Economy Class

Midway through my initiation into flying, I was bought. Taken with the routine it demands. Although waiting in terminals is a universal bore, my hour and a half at BIAL was spent walking around, wondering if the chap who looked a lot like Geoff Lawson was indeed Geoff Lawson (he was) and for the most part, ogling at cheerleaders on their way to Motera for the upcoming IPL fixture. Couldn't be helped. A morning spent waltzing in and out of a reverie with the tug of half-sleep more engaging than the excitement of a first. And then they traipsed in, showcasing their moves, exchanging ideas. Like I said, I was bought. Or sold.


Indigo were as good as their word. Takeoff and touchdown on the dot. All the patting themselves on the back and the air of success (a string of awards lately recognizing punctuality) that manifested itself on the staff was vindicated. It helped for an A320 meant that legroom was compromised. An hour beyond the 150 minute flying time would have stretched it. Without a book or music, and with the novelty of an air-hostess beginning to wear off, I became occupied with thoughts on the marketing campaigns that top airlines employ. "We'll take more care of you". "Smooth as Silk". Emphasizing the comfort factor, that one is in good hands. It struck me that air travel is very much like being on an escalator. The feeling of being led or 'taken care of' is paramount to this industry and operators, I guess, adopt different means to stress upon this aspect of flying. And yes, those with matchless track records like Lufthansa and Singapore Airlines, marquee names both, dispense with the attribute based branding. With them, nothing short of "There's no better way to fly" and the rather more sedate "A great way to fly" will do. By and large though, airlines play upon this: hop on to our escalator, you're taken care of. This is now my formative attitude to flying.


Karol Bagh, or the part of it where I was holed up, is probably where Dilliwale come to for automotive service and parts. The place abounded with these. A custom with my father that I now find appealing, I set out to see whatever I could of Karol Bagh and chanced upon one of the famous Bikanerwalas. An Idli Dhokla (a Gujarati dish using Idly batter made from gram flour and the masala used for chaat as embellishment) represents the sole gastronomic escapade in the little time that I had.



It is a long walk from Delhi University to Vishwa Vidyalaya Metro Station. The hot afternoon and my blazer aren't making it any easier. Once inside though, I am bowled over by the whole enterprise that is the Delhi Metro. This is world class transport, at nominal rates. It fills in the lacunae that plague other systems of this sort - a timer that counts down to the arrival of the next metro, announcement systems that are complete to the point of redundancy for the frequent traveler, strict enforcements from the staff at stations. A text from my uncle sums it up - thanks to Sreedharan. As Jhandewalan (the lady gave 'Jhande' a ring that persists), Rajiv Chowk and later, on my way to Noida to meet a friend, Akshardham, Mayur Vihar whiz past, I am in the grip of a longing to be a part of this. To do this on a daily basis. To commute on the Delhi Metro. In my flight of fancy, I whip this up - repulsed by a metro .... bowled over by the metro.