MUMBYE
A lovely bright shiny scorching April morning in Mumbai, India. Joggers proudly build up rivulets of sweat drop by drop. People scurry to work, with a resigned look on their faces as if they knew that in their infinitesimal way, they had no-one to blame but themselves, family, friends, colleagues, clients, bosses, teammates, acquaintances, strangers and fellow Indians for global warming and the resulting heatwave. We knew this day would come when we used that plastic bag last year as a bin liner. Those on vacation in air-conditioned rooms, took comfort and beamed in satisfaction reading newspaper reports and phone alerts about other cities far hotter declaring a yellow alert.
Ah Mumbai! The city of dreams, the city where you find the ultra-rich escaping to the sky, the poor well-grounded in the hubs, stoic, proud and happy, living their dream and the ones in the middle, moving to the fringes, many of them 3rd or 4th generation proud Mumbaikars, street smart, courageous and willing to travel in the city’s unbelievable commuting network. This vertical stratification is visible and to rise up in life takes on true meaning here.
My end-of-stay-in-Mumbai-day and back-to-Bangalore-travel-day began peacefully with a sweaty but happy walk around the lake. After multiple consultations with intrepid travelers and my Mumbai born and brought up spouse, it was decided that I, a non-Mumbaikar and a certified Mumbai challenged person, need to leave only by 10.15 am to catch my 12.45 pm flight from Terminal 1 as it was only 14 kilometres away and easily reachable in three quarters of an hour on the six lane highway. Everybody including the taxi driver grimaced on hearing it was T1. (I later realised that this terminal was considered a riff raff boarding point located further away unlike T2 meant for the elite). On the other hand, paranoid, hyperventilating me wanted to leave at 10.00 am. I would have liked to depart before sunrise and wander around the airport, people-watching and window shopping, but refrained from expressing that secret thought for fear of being classified as a person with borderline dysfunctional disorder. My cab driver came on the dot at 10. After sitting in the cab, my location showed 40 minutes to the airport. Soon, as traffic built up on all sides, the driver started a lengthy monologue on his views about the city corporation concreting the main highway during peak weekday hours and traffic being diverted through already congested gnarly lanes where even on normal undiverted days, one had to negotiate between people, flora, fauna and 2/3/4/6/8…. wheelers.
And then it happened. Every road on the map turned red, every signal turned red, every vehicle’s brake lights turned red, every driver’s face turned red, and mine turned crimson because at that very moment I received a message from the airline sweetly informing me that the departure had been advanced by 10 minutes and check-in baggage closes one hour earlier. I hadn’t even crossed the halfway point yet and the time was 11.10 am. The driver noticing my agitation and either with the intent of giving me comfort or to make me give up hope, started narrating anecdotes on how the same thing had happened to other people he had ferried and how some of them made it in the nick of time and others missed their flight, lost their airfare and languished at the airport till they could finally book another flight.
Let the record show that it took me two seconds to almost give up hope and I was rehearsing the steps to catch a later flight in my mind. After 15 minutes of high blood pressure, twiddling thumbs in between “uh huh” and “ah” to the driver’s tales and intense sweating, the road opened up and we sped away.
You may think this is the pleasant ending and my flight took off into the glorious high noon sun, but there’s more! So, the main entry into the airport looked like the long queues for the famous local suburban trains. I yelled at the top of my voice, “Bangalore 12.35 flight” trying to outdo the other voices. I pushed, I shoved, I yelled again unsuccessfully. The lady at the entry, unwilling to do anything else, nodded calmly and wisely saying, “It’s a crowded, busy day today”. When I finally reached the check-in counter, without cutting the line and following all the rules, I heard the dreaded declaration that it was 5 minutes past the time allowed. I could have burst into tears but gathering every ounce of courage that my family tries to instill in me at all available opportunities, I fought, pleaded and fought again with the airline staff. Maybe it was the helpless look on my face or a well-timed miniscule piece of luck, my bag was checked in! The agent gave me a smirk saying that boarding was in 5 minutes, the gate was quite far and there seemed to be a huge crowd at security. I could guess what she actually wanted to say was “Your suitcase may reach its destination on this flight, but you certainly won’t”.
