Books. Covers. Judging. And all the racket.

If I were to conduct a search of my blog for the most mis-haps that have happened, the highest hits would come for the "airport".  Then if I take it a step further, the next hybrid search would reveal that in most of them women have been the subject of causality or consequence.  As a tribute to these two subjects providing me with such considerable volumes to write on, am giving this post precedence over the other ideas brewing up inside my head right now as I sit idle in my defined cubicle for want of nothing better to do.

She seemed like just another pretty face in the crowd, getting attention from most of the 20-something guys hanging around trying to act cool, standing slightly slouched, hands in pockets, talking in some foreign accent better suited for the alley-ways of New York than Indira Gandhi Airport, New Delhi.   Neatly dressed in a sober top and skin-hugging jeans, she tip-toed to the boarding gate, the sound of her heels boring down into the sub-conscious like spokes driven through Pinhead in Hellraiser! There was nothing majestic about her yet she carried with her an air of sophistication that made you glance over your shoulder for that fraction of a second longer that divides the "oye hoye" chicks from the "Ay Carumba!" ones.   Having a penchant for luck screwing me over, the mere idea of her sitting in the next seat, let alone the same row, seemed a virtual impossibility.  I did not let my hopes up just to have them dashed all over again.

As I nestled into my aisle seat, stretching my legs, twisting to the left, to the right, bending forward, to ready myself for the hour long siesta ahead, I got tapped on the shoulder.  I looked up.  And I kept looking up. It must have been at least a minute's lag between my eyes blinking for the first time since crooning my neck to look up and the brain responding with "Holy Guacamole!!".  Impatience was evident on her face.  Now don't judge me as some horny perverted arse who drools at any girl that comes his way, but what I could not digest for that one minute was the fact that the Higher Power people brag about actually wanted "her" to sit next to me, ME!  The embarrassing moment passed.  Feeling ashamed at my immature departure from chivalry, I dug into the in-flight magazine reading up on the latest mango fondue recipe, afraid lest I raise my head and our eyes meet to judge me into nothingness again.

The flight was cleared for take-off and as was customary, I took out my book, opened to the bookmarked leaf and started reading with utmost pleasure, the awkwardness of the past half hour behind me.  Unable to conjure the patience to strike up a conversation anymore as I stooped in even deeper every time she cleared her throat, I guess she also gave up as she dug into her abyss-of-a-purse to magically pull out a thin but seriously abused novel - it was in tatters!  Good table manners and as an extension in-flight manners deem it improper to peek into someone else's plate or book.  To smithereens with flight etiquette as I peered through the corner of my book to check what she was reading, all in vain.  Curiosity killed the cat, but it never did anything to people so why worry!

This is the part where I take a short break, crack my knuckles, bob my head left to right, forwards-backwards, sound out a clicking noise and wiggle my fingers ready to become my cynical rascal self as I get back to writing this post.  If you read a book, or at least "pretend" reading one, at least stay committed to it for 5 freaking minutes!  While I read 100 odd-pages into my 612 pager book, she appeared to have been half-way through her 100-150 mini-novel.  Having deserted all hope of even a casual conversation given the introductions we had, the novel took up my attention, well almost.  If it wasn't her squirming in the seat trying to make herself comfortable enough to read, it was her continued "chik-chik", wherein you make that VERY annoying audible "sigh" tugging hard at the handle as if that would make it disappear or turn into a gummi bear all of a sudden.  Having adjusted her butt firmly at an angle no less obscure than the one a beggar takes to attract maximum sympathy, she finally got to reading.  I don't remember how engrossed I was in my novel, but it seemed not much time had passed before the dreaded question came in the most insanely annoying chewing-gum-masticating, hair-twirling and high-pitched voice - "Watchyaaaaa readin'?"  I named the book and then got back to reading.  Was this the same girl I was almost drooling over some time ago?  And again, "Wazzzzit 'bout?" Its about a guy who wants to fucking read his book in peace woman!  I smiled politely giving her a brief synopsis of the enthralling journey the author takes you through the book.  Pop comes the reply, "Soooo basically its not like real or stuff yeah?" I am talking to an imbecile, OMFG!  Again, I smile "Yeah sort of".  I adjust the specs on my nose and with a slight shake of the head get back to reading.

Thankfully that was where the questions stopped, but not her antics.  Sensing a cold indifference in my curt replies she curls up again in her seat and gets back to her book.  The sighs start again.  The squeaking of her god-forsaken purse against the seat grows.  I could hold her by the arms and shake her up real bad.  I resist.  Bite my lip and continue on reading.  Half an hour later my attention is drawn to a scratching sound.  Rats? On a plane? Godammit!  I look down the aisle.  Nobody's panicking.  I look up the aisle.  Still nobody.  That's when against all hope I look to my right and there it is - that specimen from whatever planet the aliens wanted to flee from, picking dirt out of her nails with her bookmark, which once blunted at all four corners is forgone in favour of the boarding pass.  That still does not explain the scratching though so I continue to wonder.  Hardly a wait before I find out.  After blowing the picked out dirt clean, she takes the book tightly in her hand and rustles the pages to FILE HER NAILS! Such insolence.  No wonder the book looked old.  For the next 20 minutes she continued with the charade, and put an end to it once the pilot announced we'd be landing at Mumbai airport soon.  It took two reminders from the air hostess to get her to pull back her chair to upright position.

