At Mumbai domestic airport, they dig into iphones and stay in their diggings. Having no phones, me watched and wondered for two hours; some got into the wrong plane; others walked away with not their luggage; a young woman was kissing her iphone as her three-year old daughter walked into a boarding line for some destination; no Breaking News on TV channels of unknown men arm in arm with unknown women, as yet; when me mentioned it to Rama, she pocketed her iphone and held me tight; remarked, 'Pagal'. A Birla-group Gandhi shop lay shut; Gandhi never took a flight though Ahimsa is one. Airports frighten me despite being an infrequent flyer; planes taking off or landing is impressive technology but not as fetching as landing of house sparrorws on the window sill; (by the way, the house sparrows on me window sill do not peck at Monaco or Arrowroot; they like Britannia Marie; disapprove of any change in diet; wish some birder could help me); all the checking and machine swipings make me suspect me self; maybe we are all terrorists in some sense; the Indigo flight to Chennai had time to go and me wandered into Crossword for a measure of comfort; picked up Namita Gokhale's Things to Leave Behind and A Strangeness in My Mind by Orhan Pamuk; Namita does not impress; her characters hop about doing nothing in particular. Am roaming Turkey with Orhan Pamuk and Mevlut Karata... Mevlut is a street vendor taking me to Calcutta times growing with vendors of gur, fruits, moodi ... calling their wares. On the return flight from Chennai to Mumbai, it was Indigo and flights were on time; thank you very much Indigo though it should not matter to a retired loafer having a large stake in living; again the iphones though this time every male forehead had sheets of sacred ash and kumkum; females looked like having stepped out of temples; but Chennai is a temple city and its templers are ever with their gods. Old, older, perhaps oldest dear Higginbothams is a must for me on every Chennai visit; me drove by Higginbothams on Mount Road (sorry, Anna Salai), in regret. But there it was in Chennai airport and one bought pages of delight in Swami and Friends and Sunny Days by Sunil Gavaskar (a bit boring); Rama flourished with books by Cho. Rama had packed food for chewing the waiting hours at airports as we did not have black money to buy stuff from the Food Courts; at Mumbai airport a sandwich costs Rs.300, the all inclusive cost, including depreciation, perhaps of the bread factory. In between two flights, me and Rama watched Kakka Muttai at Valasarvakkam. Enjoyed the well made film and not a Vijay or Rajni Tamil film. Not much noise, could have done with some editing, yet worth the two hours.
Saturday, February 11, 2017
Scrapbook 2
At Mumbai domestic airport, they dig into iphones and stay in their diggings. Having no phones, me watched and wondered for two hours; some got into the wrong plane; others walked away with not their luggage; a young woman was kissing her iphone as her three-year old daughter walked into a boarding line for some destination; no Breaking News on TV channels of unknown men arm in arm with unknown women, as yet; when me mentioned it to Rama, she pocketed her iphone and held me tight; remarked, 'Pagal'. A Birla-group Gandhi shop lay shut; Gandhi never took a flight though Ahimsa is one. Airports frighten me despite being an infrequent flyer; planes taking off or landing is impressive technology but not as fetching as landing of house sparrorws on the window sill; (by the way, the house sparrows on me window sill do not peck at Monaco or Arrowroot; they like Britannia Marie; disapprove of any change in diet; wish some birder could help me); all the checking and machine swipings make me suspect me self; maybe we are all terrorists in some sense; the Indigo flight to Chennai had time to go and me wandered into Crossword for a measure of comfort; picked up Namita Gokhale's Things to Leave Behind and A Strangeness in My Mind by Orhan Pamuk; Namita does not impress; her characters hop about doing nothing in particular. Am roaming Turkey with Orhan Pamuk and Mevlut Karata... Mevlut is a street vendor taking me to Calcutta times growing with vendors of gur, fruits, moodi ... calling their wares. On the return flight from Chennai to Mumbai, it was Indigo and flights were on time; thank you very much Indigo though it should not matter to a retired loafer having a large stake in living; again the iphones though this time every male forehead had sheets of sacred ash and kumkum; females looked like having stepped out of temples; but Chennai is a temple city and its templers are ever with their gods. Old, older, perhaps oldest dear Higginbothams is a must for me on every Chennai visit; me drove by Higginbothams on Mount Road (sorry, Anna Salai), in regret. But there it was in Chennai airport and one bought pages of delight in Swami and Friends and Sunny Days by Sunil Gavaskar (a bit boring); Rama flourished with books by Cho. Rama had packed food for chewing the waiting hours at airports as we did not have black money to buy stuff from the Food Courts; at Mumbai airport a sandwich costs Rs.300, the all inclusive cost, including depreciation, perhaps of the bread factory. In between two flights, me and Rama watched Kakka Muttai at Valasarvakkam. Enjoyed the well made film and not a Vijay or Rajni Tamil film. Not much noise, could have done with some editing, yet worth the two hours.
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