake in some of the old herb with another buddy and chill out in front of the TV, AC on full blast. Now well past twelve, my aforementioned deadline, there came another tapping and a knocking and a rapping and an insane banging on my chamber door. Horror of horrors I had fifteen minutes to get the fuck out. Half an hour later I was out of the place (sans buddy), standing on the sidewalk, scratching my head (confusion not dandruff). Where to go? So I went to the train station, Cantonment for those of you who are well versed with Bangalore. And got a ticket for the one forty five to Chennai. Platform two.
Now any of you who have ever been to Cantonment will know that there are only two platforms. I, having never boarded a train from there had no fucking clue! So there I stood, bag over one shoulder, unreserved ticket clutched tightly in one hand, a copy of GQ in the other, waiting for the train to come along down platform number two. Being the cautious type I made sure I was on the right platform. So far so good. Ticket, check, platform, check, bag, check. I was good to go. And there it was! A magnificent sight. My train, huffing and puffing down line number two. I readied myself. Ready to jump into the unreserved, battle for my seat and last it out till Chennai. Train stopped. I spotted unreserved. I jumped. Got in. Found a seat. Parked my ass, crossed my hands and stayed put. (Whew!) Expecting a barrage to enter any moment. Nothing of the sort. By the time we left, the damn compartment was half empty! Wasted effort but who’s complaining? I was finally on my way back home! Or so I thought.
It was lovely; it was the first time I had ever been able to stretch out in unreserved. So I relaxed. The scene outside the train was breathtaking! Hills, tunnels, streams, paddy fields and wonder of wonders… a field of sunflowers! For those of you who have never seen a field of sunflowers let me tell you, it’s something else! (But that’s another story).
It was about six by now, around four hours since I’d boarded. And I started feeling a little uneasy. Small little things got my attention. First off, no noisy smelly bastards pushing and shoving. And when you’re on you way to Chennai you WILL run into them. Secondly, nobody seemed to be speaking Tamil, another charming characteristic of the people from Chennai. I spotted a ‘decent’ looking fellow diagonally across from me and mustered up the courage to put my uneasiness to rest. So I asked “hmmm, dude (for those of you at McCann), what’s the last stop on this train?”. He looked at me quizzically and replied “Vizag”. It hit me like a sack of bolts in the gut. I was on the wrong fucking train! Just to be sure (and also hoping I heard wrong) I asked “does this train by chance stop at Chennai?” to which he gave me a look that seemed to say “either you’re retarded or you’re in advertising, in either case I must flee!”, but, he summed up some courage and said “no” with a wave of the hand and a shake of the head. I was fucked! Wrong train, wrong direction, three hundred bucks, I didn’t speak the language and it was getting dark. Palms began to sweat, stomach turned knots, throat ran dry, eyes began to dilate and there wasn’t a joint in sight! A sort of internal and very personal high if you will. So off I jumped at the next station. Leaving the GQ to fend for itself. Bad idea. The station, not the abandonment of the GQ. It was a junction, like Cantonment. So I had to haul ass on a lorry to the nearest town that offered a bus service to Chennai. I got there about a half hour later. Found the bus station got a ticket for the nine thirty and proceeded to inform the parents via the phone about my state of affairs. My mom laughed like I’ve never heard her laugh. Perhaps she thought it funny.

I boarded the bus at nine fifteen but not before making absolutely sure it went to Chennai. It left at nine forty five on the dot and stopped around twenty times in the next few hours. Enormously irritating. (Notice that I’ve gotten bored of writing and I’m sure you’ve gotten bored of reading so I’m just going to wind this up quickly. Fuck the flow) At about seven the following day I was awoken to be told that the bus had ‘reached’. So I got off. And saw the bus speed away in the distance. So, I had reached, but where? Empty stretches of road well umm… ‘stretched’ out on either side. And there I stood. Sleepy, groggy and in no mood for another adventure. Wonder of wonders I spotted an auto in the distance. Yes and auto! What it was doing out this far I had no Idea but hey, who’s to complain? So I stopped the bugger and told him to take me home. The bastard wanted four hundred bucks, I had a hundred. So I sent him packing. And decided to walk in the direction I presumed Chennai to be in. Another auto came plugging along only this time it was full. I stopped it, bargained and in ten minutes I was on my way back home. Bobbing along beside the driver.
I was supposed to have reached Chennai twelve hours earlier! I reached my apartment at around eight thirty but managed to get in only by two in the afternoon on account of my flat-mate being a very sound sleeper. Needless to say most of the anger I pent up was showered on him. Fucking bastard. I chucked the damn bag in the corner, shoes came off on the way to my room, and I hit the sack.

For everyone I’ve missed out in this story i.e. Anek, the maintenance guys at Oakland (Oh fuck you bastards if you’re reading this!), shaun and co, I’m sorry. But it was getting ENORMOUS!

Welcome Aboard.

It was about seven thirty in the evening and I had just boarded my flight (the only one that was on time mind you). The destination, Delhi. I was off to visit the family, check out the new house, see how my dog was coping and so on and so forth. Anyway, after locating my seat I tried in vain to negotiate some space for my duffel bag in the overhead storage. No luck. I finally found one at the other end of the damn plane. Moral; locate a space for your bag before you locate a space for your ass. After a bit of shoving and grunting and leaning and cursing I finally managed to fit it in and shut the door. Having done this I proceeded to take my seat. It was a window.