As we moved to collect baggage from the belt I spotted my trolley bag and moved forward to collect it.  As I pulled it off, the girl walked up right behind me, offering her hand to shake "Hi, Sheetal".  I replied in kind with a firm handshake and a smile, "Hi, not interested." and walked away glad to have rid myself of the nuisance.

My precious

There is something inherently wrong with your life when there are six different ideas bobbing around inside your head and not one has materialised into ink over the past few days.  There is something even worse at play when once you sit down at your laptop to write all you can think of is the good ol' times of pen and paper, using it reason enough to stretch, get up, grab a glass of juice and occupy yourself elsewhere.  However, you know its time to set things straight when all your free time is occupied with rounds of logging in and out of Facebook, Gmail, Yahoo! mail, Hotmail, Twitter, and worst of all Orkut!

So here I am, one stanza and an hour-long panipuri hogging break later, attempting to reinvent before you, in whatever crude form possible, yet another airport tale.

All I told him was that the next passenger's luggage had not been tagged and was on the move already. What I got in return was The-Grinch-Who-Is-Trying-To-Steal-Christmas' scorn at being told what he ought to have known.  To return the favour, he graciously accepted my request for an aisle seat, twisting the "gratitude" with the boarding pass reading 32D - the last row - unbearable backaches, limited leg-space, irritating steward chit-chat and a filthy stench, all complimentary.  The only reprieve was a faint hope of the suave brunette who had just brushed past me to the next counter pissing off her attendant as well coming through with 32F if not 32E.  Clasping on to the slight flicker of retribution, I ambled to the bus, choosing my favourite corner to stand and look out the window at the myriad of taxied planes.

First one to reach the last row, I slid in the camera bag underneath the seat in front of me, folded my hands in hopeful anticipation.  There she was, struggling with her backpack and unmovable fat turds standing adamantly along the aisle, unwilling to be considerate enough and give way.  Every row she passed, my heart grew warmer.  Resting my weight on the side-arms, dangling almost mid-air, I counted the number of rows that separated her from my dream coming true.  Ten rows, nine, eight, damn that bugger trying to squeeze in his suitcase into the overhead bin, seven, six, I swear I will come down and pulverise you into nothingness if you don't handle your kids, five, four, yeah-yeah enough with the "Welcome aboard Jet Airways. Namaste.  Welcome aboard Jet Airways", three, TWO, O-N-E.  My heart broke.  She turned in towards 31C, 31B, before she finally seated her honey-filled sweetness on 31A.  I could not believe my friggin' luck!  Gawd hated me in that very instant.  I lost all strength in my arms and fell plomp into my seat, sulking, ruing the check-in counter fiasco.  It could not have gotten worse.  Little did I know.

When there's something you want real bad, and miss it by just inches, you take solace in the fact that nobody else could have it either and in all probability you're the only one who ever got this close.  As I was pacifying my dejection, there walked in that ridiculous image of a Tintin-haircut, loud mouthed, unbelievably loathsome and unmistakably incorrigible rascal!  He tucked the small girly backpack flung across his back into the overhead bin and sat himself in 31C, realised how lucky a bastard he really was, turned to his otherwise pompously high-nosed family seated in 31D-F and gave them a thumbs up, thanking his mom for excluding him from the "family union".  Frankly, I could not care much about such gaudy display of immaturity, but come on he was going after my girl with the intention to "hit that"!  While he drooled all over his seat, I sat there fuming.

Now I can live with a little disappointment.  I could also make my peace with an undeserving prick's hyperactive saliva glands having the day of their lives.  But when a big hunk of flesh walks in and asks me to "scoot over" so that he can fit himself into 32E, that is just pushing the limit!  At this point I neatly replaced the bookmark to page 197, closed the book, tucked it into the pouch, closed my eyes and tried drifting into a place where my senses would go numb, away from this blasphemy.  Ah but my clever reader judging from the length of this post you have guessed there's more to the story haven't you?  Wearing a cuff-linked navy blue shirt, a red and black scarf stuffed around the neck, Tintin's dad walked up the aisle, stopped next to his son, placed a heavy hand on his shoulder and that brought on the drought of saliva, the end to his undeserving happiness, the nemesis of any hopes he had to "hitting that"!  I was elated.  Ecstatic even.  The pure evil pleasure of having the bugger's hopes dashed filled me warmth all over again.  Justice prevailed.  I know, am a monster.  I don't effing care!

So at the end of it all while he twisted and turned between two oldies trying to yell each other to sleep, I ended up befriending the India Today exec sitting next to me, the flawless beauty remained unharmed and beyond everyone's reach, the annoying family proved to be too nerve-racking and the father proved himself an obnoxious goon in his dealings with the air hostess.  It might make sense for me to elaborate a little on the latter part of that last sentence, but am signing off on this happy note.  Screw everything, order had finally been restored.

PS: The title has The Lord of the Rings overtones, in case you didn't get it, tough luck!