Love rules

Don’t be misled by the headlines: it’s love, not hate, that rules the world

Watching television news, reading the daily headlines or just scrolling through social media, it is easy to believe that hate is the emotion that colours our world now. There are talking heads screaming abuse through tiny windows on the TV screen. The headlines are all about hate crimes perpetrated across the length and breadth of the country. And social media is crawling with trolls whose default position is to spew abuse at and about everyone. 

So yes, it is easy to come to the conclusion that hate rules the world. 

But you only have to step into the real world to realise that you’ve got this all wrong. Hate may be what we encounter in the media but in the world we live in we are surrounded by love wherever we go.

 

Nowhere do you see this love manifested more plainly than when you visit a hospital. The waiting area is teeming with families, some old some young, but all tearful and sick with worry as they wait for news of a loved one. Grief, they say, is the price we pay for love. You only have to spend an hour in a hospital visiting lounge to know the truth of that. It is love that turns these folks grey with worry; it is love that puts a smile on their faces when they get good news; and it is love that makes them spend the night on an uncomfortable chair because they simply cannot bear to be apart from their loved one lying in the hospital bed a few doors away. 

Airports are the other place where I am often overwhelmed by the love on display. It’s the harried parents of a toddler who put aside their frustration to coo at their child, trying hard to keep him/her entertained as they struggle through the security queue. It’s the middle-aged man greeting his wheelchair-bound mother at arrivals, touching her feet before he enfolds her in an embrace so tight it feels as if he will never let go. It’s the large family group come to see off a newly-married couple, peering through the plate glass windows of the airport to wave one last time at their daughter as she heads off to make a life abroad, smiling through their tears so that she is not too sad about leaving everything familiar behind. 

Walking through a park you can’t help but be gratified by the many manifestations of love on display. There is the most obvious, of course. The young lovers who try and hide away in little nooks and corners — on a secluded bench here, behind a sprawling tree there — so that they cuddle each other in what passes for privacy in their lives. But then, there are the others. The groups of middle-aged women hanging out with their girlfriends, laughing and giggling their cares away. The grandparents who are slightly unsteady on their feet being led around by loving grandchildren who reduce their pace to flank them in a protective pincer movement. The school parties who have been brought out for a special treat and are giddy with delight as they walk around arm in arm with their best friends. 

Even doing something as mundane as shopping in a mall will showcase love in so many different ways. You will see it in the young man who diffidently enters a luxury store to buy his girlfriend a pair of designer sunglasses with the money he has probably saved over months. You will see it in the mom who has brought her teenage daughter bra-shopping for the first time ever. You will see it in the elderly couple who spend ages dithering over what to buy their kids, whose grown-up lives are now beyond their comprehension. 

The truth is that love is everywhere you look. It is love which rules our world. And don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.  

Plane speaking

My love of travel is exceeded only by my hatred of airports and airplanes

I don't know about you but I have stopped taking flights while wearing boots, no matter how cold the climate. I have learnt the hard way that boots and airport security does not go well together. After being humiliated time and again in the security queue -- struggling to take off my boots while impatient passengers tut-tut behind me and then struggling to put them on after they have journeyed through the X-ray machine -- I shifted to ballet flats while navigating airports. So, I would sail through smugly while other people wobbled from one foot to another to take off their shoes.

But, as the saying goes, pride comes before a fall. And this time, transiting through Heathrow, I got my comeuppance. No, I wasn't asked to put my shoes through the X-ray machine. But as I went past the security scanner, the lady at the other end indicated that I should place my feet on a small stool so that she could swab my shoes. She then took the swab and ran it through a curious contraption placed on the side. I looked closer and was horrified to read the words "Explosives scanner" written on it.

Never have a few seconds passed so slowly. I gazed anxiously at the machine, willing it to hurry up. And finally, there it was: a negative test result.

Phew!

I don't what it is about security queues at airports but you can't help feeling a bit guilty even if you haven't done anything wrong.

But the authorities weren't done with me as yet. As I walked up to collect my cabin baggage, I realized that it had been pulled aside as well. The gentlemen at security asked if I could open it. I dutifully did so, he rummaged though it. I thought I had passed and went to pick it up. But no, wait, he needed a run an "Explosives check" on my bag as well.

By now I was probably looking as guilty as I felt -- these damn security queues will do that to me every single time -- but this test came up "Negative" as well.

So, I calmed my beating heart, collected my stuff and scuttled off wondering what exactly had triggered this completely 'random' check. Was it the colour of my skin? Was it my Middle-Eastern eyebrows? Was it the long black overcoat that could pass off as an abaya? Or was it just 'random' bad luck?

I don't really know what it was this particular time but I have lost count of the number of body searches I have been subjected to at airports across the world. Some of them are so thorough that they could pass off as full body Swedish massages (in fact, I am often sorely tempted to tip the security agent a few dollars for doing such a good job). And some have been so 'intimate' that they have to be conducted in tiny airless rooms on the side, far away from prying eyes to preserve my modesty.

