An espresso machine.
A Magnum of Cristal Brut Champagne.
Front row seats to a ball game.
Most of all it could have bought me a ticket on Emirates, $ 300 being the difference between Heaven and Hell. Heaven being Emirates - one of the World’s Best Airlines and Air India – one of the World’s Worst (as deemed by anyone, yes, anyone, who has flown on this chromium piece of crap).
But frugality being encoded in a Gujju’s DNA, I opted to hit the Select button for Air India instead.
I think back often to that moment…the finger hovering over the Select button and wish instead I could press a Rewind Button. The trip was like a bad movie, except this one lasted much longer and involved delays, surly, unprofessional and past their expiration-date flight attendants - conditions akin to what the slaves faced on the Amistad. At least those poor bastards had the option of jumping overboard – we didn’t.
My first mistake was thinking that Air India had a website. Ok. A website that worked. The sign “System busy…please try again later” flashed the first fifty times I tried. Well, alrighty then. I would call. To my surprise, I got connected…on the very same day! I put it on speakerphone and soon the soothing sitar music lullabied me into a deep sleep. An hour into my refreshing nap, I woke up to hear an irritable Hullo? Hullo? I explained I was trying to do an e-check-in. He quasi-snorted and informed me in a huff that it rarely worked and would “Madam pliss go to airport itself and check in then only”. By now, any restful gains made by the nap had evaporated and I barked that even ghoda-gadis had an echeckin that worked.
Fast-forward to airport.
Our second mistake was showing up on time for the 2.30pm flight. Of course it was delayed. There were no signs to tell us this – Air India passengers rely on word of mouth to keep others up to date. We stood in line, politely, because that was what basic protocol demands, but quickly figured out that nice guys finish last. Pretty soon, we were shoving and pushing like the best of them, and when glaring had no effect, resorted to yelling and cussing. Finally reached the counter and a surly, unsmiling clerk labeled our luggage. Not wanting my bags to be sent to Yemen, I kept my cool and even managed a Thank you.
We proceeded past Customs and Immigration, where the havaldar exacted his petty power-play and held us back in line for twenty minutes while he picked at his teeth and cleaned his ear with the same finger. Ushering us through security, we dutifully removed our shoes and belts, grateful not to be made to remove our underwear, no thanks to the Christmas Nigerian bomber.
Like almost every monument in Bombay, the airport is also named after Chhatrapati Shivaji – the Maratha’s one claim to fame. It was a pleasant surprise: polished floors, clean bathrooms and carts with wheels in the same direction - although I did wonder how it managed to be named Best Airport in India, because, according to FlightStats, only 50 percent of its flights arrived on time.
We meandered slowly towards the gate and noticed they had posted the delay to 3.30 pm. An hour didn’t seem that bad, we thought and settled down to wait. At 3.45 pm we were still in our settled-down mode. No one in the waiting area seemed the slightest bit perturbed or was even looking at their watch. No Air India staff to question, we just waited. And waited. Around 4.15 pm, a uniformed man walked up and started barking orders to march. Again the pushing and shoving as we were branded and herded (ok, not branded, but definitely herded) onto a bus that took us for a nice ride through the tarmac countryside. As the bus lurched and veered, swerved and careened halfway to Dubai, we swung from side to side reminiscent of a playground monkey-bar. After about 15 minutes, upon espying an awaiting plane, the driver jammed on his brakes and decided to let us fly the rest of the way.
The temperature inside the steel contraption was a toasty 88 degrees (statistic courtesy of engineer husband). The heat compounded by the smell of body odor made it a veritable miasma of pestilent microorganisms. Liberally spraying Givenchy could not mitigate the discomfort. Fanning myself with their Safety Precautions Card to aid in thermo-regulation did not help. Nor, unfortunately, could I fall into an irrecoverable coma.
Were they planning to roast us and then serve us as kebabs for the next flight’s meal?
A brief apology for “broken air condition” followed and smoke started to ooze from the vents. Fortunately, no one shouted ‘Fire!’, as icy cold blasts of air hit us with a force a few degrees off the Beaufort scale.
As I settled down for a nap, the brat at the back chose this opportune moment to regale his parents with a detailed account of his childhood, not that his parents hadn’t lived out this trauma once already. Apparently he could do only one thing at a time, as when the talking stopped, the kicking began. Restraining myself up to the point of a grade three whiplash injury and only after he had dislodged a few teeth, I turned around and snarled at him to cut it out. Greeted by a blank, incomprehensible stare, I mimed sawing his feet and stuffing it into his mouth, thus killing two birds with one stone. His father replied in mime – giving me the bird with one finger.
I thought better of calling the flight attendant to intervene. More at home in a Ghatkopar market with a shaakbhaji theli under her arm, she had folds under chin which were matched only by the folds around her middle. Frizzy wisps of hair framed her fleshy face and the rest of it encased in a hair-net, in a bun that stuck out at 90 angle degree, beaver-like, except the animal probably carried it off with more aplomb.
I tried to stave off hunger pangs by watching a movie. But of course, like the rest of the airline, the headphones didn’t work. Looking across the aisle, I tried to check whether other passengers were in the same predicament, but soon lost interest in watching them pick their noses and hack into their handkerchiefs, which they proceeded to observe with close scrutiny and carefully tuck back into their pockets.
A sigh of relief as Beaver-Bun started to roll the cart towards us. Pausing to ask whether we wanted Chicken or Fish, she stuck her pinkie in her ear and shook it vigorously, presumably to dislodge the wax, built up as a defense mechanism against the complaints and epithets pelted at them on a regular basis. I lost my appetite and had the peanuts for dinner.
Upon reaching Dubai and recounting my experiences, I was told Air India has been reduced to an ABCD transportation corridor between Bombay and Dubai - ABCD standing for Ayah, Bearer, Cook and Driver. In fact, apparently, it functions better as an Employment Bureau and anyone looking for an ABCD need look no further.
At least Air India is good for something.
Glossary:
ghoda-gadi: horse-drawn cart
shaakbhaji theli: shopping bag for vegetables
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