Spice of Life | Curious case of the wandering suitcase
As anxious eyes follow each bag popping up on the conveyor belt, the lurking suspense is of high-stakes gamblers around a roulette table in Las Vegas, hoping for the lucky roll of dice, for their beloved bag to appear.
A wonder that perhaps only AI or Elon Musk can crack is how come my bag has logged more miles over the past few weeks than I’ve done in years.
In the parlance of a retired academic like me, luxury travel means taking the Vande Bharat instead of the usual Jan Shatabdi for my monthly run from Chandigarh to Gurugram and back. But this time, I would fly, courtesy travel miles on my son’s corporate account.
As I strut in breezily, a la George Clooney in Hollywood hit ‘Up in the Air, the young lady at the check-in counter asks, “Sir, do you really want to check in this small bag? It’s less than 7kg.” “Yes, indeed,” I reply, “Who wants to lug it all the way to the boarding gate.”
On arrival at Chandigarh, I walk to the carousel for baggage collection. As anxious eyes follow each bag popping up on the conveyor belt, the lurking suspense is of high-stakes gamblers around a roulette table in Las Vegas, hoping for the lucky roll of dice, for their beloved bag to appear.
But my bag shows up early and I’m out soon. Reaching home, I ask my domestic help to unpack the suitcase. But he gives a 1,000-watt jolt, “Yeh toh jee aap ka suitcase nahi hain (But this isn’t your suitcase).” “No, no, it’s mine. Just open the combination lock with the code,” I reply nonchalantly. “Nahin jee aap ke bag pai toh pink ribbon bandhaa thaa maine (No, I had tied a pink ribbon to your bag),” he insists, standing his ground.
“Oh my God! He’s right. This one looks similar in colour, size and make. How careless I’ve been,” I remember muttering to myself. Realising the mix-up, I make frantic calls, but get no response. Just when I get into bed for the night, there is a call. “Sir, I’m Sahay from Bhubaneshwar, you have my bag,” the rightful owner says. He goes on to explain its urgency, as he along with his 90-year-old mother has come all the way to attend a wedding at Zirakpur, and the bag contains not only her vital medicines but silk saris, too, that she has to wear.
“Mea culpa (my fault),” I confess. With the suitcase restored, I sleep with a clear conscience and wait for mine to be returned soon. But repeated pleas on emails have no effect except for getting programmed, sugar-coated responses. Then, the loving circle of family and friends chip in with their own horror stories of large suitcases with all winter clothing for Toronto or New York vanishing. There was another line of inquisition, too, “Was there anything valuable in the bag?” No Rolex watches, no gold biscuits, no diamonds, I assure them, just two rare books I got from Cordoba on my recent trip to Spain.
At last, on the 21st day, I get a call that it has been found, lying in Vishakhapatnam having been loaded on a wrong flight, but would reach me soon by the evening! Never mind the ill-treatment meted out to my beloved bag, its entry had the ardour of a long-loved companion returning home after a long voyage. Or was ‘Mr Missing Bag’ a hidden Marco Polo with a wanderlust? And bored with my static life had it simply decided to break the shackles for travels on its own?
wattasrajnish@gmail.com
The writer is a former principal of Chandigarh College of Architecture.