Is it any wonder then that I am becoming increasingly disenchanted by this whole business of flying? Quite honestly, if I could indulge my love for travel in any other way I would give up on airports and airplanes altogether.

Because the torture doesn't end the moment you board your flight, does it? On the contrary, it starts all over again, and this time it can last for anything from two to 12 hours.

I know this is the moment when you expect me to start moaning about all those incessantly crying children, the toddlers running up and down the aisles, and the kids who spend their entire timekicking the back of your seat.

Well, I'm sorry to disappoint but those are not the (or at least, not the only) things that get my goat. It's the behavior of the adults -- who really should know better -- that gets me all worked up. Here's just a random sampling of grown-up bad behavior that I have gritted my teeth through on some recent flights.

There was the lady seated in front of me who inclined her seat all the way down even before we took off and refused to straighten it during the meal service making it impossible for me to eat lunch. When the stewardess explained the situation to her, she grudgingly took her seat up, but the moment the tray was served, down went the seat again, sending my glass of water flying. Charming.

There was the couple who conducted a long, loud, convoluted marital argument at the top of their voices on a night flight, completely oblivious of the fact that the rest of us were trying to catch some shut-eye. When some passengers remonstrated, they were met with implacable rudeness. And when the cabin in-charge tried to intervene, a full-blown row erupted, waking up everyone who had managed to fall asleep despite the noise.

But the ones I hate the most are those who spring up from their seats even before the plane has come to a complete standstill and rush to get their bags out of the overhead bins, invariably dropping them on the heads of the passengers seated below. Every time I see one of these people in action I hope and pray that they get picked out for a 'random' check at security at the next airport they transit through.

If anyone deserves a full-on body massage, they do.

High fliers

Don’t envy them; they really aren’t having a good time at all

There was a time when I actually used to enjoy air travel, especially long-haul sectors. I would pack a good book, the kind that brooked no distractions, and read my way across the ocean. Or else I would catch up on my movie-watching, seeing as many as three films back to back. And I would eat and drink everything in sight, because somehow calories didn’t seem to count when you were 30,000 feet above sea level.

Those days are long gone. Now, travelling by air, even if it is the relatively short haul between Delhi and Mumbai, seems like a chore. I have to psych myself up to face the ordeal the night before as I pack my suitcase for what seems like the millionth time. And these days, I’ve taken to laying bets on how long before I lose my temper as I navigate my way to the plane through the airport (my best-ever timing is 4.5 minutes).

So, I can never understand people who go on about the glamour of air travel; honestly, haven’t they ever used an airline loo? Thus, it was with a sense of deep relief that I read an article in The Economist – ironically, on an airplane – which detailed the work of researchers at the University of Surrey (Britain) and Linnaeus University (Sweden) who recently published a study about the ‘darker side of hypermobility’.

Among the many dangers that frequent travellers face, according to this study, was jet lag (which can lead to speeding ageing and increase the risk of heart attacks and strokes), deep-vein thrombosis, and increased exposure to radiation. Frequent travel also results in social isolation, taking its toll on relationships with family and friends. And, of course, those who spend a lot of time on airplanes don’t spend a lot of time in the gym, or eat healthy for that matter.

But while there is no denying any of the above, it doesn’t really cover all the things that I truly detest about air travel. So here, in no particular order of importance, is all the stuff that I loathe about flying.

First off, there’s the getting there. Unlike the rest of the world, where you can walk into an airport unchallenged, in India we encounter our first hurdle at the airport gate, which is manned by a security guy. This man will inspect your ticket in a leisurely fashion, then turn to your photo-id, which he will peer at suspiciously and then stare at your face before turning back to the photo-id, puzzlement writ large on his face. Then, just as the line behind you is getting restive, he will shrug resignedly and wave you in, and move on to the next person in the queue to repeat the same charade.

Next step: check-in. Here the queues will be even longer, and you will have to keep a sharp eye out for those trying to sneak in ahead by placing their luggage trolleys near the check-in desk. When you finally get to the desk, you will discover that the window seat you asked for specifically is no longer available. And no, the aisles are full up. It’s the middle seat, take it or leave it.

By now, you’re probably hovering on the brink of a meltdown. But you keep a tight rein on your temper, knowing that it is going to be tested even further at the next stage of your progress: the security check.

Here, you faithfully remove your shoes, belt, bracelet, watch, necklace, computer, ipad, and place them in a tray. And then you wait behind the harried family of four who seem to have two items of luggage per person and no clear understanding of how this security thing works. So, of course, they haven’t removed any electronic items. One of them is trying to sneak a water bottle through, while the other has many mysterious containers of food, which have to be put through the X-ray machine twice.

Finally, it’s your turn. You push everything on and walk through to the nice lady waiting to run a wand all over you. She swishes it over your torso, where it begins to beep alarmingly. She looks up at you inquiringly. “Er, underwire,” you say sheepishly. She looks blankly at you. Then, putting the wand aside, she gives you a thorough frisking that could double as a full-body massage. Charming.

