The Maharajah's Whiskers - Part Ek

For the people who know me, they’d say I was a fairly even tempered person. (Shaddup! You there- stop snickering!) No really, I believe everyone has their bad days and one ought not to be quick to decide based on one experience. But I think three times kind of pushes it a tad bit.

I am of course, talking about our favourite airline, our national carrier, The maharajah’s whiskers. It’s been three months since my return from the homeland and is only now that enough time has passed that I can talk about the incidents (pliss to note the plural) without hyperventilating or foaming at the mouth (which in this country of the stiff upper lip is vitally important. You only have to flare the nostrils ever so slightly before you are dismissed as being a drama queen. A sliver of a sneer whilst describing the events in Q is apparently just the right touch of emotion).

I now lay down the events that transpired and shall leave you, the reader to be the judge. I shall recite just the first incident in this post, as one needs time between the accounts to recover from the sheer incompetence.

Incident 1: After a goodly three years or thereabouts, I, very excitedly reached the shores of Mumbai, with a flu-ridden toddler, and sleep deprived brat and four pieces of luggage. Or so I thought. I mean that’s what I left London with. One flu- ridden toddler – check. One hyperexcited six-year-old who wasn’t going to sleep a jot on the plane – check. Luggage – ek, do, teen… hang on, where’s my fourth piece of luggage? An airline official bustles in just then to inform the unfortunate few of us that have been awaiting our luggage that due to a technical mixup (meaning the off loaders screwed up), our luggage was earlier put on a different conveyor, but we’ll have our luggage in this conveyor shortly. He was quite pleased with that. To be honest, so were we. At four in the morning, all I wanted to do was find a nice, warm bed and crash until it was time for my connecting flight to Cochin that evening.

Luggage comes and luggage goes, but my bright pink strolley remains stubbornly absent. The airline official, trying to helpful does the following:

Scratches head, the peeks out into the loading area to see if there’s any luggage left (why anyone would leave just one bright pink suitcase unloaded was beyond me, but hey, it was four in the morning). Finds nothing. Scratches head again and asks me if I was sure I had a pink suitcase (why anyone would hallucinate about pink suitcases was, again, beyond me, but hey, it was four in the morning) scratches balls (we all need a change) and then asks to see my luggage tags – and counts them (yes, there were four) then counts my luggage (counts three). Having now satisfied himself that I was indeed missing a piece of luggage and was not playing the fool, he scratches his ear and the leads me to the ‘missing luggage’ department.

An equally helpful airline official then takes over, writes out my form in Marathi (we are still at the international air terminal at this point), asks me to read if what’s written is accurate and sign it.  While I try and understand what’s been written in my rusty Marathi, the official informs me that I have nothing to worry about. Apparently this is quite a common occurrence. I seem to sense this was true from his lack of alacrity with a Spanish woman trying to locate her child’s buggy. His colleague was trying to convince her to pick one from an array of buggies they had in their possession, and nevermind the small matter of the buggy not being hers. My helpful airline official, in the meanwhile, reassures me that my luggage has probably flown to Cochin without me (probably thinking I’m going to compliment the airline on being proactive and taking a call on my behalf. I couldn’t possibly need all my luggage with me in Mumbai when I was only going to stop over for half a day), and it was ultimately my travel agent(!!) who was to blame, since he had booked me on an evening flight to Cochin, when clearly, there was a morning flight to be taken to the destination (which apparently my pink strolley has managed to board).

By now, toddler and brat both decided that they’ve had enough of India and were ready to head back to ol’ Blighty. It was only the bribe of an infinite supply of chocolate and the promise that they’d never ever have to wear jackets in India that made them change their mind.  I was lucky enough to have an extremely patient relative waiting for me outside, and as he escorted the scruffy trio out of the airport, I was glad there was someone to take over the haggling of the prices with the taxis.

Thirty minutes into the car ride. I get a call. From the airport. The helpful airline official had located my luggage and could I please come a collect it. I was getting mildly annoyed now. I informed the helpful airline official that he could now load my luggage on to a plane to Cochin, without me, as promised. I wasn’t about to turn the taxi around only to find that this was a false alarm.  Another fifteen minutes later I get another call. From the airport. The helpful airline official informs me now that it was after all a false alarm, but not to worry, my luggage was safely on its way to Cochin (my luggage seemed to be having adventures of its own).

