Con-Air
Its 0500 hours. I’m back at the Mumbai, taking the next flight to yet another destination. This time its Chennai, and to Tuticorin thereafter. Tuticorin, or Thutookodi, is a small village hidden in the crevices of the Tamil farmlands. 6 hours on the Chennai airport, in transit to my Thutookodi flight, are spent trying to connect to the shitty WiFi. Not a single decent eating joint in this place.
I’ve already consumed the Deccan Chronicle and the Times, cover to cover. The data on my phone is working in packets, like a dying motorcycle. Some respite I achieve, in reading Maximum City. Its a wonderful unabashed account of the author’s version of Bombay, and you can’t help but fall in love with the city. That’s a good author, who makes you say, good book, rather than good author. I like Suketu Mehta and his nonchalant way of weaving in bhenchod in the book. Makes me feel like he’s one of us.
I meet my colleague on the flight to Tuticorin, finally. The plane itself is a 1940s relic, shabby and discomforting to look at. The flight is small, and crowded. A very pretty airhostess - who’s wondering what the fuck she’s doing there — recites in her deadpan voice to tie our seatbelts. And we’re off again.
We arrive at Tuticorin, or Thutookodi, an hour ten minutes later. The airport itself is no bigger than my house, catering to just one flight. We arrive, and the attendants bring the luggage from the plane and dump it onto the ground. Thankfully I find my luggage, as we hungrily rampage through the bags, like crows on a carcass. We find a taxicab, run by one Gangadharan, who’s asking us 1200 to Tirunelveli. We find a fellow passenger, headed to the same hotel and we team up.
Suddenly, everything comes to a halt in that place, and about 15 ambassadors show up. Everybody suddenly stops what they’re doing, and even the airport authorities leave everything to attend to the onslaught of the incoming personality. I turned to Gangadharan, and asked him who it was.
‘Kanamodi’, he said, almost reverentially. Who?, we enquire again. ‘Kanamodi, politician,Karunanidhi daughter,’ he said. Then it dawns on us. Its Kanimozhi, Member of Parliament, Rajya Sabha. She was on her way to Chennai, on the return flight that brought us here. Atleast one celebrity appearance.
We get into Gangadharan’s cab, and we’re off again. Kanyakumari’s a mere 80 kilometres from here. I think I’m going to go there. Lots of things to do here.
The best part about travelling in India is that nothing’s ever enough.
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