It would be my second flight. The
first one was to Chennai for a VISA interview that did not culminate in
success. I had been too tensed during that flight to feel much excitement.
Moreover I did not get a window seat. This time, accompanied by my husband and
nineteen months old daughter, I could not
wait to get inside the plane. It would be my daughter’s first flight and we had
got a window seat! I settled down, clasped the belt and made her face the
window. The first thing that caught her fancy as she peered through the window
was the wing. She kept on pointing towards it. I am sure that all she wanted to
do was jump on it and she grew restless as such an opportunity never came her
way. The seats filled up. An air hostess
came up to instruct me on how I should handle my baby at the time of the plane’s
descent. My daughter grew impatient as the seconds ticked, probably thinking
that we would remain confined in this corner of the strange bird shaped room
forever. Soon, the dreaded (I won’t say unexpected) thing happened. She started
bawling at the top of her lungs. I could not have been more relieved when the
announcements began for the departure. I made her look out of the window as the
plane took off and noticed a startled expression on her face as the buildings,
trees and ponds diminished in size like the clothes she would outgrow. However
my hopes of enjoying the scenery with her were crushed as she was far more
interested in my head than all the mountains, plateaus and lakes of the world
put together. I was continuously kept busy: she stood up on my lap, exploring my eyes, nose and ears as if nineteen
months were not enough to unravel the secrets of my facial features. Finally I
gathered the courage to do what I had been planning to do for the last thirty
minutes. I nudged my husband to bring down the bag from the upper shelf and
unzip it. There it was - the fluorescent pink container embodying my intended
bravado. My husband removed the lid. I wiped the steel spoon with my free hand,
dipped it into the unfinished meal (she had only a few spoonfuls at the
airport) and inched it towards her lips. They opened, but alas not to
facilitate the momentary entry of the spoon in my hand but to let out a most
blood-curdling scream. At home, I am used to salvaging such situations by
jumping like a frog with a spoonful of food in my hand (I had learnt not be
spill while doing this activity). Inside the plane, I craned my neck to survey
the expression of a steward who passed by our row. No, I did not wish for a
painful death caused by descent from a great height. She continued to yell and
I realized that I could not risk a plane crash either. So the pink container
had to humbly retreat inside the bag and wait there patiently till we would reach our destination.
Since most airlines do not serve
free food during their domestic flights, I was pleasantly surprised on seeing food
trays being handed to the passengers. My husband and I were famished since we
had managed to push only a little bit of boiled potato down our throats before
leaving home for the airport. Eating out of the several Thermocol bowls arranged on the tray while my daughter tried
to kick them away required the same skills as were necessary to dodge a
crocodile while dangling over a river from a thin creaking branch. Sipping the
coffee was another game altogether since my daughter knew several ways to
attack it. She could seize the cup or spill its contents or dip her fingers
into it or simply pour it over herself. My husband and myself finally appeared
victorious after a long struggle as we succeeded in eating and drinking everything
we were served. My daughter was showing signs of drowsiness. I sighed. A much
needed break before the next set of adventures.
