The flight from Rio landed at Chhatrapati Shivaji International Airport, Mumbai, at midnight. A twenty-four hours' journey, intermeshed with an excruciating wait at the Paris airport, had taken its toll on me. I was exhausted, wanting desperately to reach home and hit my bed.
When I reached the immigration-queue my heart sank. Ahead of me was an ocean of humanity, awaiting their turn. Will things ever improve in this country?, I thought hopelessly and joined the queue. I didn't have a choice. I pulled out my mobile phone to call home and tell Dharini, my wife, that my flight had landed. But my phone went dead. I tried switching it on and it defiantly refused to show the slightest of response to my futile efforts. The battery was dead—an obvious outcome of the innumerable games that kept me occupied during my long journey.
Reach high, for stars lie
hidden in your soul.
Dream deep, for every dream
precedes the goal.
RALPH VAULL STARR
Somehow the queue managed to move and I crossed the immigration check and then made my way to the conveyor belt area. As luck would have it, my baggage was the last to appear on the rail. I collected my bags and walked out of the airport. Hundreds of drivers stood there, holding large boards with names of passengers they had come to pick up, half of them were wrongly spelt, I could tell even without knowing their correct names. Had an attempt been made to lay down all the placards side by side on the ground, they would cover an entire football field.
My miserable luck continued. I could not find any placard bearing my name. Those who travel regularly would be aware that these days the travel agents SMS the driver's contact number to the passenger. This helps to trace the driver.
However, that was of no use on this fateful day. Anything that could go wrong, was going wrong. A phone charging booth I spotted, already had four or five people crowding around it. I considered, albeit for a fleeting moment, the thought of waiting there but eventually discarded it.
I cursed my secretary under my breath and walked back to a phone booth hoping to call her and ask as to where my pickup was. Maybe, it was not her fault after all. How could she be held responsible if the cab does not turn up! I changed my mind and walked back to the exit point looking around with the hope that I might have missed the placard with my name, but I could not see one.
Dharini had offered to hold back our driver and send the car, but I did not want to pay him overtime and had asked her not to. However, that would have been a much better alternative than this harrowing wait.
I stepped out on the pathway leading to the taxi stand. Finally, I reconciled myself for another fifteen-minute wait in the pre-paid queue for getting hold of a yellow-top taxi to take me to my Bandra residence. You've got to sit inside one to understand for yourself as to why people avoid them like the plague. They are not vehicles. They are a conglomeration of wheels, seats and engine, all put together to take the form of a rickety machine in motion.
Barely had I reached the middle of the road, when I froze. All eyes, including mine, turned from the airport exit point to the road which I had to cross to reach the taxi stand. I looked in that direction and my eyes popped out.
I could hear 'Oooh's' and 'Aaah's' emanating from the crowd behind me, but I could not turn back. My eyes were riveted on the main road ahead, and there she was....
Dressed in red, gleaming under the lights, demurely, she turned into the road that lead to the airport entrance and sashayed onto the black tarmac. She was heading towards me, but I just could not move. My legs were rooted and my mind was blank. She came to a halt a few metres from me. If she moved any further, she would have run over me. But heartless as she was, she did not.
Everyone crowded around to admire her. Even the cops came and stood around her, guarding her from groping miscreants. That did not work. A few gathered courage and touched her. She hardly seemed to mind. Neither did she scream, nor did she shout. She just stood there patiently, allowing everyone to admire her, touch her, and feel her!!!
I gathered some courage and walked up to her, I could make out the words 'Sachin Tendulkar' etched in small fonts. Now I knew!!!!
This was Tendulkar's Ferrari, a Ferrari Modena 360, gifted to him by Formula One Champ, Michael Schumacher in England only a year ago. I tried to peek in through the dark window pane, no one was inside. Sachin Tendulkar was scheduled to return from London and the Ferrari was there to pick him up.
What a stroke of luck! Ferraris are not common in India and sighting them is an opportunity of a lifetime. This was the second time I had sighted a Ferrari. My entire exhaustion evaporated in a jiffy, my mood turned jubilant and when I turned towards the host of taxi drivers who had turned their back towards the airport exit to see the Ferrari, I even saw my name on a small placard. There it was!! I waved furiously to the driver, who came forward and apologised profusely. I returned home comfortably ... dreaming, all along the way, of the Ferrari. Would I own a Ferrari, ever? Only time would tell....
Three
* * *
It Gets Closer
I was in Hyderabad, in honour of our Hyderabad team having achieved record sales figures. It was quite a stressful day at work ... more so because I had to take the morning flight to Hyderabad, and I just hated morning flights.
I thought of retiring to the hotel room, when Nitin Chengappa, one of my colleagues at the head office came up to me and said, 'Ravi, we've a party tonight with the Hyderabad team.' Partying was the last thing that I was looking forward to. After two nights of partying and an early morning flight, my body was in the state of suspended animation. Despite my reluctance, I could not refuse. The whole team had been eagerly waiting for this evening. I decided to join them. This was my first visit to Hyderabad in my new job, and I was to motivate the team.
Become a possibilitarian. No matter
how dark things seem to be or
actually are, raise your sights and
see possibilities-always see
them, for they're always there.
NORMAN VINCENT PEALE
The bash was at Touch, a new chic pub in the heart of the city. A new pub, that too, owned by the reigning stars of the Telugu film industry, Nagarjuna and Amala, it had to have an aura of grandeur.
The party started at nine o' clock, well behind the scheduled time of 7.30 p.m. Jinesh (the national sales head), Nitin and I trooped in with the Hyderabad seniors at around 9.30 p.m.
The music rocked—predominantly Bollywood and Tollywood. If you have not heard of Tollywood yet, you must listen to the beats of Telugu songs to believe them. How on earth the heroes and heroines gyrate to these beats and keep their hips intact, remains a mystery.
