Travel
My husband and I live in two different cities and this means that one or the other has to travel every weekend. Last week it was my turn. The onward journey is not bad as I am in total control of the time I leave and the flight timings. The return is tension filled. We have to POSITIVELY leave the Hyderabad house at 4am to make it to the airport an hour before the 6am flight.
My husband was at his sleepy uncooperative best. He wanted coffee, his hair needed to be combed, he wanted a snack.
“Hurry up ,” I said,” the airline has just sent me an SMS asking me to report two hours before the flight.”
“The don’t mean it,” said my husband, “they keep sending out those messages.”
“It says there is congestion at the airport.” I protested.
“How will there be no congestion?” said my husband ‘There must be twenty flights taking off at 6am.” He continued to search for his watch.
We finally left at 4:15.
When we reached the departure ramp, there were three rows of cars all the way to the highway. It started to drizzle. At 4:50 I announced “ do you mind if I get out and walk? It might be faster.”
I got out of the car with my laptop bag, handbag and strolley. I could not balance everything, with my heels so I took off my footwear. It was already 5 am. I started to run up the ramp barefoot in the rain. A number of people peered out of car windows.
I just made it. There were a lot of empty seats on the plane--- perhaps the missing passengers were still in the traffic jam!
This week it was my husband’s turn. The flight landed at 3:30 pm and he was home by 7 pm. His suitcase was bulging at the seams.
“What is in there?” I asked.
“I brought all my laundry, even the bed sheets.”
I opened the black bag. (It had been given to us free many years ago in Dubai airport for buying four bottles of Glenfiddish whiskey). (We were planning to buy only two, but to get the bag you had to buy four). There was a purple striped towel on the top. I had never seen it before.
“Where did you get this towel?”
“I don’t know,” said my husband, it does not seem to be of very good quality.” There were clean shirts and pants below the towel.
“When did you buy these shirts?”
“They are not mine,” said my husband.
I pulled out a 100 packets of Manichand Pan Masala in a plastic bag.
“Why are you carrying around pan masala?”
Husband condescended to look into the bag.
“None of this stuff is mine.”
I looked at the baggage tag. The bag belonged to a Mr. Rupesh. (Name changed.)
I have purple bows on my bags but husband has never condescended to adorn his bags.
“Lets go to sleep “ said husband. “On Monday when I reach the airport I will hand over the baggage to Spice jet. Anyway I am flying the same airline.”
I felt sorry for Rupesh, deprived of his clean clothes and his nightly fix of pan masala, saddled with a bag full of smelly laundry. I called customer care and tracked him down. He was irate.
“What am I to do? Where is Vellore? Is it near Chennai? Why did you take my bag to Vellore?”
Husband pacified him. “I will bring the bag to Hyderabad on Monday”. Rupesh was furious. He was apparently flying to Mumbai from Chennai with no clean clothes or toiletries. Also perhaps he needed the pan masala fix to negotiate business deals?
Husband pacified him, “don’t worry , no tension, we are brothers under the skin, remember this all happened because we have the same taste in whiskey—“
My husband and I live in two different cities and this means that one or the other has to travel every weekend. Last week it was my turn. The onward journey is not bad as I am in total control of the time I leave and the flight timings. The return is tension filled. We have to POSITIVELY leave the Hyderabad house at 4am to make it to the airport an hour before the 6am flight.
My husband was at his sleepy uncooperative best. He wanted coffee, his hair needed to be combed, he wanted a snack.
“Hurry up ,” I said,” the airline has just sent me an SMS asking me to report two hours before the flight.”
“The don’t mean it,” said my husband, “they keep sending out those messages.”
“It says there is congestion at the airport.” I protested.
“How will there be no congestion?” said my husband ‘There must be twenty flights taking off at 6am.” He continued to search for his watch.
We finally left at 4:15.
When we reached the departure ramp, there were three rows of cars all the way to the highway. It started to drizzle. At 4:50 I announced “ do you mind if I get out and walk? It might be faster.”
I got out of the car with my laptop bag, handbag and strolley. I could not balance everything, with my heels so I took off my footwear. It was already 5 am. I started to run up the ramp barefoot in the rain. A number of people peered out of car windows.
I just made it. There were a lot of empty seats on the plane--- perhaps the missing passengers were still in the traffic jam!
This week it was my husband’s turn. The flight landed at 3:30 pm and he was home by 7 pm. His suitcase was bulging at the seams.
“What is in there?” I asked.
“I brought all my laundry, even the bed sheets.”
I opened the black bag. (It had been given to us free many years ago in Dubai airport for buying four bottles of Glenfiddish whiskey). (We were planning to buy only two, but to get the bag you had to buy four). There was a purple striped towel on the top. I had never seen it before.
“Where did you get this towel?”
“I don’t know,” said my husband, it does not seem to be of very good quality.” There were clean shirts and pants below the towel.
“When did you buy these shirts?”
“They are not mine,” said my husband.
I pulled out a 100 packets of Manichand Pan Masala in a plastic bag.
“Why are you carrying around pan masala?”
Husband condescended to look into the bag.
“None of this stuff is mine.”
I looked at the baggage tag. The bag belonged to a Mr. Rupesh. (Name changed.)
I have purple bows on my bags but husband has never condescended to adorn his bags.
“Lets go to sleep “ said husband. “On Monday when I reach the airport I will hand over the baggage to Spice jet. Anyway I am flying the same airline.”
I felt sorry for Rupesh, deprived of his clean clothes and his nightly fix of pan masala, saddled with a bag full of smelly laundry. I called customer care and tracked him down. He was irate.
“What am I to do? Where is Vellore? Is it near Chennai? Why did you take my bag to Vellore?”
Husband pacified him. “I will bring the bag to Hyderabad on Monday”. Rupesh was furious. He was apparently flying to Mumbai from Chennai with no clean clothes or toiletries. Also perhaps he needed the pan masala fix to negotiate business deals?
Husband pacified him, “don’t worry , no tension, we are brothers under the skin, remember this all happened because we have the same taste in whiskey—“
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