So I am waiting to check-in my suitcase. It’s a bright Saturday morning. I am all clean and dressed up (chiccunu chiruthakutti maadhiri), excited to be going back home. In the check-in queue I am standing behind a Telugu girl who is standing behind her brother who is standing behind his father. The father looks back at his daughter. He shouts to her, “Aadavari Matalaku Ardhalu Verule.” The daughter reaches her father to talk. The brother goes for support and together the three of them form a team huddle and discuss the state of affairs. The discussion ends with consensus and now I am standing behind a Telugu guy who is standing behind his father who is standing behind his trolley which is standing behind the daughter.
Sigh, is it THAT obvious?
I am on the flight which is flying amidst much turbulence. Deep down below I can see another plane flying past us. Vetrivel Murugunakku arogaraa. My food hasn’t come yet because there are 2 people in the flight with the same surnames. The advanced Artifical Intelligence system which can autopilot through storms, detect the shortest possible path to a destination, calculate air pressure outside and adjust cabin pressure apparently does not detect duplicates in surnames. Sigh. Anyways, you know that place in between the window and the window seat. There is a small gap there through which you can actually insert your hand towards the seat in front of you. So I am sitting there and a pillow comes from that gap with a swoosh. I immediately turn back with the Kangal Irandal song playing in my head (Remember to shake head with a smile.). Perhaps this could be that beginning of a long relationship. Instead a wise old man informs me, “thambi thalagaani keela vilunthiruchu.”
I feel bored and take out a book to read; Frederick Forsyth’s, “The Afghan.” The book is a about a white man who is brown in colour and who infiltrates a terrorist organization posing as an Afghan. I am reading the first few chapters which describe in detail about a mountainous region near the Af-Pak border and the Pashtun people. The guy next to me seems to be interested. Wow, someone who follows Forsyth. Must be a well-informed reader. He looks at me, then the book and snorts. He then resumes his job of doing nothing. Great, I wonder. Of course Forsyth isn’t for everyone. Especially not my neighbor who I surmise must be into Dan Brown and other such …..writers. I feel satisfied of myself and my discerning intellect. I continue reading when the Air Hostess comes up from behind and whispers to my neighbor, “Your Muslim food sir.”
Politically corrected machi