That evening:

As I land in Cochin, I collect the rest of my luggage and duly hand over two exhausted babies to two elated grandparents while I set out on search of my bright pink strolley. The solitary guard on duty at Cochin International (ha!) Airport (helpful airline officials were missing at this port) informs me that I’ll have to traipse over to the Maharaja’s whiskers counter located some distance away to have any hope of seeing my pink suitcase. The helpful airline officer at the domestic terminal tells me ‘ Ais, ais, ewe see, youze was un international fleit. Sow, eye think, your luggage, it will be at the international terminal’ Ah. The terminal is a hop, skip and a jump away. And the office is connected internally. But I naturally have to hop, skip and jump to the international terminal and repeat my request. Where another helpful airline official tell me, ‘But ewe floo domeztic wonly now, no, madam? So, it will be in the domeztic terminal’. Hop. Skip. Jump. Domestic terminal.

Helpful airline official#1: Madamm… why will I lie, madam? Nothing is here wonly. Wait. Wonly for ewe, I will check with the domeztic.

Strolls to next room. Has a cup of tea while chatting with other helpful airline official. Comes back.

Helpful airline official#1: nooo, maidamm. Are ewe sure they have sent the luggage from Bombay? It will come tomorrow, perhaps?

Me: But I was informed that your very helpful airline has very helpfully sent my luggage before my arrival to Cochin. Helpfully.

Helpful airline official#1 (scratching head meditatively – seems to be part of their induction training): wait, huh, madam. I will check customs. Maybe it haasn’t cleared that wonly, no?

Fifteen minutes later

Yes! It is waiting madam. You need to clear customes with it wonly no? (beams at having helpfully solved this puzzle)

Well, luggages, even bright pink ones have limitations to how clever they can be. As to the limits of helpful airline staff stupidty, there seem to be none.

Rookie Mistakes - 2

Having experienced Kochi on foot and thanking God that I have lived to regret it, last week
I decided to listen to Dad and quietly take the car when we decided to go shopping.
Now by 'taking the car', I do not mean driving it myself, although the Government of India has foolishly granted me a permit to do so for the past decade or so. I meant assigning Dad or he-of-infinite-patience-when-it-comes-to-his-daughter the chauffeur duties for the day while mum and self (and brats in tow) swan in and out of shops. We left punctually at the designated hour (i.e. exactly half an hour after it was agreed we would leave), and this time when Dad headed towards to car park he found me right along with him, matching stride for stride. Right. so far so good. As we settle ourselves into the car, I see dad quickly reverse out of the car park after strapping himself in. "whoa! Hang on Dad!!" I say - "I haven't strapped myself in - and neither have the kids!" Dad, for the nth time in this very brief trip looks at me like I'm a raving loon, visibly composes himself before answering, calmly, "It's not compulsory for the passengers to wear seat belts here. And the back seats don't have any seat belts."
I look around incredulously at the back. The seats are bereft of any anchoring devices. The kids are grinning away bouncing about like helium-filled balloons, rejoicing at the feeling of not being tethered down. As we continue backing out of the driveway - this time in a vehicle rather than on foot, I feel no safer and hang on gingerly to the door handle.
No sooner have we emerged out of the apartment complex (after what I though was far too much aggressive horn-tooting by dad), we nearly ram into an SUV which, from what I could gather thought we were involved in a fun game of Chicken. I roll down my window to give the guy a sound talking to - only to realise I was talking to thin air - Chicken man was continuing his dangerous trip down to road determined to visit the A & E by the end of the hour.
Dad meanwhile continued down to road, unaffected by our brush with death, merrily leaning away on the horn - apparently this was how vehicles communicated with each other here - a short 'parp' to denote mild annoyance at how you're driving to a longer 'paaaaaaarrrp' to denote - 'really now, you're being a twat' to a staccato burst of 'pip-paarp-pap-parp' to denote 'watch out! I'm a huge truck with no rearview mirrors about to burst forth from a blind turn at break-neck speed' to a myriad of other complex signals.
I seem to have learnt driving from a totally different rulebook because the left indicator here somehow communicated to two-wheelers behind you that this was the time to overtake the vehicle from the left and a right indicator - well, I don't know what it meant because it seemed to have no effect on the surrounding traffic.
My favourites are the roundabouts- manned by a traffic constable. Where if you choose to go clockwise when you want to turn right, The constable looks at you in askance like you didn't know what you were doing. It's obvious to anyone with half as much brains as the rotund constable that the shortest route in a roundabout if you wanted to go right was, of course anti-clockwise. And that is what one is expected to do. None of this new fangled nonsense about uni-directional traffic for our intrepid Kochi Konstable.
I now realise why almost all vehicles in India have an image of God hanging from the rear view mirror or firmly pasted to the dashboard (including Dad's car which now incidentally has permanent imprints left by my fingertips on the dashboard) - after all one never knows if one is ever going to ever return to your loved ones once you go out into the streets (on foot or by car) of Kochi. 

