Take off

The last month here at IIT has, quite definitely, been the toughest. It involved writing one of the toughest exams I have yet faced, it involved writing a 57 page BTP report in 13 days with a break of 5 days in the middle, it involved meeting some of the finest people I have seen in a while, it involved recovery of lost hope (I know this sounds rather cryptic, but more on it later) and, finally, it involved Helmet and what Kaka would call Souveneau (sic) Blanc. This week has also witnessed my return to my misbegotten blog, rather like the prodigal son. It is also the week when A.D.A.S. Knight was made a Cumunder. The last hour or so have been spent ruminating on the blog and whether to return to my rather prosaic attempts at sounding depths by self referential posts and by referring to myself, ahem, the Knight in third person. So, all said and done, let me welcome the out of work, jaded reader to this post on my trip to Eternal Bliss and the discovery of Helmet.

What with me never having flown before, never having sat, much less dreamed of sitting on a raft, never having talked to a girl (well, almost), never having had my cheeks pulled, etc etc, the trip was sure to be an eventful one. The whole trip was filled with only two emotions. One of wide eyed wonder and the other of abject terror. Let me start from the very beginning, the very best place to start, as the old song goes. We left Chennai at 1745 hours or something on some Airbus 300 or 320 or something. Our first thoughts, before the plane started, before we boarded, before we checked in, lamented the fact that we weren't travelling Kingfisher. These made up aunties can never match the well rounded calves, the stockinged knees, the rouged cheeks, the red skirts and the bunned up hair of the Kingfisher stewardesses (or are they air hostesses? I never get it right). So there we are on board a plane, which I just know obeys Murphy's law to the letter, see? The plane moves, those wings look awfully flimsy don't you think? I say to myself. Well, if the Wright brother could take off on papier mache and well, if my icon Howard Hughes can fly a sardine can, well then, SO CAN I. I shall boldly go and all that!

Wait, someone's talking on the intercom. Namaste, some captain is flying this plane, etc etc, please take moment now to locate the exits nearest your seat! What's that again? I mean, I'm not in a rush, I'm one of those people who always get on last and leave last. If the cabin should experience a drop in air pressure, oxygen masks will drop automatically, simply place the mask over your nose and mouth and breathe normally. Oh brother, if this is anything like Hamlet or George Carlin's pieces, this potential analyst is going to be controlling traffic at St. Peter's gates. Cut to the chase, the aircraft starts hurtling its passengerd down a grey runway and after coughing up a few fur balls decides to lift off like a goose. I feel 10G's of gravity acting on my 10Gs and promptly find myself wishing I had brought that bottle of homemade wine Kaka was telling me to take. However, the Icarian flight wasn't so bad afterall and, after hitting a pocket of air, which nearly left the passengers retching and clawing at their necks the flight crawled to a grinding halt at Indira Gandhi Intl. Airport.

Nothing much happened that night or the next day. We checked in at the taj, had a ball, met a lot of people and left by bus for the banks of the Ganga. And that was where Helmet decided to take over our lives. More on that, tomorrow.