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!