Humour by Rehana Munir: We are now ready to board

A conveyor belt of amusing memories spanning airports great and small… What your most unforgettable one?

“It can hardly be a coincidence that no language on Earth has ever produced the expression “as pretty as an airport”.” It’s time to contest Douglas Adams’ seemingly incontestable statement, made in The Long Dark Tea-Time of the Soul. Mumbai’s international airport, privatised in 2006, is a comfortable space for pandemic-era travellers to be anxious in, with its modern art, ancient sculptures, comfortable seating in earthy tones, flower-shaped (and yet not hideous) lamps and a wide range of overpriced food. The other side of this neoliberal, Wi-Fi-enabled fairy tale can be greeted in Pulitzer-winning Katherine Boo’s gut-socking, Behind the Beautiful Forevers: Life, Death, and Hope in a Mumbai Undercity.

Travelling is a thrilling experience, but it doesn’t come without its many ups and downs (Hexcode)

Photography is prohibited

The relatively new Bareilly airport is a blessing for travellers heading to Uttarakhand, but aren’t serviced by Pantnagar or Jolly Grant airports—both a throwback to Noddy’s Toyland. An airport in the civil enclave of the Trishul airbase, it boasts a glass display of three lehengas in the main entrance area, and gigantic jhumkas near the check-in counters. Consequently, you pick up “Bareilly ke baazaar mein” as an earworm while you negotiate the queue. The staff is assiduous; I was made to open my screened luggage on suspicion of prohibited articles being carried alongside jams and honey. (‘Twas an innocent speaker, dear reader, though I do stream pretty subversive music through it.) My hand luggage posed a problem because of unidentified bottled objects, which turned out to be pain balms. Some criminal I would make.

But the big story from the small airport is the long bus ride ferrying you to the plane. This with the windows covered, on account of defence protocol. It feels a lot like being blindfolded, driven in different directions and then spat out onto the boiling tarmac. A fellow passenger, using his choicest Bambaiyya, had this to say about the interminable bus ride: “We paid them for a flight, but they’re taking us on a road trip.”

Who stole my turkey?

Cut to 2019. Charles de Gaulle airport. My companion and I step out of the plane leaving a turkey-shaped travel pillow behind. After several fruitless minutes at the lost and found, we leave in the interest of collecting our luggage. My big plan for reaching our conveyor belt at Europe’s busiest aiport: let’s follow the Indians and we’ll get to our bags. Sadly, the “Indian” I pick is from San Francisco, who, much to his credit, does not drive home the point that I am being a provincial fool. He sweetly asks for our flight details, fishes out his tablet and directs us to our belt.

On her first visit to London, my younger sister had a rattling experience. Upon disembarkation, the Heathrow staff asked her to step aside and sit with a small bunch of passengers. Turns out, her fingerprints had been digitally stored with Iranian nationals instead of Indian. A costly typo for a first-time visitor, but she let them off easy. I’d’ve asked for reparations: tea and scones; tickets to the V&A; and a free boat ride around the Thames, at least.

Republic of Cricket

At Colombo airport, I had my closest brush with deportation. In the aforementioned provincial fool style, I left immigration with my companion’s passport and she with mine; we had somehow managed to switch passports during the journey, and immigration hadn’t caught on to the error. I was expecting jail, or at least a stupidity fine. Instead, we were waved off, considered too silly to be of any concern.

A few months after South Africa had hosted the FIFA World Cup, the mood was still upbeat. In Jo’burg, immigration was manned by young men in casuals, sporting Marley-esque dreadlocks and headgear. A chilled-out welcome if there ever was one. A year later at Dhaka airport, travelling for the ICC Men’s World Cup as part of the BCCI crew (ah, my misspent youth!), I found myself in the peculiar situation of being in close proximity to both the Indian and Pakistani cricket teams in a region where they had once engaged in war. “When will Pakistani players return to the IPL?” Shoaib Akhtar’s question hit me like a 100mph delivery. What else could I do but take evasive action?

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From HT Brunch, June 4, 2022

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