Rookie Mistakes - 1

Having just arrived in Kochi after about three years, I tell my dad, 'I need to visit the bank, Pops. Is there a branch nearby?"
Dad, in an effort to show off how much Kochi has moved on since I last came informs me, "Of course. We have a local branch not five minutes away."
Me: Great! shall we leave in about ten minutes?
Pops agrees.
half an hour later
Me: Right. I'm ready. shall we leave?
Poppy, who's been waiting patiently for the past fifteen minutes (having been used to years of waiting patiently for the wife, sister, daughter,and other miscellaneous womenfolk in his life) nods away.
We head out of the lift and suddenly I find myself bereft of company. I look around for Dad and and find him heading swiftly towards to parking lot.
Me: I though you said the branch was five minutes away poppy, why are we taking the car?
Pops(looking at me like I was a few cards short of a pack): You want to walk? It's fifteen minutes away if we walk!!
Me (thinking to myself): eh? what a spoilt bunch we are... we can't walk for fifteen minutes?
Dad having given up trying to convince me that walking was a bad idea, trudges along forlornly with me. As soon as we step out of the apartment, I am nearly run over by a rickshaw with horns blaring. And the driver has the gall to then turn around and advice me on how to walk on the road- nearly running over three other pedestrians while he was at it. My heart rate was just returning to normal when a huge SUV which had no business travelling in a three feet wide road gently nudges me into the open drain running by the side of the road. Dad, the veteran Kochi traveller swiftly pulls me into a roadside shop (whereupon a shop assistant looked up hopefully, ready to make is first sale of the day - or maybe the week, even, judging by the fine coating of dust on the shop shelves) and just as deftly hops out and into the next shop.
We walk in this pop-in-hop-out fashion, while dad ably guides me though the end of the street filled with drivers who I'm convinced have walked straight out of Grand Theft Auto V (or is it VI? I've lost count).
At the end of the the road, I'm met by a scene that can only be called bedlam. Anarchic Bedlam! Cacophonic Anarchic Bedlam!!
Shouting over the babble, I tell dad "Gosh, it must be a serious accident. there are even cops in the scene"
Dad (shaking his head sadly at how totally clueless I was): That, my dear, is a traffic cop. He is directing traffic. And this, is what we call a junction. We need to cross now.
My jaw drops. We need to to cross this? Is he kidding me? I have manic drivers gunning for me from four different directions now. I close my eyes, ask the Lord to take good care of my children, and make a dash for it.
Three sudden brakes, two screeching tyres and six blue curses later, I have made it across with all my limbs intact. I can't believe it!! It has to be a miracle.
At the branch I am so shaken by my experience I ask for three glasses of water. And consume them (despite the fingerprints on the inside of the glass).As we are about the leave the branch, I turn around and tell dad  "Do you suppose you could go and get the car? I don't think I'm ready to die just yet."
Poor dad. Shaking his head, resigned to his fate of having crazy women dictate his life, he steps out to go get the car. I quickly avert my eyes as a two wheeler does his best to grind his toes to pulp. *gulp* Maybe next time I should let Dad decide how we travel.