Wishful Thinking?

Whenever a major sporting event (read : a Grand Slam tennis final) rolls around, the current form of the players concerned is not something I take into consideration when mentally deciding who is going to win. (Maybe that's because I'm incapable of distinguishing between who I think is going to win and who I want to win.) Instead, the clinching factors are what clothes I'm wearing on the big day, what position I occupy in front of the TV, whether the volume is switched on or not (note how all these factors are within my control and open to manipulation, thus making the legitimacy of my winner-picking process all the more dubious) and finally, a sort of supernatural symmetry. There is a method to the madness of sports statistics. For example, as Vijay Amritraj very pertinently observed, Serena Williams was always going to win today because she's been winning the Australian Open every alternate year (2003, 2005, 2007 and now 2009), not because she's been playing solidly. Similarly, something tells me that Roger is going to win tomorrow because he's out to equal a record, not break one. Look what happened to him when he tried to go one better on Bjorn Borg last year at Wimbledon. Whereas equalling Borg's five consecutive Wimbledons didn't pose too many problems in 2007. Therefore, compelling logic commands that he'll be able to match up to Pete tomorrow. As for breaking the 14 Slam barrier? I'm sure I'll be able to dig up a sports statistic at that time which conveniently matches the dictates of my heart!

A Little Bit of Perspective

It's funny how as soon as I decided that using public transport more often would be one of my top priority New Year resolutions, an oil PSU strike made petrol pumps run dry. I considered it to be a sign that the powers that be approved of my environmental zeal. However, the approval was a little too resounding for my liking- the powers that be also thought that it would be funny if I had to launch my resolution with a trip to one of the hotels near the international airport (had to drop off a parcel and for complicated and boring reasons, couldn't use a courier). Sewree-Royal Meridien-Sewree sans taxi, rickshaw or car is a three hour trip flat. I found it hard to feel grateful that my aching bones (direct fallout of rediscovering that my legs are actually meant for walking, not balancing pillows while I read and eat on the sofa), crushed ribs (why is it that when you and your backpack are tightly jammed against the train pole, the very generously endowed woman behind you has to get off at the station before yours?) and sunburnt, perspiring face (last year's famous 8 degrees Celsius Mumbai winter feels like it belonged to another Ice Age) were all contributing to the climate change cause. My foul temper was compounded by the appalling frequency of the Harbour Line trains (I hate waiting) and the interminable ticket queues (I especially hate waiting behind other people) and I was ready to weep by the time I was finally in the train on my way home.

Now, I generally never buy anything off the train, but for some reason, a pair of earrings that a 12-13 year old boy was peddling caught my fancy and I asked him how much they cost. He said they'd be 5 bucks and I pulled out a tenner (having exhausted all my change to meet the 'exacting' demands and not risk the rudeness of the ticket clerks). The boy said he didn't have change and for one, horrible moment, I thought I was going to launch into a tirade at him. Fortunately, my better self prevailed and I told him to keep the change. Instead of pocketing it happily, he went all over the compartment until he found someone willing to give him change and then immediately ran back with a five rupee coin. I told him he could keep it, but he was absolutely adamant and kept insisting. He finally pressed it into my hand and got off at the next station. All the time that I was trying to make him keep the money, there was a look of complete bewilderment on his face. He couldn't understand why someone should be trying to force him to keep money that he hadn't earned. And if he had enough pride not to beg, I ought to have had the sense (and sensibility too, come to think of it) to simply have bought another pair of earrings.

I can't wait for my next public transport expedition now- I need to learn more than just environmental lessons.

My relationship with airports is something of an emotional weathervane. And it has now swung around from intensely stormy farewells and sunshiny returns to a cool, almost frigid, ‘departure’ and ‘arrival.’ (Just using those words makes the whole process sound so horribly business-like.) I’m just unsure whether this particular climate change is for the better or worse. True, my family found my earlier behaviour inexplicable (especially since the airport only meant that I was off on a fantastic holiday with my fantastic grandparents) and often embarrassing. You could almost have set your watch by the time that I would commence sniffling on the approach road to Sahar. Dad would produce a pristine handkerchief and hand it over resignedly. The sniffling would graduate into a sedate sobbing and by the time the car drew up at the airport, it would be a full-blown howling, much to the discomfort of my undemonstrative father, who was always acutely aware of the curious stares that my heartbroken wailing was attracting. After many last hugs and waves, I would walk morosely in line to the check-in counter and by the time the boarding pass was issued, the last of the tears would have been wiped away and I would begin taking a cheerful interest in my surroundings and the upcoming trip, albeit with a splitting headache, courtesy of all the crying of the past hour.

But that’s all changed now. I don’t cry at all anymore. However, that doesn’t mean I particularly enjoy my farewells either. I think I preferred the earlier weepy ones. In fact, I think I almost used to revel in them. It was the crying that made the event momentous. It was a proper send-off. It gave me a sense of occasion. And the corresponding returns were equally volatile, but in a joyous, exuberant way. Now I actually find myself dragging my steps at a return, because it inevitably means that a wonderful holiday is over and routine beckons. I know it’s a bit heartless of me, but more than that, it’s perplexing that someone who used to behave practically as if she was going into exile should be so reluctant to come back.

I much prefer dropping and receiving others now. Seeing someone else off still manages to jerk the old tear glands into action a tiny bit. And the picking up brings all the excitement and warmth that my own returning never seems to be able to ignite. I’ve already made two trips to different airports in different cities over the last ten days (and will make one more in Feb) and I’m thankful that I’ve still managed to retain all my childlike enthusiasm. (Also, you can’t help laughing at the hilarity of the Bombay airport which has named the bit of ground around the arrivals gate the ‘Meeters and Greeters’ area!!)

In any case, this year should have one big farewell coming up and I’m fairly certain that it’ll satisfy all my lachrymal cravings.