As an executive who often had to leave at short notice to the airport to travel on work, I always had a briefcase packed and kept ready. One taunt from my family members was that I carried things that were redundant. But I proved them wrong.
One of the gizmos carried was a mini-iron. It came in handy once when the housekeeping staff of the upscale hotel had misplaced my laundry. The contraption ironed out the wrinkles from the dress I had worn the previous day.
I also carried a flashlight, an alarm timepiece, a transistor, a long brass chain and a sturdy lock to fasten luggage to the seat, in case I had to travel back by train, a foldable umbrella and two coat hangers, a shoe polish kit and suchlike. I also had a bound volume of Hindi, Malayalam, Kannada and Telugu phrase books, so I could speak a smattering of the local lingo. I also carried two library editions of P.G. Wodehouse, which by no stretch of the imagination I would consider as a load.
Despite the weight of the briefcase that usually had bulky tender documents inside it, I walked with a swagger. Of course, I was some four decades younger then with strong arms and legs, all flexible like vacuum cleaner hoses and not rigid like lamp posts. I used to deplane fast and walk briskly to the arrival hall, trying to be the first to reach the car bay.
One salubrious evening I landed in [the then] Bangalore, enjoying the chill abated by the woollen sweater that protected my chest. I walked briskly, the briefcase giving me no problem. As I paused to give way to a tarmac tractor that crossed my path, I felt a hand touching my shoulder. I turned. There stood a distinguished-looking gentleman, eyeing me with genuine concern.
“My dear, sir. I know your briefcase is heavy. I observed it when I moved it on the overhead bin to place mine. Don’t carry such heavy loads. That too in one hand. If you have to, split the load into two, one for the left and the other for the right arm. Take care of your shoulder.” In a flash, he disappeared into the cluster of passengers.
My colleague who flew with me identified the person as Dr. B. Ramamurthi, the noted neurosurgeon based in Chennai. I couldn’t believe it. I told him about the advice he gave.
“He also patted your shoulder, didn’t he? My god! I’m sure you may not have any neurological problem in future, because of his therapeutic touch! And yours must be the briefest case he had ever handled. You are lucky to have his advice, without waiting in his clinic, and that too, gratis!” He laughed, looking pointedly at my heavy briefcase.
Thereafter I began to destuff things that were not essential during a trip. Furthermore, the entry into the airport had become bothersome for security reasons. Only one hand bag was allowed. Since I paid heed to the great doctor’s advice and also to the rules and regulations of air travel, I carried only a light leather bag to balance both dicta. Later, with the advent of mobile phones, emails, teleconferences, video-calls and e-tendering processes, the number of trips were drastically cut.
Towards the end of my career, I carried only my phone, laptop and Kindle (with my favourite P.G. Wodehouse parked digitally inside among others). No, not even a change of clothes. If Dr. Ramamurthi had spotted me again on the tarmac, he would have nodded his head in approval.
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