Shuffling Off to Buffalo

(with due apologies to the 1932 classic from the musical 42nd Street, by The Boswell Sisters)

© 𝕾𝖆𝖙𝖎𝖘𝖍 𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖓𝖉𝖗𝖆 

continued from the previous post: The Mahārajā Rides Into the Sunset

The flight reached London eventually. Heathrow was a mess and there was mass confusion. We found out that the tough-guy Prez of the Anointed States had just fired 30,000 air-traffic controllers while we were in the air and all flights, specially inbound international flights to the Ewe Essay were grounded. The Mahārajā's tight-lipped minions at Heathrow handed out vouchers for £10 to the unwashed and the ungrateful huddled masses of our previous flight. The "No further information available" phrase continued a la the earlier domestic flight. The mighty Mahārajā's staff seemed exceptionally well trained on the omerta code. The voucher was barely enough for a can of Coke and a turkey sandwich at Heathrow prices. This was also the very first time I ate the tasteless, cold, reprocessed, shapeless turkey bits slapped between two slices of soggy white bread, which reminded me of the dire summation of the western palate by a nosy know-it-all neighborhood Auntie ji who had dropped by casually with her very eligible niece earlier in the week.

After the unscheduled layover spanning most of that hellish day in the Heathrow holding tank international lounge with fellow travelers riding a roller-coaster of emotions, our journey eventually resumed. We landed in the late afternoon to the utter chaos at JFK which was still reeling from the ATC situation. The onward adventures from JFK is a topic for another day. 

Well, here’s the thrilling conclusion of my odyssey on the Mahārājā’s magical chariot—from Heathrow to the promised land of milk, honey, and, as I quickly discovered, questionable transit arrangements. 

Act I: The Heathrow Hustle

The sandwich vendor at Heathrow, a weary desi aunty with the enthusiasm of a DMV employee, was doing her best to feed the hordes. A similar recollection was shared by my friend (PD) recently and I quote, "There were bodies sprawled on the floor, minus the hold-all's and lotā. Howrah was a close second." An accurate and charming imagery.

Many agonizingly long hours later, our noble flying chariot had been cleaned—well, let’s just say it had been aggressively perfumed with industrial disinfectants to mask whatever horrors had previously taken place. The restrooms? No longer a crime scene. Progress. Boarding, of course, was its own Olympic event. Passports? Visas? Mere suggestions! The real battle was securing overhead bin space for the jhola brigade, those savvy travelers armed with zippered, faux-leather bags that looked like they’d seen a few wars.  

The Mahārājā’s minions herded us onto the plane with a mix of aaja, aaja! encouragement and bhai, idhar nahi! exasperation. Cajoling chalo, chalo, ji, badho, auntie ji. The anxiety in the air rivaled a stock market crash, fueled by whispers of the PATCO firings by that ex-B-movie actor-turned-POTUS. Ah, America—the land of dreams and fired air traffic controllers.  We got herded into the belly of the beast by Mahārajā's minions with equal amounts of pushing, shouting and redirecting folks that didn't seem to understand nor want to follow directions.

Act II: The Seatmate Saga

I squeezed into my aisle seat next to two portly desi uncles, brothers, as I soon learned. One was Sri Grumpus ji, whose main goal in life was to swap seats with me and gave up after a few attempts, and the other, Sri Talker ji who treated the flight as his personal TED Talk.  

Sri Talker ji, hogging both armrests like a king claiming his throne, wasted no time in sharing his entire life story. He had lived in the Ewe Essay for say-boon-tin ears, working in some library in Kansa’s Seetee. My sleep-deprived brain immediately pictured Krishna’s tyrant uncle, Kansa. Instead, I confidently flexed my geography skills:  "Ah yes, capital of Kansas state!"  Cue immediate scornful correction. No, it wasn’t even in Kansa's Estate. It was in some mystical land called Mijjourrrah, which, judging by his tone, I had clearly never heard of and did not deserve to know about.  

Then came dinner. Sri Talker ji, a strict vegetarian, grilled the flight attendant for a solid ten minutes about the spiritual purity of his meal. Meanwhile, I had been handed a tray of what I think was chicken, though its resemblance to shoe leather was suspicious. The moment he saw my carnivorous betrayal, he recoiled dramatically, as if I’d personally slaughtered a cow on his armrest. Conversation over. Finally!

Act III: JFK & A Streetcar Named Desire

Eight excruciating hours later (or was it eight years? Time is a lie in economy class), we were unceremoniously shooed off the plane. Immigration was a blur of grim-faced officers who looked like they, too, had been trapped in economy. Baggage claim was a free-for-all, but miracle of miracles, I retrieved my battered, hand-me-down suitcase.  

I think at multiple points during this trip (indeed, for numerous events throughout my life), I kept getting reminded of the famous dialog uttered in Tennessee Williams' play A Streetcar Named Desire by Ms. Blanche DuBois "I have always depended on the kindness of strangers."

Enter Paul. A fresh-faced, redheaded lad from the YMCA, who, bless his soul, had been roped into helping confused international students. Mind you, this was the pre-internet era. Communication was done via Aerogrammes, those blue self-sealing letters that cost a small fortune and took weeks to deliver a simple “Beta, have you eaten?” I don't know how this miracle had happened - I had written to the YMCA but do not recall having received a response.

Paul, upon seeing my connecting flight, dropped the bombshell: “You need to go to LaGuardia.”  

Me: “Oh, so just another terminal?” 

Paul: [guffaws in New Yawkese] "About 25 miles away" 

Apparently, my travel agent, one Mr. D. Shah, had sold me a “helicopter shuttle” ticket for ₹750, promising a hop, skip, and jump transfer. Reality? No one in the immediate vicinity seemed to have ever heard of this mythical chopper. Mr. Shah of Arya Travels, if you’re still alive, I would like a refund at today’s exchange rates.  

Paul, being a practical man, got me an MTA bus ticket for $1.50. What followed was a slow, sweaty, hour-long pilgrimage through Jamaica and Jackson Heights, on a bus that doubled as a sauna. NYC, in all its summer glory, welcomed me with honking cabs, impatient pedestrians, and an olfactory cocktail of trash, body odor, and bad decisions. Felt just like home. Only that this MTA bus was not named Desire. 

Act IV: The Final Stretch

At LaGuardia, the USAir counter was refreshingly sane. A cheerful young lady rerouted me onto a later flight and, upon seeing my exhausted nodding, assumed I didn’t understand English. What followed was a full pantomime performance, hand gestures, S L O W and LOUD syllables, dramatic pauses. At this point, I lost it and started laughing. She looked both confused and offended. I apologized to the indignant young lady the best I could that I meant no disrespect, I was just so tired.

I don't remember going through any Security screening on the way to the gate. But eventually, late on that cool evening I did arrive at the Greater Buffalo Niagara International Airport clutching my briefcase and my battered suitcase, like a war survivor. A couple of Indian grad students, alerted of our arrival, crammed me and two other exhausted souls into a 1972 pea-green Gran Torino, its backseat protected by a somewhat clean bedsheet and its trunk secured shut by nylon rope. Classy.  

By 9:30 PM, I was unceremoniously dumped at a student slum with an available mattress and zero dignity left. But hey, I had made it.  

Navigating the next few days is a tale for another posting!

© 𝕾𝖆𝖙𝖎𝖘𝖍 𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖓𝖉𝖗𝖆