उस रोज़ हवा तेज़ थी
हल्के से उनका दुपट्टा उड़ा
अगले दिन, वो यूं लाश मिली...
गुनहगार हवा थी या लौंडिया थी
ये मुद्दा ज़ोर पे था
पर सांस तो लेनी थी
सो सूली पर फिर वो निर्दोष छड़ी
Smoking rooms have fascinating character. Each smoking room has a different character. Well I am talking about airport smoking rooms. International has its own character, domestic it's own. Delhi, Bombay (Mumbai), Hyderabad...
I have spent time in them. Time enough to know each character. But I am not doing a comparative study. Everyone today is a data scientist. I will skip.
I am trying to be witty. Cynic? Delhi domestic airport smells like beedi! It's like you enter the ad where guddi is watching No Tobacco ad with papa dear and looking up innocently. You know which one! If you have travelled in Delhi a.c. buses especially from Uttam Nagar you will know what beedi smell in a a.c. enclosure is. Not to say, the room itself is like a dispensary. Bas paan ke peek ki kami hai. The arrogant capital dwellers and visitors don't even put off the cigarette. The poor thing dies it's own death in that steel dustbin. Whether of its own smoke or the polluted bin. Hard to tell.
The international airport of Delhi is upper class like the asli Dilliwalas. All bloody migrant lot of us. Everyone in Delhi is a migrant dear Mumbaikar! Please note. Well yes, so we are khaandaani migrant origin class of Delhi. The smoking room of the Delhi international airport is a room from everywhere. I only travel Air India baba. Whatever you Jet flyers say, I prefer apna desi airline. Film bhi dikhate hai. The only time I catch up on the Hollywood films I ignore over SoTY poty...
Anyway. All the suited booted babu's you see there. Expensive bags, expensive shoes. You know, banda raees hai. Apna desi but bland with oregano sprinkled on top. Chilly flakes kahe? Side salad will always have mirchi in Delhi. You can smoke and check out men. There is no particular smoke. But beedi is minus.
Mumbai can be summarised in one word. Same! Both domestic and international smell the same Cosmopolitan. After that long walk from flight to smoke room near area, you have no sense left. You want puff in a huff before you head out in the humid air. But the women smokers in Mumbai are girl next door career women type. You feel world is going good and not in smoke.
I always carry a coffee cup to these smoking rooms. A, it gives me excuse to smoke two cigarettes and B, the combination is killer.
While I sip coffee, over the years I noticed some conversations are same. If there are hippie foreigners they will make sure to announce how much of India they have backpacked. I mean seriously? Do they know travel in their own country in luxury will be cheaper. And Manali and Goa are not cheap backpack India! And why are you so loud. Every north Indian has been to Manali and every Mumbaikar drinks in Goa. Bhai tu suna kis ko raha hai? I have not been to either place.
Then there are those who are talking to their bosses, making excuses. "Ser (Sir) or maem (ma'am), I will sabmit (submit) the report by latest tomarrow (mar le yaar angrejji ki). blah blah blah.." or "Haan haan aap ka kaam ho jayega" and the moment they keep the phone down, their next call will be "yaar customer chilla raha hai, uska kaam huya kyun nahi?"
Of course you hear them everyday. Somewhere or the other. But in an enclosed smoking room the chatter is louder.
Then there are those. Potbellied ones. They park themselves and think their bellies are also entitled for a separate parking along with their luggage. They will stand either infront of the light box or dustbin. You will have to go the whole length around to reach your destination.
Oh but the opening scene is always the same. You spot the person you will ask for his jalti huyi cigarette to light your own. I don't mind the box. But have you seen how stupid people look. Trying to find the hole to put your cigarette in and light the fire? Embarrassing. Why use Google map when you can stop a raste pe chalta aadmi and ask for direction. Tradition! Trust.
But my best smoking experience was in Phuket airport. A ha ha... You get out of the airport, in the open, under the taazi hawa, har fiqr ko dhuye mai udati chali.
That day I was sitting around a table
No, it was not a round table
It was big
A big rectangular table
Suddenly in the middle of the sleepy meeting
It dawned on me
I was among extraordinaries
Not me
The others, most of them
Were extraordinaries
They had the brain and brawn
Money and swag
And I, I was, am ordinary
In a flock of sheep
I am just the ordinary
In the room full of extras
I am happy to be extra
A bit more extra in my ordinary...
