The Blah Blahs and the Yada Yadas

Ever since mythical aviation enthusiast Icarus glued on feathers and jumped off a cliff, man has been trying to answer the quintessential question of ages - Is man meant to fly? And if he is, who should keep track of the frequent flyer miles? It has been one of the most common dreams through the history of man, resulting in an abundance of crimson stains underneath popular cliffs.

We have come a long way from Icarus’ wax wings. Today, if we have to travel from, say, UK to Bangalore, we can - thanks to the magical wonders of modern technology - browse the internet from the airport lobby while listening to flight delay announcements.

I had always believed that aviation has progressed over the ages, but if my recent flight experience is any standard to judge by, this blind faith may need to be re-evaluated.

I am not going to name the particular aircraft. This is primarily because of two reasons.

1. It’s probably not the fault of one single airline, and it’s possible I just experienced this particular one on a rare bad day…
2. I don’t want to be tracked down by a team of rabid lawyers and sued off my last button before being kicked incessantly by the airline staff.

Yes, it’s mostly 2.

Not that it was a complete disaster from the word go, you know. As a matter of fact, things were fine enough until the word go. We were all herded in, seated, given the obligatory training on seatbelt usage (Seatbelt 101 - “This thingy goes in here“), and we had even started taxiing to the runway, when suddenly, without warning, the plane took a U turn, heading back to base.

It was confusing. No answers were given, leaving the passengers to speculate… Did they miscalculate the mileage and spend the entire fuel load on that short trip to the runway? Did the pilot get on the wrong plane? (”Ok, boys, we’re off to… Bangalore??? Krap!!!”) Did they find a ninja terrorist hiding in one of the overhead luggage compartments? Did the pilot suffer from ADD and suddenly think he had already reached Bangalore? Was the plane suddenly recalled by the manufacturer? It was impossible to say at the moment, but I was rooting for the ninja theory, because… well, come on, it’s a ninja terrorist. In the luggage compartment. Admit it, you were rooting for him too.

This one.

But save a few of us who had already started visualizing ninja battles in the front half of the airplane, a majority of the passengers were understandably upset over the matter. Whatever the reason was, the captain should have at least made an announcement of some kind. Leaving them hanging without a word of explanation was quite an uncaptainly thing to do. Halfway to the terminal, the pilot finally gave an announcement - “Ladies and gentlemen. I am sorry for the inconvenience, but we’ve been instructed by the control tower to return to base to tighten the engine.”

All of a sudden, leaving the passengers without a word of explanation started to look oh-so good.

I don’t know if pilots are given sensitivity training… If they are, then this particular pilot sure went to a lousy training camp. “Tighten the engine? The engine is loose?? You mean the one that’s supposed to hold up this 180 ton metallic coffin? Why didn’t you say so before?” And apparently, it was so loose that the control tower was able to see it while it taxied the runway.

And this was followed by an hour long wait, while, I imagine, ground technicians with monster-size screwdrivers ‘tightened’ the engine. During this while, the passengers were not allowed to disembark, the AC was turned off to save power for the journey, and the hostesses were patrolling the aisle asking passengers what they need, just to get a kick out of saying “I’m sorry, but we can’t help you at this time“. Even the entertainment system was inactive, keeping us vulnerable to the slow wails of boredom from the rest of the passengers.

But all’s well that ends well, right? After about an hour which seemed like roughly 2.4 years, we finally took off. Bangalore, here we come! Woo hoo. I smiled and looked around the cabin… All’s well. The lights dimmed, the passengers dozing, kids tugging at the parent’s chin, the roof leaking, seats reclining, trolleys ro… wha??? roof leaking?? That can’t be right.

Apparently, it can. There was a thin, but steady trail of water leaking from the roof. I didn’t even know airplanes could leak. It wasn’t even raining outside, and even if it was, we were ABOVE the clouds… And even if it were raining, AND we were below the clouds… we were inside a plane, dammit! I could see one passenger pointing to the leak and talking to an air hostess, who appeared calm and confident… I wasn’t able to hear the conversation, but I’m willing to bet it went something along these lines.

“What do you mean calm down? It’s a leak. On the plane!”

“Do not be alarmed, madam. Kindly remain seated.”

“Seated? You didn’t hear me? It’s a friggin leak in a plane. Leak. Plane. You-me-flying. Leak, dammit!”

“Keep your seat upright and fasten your seat belts. Thank you.”

