A straight line is defined as the shortest distance between two points. Therefore, if one wished to walk from one point to another he would be prudent to do so in a linear fashion (unless off course he was inebriated, Fred Astaire or Chaplin). However we live in liberal times where man must question everything he sees, hears and feels. Even this.
Together we formed a human chain bound by a collective urge to move forward; But whose existence faced a constant threat from each individual's urge to move an extra bit faster. Close behind me stood two men. They were not behind one another but rather one beside the other (almost Siamese twin-like). In the early days when the line was forming all its mass was transient. These two gentlemen had then joined the line at the same time. Ever since, neither had been able to forego his position of advantage. So now both stood with a placid face feigning no knowledge of the situation. Inside their heads though electrical charges rapidly relayed instructions from the brain to the spinal cord alerting the limbs to jump into action at the first hint of forward movement. They were not alone. All along the line were several such high voltage points ready for a flash-over at any moment. While the men pushed and prodded, some of the women steadily moved forward to their position of advantage (banking on their invisible cloak of male retribution) while leaving the fight to the dogs.
This happened at the Dabolim International Airport, Goa.
The ground staff had barely managed to slip the D word under her breath before she was ambushed by a barrage of multilingual volleys. And who could blame the agitated passengers for behaving so. They had naively believed the flight status (consistently showing "On-Time") on the LCD for the past two hours only to be now told that it was languishing at another airport. In desperation, the airline staff offered samosas and pastries from the nearby store as palliatives to sooth the common flier. The plan was failing miserably. Like a man-eater that does not kill solely for food the common fliers devoured the offering and then returned to harry the poor lady. Where is the flight right now? When will it touch down? How much time will it take for refueling? Will it be fit for such a rapid return? With each query the colour of her cheek flushed a shade darker till it could flush no further and instead the watery droplets welled in the corner of her eyes (threatening to jump out at any moment).
Luckily, the flight landed soon saving the droplets from their deathly plunge. "Please make a line" announced the lady mustering some authority to salvage her lost pride. Like magic, the line formed. It began from the red ribbon and soon crossed the seating area before hitting the wall. From far it looked like a harmonious chain of humanity. One only needed to look closer.
At the start of the line stood a red-turbaned sardarji. He had been rewarded for asking the most questions, thereby consistently representing the collective impatience of the crowd. Naturally content at being chosen the first man to set foot in the aircraft he was now casting a condescending glance at the human race behind. Three spots behind the sardar stood a dark Bengali man with a navy blue side bag that read in orange the following, "Umpire 2012-13, Cricket Association of Bengal". He had been Sardarji's closest rival and had been matching his incessant queries both in frequency and inanity. A natural Bengali urge to get tea at the most inopportune moment had cost him the top spot. He was now impatiently nudging his plastic handbag ever so slightly towards the gentleman standing in front (as if in constant fear of being declared run-out for not grounding it over the crease).
At the start of the line stood a red-turbaned sardarji. He had been rewarded for asking the most questions, thereby consistently representing the collective impatience of the crowd. Naturally content at being chosen the first man to set foot in the aircraft he was now casting a condescending glance at the human race behind. Three spots behind the sardar stood a dark Bengali man with a navy blue side bag that read in orange the following, "Umpire 2012-13, Cricket Association of Bengal". He had been Sardarji's closest rival and had been matching his incessant queries both in frequency and inanity. A natural Bengali urge to get tea at the most inopportune moment had cost him the top spot. He was now impatiently nudging his plastic handbag ever so slightly towards the gentleman standing in front (as if in constant fear of being declared run-out for not grounding it over the crease).
A few spots behind the umpire was a young couple playing yo-yo with a leash (at the end of which was a child). The little devil was rolling on the floor picking up strewn debris of samosa. The elastic leash was proving a worthy investment as little Alexander tested its tensile strength. Behind the family stood I, albeit at a safe distance since I had noted the light yellow stream that the little devil was trailblazing. This was not going well with the impatient woman behind whose nostrils flared hot air that raised my hackles (making me feel like a springbok about to be pounced in the midst of Kalahari).
Together we formed a human chain bound by a collective urge to move forward; But whose existence faced a constant threat from each individual's urge to move an extra bit faster. Close behind me stood two men. They were not behind one another but rather one beside the other (almost Siamese twin-like). In the early days when the line was forming all its mass was transient. These two gentlemen had then joined the line at the same time. Ever since, neither had been able to forego his position of advantage. So now both stood with a placid face feigning no knowledge of the situation. Inside their heads though electrical charges rapidly relayed instructions from the brain to the spinal cord alerting the limbs to jump into action at the first hint of forward movement. They were not alone. All along the line were several such high voltage points ready for a flash-over at any moment. While the men pushed and prodded, some of the women steadily moved forward to their position of advantage (banking on their invisible cloak of male retribution) while leaving the fight to the dogs.
Far behind, the line had hit the wall, leaving its fate to the intelligence of the next addition. That addition came in the form of a middle aged man, who was now trying to force himself in the six inch of space that remained between the wall and the last member. The desperate effort to squeeze a fully grown human body in an impossibly minimal space seemed to find other takers. Soon several others aligned themselves like tributaries of the Indo-Gangetic delta. A flash flood was a clear possibility now.
