Airborne granny

I had been hearing her voice — more like a croak — while I was drifting in and out of nidnod land right after take off. But it was in the morning waking some where over Europe that I first saw her: an old crone with a voice that sounded like a crow caught in the engine of an old jalopy.

A white-haired old lady, bent over with age and arthritis, was flying alone and sitting in the Business Class section of an international airline. All alone. And hungry as hell.

The problem with her I guess was that not only did she not speak any English — or any language that the snooty cabin crew understood, but that she had what was a manner that was guaranteed to drive them mad.

She was sending back all the food they served her. And she was doing so in rapid fire Marwari, as if she were talking to her closest family members. The milk was too cold, it gave her a chill, the bread may have been touched by meat-infected hands, and the coffee was too black-and so on and so forth.

Any one could see that she was totally out of her depth and was trying hard to appear in command of things, but the cabin crew was far from amused. Before my eyes, they went from being mildly concerned to downright hostile. That’s when I intervened. Could I, I said in my most placatory voice — translate?

And so unwittingly, I found myself, in mid-air becoming party to and responsible for an old crone — whose name I did not know but whose entire history — dietary habits and intimate bodily functions I became privy to.

She was 80 years old she said, mother of nine, who doted on her. She was flying to Detroit to spend time with her plastic surgeon son. Yesterday, before she had embarked on her feisty journey, various grandchildren settled all over the world had called her and wished her good luck.

She said all this with such a look of sparkle and pride.

And now here she was in the cabin of an international airline being denied even the most basic human decency. She hadn’t eaten the previous night, because no one understood what she wanted.

In the morning when I translated for her and asked for biscuits the airhostess said there were none on board. When I pointed out that she was happy to eat the fruits I had seen in the gangway, I was informed that they were for the pilots.

And so on and so forth it went. Finally, she ate nothing. In her place I would have broken down and wept. But she didn’t. She sat with whatever dignity she could muster telling me about her life. 

But what impressed me the most was a little gesture at the end. She requested me to take her to the bathroom. She could barely walk.

She took an awful lot of time in the loo, enough to  worry me. But when she emerged she had only one concern. She wanted to know how to flush the toilet. She didn’t want to fall short of this one important consideration to others.

I know it sounds bizarre but that one gesture of hers somehow convinced me that she’d make it — and so would Indians — in the face of snootiness and arrogance. We still maintained our dignity. We still kept our wits around us.

I alighted at my destination. But one airborne granny must be still in the air, winging her way alone to Detroit! Showing them the meaning of grace under pressure.
s_malavika@dnaindia.net