You go through finally to pick up your bag. But it has been placed on one side, with a security officer looming menacingly over it. “You have lighter inside,” she says angrily. No, you say, that’s impossible; I don’t smoke. “You have lighter,” she repeats, more menacingly. Please open and check, you respond. She rummages through it for ages and then triumphantly brandishes a…lipstick.

You may think the worse is over once you are in your seat, but you would be wrong. If you have the window seat, the charmless guy in the aisle seat will refuse to get up if you need to go to the loo. So, you will have to slide past him, taking care not to brush against his paunch. If you have the aisle, they will put a child with the weakest bladder next to you, so there is zero chance of catching a snooze. It could be worse of course (and it often is); the child could be in the seat behind you, kicking it rhythmically for hours on end.

Now imagine going through this routine every week/fortnight for the next ten years. Doesn’t seem like much fun, does it?

Thanks seems to be the hardest word

Why is there such an absence of good manners in our country?

Were you at all surprised to hear about those unruly Indian passengers on Cathay Pacific Business Class who had to be off-loaded in Hong Kong? When the cabin crew refused to serve them more alcohol, given that they were already dead drunk, they started abusing the air-hostesses in a tirade strewn with four-letter words.

Frankly, I wasn’t. Given the way Indian passengers – especially the rich, powerful and famous ones who travel in First and Business Class – behave on airplanes, this was an incident waiting to happen. But what is truly shaming to us as a nation is that such incidents are happening with an alarming regularity.

Needless to say, airline staff bears the brunt of this bad behavior. If a flight is cancelled due to fog or delayed because of late arrival of an aircraft, you can be sure that a few obnoxious jerks will start verbally abusing the ground staff, even though common sense will tell you that these hapless people have no control over such matters. If a particularly hostile crowd gathers then physical abuse can’t be ruled out either.

Air-hostesses have gotten so used to being treated badly by passengers that it is no longer even an issue. They are routinely spoken to rudely, the odd grope is par for the course, and men seem to regard it as a god-given right to try and pick them up. And irrespective of gender, the cabin crew is shouted at for everything from ATC delays to bad in-flight meals, even though they have nothing to do with either.

In fact, if you want to see how badly behaved Indians are, airports are a good place to start. Car and taxi drivers will try their best to run you over as you negotiate the zebra crossing. The security staff will be rude and obnoxious. Instead of addressing passengers as Sir or Madam – as is customary across the civilized world – they will address you by the familiar ‘tum’ form in Hindi or whatever regional language they speak. And if you are pulled aside for a random check of your hand luggage, they will not make the slightest attempt to help you put it back.

Shops and department stores are another place where you can check out the legendary bad behavior of our brethren – right across the service divide. No customer will ever bother to say please or thank you – and neither will the sales staff. If you are dealing with a shop assistant, the person behind you will not have the decency to wait till you are finished but will interrupt unabashedly. In fact, anybody who exhibits the barest modicum of good manners – like queuing up in an orderly fashion at the till – will be regarded as something of an oddity.

I’m not suggesting that we should go in for the fake-cheeriness of US stores, where everyone is sent off with a hearty, “Have a nice day”. (One British writer was most upset when he was so advised by an American cab driver. “I’ll have any kind of day I want,” he retorted indignantly.) But surely a smile, a please, a thank you, goes a long way in making the world a better place to live in. And it doesn’t even require much effort.

Telephone manners are another area in which Indians could do with a great deal of improvement. I’ve lost count of the number of times I pick up the phone to be greeted with a peremptory “Who’s that?” My answer is always an indignant: “What do you mean who’s that? You’re the one calling me.” Honestly, whatever happened to: “Could I please speak to…?” or even “Is that so-and-so?”

Restaurants are another arena where I am constantly appalled by just how badly behaved Indians are. The word please is conspicuously absent from their vocabulary when they are placing their orders. They ignore the waiting staff when they are serving the table instead of saying thank you. And then, if nobody is paying attention to them momentarily, they call for service by clicking their fingers, or shouting ‘Boy’ or something equally offensive.

Nowhere is this more embarrassing than when you are eating out abroad. You can be sure that the guy shouting loudly on his mobile phone while everyone else tries to have a memorable meal at a Michelin-star restaurant will be an Indian. And don’t even start me on the kids. When foreign children will be sitting quietly in their high chairs, doing a fairly decent job of wielding a knife and fork, the Indian kids will be running riot, careering around the restaurant, throwing more food on the table than into their mouths, and screaming loudly if their maids make an ineffectual effort to discipline them. (And please, all you mummy bloggers out there, please don’t clog my in-box yet again. Let’s just agree that I am a bad, bad person, and be done with it.)

If you don’t think there is a difference, just observe the behavior of Indian and foreign kids on your next long-haul flight. The firangi children will sit quietly with their headphones listening to music or playing a video game. The Indian kids will be running up and down the aisles, trying to trip everyone who passes, while their parents don’t pay the blindest bit of attention.

Is it any wonder then that we grow up to be such a badly-behaved bunch?