Notes From a Plane.

I have seen it coming,
This day - the day I would miss my flight.
More and more frequently
I put off leaving for the airport
To the last possible minute.
My last three trips
Saw me in a mad rush
With taxi drivers coaxing
Their vehicles to run like race cars
On the obstacle courses of Aizawl roads.
Packing is a challenge I loathe;
Once upon a time, good boyfriends
Undertook that task for me.
Now I pack for myself,
Usually half an hour before I leave,
Haphazardly throwing in clothes
And hoping for the best.
Most times I forget something vital;
The last time I left a city,
I left my heart behind.
Airport food and airplane food
Are abhorrent, overpriced,
But I eat them anyway,
Because I rush out without having had time for a proper meal. My reluctance to plan my schedule properly is perhaps symptomatic of some inner repulsion at the thought of leaving another place yet another time. I love travelling to different places, meeting different people, soaking in different cultures. It is the journeys I hate.The International Terminal at Kolkata had mosquitoes: I was devoured by these bloodsucking insects as I waited. Oh, and I was on an international flight despite my not going anywhere abroad, because apparently, GoAir is an international flight.

Besides, I know by now what awaits me. The unimaginative decor of airport lounges, people staring at you for want of anything better to do, particularly lecherous guys who have no compunctions staring at you even when they're sitting right beside you, total strangers wanting to know where you're from, where you're going, and what you're doing there. Even as I write this, I caught the dude sitting behind me desperately peering through the crack between the seats, trying to read what I am writing. I stared him down. Small victory.

And this lady, sitting in the aisle seat- with, thankfully, an empty seat between us- this abominable woman has been belching every few minutes in the loudest, most disgusting way imaginable. Poetry is no longer possible. Believe me, a loud, deep, long belch will kill poetic inclinations any time. And her prodigious bulk prevents me from even attempting to get out of my seat to get at my stuff in the overhead compartment.

The Captain has at last announced that we are beginning our descent into Delhi. Yayyy!The overly conscientious flight attendant has suggested to us, over the PA system, that we should save whatever we have been working on before switching off our laptops. Seriously?!

A Poem

This one is for two poet-friends, who read this and thought I should put it in my blog for easy access. So here goes:

And now, it is time
To write you a poem;
The one that you wanted,
The one that scared me,
The one that mourns
The passing of you,
You, who have been my poetry.


When they analyzed it nursing endless cups of tea in an authentic little Khasi jadoh stall, while simultaneously murdering many pieces of kwai in the recesses of their mouths, it sounded a lot more philosophical and 'deeper' than it probably does to you, dear reader. Among the phrases flung about were, "the paradox of the situation", "the chicken and the egg question", "circularity", etc. They should probably come here and explain.