Thought Crimes

Most people spend their entire lives without ever being on the edge. The feeling of adventure and the pumping of adrenaline that it is accompanied by eludes some forever and they end up leading peaceful existences. I don’t know if I’m lucky or unlucky, but after my last post, I recalled another time when I was, if Lazy Labrador permits it possible, even closer to the edge. The adventure I described previously was no extraordinary one, but this one will be. It’s fantastic, but still the Gospel truth. Difficult to believe and seemingly specious but the unedited uncensored reality. With a few minor exaggerations, of course. Lefty’s blog would be incomplete without those.

A long time ago, in a galaxy far far away (popularly known as Laluland till a couple of years ago) there lived Lefty, who would later grow up to be the slightly demented creator of this page. One fine summer I was given a highly clandestine mission- assist my Mausi and little cousin in picking up Mama from the city’s international airport. The words ‘city’ and ‘international’ may raise a few eyebrows. To the first set of skeptics, I would mention the phrase ‘poetic license’. As for the second, the information about a flight going to Kathmandu from the same airport might prove satisfactory. The mission kicked off on a happy note. I remember little of the drive to the airport, but enough to know that it was an enjoyable one. I hummed a few bars on the way and might even have gone so far as to actually sing a song. Of course, all this was before that fateful day when me mum forbade me from singing in public.

I’d always had a great fascination for airports. It might have stemmed from my childhood ambition of being an astronaut or, if unsuccessful, a pilot. Glasses slightly thicker than the Great Wall of China since age five put paid to all those dreams. But coming back to airports, one hardly got to go there, and it was therefore a novel experience which had to be fully appreciated. The chocolates sold always seemed more sophisticated and there was a cool shop which sold old books at throwaway prices. The frequent checking lent an air of both importance and secrecy to the sojourn.

Once in, we came face to face with increasing similarities between Indian Railways and Airways. Mr. Yadav was still the CM of the aforementioned galaxy and had therefore not brought about the railway revolution. The flight, it was announced, was a couple of hours late. I spent a few happy minutes watching planes taxi on the runway before we remembered that my Chacha, an airlines ground engineer, was posted at the airport for a couple of days. So off we went to his office, bang on the runway.

There’s an adventurous streak in me. It’s always been there and will probably always be there too. Like the brook. Men may come and men may go but the streak will go on forever. It’s probably why I’ve been on the edge twice. Where other guys would have been content sitting in the office eating biscuits, I decided to venture out into the unknown, and dragged my little cousin with me. Being 3 and 2 feet high respectively, it’s not a surprise that our disappearance went largely unnoticed. The fireworks started when Chacha started getting messages that two kids were roaming around on the runway. But by then, Lefty’s destructive juggernaut was already on a roll.

My cousin and I were on the side of the runway opposite the main airport building. Suddenly one of those small yellow cargo planes took it upon itself to land. As it decreased in altitude, my heart descended in fear. People got hit by cars, I knew. It seemed I was about to create a first of sorts by being hit by an airplane. Despite having had extraordinary intelligence from the day of my birth (I warned you there would be exaggerations), I did not comprehend that I was actually in a safe place on one side of the runway and the plane would never even touch me. My immature mind had earlier seen planes make 180 degree turns and argued that should this one choose to emulate its siblings, my sweet little cousin and I would certainly be Done For. I therefore shouted to her, “RUN” and started crossing the runway to get to the familiar safer side. Holding her hand while she started bawling, I took off (no pun intended) towards where the airport authorities, who had by now assembled in alarm, shouted encouragement. The short dash across the runway will continue to be one of the longest paths I’d ever traversed.

I tried really hard to come up with a nail-biting climax for this post, but was unsuccessful. The fact that I’m here ebulliently blogging proves that we made it in time. It was not a Hardy-Boys-last-chapter-end type of escape but was close enough. The plane couldn’t have crossed more than five seconds after we’d got to the other side. My cousin cried for a long time after that and continue to curse me for having convinced her gullible mind to be a bit adventurous. I got a thorough dressing down from everyone present and from many who were not present later. All’s well that ends well though. Mama’s plane ultimately arrived and the original mission was accomplished. My cousin believes in ‘forgive and forget’ and I’m still her favourite Bhaiya. Yes, that relative continues to be ubiquitous. Everything remains unchanged, except the fact that visitors are now banned inside airports after the Quandahar hijacking. And considering what some visitors can do, it’s probably for the best.