I don’t know if the air hostess was trying to be calm and reassuring, but if she was, then she probably attended the same sensitivity training camp as the pilot. It seems that the liquid was not water after all, and that it was not really a problem for the flight at all. But when your flight springs a leak while you’re cruising at 30,000 feet, either explain why it’s not a big deal, or at least pretend to be surprised at the event. (”Oh, my God. That’s never happened before!“) Acting like the aircraft faces overhead leakage every Sunday is probably not the best course of action.

The grueling neverending flight finally seemed like it was coming to an end (yeah, neverending flight coming to an end - I get the irony), but it was not so. We hovered over Bangalore for an extra hour and a half because of the fog. The pilot was quick to announce that if weather continued this way, he may drop us in Chennai or Mumbai, where things appear less foggy. And he said it like most of the passengers jog from Mumbai to Bangalore on a daily basis; like if he dropped us in Mumbai, we’d just have to hop over a fence to get to Bangalore. If he actually didn’t realize that the distance between Mumbai and Bangalore was nearly 800 miles, then I wouldn’t be surprised if he learned geography from the same place he got his sensitivity training. I think pilots should be trained on how best to deliver bad news…

By the time we landed in Bangalore, I felt like I had aged considerably more than I had planned to. All things considered, we had around 3 hours of delay to account for. I would have expected irate businessmen to storm out complaining and asking for pilot necks to strangle. But no, not a single passenger complained. In fact, they all wore happy smiles, thanking their lucky stars that they weren’t dumped off in Mumbai. That possibility was so strong that merely coming in a few hours late seemed like an extravagant blessing.

Hmm… Maybe the pilots ARE trained on delivering bad news after all.

Hullo, wotcha, and an ay-up to everyone. No, I don’t really know what they mean, but from ye olde English writings, I understand the words were hot stuff yonder in London. And it felt mot juste to start off this account that way. Mot juste, FYI, was one of the phrases frequently peppering Wodehouse novels. It was all right for Wode, but why, or wherefore (to use one of Shakespeare’s gimmicks) am I resurrecting these old phrases in this paragraph? I don’t really know, but for some reason, these words always pop up when the mind wanders to London. And you can hardly expect one to write about a visit to The Square Mile without one’s mind wandering off to London, can you? Forsooth.

So yes, I finally got to pack up my gear and hop over to the United Kingdom. As I boarded the plane, I knew that I’ll soon be marking my first footprint outside Asian soil. A momentous occasion. Well, maybe for a geologist. I wasn’t sure I’d be able to differentiate between the soils, but I tried real hard to delude myself that it was momentous. Yet, every time I tried, I’d remind myself that I’m on an extremely brief trip, with most of my already short time devoted to slavish work. When you have just three days in a place like London, two of which are devoted to the office, it’s hard not to think about the time insufficiency. I had about 10 hours to see the place. It was like a reality show -

“You have 10 hours, and 44,267 landmarks to see. Your time starts…… NOW! GO!”

Thankfully, I was able to use my phone-a-friend lifeline. My prodigious cousin, Rosh, and his wife, Ashy, have temporarily established foundations in the land of Big Ben, and together, we conspired on how to best allocate my 10 hours to productive use. Perhaps, we could allocate a priority based algorithm to derive the most important landmarks, and run past as many as possible till sundown. Maybe we could just taxi around town till time runs out. Maybe we could create a historic mystery out of the monuments and rush from place to place like Dan Brown characters.

- “Look! The birds are flying over that statue of Napoleon Bonaparte… and he’s pointing up at a 75 degree angle. Clearly, we need to run up the stairs to Big Ben and look for more clues.”

- “Whoa! Hold on, there, Hammy. Firstly, that’s NOT Napoleon. Secondly, that’s not even a statue. That’s a French tourist, complete with sunglasses and camera. And thirdly… and perhaps most importantly, he’s NOT pointing! He’s just picking his nose!”

- “So?”

- “Hmm… You make a strong argument. Let’s go.”

On second thoughts, that’s just silly. I can never run up the stairs to Big Ben. I’m told there are 334 steps… and that too, spiral. No, thank you. I have simpler ways of killing myself.

We finally arrived at a plan that screamed simplicity from the word go. We’d just get dropped at a random location in Central London, and then walk all day, stopping at whatever landmark is gracious enough to pop up on our way. The less co-operative landmarks and sceneries will have to wait for another day. It was the only fair way, we decided.

We strolled through London bridge, across the whachamaycallits, near Westminster Abbey, the stores around the thingamajigs, and the whatnots… (Man, I should really take up travel writing on a professional level), Shakespeare’s theater… from the outside, and, - at the risk of repetition - the London bridge… Despite all the stories in rhyme we were subjected to when we were kids, I would like to assure you, that London Bridge is NOT falling down; a bit rusty at parts maybe, but it looks stable enough. Enough to withstand another thousand nursery rhymes, in fact. So if you were worried on that count, well… don’t be.

