Since I was a kid, I am mesmerised reading travel diaries of travellers and as a grown up really do miss our Crocodile dandy TV series. Myself, though can’t claim the ilk of Vascodagama, atleast have grown up reading fantasy classics like Gulliver’s travels, around the world in 80 days, 20000 leagues under the sea etc.
Being fortunate enough to travel a few countries on work assignments (courtesy IT industry), I present you a day from my own travel diary, in a purely entertaining sense as I saw it.
It was that day in December ‘06 when me and my family (wife and kid) were returning after a long work assignment in London, heading on a vacation back home Bengalooru (vaguely remember my grand father mention the historical name as Bendakaaluru meaning burnt leg).
5.00am: Our taxi set on from our home in Ealing-London to Haethrow airport. By virtue of sitting next to the driver’s seat, I started the conversation by directing the driver to Terminal 4 and then the usual weather, where from? Having experienced travelling numerous times on taxi manned by Indian looking Asian drivers in West London, I got the standard reply one could expect “Punjab”, which could mean the Indian side of Punjab or the other side across the border, this standard reply being the last tinge of our past colonial legacy still alive in this Queen’s own kingdom. I knew he is guessing if I am from India or across the border, and made him comfortable by introducing my wherefroms and my experience working with few of our clients from our neighbouring country whom I used to fondly address Khalid miya.. Mansoor bhai.. Khurram ji, a proximity which we could easily build by our similarities of chapati sabji eating..cricket loving…hindi speaking proud neighbours and warmly reciprocated…not to mention our open hearted reasoning in halal restaurants of Singapore and Shanghai on subjects that matter for us both...surprisingly which brought in more proximity and trust. Time to part ways and Rukmanji offered his personal Taxi-Calling card, a sign of proximity especially when offered after settling the bills with no tips thrown in…proud people I mentioned didn’t I..?
5.40am: Heathrow Terminal 4 and couldn’t miss noticing the counters manned by fresh faces taking positions in presumably first shift. Baggage control was a bit tight and for the first time, unheard of in anyone’s travel history, I had to place my cabin bag in the size gauge.. and to my holy surprise it passed in flying colours. Went through security that ensured our cabin bags liquid free…yup you heard it right no liquids in your cabin bag when flying out of heathrow. Comforting (consoling to be exact…) by the knowledge that me and my family are a tad safer passed through scanners and proceeded to the boarding gate.
Oops... I had budgeted 3 hours as usual for checking into Air India but this time around its British airways, and so a pleasing 2 more hours to kill before we board. Settled my beloved other half and the little one and a half (my daughter’s age) in the comfortable waiting lounge. Brief introduction with another desi nuclear family joining our flight. Moms were already deep into conversation and kids were exchanging pleasantries (kurkures and cadbury’s changed hands) while the other head of the family stuck to his cell phone.
I set out to explore “The Terminal” and at a quick glance couldn’t spot either Tom Hanks or Zeta to my dismay. My direction was guided by the aroma of freshly ground morning coffee in the nearby café. Picked up a white-medium-cappuchino, and felt its perfected to the taste of our tatched roof coffee stall on Bangalore-Salem highway (hold on..did someone hum.. Tere Sang Ek Simple Si Coffee Bhi Kick Deti Hai..) worth every “£.p” I paid. Morning fresh air, busy and fresh faces all around.. with stall lights fading into the dawn…dawn…something is missing here..yes no natural light inside the Terminal but artificial light intelligently placed to give a natural effect..and only diffused natural light let to leak through etched glass panels. For a second my mind wandered into the innumerable articles on energy savings, green house emissions, carbon trading..bla..bla..bla.. well people who have built the Tower bridge, steam engine, London underground and once an empire where the sun never set should be knowing better. Took a stroll and I am already in a book stall happily browsing, coffee in hand with no intention to buy any. Children… Health & Fitness… Psychology… Fiction.. History.. noticed a white lady, curly white hair, slightly bent back, specks, walking stick hanging from her wrist browsing through a hard bound book. From the cover printed in two primary colours and the title, had to do with European history and second world war. From the wrinkles on her face, it struck to me she had lived through that piece of history. Made a mental note to look for the paper back print back home.
Next stop, every techie’s favourite - gadget shop. A wireless Bluetooth headphone with 5 band equaliser on display. When tried with the sample numbers (Tracy chapman’s Fast car) playing, it really r’ockd. Great piece of technology, wondered who owned the IP for the embedded s/w.. made in Taiwan..small world.. price tag in “£££.pp”. Stuck to my previous year resolution.. no speculative buying..:(
Walked past stores of high fashion that stacked up assorted collection of Este lauder (err..wisky..? wine..?? not sure myself.. no scope of improvement with my knowledge here as the taste of bear didn’t go down well with me the first time I tasted and never took the advise that it gets better with usage, and abandoned its usage altogether), De couture perfumes, leather handbags for gentlemen and hep ladies with price tags ranging from two digits to four digits. To confess, I wouldn’t spot a difference between any of those and a piece of leather ripped out of a ikea sofa displayed next door. But then, statistics identify Advertising and Media as one of the biggest untapped market for our Primary profession and its rumoured ikea’s chief gives Microsoft’s father a run for his money. Scope of improvement for my wisdom in this area I thought.
Moved on to the junction where the hallways for different gates in Terminal 4 meet and how could one miss the Red Ferrari in gleaming spotlight parked in the centre. Reminded me of my first ever F1 debut hitting the spectator strands in Shanghai circuit 2004, where we watched Schumacher set the track on fire (spin actually..:() amidst smell of burning rubber and roaring noise. Heard from friends, at close quarters one can see the brake pads of the wonder machines glow red hot. Felt Fortunate for the close encounter with the wonder machine. On the lighter side, couldn’t help noticing men peeking at the machine like a curious Jim carrey with his mask on, may be I reflected their mirror image from the other side of the podium. I, like others had been persuaded by tactful pitch of the modest Salesgirl who resembled a Barbie doll in her late teens. Papa’s dreams interfered.. one day my daughter will grow out to be a fine woman too. The deal is, you buy a ticket for £20/- and take home the Ferrari absolutely free*…. [*if your lottery and nazeeb were blessed with divine intervention]. My previous encounters rolling on slot machines had spelt disasters falling short of ship wrecks and so politely turned down the offer, content with a click of the machine on my camera phone.
My watch is ticking now and reminded me of other souls awaiting my arrival.
Walked into the nearby magazine & confectionary store looking for refreshments to spice up our morning. Impressed, Salted Kurkures have found their way into Heathrow airport, learnt later that after Inidan curry, western buds are picking up a taste for kurkures and its turning out to be a fad as a low cholesterol alternative for potato chips in friendly neighbourhood pubs and restaurants. Time to board and picked up a few of the packets and another cuppa in the café on my way back. Eagerly looking forward for another great morning awaiting in desh, our flight took off.. Adeus.
