Friday, September 01, 2006
flight to heathrow
The recent Heathrow bomb scare reminded me of my flight to the U.K in march this year and a minor scare we had then. In Dubai, as I waited for the plane to take off for Heathrow, I tried to occupy myself by reading a book. Minutes before the flight took off, a 30-ish South-Asian looking guy got on board and walked to my seat. I couldnt help notice that his newish jacket was too big for his arms and his pants were short enough to make his shins visible above the socks. He had neither removed his sunglasses nor the "jim courier" cap, whilst looking around intently around my seat comparing the seat number on his boarding pass with the confusing array of A B C's and digits printed on the baggage shelf. A while later he mustered courage to ask for help in solving this number puzzle and it didnt take long before we managed to get him seated. He thanked me profusely in an accent that was distinctly British and introduced himself as Mr Latif. ( that explains why arrived so late) and said he was going back to London after his long stay at his village near Lahore. Before I could introduce myself, he began his rant about the ill-treatment he received from the crew in P. Intl. Airways when he asked for a drink and proceeded to asked me, the frequent flier with a history of 2 flights in 28yrs, of my informed opinion on Emirates. He was visibly pleased when I told him that I thought highly of Emirates and mumbled that the steward's and stewards were very friendly.
His next question didnt surprise me: Will drinks be served now? Do they serve liquer? Where was I from, India?. What do I think of the resistance in the U.S senate to the ongoing nuclear deal with India -- surprising me with his command over Indian current affairs. India and Pakistan are like brothers split apart, he proclaimed, and started addressing me as his "brother". He spoke of his 6-month long stay in native village where he committed the crime of owning a piece of land which almost cost him his life, the bloody family feuds, corrupt customs officials at the airport in Pakistan, and confided in me, his brother of 10-minutes, how sad he was when he left behind his child and wife crying at the airport. The mention of his child & wife brought liquer to his mind and he asked the inevitable question: When will drinks be served?. When told to be patient, he amused himself by pressing the buttons in front of his seat. His prayers were answered soon. The stewardess arrived with her drinks trolley and asked us, assuming her usual business-like sweet voice- what we gentlemen would like. He asked her in an equally sweet voice what her name was, played a guessing game on her nationality (singaporean,nobody guessed) and finally also asked her with all his munna-bhai charm to choose a liquer for him that she best liked. I guess, she would have handed the trolley to him that moment, but she refrained and gave him some brandy. Little did she realize what the aftermath of her indiscretion would be. Drink after drink followed. His stories became repetitive and tears rushed to his eyes as he told of his wife and his child. He also spoke of his Sikh friends in London and even invited me for a `davat` at their place.
I had never met a guy with Pakistani background but already I was seeing the traits of the archetypal Punjabi which extends across border and religion: Prone to fits of laughter and fits of sadness, and always threatening to hug the next person. Everytime he wanted a drink he would compose himself removed seat belts and sashayed to the stewardess and somehow managed to get more. When asked how he managed this, he told me this: the trick is not to slur in your speech and assume the smoothest tight-lipped brit accent while asking "May I have a drink, please". I still dont believe he managed to trick them this way.
By evening, no tightlippedness could prevent him from the slur. He turned completely silly and defied all attempts to get him back to his seat. A lady in the plane had her chappal stolen and he was later found wearing it and refused to give it back. The cabin crew became wary of him and arranged to forcibly get him back to his seat and tie him with his seat belt. They probably also informed police in Heathrow by then. Poor thing kept shouting "Ki hoi, Choudui ##@$$$&*&" and spent the rest of the time in a half-conscious state drooling like a dog on my lap while I pretended as if everything was alright.
Heathrow arrived. Everybody was asked to be seated and the captain announced -- Mr Latif, please show up at the door first. He didnt as he was still with his "Choudui" in his native village. The police arrived and asked him questions, he answered in Punjabi first and after some prodding and pushing he realized was in Heathrow, got his accent and senses back and chatted amiably with them and even asked jokingly --what did they think? that he was the o s a m a? That was the last I saw of this little 'o s a m a'.
His next question didnt surprise me: Will drinks be served now? Do they serve liquer? Where was I from, India?. What do I think of the resistance in the U.S senate to the ongoing nuclear deal with India -- surprising me with his command over Indian current affairs. India and Pakistan are like brothers split apart, he proclaimed, and started addressing me as his "brother". He spoke of his 6-month long stay in native village where he committed the crime of owning a piece of land which almost cost him his life, the bloody family feuds, corrupt customs officials at the airport in Pakistan, and confided in me, his brother of 10-minutes, how sad he was when he left behind his child and wife crying at the airport. The mention of his child & wife brought liquer to his mind and he asked the inevitable question: When will drinks be served?. When told to be patient, he amused himself by pressing the buttons in front of his seat. His prayers were answered soon. The stewardess arrived with her drinks trolley and asked us, assuming her usual business-like sweet voice- what we gentlemen would like. He asked her in an equally sweet voice what her name was, played a guessing game on her nationality (singaporean,nobody guessed) and finally also asked her with all his munna-bhai charm to choose a liquer for him that she best liked. I guess, she would have handed the trolley to him that moment, but she refrained and gave him some brandy. Little did she realize what the aftermath of her indiscretion would be. Drink after drink followed. His stories became repetitive and tears rushed to his eyes as he told of his wife and his child. He also spoke of his Sikh friends in London and even invited me for a `davat` at their place.
I had never met a guy with Pakistani background but already I was seeing the traits of the archetypal Punjabi which extends across border and religion: Prone to fits of laughter and fits of sadness, and always threatening to hug the next person. Everytime he wanted a drink he would compose himself removed seat belts and sashayed to the stewardess and somehow managed to get more. When asked how he managed this, he told me this: the trick is not to slur in your speech and assume the smoothest tight-lipped brit accent while asking "May I have a drink, please". I still dont believe he managed to trick them this way.
By evening, no tightlippedness could prevent him from the slur. He turned completely silly and defied all attempts to get him back to his seat. A lady in the plane had her chappal stolen and he was later found wearing it and refused to give it back. The cabin crew became wary of him and arranged to forcibly get him back to his seat and tie him with his seat belt. They probably also informed police in Heathrow by then. Poor thing kept shouting "Ki hoi, Choudui ##@$$$&*&" and spent the rest of the time in a half-conscious state drooling like a dog on my lap while I pretended as if everything was alright.
Heathrow arrived. Everybody was asked to be seated and the captain announced -- Mr Latif, please show up at the door first. He didnt as he was still with his "Choudui" in his native village. The police arrived and asked him questions, he answered in Punjabi first and after some prodding and pushing he realized was in Heathrow, got his accent and senses back and chatted amiably with them and even asked jokingly --what did they think? that he was the o s a m a? That was the last I saw of this little 'o s a m a'.