I wanted to try out the traditional English fish ‘n chips. So on our way, we stopped at a restaurant called… “Fish ‘n Chips”. That was the name. Asking for a menu sounded redundant.

- “So what do you have, my good fella?”

- “Ahem. What do we have? You walked in to a place called ‘Fish n Chips’, so tell you what… Why don’t you take a wild stab at it? A shot in the dark, if you will. I’ll wait.”

I enjoyed the stroll. London is a beautiful place, and on a personal level, it was a revelation. My London visit clarified a lot of confusion carried forward from my childhood days. The most important of these was the Western fascination with summer. I have read innumerable stories and poems where the author/ poet glorifies the beauty and magnificence of summer. This was always confusing.

To understand why it’s confusing, you’ll have to sample a Summer from South India. Summer, as a season, comes scorching the land like a forest wildfire. The rational response of most citizens is to jump away from the sun and hide in the shadows like soldiers dodging napalm fire. In Chennai, I’m still convinced that people are always hurrying about because those who stand in one spot under the sun spontaneously melt into a wavy puddle on the hot unrelenting roads.

But like I said… London was a revelation. I get it now. London was a cold place. All around me, people were heavily geared with coats, jackets, sweaters, scarves, earmuffs, gloves, vests, overcoats and woolen caps… and I’m talking PER person. People were still shivering, gloved hands shoved in pockets. When I saw couples hugging, it was difficult to decipher whether romance was in the air or whether they were just strangers trying to beat the cold. Every time the sun peeked out from the clouds, it sent a fresh wave of short relief; a reminder that all will indeed be well. I can understand how they’d regard summer with awe and adoration. The sun was not a threat; not the villain, he is the hero around these parts; the iconic rock star of every winter. If he could sign autographs without burning his fans to a cinder, he would. There was an unwrit…

“AAAAANNNND time’s UP! Let’s see how Hammy has done. He had 10 hours to allocate between 44,267 landmarks. How did he do? Let’s go to the judges”

In the blink of an eye, it was over. I was heading out to the airport, suitcase in hand, bidding adieu before I ever really said hi. I guess the most apt ending to the account of my short visit to London would be an appropriate quote from William Shakespeare. However, since I can’t think of one offhand, you’re gonna have to settle with -

Toodle-oo!

Hardly seems like enough time has passed for you to sing ‘tra la la la laaaa, la la-la-la‘, but Christmas, in all its glory, is here once again. And before you actually read this entry completely, it’s probably wise for me to wish you in advance, ‘cos I know you’re busy today. So here goes - Merrrrrry Christmassssss, one and all, Yo ho ho, and a bottle of rum.

No, wait…. The bottle of rum part didn’t quite belong there… Well, then again, for some people, it certainly does. If you don’t belong to that set, however, then maybe you noticed I put in a few extra ‘r’s and ’s’es in my greeting up there. Yes, I did. And I did that especially for you. A personal touch. I knew you’d like it.

Christmas was, as most of you are aware, once touted as the birth anniversary of the Christian Messiah, Jesus Christ. But this has been squarely refuted by the world at large. However, since nobody really has a credible fix on an alternative date, we still abide by the traditional ol’ 25 Dec. Not that I’m complaining, mind you. I’m quite thankful for the holiday season. And so are my credit card companies.

Tradition counts. And the most poignant of all traditions in the Christmas season is the solemn promise of getting trampled at the malls by overzealous shoppers. Sometimes, you’re the trampled; sometimes the trampler. Neither makes you feel particularly good about yourself, but you still do it. You can’t help it.

It doesn’t matter what your interest is; electronics, entertainment, books, clothes, whatever… they all come up with some tempting offers around this time. Of course most offers are bogus, and you KNOW that they’re probably bogus, but you just HAVE to check it out yourself. Are they really going to give away a free DVD player? Are they really offering 75% off on ALL goods? “Too good to be true“, your brain echoes;”SCAM. SCAM. You better scram“, it continues. But you still  need to go over and read the fine print. It’s the natural compulsion. And it’s quite inexplicable too, because you don’t really NEED to read it. You know what it says. Yes, you do. You’ve read it a thousand times, and if you are honest to yourself, you’ll admit you know the exact words printed there, but you still read it anyway.

“Aha. Conditions apply. I knew it!”

