The Pauper at the Airport

[As we go cashless, our dependency on the smooth working of technologies that support such services becomes absolute. But in a country like ours, who can ensure they work when we need them the most? And what are its consequences on people’s lives, if not long-term but in the short-term. Are we prepared for such situations? An event from my yesterday’s experience….]

Mid-presentation, I caught my associate gesturing at his watch indicating that we were getting late; the fear in his eyes was unavoidable. By 3.15 PM the thought of missing my 6.40 flight had not crossed my mind even once. With 30 km to do in 2 hours wasn’t something I would have worried about normally, but then you are at Noida, Sector 15 and you have to go to Indira Gandhi International Airport in peak traffic. My associate explained that here distance is expressed just not in terms of time but by the time of the day.

With my personal record of only two missed flights in the last six days, I chose to let him have his way and we rushed. We abandoned our cab, bought tickets in the Metro Rail, and hopped onto the first one heading towards Rajiv Chowk and for the first time, the Metro seemed a tad slow. We changed to a cab to reach IGIA in time. 100 meters on the road you get a taste of the traffic and the possibility of me missing the plane was now getting more real with each passing moment. By 5.35 I took a call and cancelled my ticket. Luckily got a seat in the 10.20 flight. My heart racing less now, I tried to bring my thoughts together and realised that there were 4 hours to wait at the airport.

For many, airports are just one of the many processes one has to undergo to reach one's destination. You only look around the airport if you get laid over or are waiting for your next connecting international flight. We have somehow become passive to the people and the things around us. But this time with 4 hours to spend, soaking in the hyperactivities of the airport was the only available timepass (sic).

Like most of their brethren outside the air-conditioned atmosphere of the airport the difficulties faced by the passengers were similar. Two SBI ATMs had not less than 50 people each; all trying to withdraw cash. I failed to understand two things – one, while standing in a queue why can’t people stand a little farther from each other and two, why does a person travelling by air need cash and agree to stand in a long queue. Dismissing both things as a very Indian reaction to any scarcity situation I strolled towards the food court to grab some evening snacks.

Selected a Subway counter for a plate of salad. Watching others making food decisions can be quite interesting - some are so sure and some so vacillating with their choices. The counterhand patiently handles each one of them with a mix of sincerity and nonchalance. Just when my order was getting done, an animated discussion just ahead in the queue caught my attention. The young man just ahead of me in the queue had paid through his card and while he has already got a debt notification from his bank the POS device of the merchant still shows that the transaction couldn’t be effected. Both were trying to convince the other by showing the notifications on their respective screens. The experience of the man at the counter in handling such situations prevailed when he declared that from now onwards no card payment is possible as the servers have jammed up. The young man by now angry and hungry backed off.

Looking at the condition of both the parties and the logjam they had created for themselves, I volunteered to pay for his sandwich. Surprised and embarrassed by my offer to buy food the young man was left speechless for a while and the counter hand on being ordered by me to do so proceeded with billing for both orders together. I paid in cash took delivery of both food portions and handed over the sandwich to the young man.

The man surprised by this gesture of mine tried to utter a few sentences which had no definite purpose or logic. He himself was quite jumbled up with the sudden turn of events. He was apologetic for receiving free food from an unknown man and at the same time, he was hungry enough to refuse the only chance of his getting some food. He explained, how he has money in his account but is forced into this situation just because the card doesn’t work. I cut him short by telling him that it was a small gesture of help and didn’t merit so much of an explanation and went for the nearest vacant seat leaving the young man in multiple emotions.

While I chewed onto the colourful fresh vegetables on my plate I tried to describe the situation of this young man. The Pauper at the Airport? The Man who could fly but not buy his food? The possibility of having such momentary paupers not just at the airport but anywhere and everywhere when the country goes cashless looks dreadfully real.

Our Own Confession Box

Time spent at a traditional barber shop can be a vicarious experience of so many hues. It literally gives you an insight into the life of so many people on a platter. Like it or not, you are destined for this experience if you have hair on your head or otherwise.

Let’s not make the mistake of confusing the barber shop I am talking about with that of a modern-day salon. The one I am talking about is known more as a social institution than for the basic grooming service it offers. Two rows of seats, a wall-to-wall mirror with pictures of calendar gods and goddesses providing oversight to your grooming process, and a TV or a cheap sound system blaring out local hits characterizes them. An hour of grooming including half an hour of waiting time can set you back maximum by a hundred rupees even now. 

Many those days shaved once in three days and had a haircut once a month. Being recognized and acknowledged by the barber was treated as the first certificate of an adolescent into his manhood. He would be considered a man and a man enough if he in the later years gets the offer of a waiting seat and is given a pan or included in the rounds of tea order unasked. That is one of the methods by which a man in our societies left his urine marks on his territories as being someone important. Those days the service comprised of recognition, acknowledgment, respect, elaborate talk on various issues both local, national, and personal then a haircut or an odd body hair shave and a spine-chilling message to end the session. The quality of haircuts at those times was given the least priority and people were supremely confident of their appearance in spite of their oddities.

Traditionally, barbers, as a clan were the ones who could carry any potentially lethal weapon nearest to the jugular of the most powerful person in that area, and his massage skills, gave him the access to the most sensitive spot that every man tries to protect after perhaps his eyes. Scores of stories and hearsays had the shrewd barber as the manipulative character at its center. His closeness to the kings and such power centers made them develop their art of glib talk to keep the powerful engaged while being groomed. It gave them the enviable access to the powerful ears too. To plant a suspicion for mischief or gains or to extract a personal favor. The trait had become genetic and would have continued had the disruptive culture of new age salons not come up.

People would stroll in with scant disregard for the person on the seat. Pick up a comb or a pair of scissors from the tray on the ledge in the front and start to give themselves a groom while picking up a small or a serious chat. The one silently sitting in the waiting chair for the last half an hour would randomly choose his unsuspecting audience and target his opinion on some issue that he discovered in the newspaper, without bothering to check if the issues interested his audience or not. Doesn’t matter if it didn’t interest him, as there will be someone else who would catch that thread and the discussion will continue ad nauseam. One was free to join and exit the discussion anytime as the barber as the moderator would keep the discussion stoked with his wisdom and quips long enough. Regulars chose their timings. Mornings are the usual rush time. Sunday was the lean day and Mondays and Thursdays were the leanest. For many, the trip was more social than anything else. They chose the crowded timing few who were not very socially adept would choose the lean times.

Don't know why barber shops are kind of confession boxes for many. A bar with a good bartender served the same purpose in the West perhaps. Today, I was privy to simmering tension between a man and his wife. The man talking to his wife over his cell phone chose to get up immediately without getting a haircut to mete out instant justice. By this time he was out of the doors, he already had made his intentions and plans public. After being exposed to the cold, dust, and fog in the morning yesterday, a land agent was lamenting how he is down with a bout of cold and chest congestion. His misery seems to be never-ending as he was just recovering from a surgery he had to endure to rupture an abscess on his Hydrocele (sic).

This place of social interaction headed by the lead barber himself was no less than a social institution itself. Our cities till some time back were dotted with such shops. They were known by the names of the barber, not by the shops’ names. And fortunately, some still exist as the shadow of their former glorious bests. Our preference for conspicuous consumption in the name of hygiene, style, and comfort is depriving us of experiencing what is called glib talk. I won’t say much about the voyeuristic pleasure we derived from peeping into others’ lives as collateral.

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