I tried my charm at the security check, smiled and pretended that I was a seasoned traveler, squeezed between people with babies, barricades and the elderly with walking sticks. Now normally I’m a law-abiding citizen, very good-natured, gentle and helpful, going out of my way to assist others or giving up my seat to the disabled, but I was on a rampage today, willing to kick dogs and children out of my way to reach my destination. The long hours in the cab plus the foolishness of overestimating Mumbai roads, fuelled a single minded determination to make it onto the flight!
Two mobiles, charger, watch and handbag went in a flash into a tray (also hastily grabbed by inserting a hand between two people rummaging in their carry-on bags to pull out their phones) and I, temporarily setting aside all manners and etiquette cultivated over half a century, cut in line and surreptitiously pushed my loaded tray in front of others’ into the scanner. With a bit more jostling and shoving, this phase was cleared peacefully except for some annoyed looks and sounds in my immediate surroundings. A Justin Bieber-ish whimsical thought— “Is it too late now to say sorry”? Definitely too late! My gate was quite a distance away, but I was wearing running shoes that day and set off at a decent pace. Reaching the gate puffing, panting and sweating (you do notice that this happens frequently and in quick succession during this narration) I waved my boarding pass breathlessly but triumphantly and boarded! I had finally made it!! So dear readers, the moral of this story is that determination and courage in the face of adversity along with a bit of rude behaviour, sweating and running results in ultimate success.
We had a pilot with swag who possibly inspired by Tom Cruise in Top Gun: Maverick, swayed the aircraft during takeoff and landing and we abruptly descended with a bang! (actually, more of a sway, thud and screech). The couple next to me held each other’s hands while I resorted to chanting. The captain, after his airborne antics stood near the exit wishing good day to all the traumatised disembarking passengers who managed to nod weakly in response and stagger out with shaky knees. I must add, that the in-between flying at 30,000 feet part, was smooth, so much so, that the man seated in 13D didn’t spill a drop of his pre-booked instant cup noodles and his satisfied slurps could be heard two rows away. I entertained myself by eavesdropping on fellow passengers speaking of their own narratives on their individual airport drops.
On arrival at Bangalore, I was back to my Dr Jekyll mode. Extremely dignified, unhurried and walking with nonchalance, I pretended as if I was having a very ordinary day. I was alive, on home turf and in control of any situation fate could throw at me! The next scene was near the baggage claim area. There were two boxes of high-quality Alphonso mangoes going around on the designated conveyor belt with no-one claiming them, but no sign of suitcases. I had a small fleeting, exhilarating thought that since my suitcase was the last to be checked in, it may come out first! This was quickly replaced by a dismal one in which, the airline agent might have, in her displeasure at my tantrum, sent my suitcase to some unknown destination. But no suitcases came for 20 minutes. It was unclaimed mangoes round and round. We sat on our respective luggage trolleys and transmitted our collective misery through social media to our loved ones with a few people adding close-up photos and videos of the mango boxes in circular motion just in case proof was needed.
In the background there was an announcement which I blatantly ignored as I was in deep conversation with a co-passenger about the aforementioned mangoes. When I heard some choice swear words behind me, I realised that a mechanical voice on the public address system spoke about operational delays and it was thanking us in advance for putting up with an additional 20 minute wait. I was on my best behaviour and smiled benevolently at other annoyed faces. No-one reciprocated and I failed miserably in spreading cheer around. Maybe some of them were the same people I shoved and pushed around earlier! There was a rumour that they could not open the luggage hold door on the aircraft and were waiting for the maintenance staff.
I always knew that machines could never replace human beings and we waited for that one talented being, armed with aircraft door opening implements to set our luggage free. The final laugh was mine as my suitcase was the first to come onto the belt! I once again flashed a brilliant smile all around at jealous onlookers, swung my luggage off the belt in a victorious fluid motion and strode purposefully towards the exit!
My taxi was a brand-new sedan, with a lovely leathery smell, a cheerful driver, empty roads and a smooth suspension. The final sweating was on the plastic covered new seats. But it was Namma Bengaluru so, sweaty or not, I was totally chilled out on my way home!
Epilogue
Three fourths of this story (even the part about the mangoes) is a live travelogue in real time. The last sweat was written after my homecoming.
Helpful note: Readers unfamiliar with Mumbai erstwhile Bombay are advised to look up this city’s fascinating suburban railway system, road network and history of mango cultivation to truly assimilate this article.
Malathy Narayan
Sweat-a-thon participant
