Airports. The friendliest place on earth.
But as the air conditioner whirred on my left, I suddenly smelled more than just the airport grub. The CCDs, Subways and McDonald’s are in an ilk of their own. We aren’t talking fresh pages of new books either. This one comes wafting through the air on trolleys and smells of germs, sweat, detergent, guitars, creams and conditioners. Sometimes dog-eared novels. And sometimes home cooked food. You always hope it’s safe as you take flight. And that no one sat on it – and nothing broke. Zip it. Lock it. Forget the combination. But always, always keep it safe.
Don’t you see it? Don’t you see what the sign says? It’s “Baggage Claim” for God’s sake.
The other thing is laptops. The HP service centre on 100 feet road in Indiranagar. I mean people actually get token numbers and you’ve GOT to check out their expressions as they traipse into the service room carrying their babies. To borrow (and paraphrase) from Priyanka Chopra’s Nokia ad, it’s not just a laptop, it’s who we are. We save ourselves in drives, folders and subfolders. Baggage, again. Secured with passwords.