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I flew his flight

“Your flight has been rescheduled,” was the text message. It was followed by a voicemail. The messages were not for me.

My phone was in silent mode. I read and heard both these the next day. It was for a person with a very long name travelling on an international carrier from a far-off land. Why did he have a Mumbai number? Probably a businessman.

A few days later, it happened again. He was flying between cities. His flight was delayed. I called up the Indian private airline. These guys talk real smartly. I told him about the error and could he please update the information so that the real person gets the message?

“Oh sure, ma’am. I will need your name.”

“Why is my name important? I am giving you details about the passenger, and you should be concerned about his information.”

“But I will need to tell the department who called.”

“Tell them Helen of Troy.”

“Huh? Sorry, I did not get you?”

“Yeah, you won’t. Just do what you have to. Here are the flight details, the gentleman’s full name. Feed it into your system.”

“See, why don’t you call the reservations department, they might be able to help.”

“I do not need help. And I do not have the time. It is your job, you do it.”

Trrring, trring…cellphone rings. An automated voice informs me about my flight delay. I want to scream.

Yet, somewhere, I am thinking about Mr Long Name. Christian from Kerala. I can imagine him working his ass off in some Gulf country, returning to India, going to different cities to sell a dream he has sleepless nights over.

He must have reached the airport early, picked up a quarrel with the check-in staff…and shrugged. He, in all likelihood, did not expect them to inform him. He does not know that the number he gave them is not his number. It is mine.

He is probably travelling well, but even in Executive Class he will be with a plastic carry bag, usually from some department store. Something will poke out. He will say, “Side pliss,” as he tries to haul it up in the overhead luggage bin after the flight attendant has told him that he cannot keep it near his seat as it is inconvenient and not advisable during emergencies. He has travelled so many times, yet he will repeat the performance, jut his tongue out to indicate his mistake, roll his large eyes, and maybe look over his reading glasses.

Then he will sit down, ask for the newspaper that is already in the seat pocket, and wipe his face, neck, arms with the wet towel. When the drinks are passed around, he will first touch the glass of juice, then the fresh lime and finally pick up the Coke. He will spread the newspaper to its full broadsheet size.

He will change channels of the in-flight entertainment till he has watched two minutes of each. He will have the full meal on board, ask for extra milk in his coffee, then recline his seat all the way back and start looking around. After a few minutes he will get up and start walking down the aisle to confirm whether he needs to visit the loo. When he is certain, he will pull up his trousers and go towards the toilet. When he is done and comes out, his hand will be on his zipper. Just like that.

Back at his seat, he will ring for the attendant. He will ask for "magsin” and pick up a serious news mag and look at the ads.

Once the flight has landed, he will switch on his mobile and start punching numbers. When the aircraft door is opened he will pull out his plastic bag and his strolley and his laptop, carry the paper and mag with him and try and rush to the exit. He will make a call saying he is late for a meeting.

He must be on that flight from Bangalore to my city. He does not know me. But for the airline staff I am him.

What a flight it has been…

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WHAT A FLIGHT INDEED!

The funny thing is that upon reading this I felt your frustration and was then reminded of how you will sometimes share poems by Rumi in blog responses to expand upon a concept or overall comment. I am no Rumi but have found myself enchanted by his works for the past 15 years or and the following poem is a meditation by me on his life. I present it in the spirit of providing for you a short trip through time to an era when travel and communication were much slower but also in certain way more definitive :-)

A SPRING DAY IN KONYA

It is a spring day in Konya.
Sunlight sings like a bird
perched inside the glow of bronze minarets.
And yours are the eyes
skipping gleefully through my fear.
Your silence a mysterious tenderness
painting fields of poppies red like Mars.
As the goldsmith hammers his ore
angels take each other lightly
and float beside children going up
and down these stairways of heaven.

It is a spring day in Konya.
Your thoughts twirl like spiders
looming back and forth pulling the threads
and hairs of my existence
between the silk and velvet of a
dozen worlds and I can almost see
the final meaning of who I am --
There is an old man with hands made
of pure salvation and through their light
I can sense with intoxicating clarity
every single answer to my life.

It is a spring day in Konya.
Blue butterflies join the sugar merchants
singing with a sweetness greater than their goods.
Our king has drank too much mystical wine
and his mind staggers naked across the hilarious sky.
For as long as you are content
to embrace my heart inside this vision --
It shall remain a spring day in Konya
and everything that you touch,
shall be everything I yearn to be.

(from I MADE MY BOY OUT OF POETRY)

Aberjhani
author of The American Poet Who Went Home Again
and Encyclopedia of the Harlem Renaissance (Facts on File)

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Caught me!

That was a sharp observation, Aberjhani. I do that - bring out something (you have mostly seen Rumi here) that takes off from what has been said. It is my tangential reading, I guess. In fact, this post itself was a tangential thought.

I am deeply touched by your sharing the poem for a similar reason.

"There is an old man with hands made
of pure salvation and through their light
I can sense with intoxicating clarity
every single answer to my life."

Simple and profound.

Please introduce me to him...or his hands.

PS: I do not know whether the slow is always more definitive. Sometimes, we plod through and reach nowhere.

~F