Yes, you knew it. There are conditions. CONDITIONS. Unnamed, unmarked, mysterious conditions. Tucked away at the right hand corner somewhere. Conditions so restrictive they didn’t even lay it out in the fine print. Bogus. You were right! You feel validated. But do you walk away? No. Of course not. It’s too vague. “Conditions apply” could mean anything, really. For example, the condition might be that “This offer is not valid for terrorists” - which, you reason, is a pretty good condition. Let the terrorist bastards go to hell. Full price for them. No way they’re getting the same deals you are! They made their beds. Let them lie in it. Unless, of course, the bed came in a buy-one get-one-free offer. Then you call dibs.

But let’s not count chickens before they hatch. You need to confirm what the mysterious conditions are… You need to check with the salesman. A good strategy, except the salesman himself is fighting for his dear life from around 200 customers asking him from all sides about returns policies, warranty coverage, credit card acceptance, delivery options, loyalty programs, directions to the restroom, and of course, whether the product is available in a different shade of pink. It’s plain to see that this guy is on the edge. How long will would it be before he jumps on a table, pushes the crowd with sticks and yell “Back, back, ye savage mongrels!“… You finally decide to risk it; just take it to the counter and hope the conditions are fair and square. After all, if they decline the offer citing the ‘conditions’ then, you can always just walk out, perhaps stopping to yell at the salesman for a second.

“Hey, you! Yes, YOU! YOU!!”

“Blue? No, sir. It’s not available in blue. And yes, we can deliver the TV for you, madam. No, sir. No returns policy for the electric razor. And for the last time, madam, we are an electronics shop. We do NOT sell blueberry muffins, and if we did, we would NOT have it in a shade of pink!”

It’s hopeless. Of course it’s hopeless. It’s how shopping is designed to be during the season. And with experience as a teacher, you KNOW it is hopeless. But you still do it. You may just strike gold and walk off with the ever-elusive bargain of the season. And you know that’s good enough to brag about till next Christmas. So you HAVE to check out all the shops. The lure is unavoidable.

Do we really HAVE to follow this tradition? Do we always have to give in? Do we really NEED to fall prey to the marketing gimmicks of greedy corporate marketeers? Can’t we all just ignore the bait, stay at home, and enjoy the quality family time we know we’ve been missing out on?

I know what you’re thinking. “Hey, Hammy, ol boy… are you just saying all that so we’d all stay at home and you’d be free to shop around all by yourself?“…. Damn straight, I am. I’m on the lookout for a bluray player, and I’d love to get a good deal without people walking all over my face.

But seriously, now. This season, I am not going to contribute to the trampled masses at the malls. I really am not. Instead, my contribution to the trampled masses would be at the theaters. As some of you may know, I’m a sucker for Hollywood movies, and for suckers like me, there are few things stronger than the lure of James Cameron’s latest science fiction blockbuster, Avatar. There’s action, drama, suspense, mayhem, chaos, twists, turns, fights, spirited dialogue, intense pressure, and a tense atmosphere. And that’s just at the ticket counter.

I am currently spending Christmas with family back home in Cochin, and I plan to have my first viewing of the movie with them. Unfortunately, the tickets open for reservation are already sold out. But I’m not deterred. No, siree, I have a plan. If you were to look at me, you’d be looking at a man with a plan. Saturday night, before the show starts, we’ll be waiting; my brother and I. I intend to start with the war cry of William Wallace, following it up with the brashness of Maximus Meridius. This, of course, will be the kind of situation where my bulk finally comes in handy. Wrestling off tickets from people waiting at the door. Simple, efficient and yet a thoroughly underused strategy. Why didn’t I think of it earlier? My brother, however, is against violence-for-ticket strategies. He plans to lie in wait for the mad stampede as the theater gates open. Once that crowd gets in, he can then simply sweep up the tickets from the poor trampled souls who didn’t make the cut. An equally well-reasoned plan, I had to admit.

Either way, I’m sure we’ll treasure the tickets much more than if we had just paid for it without all the drama. We’d feel like we earned it. We would actually read it. The tickets we get in this theater, I know, have some text printed on it which we typically ignore. When was the last time we actually took time out to read through a movie ticket other than to check the seat number? I really can’t remember. But this time, we will… We’ll read the big bold letters saying “Admit One”, and we’ll read the subsequent explanation to this statement, saying something like “This ticket enables the holder to admit exactly one person for one show“, and I don’t know about my brother, but I’ll certainly cringe if it’s followed by a fine print that says ‘Conditions Apply‘

—

Merry Christmas, everybody. Have a blast.

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