It is hard when you work in a city far away from family and friends, and home excursions are always much awaited.
I usually take the early morning return flight on the day I am supposed to join work after a holiday at home, to get to stay just a little while longer.
Now, catching a 5 a.m. flight is no mean feat. It involves sacrificing sleep, good bowel movement and normal brain function.
Having taken the same 0510 hour flight every month for about a year, I was used to the ritual. Set two alarms for 2-30 and 2-45 because I will end up ignoring the first one anyway, struggle with early morning activities (my bowels only work well when sleep is adequate, otherwise they tend to get umm, jammed), dress up, bid farewell to my parents and take the cab to the Indira Gandhi airport T3 (IGIA). A failed request for a ‘free’ window seat, security check and pocket check later, I find myself zombie-ing towards the gates, which owing to the size of the T3 is a long, long walk.
Now this particular morning was peculiar. The 2-30 alarm managed to wake me up, the aforementioned bowels worked proportionally better compared to the amount of sleep they had, I managed to argue my way to a ‘free’ window seat and found myself through the security check at 4-00 hours, with half an hour to go for boarding.
With time to spare, I decided to grab a bite at the lounge. The sandwiches and idli were better than usual, and at 04-30 hours I began my zombie walk towards the gates.
Now, before we get to the next part, I would like to give you an insight into myself. I am meticulous and careful, I prefer to keep things in order and like to plan things well in advance.
Or so I had thought. A customary check into my pockets brought me to a halt: mobile, check; wallet, check; house keys, check; boarding pass, umm not in this pocket, not in the other one, neither in that one.
On what was otherwise a perfectly good morning, I had managed to misplace my boarding pass with twenty minutes to go for closing of the boarding gates (4-50 a.m.).
Trying hard not to panic, I dragged my luggage back up the escalator to the lounge, searched (the reception desk, the table where I was gobbling up idlis fifteen minutes ago and the food service counters) and enquired (with the receptionist, the sardarji who sat in front of me reading as I gobbled the idlis, and the cleaners) around for a lost boarding pass but to no avail. It wasn’t there.
Panic had set in by now. Instinctively I started to run back towards the security check. Further enquiries with the polite Central Industrial Security Force personnel who had frisked me, but the boarding pass was indeed, missing.
The ruckus I had created had caught the attention of many by now, and somebody suggested I run to the inquiry counter, which may be able to help.
Now that I was running out of options, I ran for my life instead. To an innocent bystander, my mind whispered to itself, I could be a Ross running to stop Rachel ( Friends ) or a Jay running after Aditi ( Jaane Tu ya jaane na ) — indeed, both climaxes had taken place at airports and involved a guy running to stop the love of his life from flying away. Funny how in a moment of extreme panic my mind was still being witty. I dare say it felt proud of itself. My body, on the contrary, was struggling. All those years of eating and eating without an ounce of physical activity had begun to show.
Panting and completely out of breath, I reached the enquiry counter at 4-40 hours and told the lady about my missing boarding pass. "PPPlease help me." I panted. "The flight gates close in ten mmmminutes ".
"Sorry, no one has informed me of a missing boarding pass", she replied, half asleep. "You can run back to the check-in counters maybe. Which flight are you travelling on anyway?"
"The 5-10 flight to Goa."
"What? The boarding status for that flight is final call! Sorry I cannot help you. Please run to the gate and talk to the airline staff and they will see if anything can be done."
In twenty five years of existence, my mind had started again, I have never found myself in a predicament even remotely similar to this fiasco unfolding. To miss a train is one thing, but to miss a flight? A dozen questions had now replaced thoughts of Ross and Rachel and Jay and Aditi. What happens after you miss a flight? Do you simply walk back the gates and security and take a cab home? What happens to the checked-in luggage? How will my parents react? How expensive will the next flight tickets be?'
At least you will get to be back home and catch up on your sleep, my hypothalamus had joined the cacophony of noises inside my head. (To the biology uninitiated, this is the part of the brain that helps switch between wakefulness and sleep.)
For the third time in ten minutes, I found myself sprinting, this time towards the boarding gates. All the energy from the idlis had been sapped up, and I was panting ferociously, probably using up more oxygen per minute than what an average tree makes in a day.
At 4-50, just as the gates were supposed to close and a few people were now left to board, I stumbled on the counter.
"Please help me. I have lost my boarding pass."
"Which flight are you traveling on, sir?"
The one whose gates you are manning you idiot, my trigger-happy Delhite mouth wanted to shout. "This one, the one to Goa," I managed, huffing. A tired, panicking mind cannot muster the strength to be sarcastic, even if it belonged to a Dilliwala, I realised.
The attendant looked at me with sheer alarm in his eyes.
"Please check your pockets once again, sir. If you do not have it with you, I am afraid nothing can be done. This flight gate is supposed to be closed by now."
The floor had been swept from under my feet. For all its prowess, my mind now had nothing witty to offer. The hypothalamus too had stopped thinking of sleep.
I’m going to miss my flight. The reality had dawned.
Just then, a man standing in the line tapped on my shoulder. He was smiling. He pulled something out from his pocket. "I found it lying near the lounge," he said, "I was travelling by the same flight, so I figured I'll bring it to the gates."
My eyes fell upon his hand and I found myself hugging the angel instinctively. What were the odds that the man who found my boarding pass would be travelling on the same flight as me?
So that’s how relieved Ross felt when Rachel didn’t get on that plane, my mind went on, as I got on mine.
The writer is an architect working as a banker in Goa and hails from New Delhi.
siddharthmathur92@gmail.com
