8:10 PM. Thirty-five minutes before the flight takes off, not more than twenty before they finally (like, finally) shut the boarding gate. The roadsign flashes past - "Bangalore Interanational Airport - 13km". More nail chewing. I glance at my watch every 30 seconds. Suddenly, the turn-off leading to the airport is seen. Some sigh of relief.
8:31PM. Fourteen minutes for the flight to take off. I plead with the cute girl wearing the tight red jacket. Something is said about missing a friend's wedding party. Right. I'm allowed in. It's a good thing I block my seat when I book my ticket.
8:34 PM. The plane is full. I feel smug about sitting beside the window. And even better that the middle seat in my row is empty. When will I be able to afford business class for personal trips? More immediately, why aren't we taxiing for takeoff?
8:47 PM. The little girl in row 23 starts wailing. She's hungry and she wants to use the loo. Mommy and baby get up. The tall one with the shapely legs approaches them and orders them to sit. Baby wails loudly. Mommy yells even louder. Oh, brother!
8:53 PM. We are still on the ground. Why did I tip the cabbie to drive me faster? Oh look, here's the root cause walking up the aisle. Must be the largest root cause in the world. All 130 kilos of him make a beeline for the one empty middle seat left on the plane. No points for guessing which seat that is. Oof!
9:09 PM. It sounds like there's an earthquake in the kitchen, or like a death metal band gone mad. Something creaks like a window on one hinge in a haunted house. Then the airport lights look like little dots on a map. Confirmation of the fact that we have taken off is received in the form of a banshee wail from row 23.
9:25 PM. The problem with seat 29A is that it's too close to the head. That's what they call a loo in an airplane. Most Indians never flush the toilet outside their homes. It's their answer to Hitler and his gas chambers. End result - I ring for the long-legged hottie if they have any air freshener on board. Plastic smile followed by a hollow apology. What's worse is they don't allow liquids on board these days - so my bottle of Dior is safely inside the hold. I wish I was there too.
10:10 PM. Time for dinner. I have a fabulous lesson in eating within a confined space. I can survive the Black Hole of Calcutta now, I'm dead sure. The mountain next to me orders three cups of coffee. If there's anything worse than a fat man sitting next to you in economy class, it's a fat man who stays awake through the journey and keeps shifting his elbows about. I'm thankful I don't have to hear his tigerish snores.
10:44 PM. The sexy voice on the PA enquires if there's a doctor on board. This sounds interesting. Who's had a heart attack? Who's collapsed from a stroke? I am to be disappointed. A lady who looks like she's swallowed her smelly socks is throwing up. If you ask me, it isn't a doctor that's required. Just clear the row next to the emergency exit, open the same and show the lady her place. With luck, she may land into a doctor's clinic. The way the ruling party blows its trumpet about rural healthcare, it's highly likely too.
11:46 PM. Too much traffic over Delhi. They got rid of traffic snarls on the road and put 'em smoky buses and trucks in the air. That explains the brown muck that floats over the capital 365/24/7. Another half hour with the lump of lard, the pair in row 23 and the lady with the socks. Can I have a bottle of water please? No sir, the pilot has asked everyone to return to their seats.
12:23 AM. The outside air temperature is 29 degrees celsius. At midnight? You've got to be kidding me! I wish these scientists devote their time to design an airconditioned shirt. I don't have cancer, so why waste time discovering a cure for it? I thought we lawyers had our head up in the clouds.
