Bishal Thapa – India At 60

India At 60

Chilled Beer for Grandma

Bishal Thapa

On a recent flight back from Kathmandu to Delhi on Indian Airlines, I was seated across the aisle from an Indian family seemingly returning home after a vacation in Nepal. They weren’t loud but clearly audible across the aisle and enough to keep me distracted. Their mirthful banter held steady and they seemed to be in no despair that their holiday was coming to an end.

There was nothing particular about them. An ordinary middle class Indian family holidaying in Nepal was not an unusual sight. Before India began liberalizing in earnest in the nineties, Indians flocked to Kathmandu to purchase foreign products which were not available back home. A holiday in Nepal in those days was about everything from Levi’s jeans to Wrigley chewing gum.

These days it was different. India had liberalized. Glossy glass façade shopping malls now spread across Indian cities and towns offered every foreign product imaginable. Last year when India put into operation its trade pact allowing import of Harley motorcycles for export of its mangoes, it became clear that India had emphatically moved on beyond Gandhi’s austerity and Nehru’s socialism.

The family was spread across three rows, starting two rows behind the emergency exit next to the wings. On the last row, the men sat with an empty seat between them. Seated by the window was the father who appeared to be in the late forties, graying slightly but with well kept hair, a thick black moustache and a grey Polo golf T-shirt that made no effort to hide his belly. He fiddled with his phone, spoke diminutively almost with a bow to the other man, who seemed to be his father and kept a steady watch on the two rows ahead even as he peered occasionally out of the widow.

The grandfather seated in the aisle seat, well built though slightly frail with age reminded me of the family patriarch that they used to show in old Bollywood movies – an older man on his reclining bamboo cane chair in the verandah surveying the lush green fields as if proud of what he had accomplished. He would appear either at the start or the end of the film depending on whether he was being cast as the good or bad guy. The grandfather seemed no different, except he was in a plane seat instead of a reclining bamboo cane chair in the verandah. He sat there with the hint of a smile following the chatter in the two rows ahead of him.

 The women were in the middle row, directly across the aisle from where I was. The grandmother had the middle seat, the mother the window seat. The aisle seat was empty. The two women looked very similar separated only almost by age and a bit of bright lipstick that the mother had on. The grandmother looked to be in her early sixties and wore a neat brown plain kadhi saree. They spoke softly but were animated in conversation that was interjected with giggles and interrupted frequently by the children who spoke more loudly.

A boy and two girls were in the row ahead of the women. The boy perhaps 16 or 17 with headphone hooked to his Sony portable playstation was fully occupied with his game. When his sisters nudged him once or twice to ask something, he removed his headphones but answered with a shrug or a nod. I didn’t hear him say anything during the flight except the word “Veg” when asked for his meal preference. The two sisters in the middle and window seat may have been 12 or 13, sat up with their knees on their seats leaning to face their mother and grandmother for the conversation that was underway.

                “How much did you lose, papa?” the younger one asked excitedly. The older sister quickly slapped her gently on the arm to remind her not to speak so loudly.

                “Nine,” he said.

                “Mama lost 4 thousand ($80),” she retorted.

                “And would have lost more if I hadn’t showed her how to play the roulette. Can’t keep betting on individual numbers,” he interjected quickly. Mama smiled and the sisters giggled. Must not have been a victorious visit to the casinos but no one appeared to be complaining.

The air hostess arrived to ask the girls to be seated and to buckle up. Indian Airlines, perhaps because they were state owned, still had the old-school stewardess. Full bodied middle aged women draped in sarees and who appeared to fit in more easily in the middle row between the mother and grandmother rather than the aisles of the contemporary Indian skies. Several of the private carriers that arrived after  India liberalized the aviation business had opted to use smarter, sexier younger woman in modern outfits. Jet Airways, one of the larger private airlines, dressed their stewardesses in long bright yellow slim fit jackets. Kingfisher, the other dominant private carrier, perhaps echoing the flamboyance of the owner used bright red short skirts an inch above of the knees with matching red shoes and shirt. Indian Airlines was boring and outdated by comparison.

We took off on time and as we headed over the mountains the drink cart was out immediately. That’s the nice thing about state owned airline. While other carriers, for all their sexiness on board struggle to offer complimentary water, state airlines even with all their financial distress – Indian Airlines was in the midst of a bankruptcy – feel that it diminishes national prestige not to offer a full bar and menu even on the shortest flight.

The men ordered apple juice. When the air hostess asked the grandfather what he wanted he would not look at her straight. Instead he asked the son what they had, the son asked the stewardess then told the father and the whole conversation carried on this way till the juice was served. It didn’t seem to bother the stewardess.

It was the turn of the women to order drinks. The mother and grandmother went into a huddle as the air-hostess waited. By then the two sisters had propped up on the seat as before intently listening to the selection being made. It was a whole minute before the grandmother looked up from the huddle and announced, “Beer.” An unusual choice, I thought. 

The stewardess stood completely still almost a bit stunned by what she heard. “Beer? We’ll be landing in an hour.” she fumbled.

Grandmother didn’t reply but had an unwavering look in eyes as she peered at the airhostess. Everyone – the sisters, mother and grandmother – stared at the airhostess.

                “We only have Foster’s,” the airhostess said at last and plopped down one large 500 ml can with two plastic cups. She didn’t wait to hear further and turned immediately to ask me what I wanted. The little sister glanced at me and smiled.

A few minutes later when the beer had been poured into the two plastic cups, the mother rang for the air hostess. The same one arrived.

                “The beer is not chilled,” said the grandmother.

That did it. The stewardess had held her cool till then suddenly turned blazing red as if ready to explode.

                “Why did you open the can then?” she asked in a loud voice without hiding her rage.

                “Because we couldn’t tell that it was not chilled till we put it in the cups,” replied the grandmother in a matter of fact of tone without breaking her smile.

                    “We have no chilled beer,” the stewardess replied, turned and left without waiting for a response.

The grandmother turned to look at mother and two daughters. In an instant, all four spontaneously burst out laughing. They chugged it like two fraternity boys at a college party.

Cheers Grandma.

26 January 2010.