Now any guy who has ever traveled alone, anywhere, always wishes that he’ll get some hot woman that’ll promptly come and park her ass next to his. Some conversation will ensue, he’ll get her number, they’ll have dinner later and she’ll invite him back to hers. Never happens. But I got the first half of my wish. It was a woman. Or barely so. And on her left sat her husband. Fine and dandy. She was married and ugly, no skin off my nose. I proceeded to look out the window and ogle at the other planes, the fire trucks, the cranes, the fuel trucks and so on. So much machinery around is pretty hard to resist. We took off, finally and I ogled again, at the lights and the general city below. The ogling however was cut short. There’s only so far you can see from a plane in the air. In the night. So I turned my attention to the woman next to me. Didn’t happen. Her husband had got himself one of those wet towels they serve you to wipe your face and hands and generally rid yourself of the smell you’ve managed to gather. He sniffed it, marveled at it (I mean REALLY marveled) and proceeded to explain to his wife how absolutely necessary the soddy little things were. Things slowed down after that… till they served dinner.

Now dinner on a plane is a complex issue. Care must be taken to choose wisely, you must have a good sense of balance, you must LOOOVE plastic wrap and finally, you must have a stomach of iron. I chose the non-vegetarian, no points for guessing what my other option was, balanced it and managed to seat it on the tray in front of me. By which time the man from the aisle seat had polished off half his dinner. And was drinking water, not like people usually do but with both his lips around the entire mouth of the bottle! Needless to say, as he tilted it forward half the contents from his mouth spilled back into the unforgivingly transparent bottle. Needless to say, I lost my dinner. There, two feet from me, sat a transparent bottle with bits of food and curry swirling around in the water. IT WAS DISGUSTING! I forwent the dinner and proceeded to make myself a cup of coffee. The guy however, sensed that his wife wasn’t too interested in her dinner and proceeded to wolf down that as well. And just when I thought the show was over he decided to make himself a cup of coffee too! So there he was; with is coffee cup, his powdered milk, the sugar and the horizontally challenged sugar spoon. The circus was in town! For some reason the spoon caught his attention and he proceeded with shouts and yells (as much is possible on a plane without causing a panic) to challenge his wife to sugar spoon duel. Having been deprived of her dinner, she had gone to sleep. And to be awoken in such a manner caused her to retaliate to the just in a wee bit of excess enthusiasm. Which resulted in the spilling of his coffee (half made) all over the tray and down his trousers. Which in turn caused the stewardesses to come running which in turn caused many male heads to turn which in turn caused angry looks from some wives which finally in turn caused seats 22 A, M and W to become the centre of attraction. So there we were; aisle man, ugly woman and yours truly. Sitting 35,000 feet in the air with about ten pairs of eyes trained on us. Expecting more. Luckily efficiency prevailed and the mess was cleared up.

The man remained quiet for all of ten seconds. And in a failed attempt to show that he really wasn’t all that stupid he picked up the vegetable bowl. To continue I feel a short description of the bowl is necessary. It was translucent blue and was one of those arty types. With the entire thing leaning in one direction. Like a hollow leaning tower of Pisa if you will. Anyway, back to the story. Aisle man picks up the bowl and proceeds to explain to his wife (who is trying to get back to sleep) about the ‘aerodynamic’ properties of the bowl. How flights are ‘aerodynamically’ designed to cause less ‘drag’ thereby permitting the plane to go faster and more efficiently. Now how an ‘aerodynamically’ shaped bowl INSIDE the damn plane will permit it to go faster and so on I have no idea. But the man spoke with such conviction (and the wife REALLY wanted to get some shut eye) that the wife bought it. Good, the ‘aerodynamic’ vegetable bowls supplied will get us to Delhi sooner than the flights without the ‘aerodynamic’ cutlery. Those poor saps on the other carriers! Ha, God is in the details! Next he picked up his glass of ‘lemonade’, bit the rim, let go of it and drained the contents with a tilt of the head. I half expected him to turn to his wife and say “look honey! No hands!” but that wasn’t the case. He merely put the glass back on the tray. Thankfully the crew came about and cleared up the trays, ‘aerodynamic’ cutlery and all. And I thought to myself ‘show’s over!’ but no, they failed to notice the bottle I mentioned earlier. So aisle man picks it up. Turns it over a few times, looks at his wife (the fact that she’s asleep doesn’t deter him) and goes on to explain why the serve only 200ml of water per bottle on a flight. Something about excessive toilet use and engine power.

I followed the womans lead and faked sleep, to be ‘awoken’ by the captains announcement, “the temperature outside is three degrees, have a good evening and thank you for flying Air Sahara” and the cock about how they hope we would fly with them again and how they would love to serve us again and blah blah blah blah… those two got up, took their bags and got stuck in the line of people itching to savour some of the old frostbite. I left the plane last. And left the airport first, courtesy of no registered baggage. With memories of ‘aisle man and his wife’.