As I stood amidst all the drama inhaling semi-digested samosas and sweat-filled perfume my mind hopped between the tales of Noah's Ark, the Exodus, the movies Schindler's list, Ten Commandments, the memories of the assembly line at my school, and finally my graduation walk; all through a single kaleidoscope of memory. Perhaps they all reminded me of long lines, though strangely none of them brought back pictures of a perfectly straight line. Closest to perfection was perhaps the assembly line at school. As a part of me admonished all rule-breakers in the line a certain line across my hip sizzled from an old caning reminding that I had been one of them not so long ago. Perhaps it is the inherent joy in breaking rules that we cherish when we are younger and keep seeking for the rest of our lives that makes the phenomenon of a straight line so difficult.
The security personnel was now opening the gate. The sardarji's chest swelled as he now found himself at the helm of a motley civil army. After an uneasy calm the red ribbon finally gave way and the well-fed anaconda started to slither. For a while all went well. And then an over zealous passenger trampled over a young lady's freshly bought Goan wrap skirt. Though it caused only a minor skirmish within the battle lines it tipped many an emotional bucket. A professor in the line was having an outburst, quoting college rules to befuddled co-passengers. Someone said something about "misbehaving foreigners" (in Goa that could mean almost anyone who did not live there). The man in front of the Bengali umpire was now questioning the handbag's eagerness to climb over his pressed trouser. The umpire was declaring him "Out" with a pointed finger and some heavily accented Benglish. The Siamese twins were finally coming to a point where they would have to fuse into a single body to move forward. The painted stoicism was breaking away rapidly as their legs engaged in a three-legged cock fight.
As the micro-skirmishes kept playing I wobbled through the heavily inclined aerobridge into the aircraft frantically looking for a seat to rest. Weeks later as I write this I still do not know if the motive of penning it is an attempt to satire a collective inability or a tacit acceptance of the order of the disorderly. In an age where man has mastered the science of speed he still cannot disavow the petty urge to race. We still continue to trip over one another to be just a little bit ahead in the game. Anyway, I am disappointed to let the readers know that the flight took off soon after and landed safely with all its passenger reaching the destination at the same time. Nobody won !
As I stood amidst all the drama inhaling semi-digested samosas and sweat-filled perfume my mind hopped between the tales of Noah's Ark, the Exodus, the movies Schindler's list, Ten Commandments, the memories of the assembly line at my school, and finally my graduation walk; all through a single kaleidoscope of memory. Perhaps they all reminded me of long lines, though strangely none of them brought back pictures of a perfectly straight line. Closest to perfection was perhaps the assembly line at school. As a part of me admonished all rule-breakers in the line a certain line across my hip sizzled from an old caning reminding that I had been one of them not so long ago. Perhaps it is the inherent joy in breaking rules that we cherish when we are younger and keep seeking for the rest of our lives that makes the phenomenon of a straight line so difficult.
The security personnel was now opening the gate. The sardarji's chest swelled as he now found himself at the helm of a motley civil army. After an uneasy calm the red ribbon finally gave way and the well-fed anaconda started to slither. For a while all went well. And then an over zealous passenger trampled over a young lady's freshly bought Goan wrap skirt. Though it caused only a minor skirmish within the battle lines it tipped many an emotional bucket. A professor in the line was having an outburst, quoting college rules to befuddled co-passengers. Someone said something about "misbehaving foreigners" (in Goa that could mean almost anyone who did not live there). The man in front of the Bengali umpire was now questioning the handbag's eagerness to climb over his pressed trouser. The umpire was declaring him "Out" with a pointed finger and some heavily accented Benglish. The Siamese twins were finally coming to a point where they would have to fuse into a single body to move forward. The painted stoicism was breaking away rapidly as their legs engaged in a three-legged cock fight.
As the micro-skirmishes kept playing I wobbled through the heavily inclined aerobridge into the aircraft frantically looking for a seat to rest. Weeks later as I write this I still do not know if the motive of penning it is an attempt to satire a collective inability or a tacit acceptance of the order of the disorderly. In an age where man has mastered the science of speed he still cannot disavow the petty urge to race. We still continue to trip over one another to be just a little bit ahead in the game. Anyway, I am disappointed to let the readers know that the flight took off soon after and landed safely with all its passenger reaching the destination at the same time. Nobody won !
1 comment:
I was being reminded of some thing which i read long long ago.The author,perhaps,was Sayed Mujtab Ali.He was standing in a queue in a platform in one of the stations of Germany to have a ticket from the counter.Suddenly he found that one gentleman jumped the queue and got his ticket from the counter.No one standing in the queue objected.That surprised him and he asked his German friend why in a civilized country such thing happened and then again no one raised any objection?.His friend,without attributing much importance,simply laughed and replied that it was quite obvious from the act of that man that he was dealing with an absolute emergency.That left Ali to ponder when such mind-set will find its divine place in the minds of his own country men.
Good and Get Going.
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