10:20 AM on the PNQ Airport clock - and I’m mumbling the choicest of profanity for two reasons. To start with, my flight’s delayed by two hours and I really need to get in to work soon. So I’m a tad - in fact, more than a tad - snappy. To make things worse, there is no Wi-Fi at this excuse for an airport. The Pune Airport ought to be called by it’s official name, the Lohegaon Airbase, because that’s precisely what it is. Jerking my head left, I can look at where the airport begins. To the right, I see where it ends. That’s how huge this airport is. Apologies, I meant airbase, of course.
I’m now on the third seat from the left or right (depending on where you’re looking from) in the second row. This offers the perfect view with very few pillars or obstructions as I look at the people around me. Which means, the women, of course.
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10:25 AM - Been glancing at this random firang female - late thirties, by the way - who’s taken the Osho idea so seriously that she’s actually worn a maroon cloak that is probably just barely acceptable for travel in an aircraft. Either that, or she packed all the laundry in and forgot to leave one for the journey. Not that I’m complaining, but after a week at Koregaon Park, I’ve seen enough Harry-Potter-comes-to-Pune-like characters to last me a lifetime.
Especially at night, in the dark, they looked like Death-eaters who had a change of uniform and lost the hood. And not just one or two - but an army - and while they didn’t flash wands or scream Avada Kedavra, I’ve gone the extra mile to make sure I don’t bump into them.
Behind her walks a guy wearing a red jacket, and he’s walking towards me. The jacket has ‘Established 1983′ on it, and has got a huge black strip on either sleeve. It’s got a red zip and a black hood. Proline, Winter 2006. That irritating feeling when you see someone else wearing a piece of clothing you own as well is now scratching at my mind.
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10:35 AM - A total bomb, as brown and inviting as chocolate, just passed by, with what could possibly be the ugliest, scrawniest of freaks next to her. They don’t have the same nose, so he’s obviously not related. Shucks. If only I were uglier, I might have landed this gorgeous chick someday. But hey, what’s this? The thing I love about such women is that they’re blessed with the looks to attract guys, and more importantly, me. Indeed, this Brown Bomb (did I just violate a Corner House copyright?) has a lovely frame, and is quite well endowed. What I hate about such women, though, is that they still find the need to flaunt it.
And if she wore those jeans any lower, they’d pass as denim stockings. I kid you not. She’s the kind of girl that can take the low-waist idea to trenchlike levels. Simply put, if she worked at Levi’s, they’d come out with a high-knee version this summer.
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10:50 AM - I’ve been noticing this guy for the last ten minutes now, and no I’ve not turned gay. Not just yet. But I can’t help looking at this this guy so closely, because he’s standing right in front of me, screaming his ass off on the phone about some business deal involving ceramics. While on the subject, a certain Tiwari guy seems to have screwed up a deal or two, and Mr. Loudspeaker-in-front-of-me-with-his-dick-in-my-face is yelling so loud that I wonder if Tiwari even needs a phone.
To my left is an Airtel kiosk for charging mobiles, and a Chinese-looking guy is struggling to get his cellphone charged. His spouse, to his right, is in absolute surprise wondering how to get the darned charger to work, having rolled her e-ticket, one end of the roll firmly settled in her mouth. Mercifully, Loudspeaker has stopped yelling and I can get back to looking at women as opposed to what I was.
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11:21 AM - Now an attractive voice on the PA system announces that it’s time for me to get checked out at the security check. It was a rather interesting security check, to be honest. According to the CISF Jawan who felt me up, my i-Pod is a detonator. He said that jokingly, of course, but insisted I screen it with my hand-baggage. When I returned, he re-did the check, and found my keychain which has my RSA SecureID on it. It’s a random number that keeps ticking and - gulp - looks exactly like what a detonator would in a really poorly done Hollywood movie. So there was this very army-like raise of the eyebrow.
‘Yeh kya hai?’
‘Sir, RSA token’
‘Kya?’
‘Yeh Laptop mein jaata hai, jab ghar se kaam kar na hai’.
I’m now seated at the corner seat of the fifth row and observing this rather attractive just-out-of-college girl who hasn’t tied her shoe-lace, by the way. And her jeans are actually helping the Airport’s sweepers with half their job. And I’ve just stopped looking.
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11:42 AM - Merci my Divine Lord. Finally, my kind of girl, even if she’s with her mother. Not the thinnest yet quite attractive, she’s 5′6, wears a white Kurta and black-worn-out jeans nicely folded up, with the light-gray folds showing outside, making them look like three-fourths. Ordinary slippers but extraordinary feet and luckily her nails aren’t drenched in colour like a mid-summer’s Yash Raj flick that stars and ends with the word Jhoom.
But what really hit me about this white-top is the short hair. I’m a sucker for women with short hair, and in all certainty, this would rank right up there, making the deep-blue-clad Indi-Go ground-hostess next to her look less attractive, simply because Ms. Blue isn’t as simple. In the distance, there’s this Kingfisher one (it’s quite obvious because the skirt is worn with such obvious intent of having the male population look at it). And while I have this thing for reds, I’m not looking there either.
So, back to the bobcut, because I have little time as I board in eight minutes.
Her accessories are simple - a little denim bag, a media player now plugged in, and a murder mystery for company - Agatha Christie. She probably is Maharastrian because her mother (and it is the mother or mausi - the same nose) is yapping her goodbyes in Marathi as if they were off to Bangkok and not Bangalore. Bobcut, meanwhile, is uninterested in the conversation that’s now revealed the presence of pickle in the hand baggage.
So I’ve been hoping that the bobcut passes a glance at me and notices me noticing her, while I type frantically. But it’s not going to happen, because I’m not Brad Pitt, and Agatha Christie is such a fine writer. The Kingfisher girl has wandered away too, so I’m just waiting for the boarding call now, looking aimlessly.
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11:52 AM - There’s this firang guy who has his laptop out, has crossed his arms and is now scratching the elbows, very monkeylike, if I may. Which reminds me, whatever happened to the Harbhajan hearing? Either ways, here’s the last girl I’ll describe for you, for this one is a proper Puneite who would give most Bombay girls a complex. To say that she’s forward would be to suggest that Ponting can bat. With absolutely no subtlety whatsoever, the lipstick certainly having been entirely used up for this morning alone, in she walks with a black skirt that hugs her rear so firmly that I’m worried it might get stuck. And while I don’t mind black - ever - it certainly seems like there’s a certain amount of adhesive involved. The top is - mercifully - not too deep, and fluffy, which nicely counterbalances what’s below. Her ear-rings are huge - you can shoot ping-pong balls through them - and her hair is as straight as a Tendulkar straight-drive off a Zimbabwean bowler whose surname is longer than the Amazon. She walks like she’s either been done - or will be done - and that’s a total turn-off. The kaajal is also overdone: it’s like a third-grade item-girl who found herself in a nightclub outside Sanpada station in Navi Mumbai, and suddenly decided to travel to Mumbai.
Don’t get me wrong - I just love the unsophisticated, and just hate it when they try to cross over to the other side - but this one fits the bill of slut-seeking behavior.
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11:57 AM - Okay, here comes the call. Goodbye, Pune, and goodbye my bored reader, and allow me to extend my gratitude for staying with my randomness at the airport. How random can I get? No, really?
