The flight back to Chicago was barely over an hour, but when the screen at the Air Tran check-in terminal asked me if I wanted to upgrade to First Class for an additional $69, I was like, “Hell Yeah!” How could I possibly pass on an opportunity to get my peanuts and Pepsi while the plane was still on the tarmac? The feeling of self importance, sitting in those comfortable leather chairs, sipping tomato juice while pretending to read the Wall Street Journal and feigning annoyance at the proletarian riffraff clogging the aisles as they made their way to their cramped seats, is priceless. For $69 it was a deal.
I checked my boarding pass again, and sure enough, it read 4A. There was someone in my seat, my window seat. Someone snoring gently, snuggling a fluffy white pillow with a pretty floral pattern and covered from head to toe by an expensive looking shawl. “Excuse me,” I said, “you are in my seat.” A hand with long delicate fingers and beautifully manicured nails emerged from the heap and waved me away. Not one to pick a fight, especially with what seemed like a pretty girl, I looked around to find some empty seats but the flight was full.
“Maam,” I said, this time a bit more forcefully. No response.
“Miss !” Nothing.
“Sir”, I heard someone shout out.
I turned to see a rather distraught stewardess gesturing frantically at me. “You need to get seated, NOW!” I have a problem with authority figures. They scare me. Which is why, whenever we cross any border, Anjum talks to the immigration officers, to save me the agony of stammering through my name and address and the purpose for our trip. Granted a stewardess isn’t much more than a glorified waitress, but she does wear a uniform and these days it doesn’t take much for a middle eastern looking guy with a funny name to be escorted off a plane. I jammed my backpack in the overhead bin and squeezed into whatever was left of the remaining seat. Oh well, I thought, atleast I made the flight, which an hour earlier seemed almost impossible, as I got lost returning my rental car, took the train to the wrong terminal and watched the airport’s security line move at an agonizingly slow crawl.
I was about to sit back, relax and flip through the ridiculous things they try to sell in the SkyMall magazine (an upside down tomato garden … seriously?) when I felt a tap on my shoulder.
“Seat Belt.”
I really want to see an independent study that shows the effectiveness of seat belts,latched tray tables and tucking stuff under the seat, in an emergency situation. If something falls apart thirty thousand feet up in the air or comes crashing down into the ocean at five hundred miles an hour, I would tend to believe that ones time is pretty much up : with or without a seat belt. I found one end of the belt easily enough, the other was jammed under the girl’s thigh. I looked helplessly at the stewardess. She shook her head and with one sweeping move, leaned over the girl’s bottom, shoved her hand between her legs, moved her fingers vigorously under the shawl and came out with the belt clip and snapped it around my waist.
“There!” she said.
As I was still recovering from this mildly erotic lesbian fantasy that I had just witnessed in front of me I skipped the “Thank You” and jumped directly to the mangled desi response: “Mention Not Ji.” Might as well have said ,”Horn OK Please!” Did you know there is an entry for that phrase in wikipedia? Amazing … I know.
Having lost all privileges of being considered worthy of my seat in the First Class cabin, I resigned myself to being shunned by the crew, leaned back into my chair and closed my eyes.
A pleasant perfume wafted through the air presumably from the person lying next to me. Chanel, i thought, maybe Alfred Sung. Oh what the hell do i know .. it smelled like an Ulta store and that was fine by me.
The next thing I remember was feeling a jolt, that sent the drool hanging delicately from my lips spiralling down my neck. “Whoa!” I went, “Have we landed already?” “Yeah, we did” the girl next to me answered. As I wiped the drool with my sleeve and rubbed my eyes the girl slowly came into focus. Lustrous curly brown hair, sparkling eyes, full lips, a beatific smile and these huge dimples … “Whoa!” I went again. “Hi i’m Preity,” she said as she extended her hand. “Like in Zinta?” I asked. “Yeah,” she replied laughing. “Whoa!” I went for a third time.
I have often wondered what I’d say to a celebrity once I meet them. Something that is possibly smart and funny, nothing too personal but not too generic either .. a regular conversation while acknowledging their celeb status. Saying “Whoa!” three times in a row was not on the top of my list.
“Sajid,” I said, ” as in Dalvi. My name is … Yes .. OK.” I blurted out and immediately regretted that I’d parted my lips. I was doing just fine with .. Whoa.
Actually she turned out to be a very pleasant lady. She had just wrapped up one of those extravagant bollywood shows in the US and was stopping by in Chicago to catch up with some friends over the new year. I told her I really enjoyed her movies and she asked me which ones and other than Kal ho na ho and that Kashmiri dance one with Hrithik .. yeah the Boomra one .. I couldn’t quite come up with any others. There were a few movies she was working on and within a few years she’d start looking into mother roles to which i said “No way” and she said “Yes way.” Her IPL team was doing just fine and no she did not have an affair with Brett Lee and Shahrukh is not gay. Usually the longest part of an airplane journey is the time between which the wheels touch down and the plane laboriously taxis its way to its assigned gate. This time around it seemed that the pilot had directly landed right on top of the gate.
Before I knew it I was at the baggage carousel while an entourage had gather around Miss Zinta. I could not believe I had slept through an entire flight with her sitting next to me. Getting to know someone from Bollywood. Imagine that. I could picture myself starring in the sequel to Slumdog Millionaire: Jai Ho indeed. And as I shook my head in disbelief I smelled that perfume once again. I turned around.
“Happy New year, Sajid.”
.. and a Happy New Year to all of you as well.