As the drama of mid-air male-volence continues to take stranger p-turns, it totally puts the regular oddities of our co-passengers in the shade. But these oddities are abundant.
Indians are airborne like pollen these days, yet the sight of an airline bus inflames their basic Delhi Transport Corporation instincts from the 1990s. Then we used to dig painful elbows into each other while making a jagged line for the scarce bus. Now we create a bedlam of bags shoveling ahead amidst shouts and airport coffee spraying taints on designer shoes, with knees still ramming into bottoms as in yesteryears.
Many terminals do lie a fair distance from aircraft bays. But that’s no excuse for jetsetters forgetting that this will not be like that Janakpuri to Lajpat Nagar journey. Dost, prithee don’t fly into the seat-scavenging anxiety once provoked by DTC Route 711 when it is a 707 you shall be boarding.
Another micro-horror is the squatting mentality. Some will annex an aisle seat bought by somebody else, invoking fait accompli as fairgrounds for occupation. They will tell the legitimate seat-holder: ‘Ab main already baith gaya. Besides, kya farak padta hai? My middle seat is literally millimetres from aisle, take that ok.’ No, no, not ok.
Squatters sometimes use the medical condition card, like trouble with their legs. But when the seatbelt warning is switched off, they go down the cabin in Neil Armstrongy giant leaps to meet their friends. Then they launch an exposition on the quietness on foreign airlines – by slapping their thighs to mark their main points in bold, firing off supersonic sighs, and LOLing their complaints about Indian carriers deafeningly.
Talking of humour and quiet, some like their comedy desi and jet-engine loud. Once a gentleman equipped with guffaws but bereft of headphones sat next to me. He streamed a famous comic’s show on his phone’s speaker. I got one hour of dad jokes and boyish laughter. He even turned to me a few times to annotate the jokes. By way of reference material, he provided his own gags.
I would have willingly traded my aisle seat with the person who revels in international-grade wit, sauntering down the cabin, on magically restored legs, far away from me. You can call that person Neil Legstrong – my own dad joke. Why should I suffer alone?
Disclaimer
Views expressed above are the author’s own.
END OF ARTICLE
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