The lower price of a staff air ticket is not always the glory it appears to be. Saying goodbye three times due to missed flights kind of ruins the touching moment.
Once upon a time people stayed home and watched TV, I thought as I stood at Terminal 3, astounded by the number of people ganging up at the check-in counter. "Hey, go home!" I wanted to scream. It is 2 am; who in their right mind wants to lug some 3 tons of packages from every maasi, bhabi, uncle and aunty this side of the universe to every maasi, bhabi, uncle, aunty that side of the universe?
From the swelling crowds, it seems many people do.
I am waiting to get on the plane too, but my aim is not to transport record-breaking amounts of mango acchar and papad via British Airways. Uh-huh. I'm going to taste American pie. And whatever else the Big Apple has to offer for less than one dollar. You see, I am travelling on a staff ticket. To most people this means a discounted ticket and so much envy it would turn the Red Sea green. But right now I am sweating blood from every pore, having to wait for the third day in a row to get on the flight.
And lest somebody say, "But still, you have a discounted ticket," let me remind that wise soul that I also have an unwanted increase in the size of my biceps from lugging suitcases into cabs, out of cabs, into airport lounges and out of airport lounges. I also have a huge hole in my pocket from taxi fare, and dark circles that would make a racoon shy. Best of all, in case you need to get into the airport, I have gotten on buddy terms with the security men who grin through paan-stained teeth, "One more try?" By now they know me by name, the colour of my suitcase and, of course, my jacket – I have only one, and it is mandatory for staff or relatives to wear a jacket.
Right now I do not look like I'm an international traveller. More like a detainee at Auschwitcz.
Being a traveller on a staff ticket takes more than just a strong stomach – airline food 'n' all that. It takes grit, and a determination that only politicians possess, having to wrestle for a seat term after term.
So we – me and the other staff ticket travellers – wait. Cross our fingers and wait. As first-class passengers swish past us, clouded in some stupidly expensive perfume; don't they know that when they get off they will smell just like anyone else in economy, of stale cabin air?
Business-class passengers run in, looking harried as though their meetings will be held right here on the tarmac.
The airport staff don't even bother with us anymore. Three days of customer service, and they can't even crack a plastic smile.
I watch people. The black married to a white with a yellow baby. Now that looks like an advertisement for Benetton. The fat woman, who is wearing the same sari she wore yesterday, is chewing gum grabbed from her seven-year-old son. The 'uncle' and 'auntie' who are going to visit their son in Silicon Valley: "He is very much alone you know," his mother informs me.
Nobody yawns. Nobody's really tense anymore. We've said our prayers before we left home.
Most people kiss their loved ones goodbye. And they go. We staff travellers have a standard line: "If you don't get on the flight, call. We'll come and pick you up."
This time my goodbyes took three days. Each time it got more and more embarrassing. The hugging became almost mechanical, and I could almost smell the scent of "Please go. Dear god please get her on that flight. Don't let me have to open the door to her at three in the morning."
But it isn't God who controls the strings here. It is the ground crew. The check-in supermen. The saviours of the terminal. With their walkie-talkies.
You ask them when you will be permitted to get on the flight. "The revenue passengers go first." One steel voice informs you curtly, impatiently, as though he were part of the rocket launch at NASA and the slightest break in his concentration would mean disaster for Planet Earth. So I leave Mr. Playing-God aside and translate for the rest. Revenue passengers are the ones who pay in full.
The minutes pass. Cheery travellers pass by. Other staff-ticket travellers who've I've seen here yesterday smile back at me. An unspoken bond has formed between us. I think, philosophically, That's what brings people together: Pain. Hardship. Airfares.
When our names are called we jump up and run to the counter. Eagerly, hope written all over our faces. We clutch our boarding passes and smile at the rest like it was graduation day and we'd just been awarded our certificates.
We congratulate each other. The mood is one of celebration. Then we run.
There are just 10 minutes for the plane to take off. Never mind duty-free.