bls31
October 4th, 2014, 12:35 PM
Eighty-three
The Flight to Goa JOSTLED BY THE IMPATIENT AND MILLING PASSENGERS on the Kingfisher flight to Goa, crowding the isle with bulky, carry on board baggage, searching for some empty overhead bins, I make way to my isle Seat 24 C only to discover with a little consternation that Seats 24 A and B are occupied by a Goa bound honeymoon couple. I slip into my seat and look for the two ends of the seat belt, wondering if I, the new arrival, was intruding upon their privacy. They sat away from each other, or as far as the narrow seats of the cattle class made it possible. Unlike typical honeymoon couples they appear more like two strangers thrown together by chance or parental design, yet to be acquainted with, fathom, or explore each other. My strained “Hi” is barely acknowledged thus confirming my first impression and I confine my attention to the small TV screen before me, flashing updated data of distance and time to destination, the outside temperature, the moving progress of the plane to Goa on a relief map of India and later, once airborne, a choice of movies and live news. The plane starts to move, trundling like a lumbering overloaded truck to make its way and position itself in the long queue of other departing flights. My attention keeps shifting between the ever changing display on the TV screen and the scenery outside the window. Ages later the plane stops, now at the top of the queue ready for take-off. With clearance from the ATC, the pilot pushes the throttles and the rumble of the twin GE engines rises, the whining engines are tested at full power, the brakes are released, and the aircraft begins to move, slowly, at first, soon picking speed, accelerating furiously, with massive effort to free itself from the shackles of gravity. Tension permeates the cabin as the uneven ground run, the jarring on the runway potholes, the shuddering, and squeaking of the aircraft all add to a typical stress of a lift-off. Looking out of the window, as the distance markers of the runway flash by, I cannot but help notice other restraints of inhibition being cut loose as the slowly crawling hand of the bride strikes like a full-blown cobra-head to clutch the expectant hand of the groom who’d probably been waiting for something similar to happen. As the plane breaks away from the pull of gravity and takes to air, it begins a steep climb, the vibrations die down, and an uneasy calm descends on the cabin. When the tension somewhat ebbs, the hand is also slowly withdrawn into the comfort of her own lap, oddly trying to hide the large number of shiny slivery bangles on the other hand, a newly wedded traditional symbol, under the long sleeve of her pullover. During the flight, though, deep in my own thoughts, I could not but fail to sense their lack of mutual chemistry. If a confirmation was needed it came nearly two hours later, during descent for landing at Goa; with one hand, expectant and waiting for the other, extend hopefully for the repeat of what had happened at the takeoff, which all this time, in the flight, lay inert in the lap, suddenly getting twined but once on the ground and the Boeing rolling to a stop is withdrawn with alacrity. Hopefully they were more comfortable with each other on the return flight after the three days and two nights of the honeymoon package, a post marriage likely gift. This little drama pushed me back the memory lane, back to the July of the year 1985. We were on an Airbus flight to Bombay a few days before my imminent retirement from Army. The monsoon clouds rose all the way up to the cruising altitude of the aircraft and as the woolly clouds sped by the window, my wife of 27 years, unlike the bride of the day, held my hand tightly clutched all the way from Delhi to Bombay. Was it the feeling of security accruing from the low voltage, low frequency current of companionship and its assurance flowing to and fro, or the silent expression the deep love and affection, felt more so in the close proximity and isolation of the Airbus cabin at 35,000 feet cut-off from the myriad pressures of the small worries of life left down below. Once on the ground and the plane taxi-ing, the grip loosened. Possibly the expectation of the meeting with her younger sister, then residing in Bombay, somewhat overshadowed the influence of my proximity.
bls31
file:///C:\DOCUME~1\BLS~1.OMS\LOCALS~1\Temp\msohtml1\01\cl ip_image002.gif
The Flight to Goa JOSTLED BY THE IMPATIENT AND MILLING PASSENGERS on the Kingfisher flight to Goa, crowding the isle with bulky, carry on board baggage, searching for some empty overhead bins, I make way to my isle Seat 24 C only to discover with a little consternation that Seats 24 A and B are occupied by a Goa bound honeymoon couple. I slip into my seat and look for the two ends of the seat belt, wondering if I, the new arrival, was intruding upon their privacy. They sat away from each other, or as far as the narrow seats of the cattle class made it possible. Unlike typical honeymoon couples they appear more like two strangers thrown together by chance or parental design, yet to be acquainted with, fathom, or explore each other. My strained “Hi” is barely acknowledged thus confirming my first impression and I confine my attention to the small TV screen before me, flashing updated data of distance and time to destination, the outside temperature, the moving progress of the plane to Goa on a relief map of India and later, once airborne, a choice of movies and live news. The plane starts to move, trundling like a lumbering overloaded truck to make its way and position itself in the long queue of other departing flights. My attention keeps shifting between the ever changing display on the TV screen and the scenery outside the window. Ages later the plane stops, now at the top of the queue ready for take-off. With clearance from the ATC, the pilot pushes the throttles and the rumble of the twin GE engines rises, the whining engines are tested at full power, the brakes are released, and the aircraft begins to move, slowly, at first, soon picking speed, accelerating furiously, with massive effort to free itself from the shackles of gravity. Tension permeates the cabin as the uneven ground run, the jarring on the runway potholes, the shuddering, and squeaking of the aircraft all add to a typical stress of a lift-off. Looking out of the window, as the distance markers of the runway flash by, I cannot but help notice other restraints of inhibition being cut loose as the slowly crawling hand of the bride strikes like a full-blown cobra-head to clutch the expectant hand of the groom who’d probably been waiting for something similar to happen. As the plane breaks away from the pull of gravity and takes to air, it begins a steep climb, the vibrations die down, and an uneasy calm descends on the cabin. When the tension somewhat ebbs, the hand is also slowly withdrawn into the comfort of her own lap, oddly trying to hide the large number of shiny slivery bangles on the other hand, a newly wedded traditional symbol, under the long sleeve of her pullover. During the flight, though, deep in my own thoughts, I could not but fail to sense their lack of mutual chemistry. If a confirmation was needed it came nearly two hours later, during descent for landing at Goa; with one hand, expectant and waiting for the other, extend hopefully for the repeat of what had happened at the takeoff, which all this time, in the flight, lay inert in the lap, suddenly getting twined but once on the ground and the Boeing rolling to a stop is withdrawn with alacrity. Hopefully they were more comfortable with each other on the return flight after the three days and two nights of the honeymoon package, a post marriage likely gift. This little drama pushed me back the memory lane, back to the July of the year 1985. We were on an Airbus flight to Bombay a few days before my imminent retirement from Army. The monsoon clouds rose all the way up to the cruising altitude of the aircraft and as the woolly clouds sped by the window, my wife of 27 years, unlike the bride of the day, held my hand tightly clutched all the way from Delhi to Bombay. Was it the feeling of security accruing from the low voltage, low frequency current of companionship and its assurance flowing to and fro, or the silent expression the deep love and affection, felt more so in the close proximity and isolation of the Airbus cabin at 35,000 feet cut-off from the myriad pressures of the small worries of life left down below. Once on the ground and the plane taxi-ing, the grip loosened. Possibly the expectation of the meeting with her younger sister, then residing in Bombay, somewhat overshadowed the influence of my proximity.
bls31
file:///C:\DOCUME~1\BLS~1.OMS\LOCALS~1\Temp\msohtml1\01\cl ip_image002.gif