The mood was groovy and liquor was flowing. I turned around and scanned the pub. Jinesh was busy doing 'bottoms up' with his sales team. He never touched alcohol. Quite amazing, it was, for a teetotaller to show so much of involvement when it came to getting people drunk.
Nitin was nowhere to be seen. I looked around to catch a glimpse of him, but could not. I assumed that he had stepped out for a phone call, or to the rest room. The music was getting louder and groovier every minute. The beats were getting all of us in a mood to dance. Time flew past, we hardly noticed.
'Ravi,' a whisper in my ears brought me back to reality. It was Nitin.
'Where were you? I was looking for you. You were the one who brought us here and you disappeared without even letting us know!'
'Come with me,' he continued, 'Now!' the stress on the word 'Now', worried me.
'Where? What's happened?'
Or, was this a diversionary tactic?
'Nothing has happened. Come, I'll tell you.' He sounded quite mysterious, but I decided to go along.
'What's it, Nitin?'
'I want you to meet someone.'
'Whom?'
'Sandy,' he said, as we entered the lift.
'Sandy! Who's Sandy?'
'He's an old friend of mine.'
'Do I know him?' No reply.
>
Why on earth would I need to meet an old friend of Nitin, I wondered, but out of courtesy, did not ask him. The lift stopped on the ground floor. It was half an hour past midnight.
Standing there in the lift lobby was a man in his early thirties. Hair cut extremely short and clothes which gave him away, he stretched his hand out towards me and said, 'Hi! I'm Sandy.' The looks were typically Andhra, but the accent was distinctly American.
So, this was the person Nitin wanted me to meet. 'Oh, Hi! Good to see you.' I hated the fact that I had to be nice to some unknown man in the middle of the night. I wanted to get back to Touch quickly, back to the music and my vodka. I looked at Nitin, wondering and at the same time, imploring him to tell me why he wanted me here at this hour.
'Come,' said Nitin and started walking towards the main gate. I had no choice but to follow. He stopped and turned back when he reached the gate. I had a 'clueless' look on my face when I had begun to follow him. Now, as he turned back and looked at me, my expression had turned to 'clueless and irritated'.
'Wanna go for a drive?' He said with a sly grin on his face. I could have killed him for that.
'Why on earth would I want to go for a drive at this hour, Nitin?'
Nitin sensed my frustration, so did Sandy. I turned towards Sandy, wondering what kind of joke it was. That was when I noticed Sandy lifting his hand pointing down the road. 'What do you say now?'
'Woooooow!' I immediately followed it up with a college Romeo kind whistle.
A few yards ahead, shining in the streetlights was a brand new, spotlessly clean Ferrari. Sandy had just invited me to ride a Ferrari ... was I dreaming! I pinched myself, I was awake after all. It would be my first chance to sit in a Ferrari.
Now, I knew why Nitin had dragged me away from the party. A ride in a Ferrari had been my desire for long. For nothing in the world I could have refused this offer.
I immediately walked towards the waiting car and got in. Sandy got into the driver's seat and said, 'Don't get nervous. I drive quite well.'
'I'm sure, you do ...' my sentence fading midway as he turned on the ignition and revved up the engine. The sound was awesome. The feel was great. The experience was pulsating. He pressed the accelerator and the rubber hit the road. As it cruised along the near empty road, the acceleration and the speed set my adrenaline racing. I was finally sitting in a Ferrari ... first time in my life.
We took a round and returned.
'Sandy, may I drive?' I could not resist asking him as we got out. He looked at me, then at Nitin, paused for a second and tossed me the key. 'Here. Drive carefully. It's not been insured yet.'
'Thanks, Sandy,' I muttered and got into the driver's seat. Nitin got in from the other side. Sandy could not, for it was a two-seater.
The engine purred as I turned on the ignition. The rest was pure ecstasy. Ten minutes of unadulterated driving pleasure and energy as I whizzed past the sleeping areas of Hyderabad. When I finally returned, I was in the least willing to return the keys, but I had to. The car was not mine, after all. It was someone else's Ferrari that I had driven. Nevertheless, I HAD driven a Ferrari!
Heaven on Earth is a choice
you must make, not a place
we must find.
WAYNE DYER
For days to come, every morning while driving my car, I remembered this drive. It was the high point of my visit to Hyderabad.
Four
* * *
The Changing Face of Time
30 May 2006
The Air Deccan flight from Mumbai to Thiruvananthapuram, DN 702 was scheduled to take off at 8.30 p.m. in the evening. However, till 10.30 p.m., there were no announcements of when the flight would take off, or if it would, at all.
I happened to book tickets for that flight. One does look for fare economies while going for a vacation, and I was no exception. Air Deccan was a low-cost airline in India and they offered excellent fares from Mumbai to Thiruvananthapuram on a night flight. I was heading to Maldives for my annual vacation with my family and the three of us were very excited. There was only one direct flight to Maldives from India. We would reach Thiruvananthapuram at 10.30 p.m., and after an overnight stay there, would take the morning flight to Male, the capital of Maldives.
It is not the strongest of the species
that survive, nor the most
intelligent, but the one most
responsive to change.
CHARLES DARWIN
The airport was crowded. Four Air Deccan flights were delayed. All the passengers converged around the small Air Deccan counter manned by two junior staff-members, who were on the verge of a nervous breakdown. The Air Deccan staff had absolutely no clue about the arrival and departure schedules.
The waiting lounge was full. An elderly couple sat down on the floor in the middle of the hall. They were too tired to stand. Other passengers, too, were getting restless. It was hot and humid and despite the air-conditioning, everyone was sweating profusely. The clock was approaching midnight at a feverish pace.
To be fair, Air Deccan could not be held responsible. Due to heavy monsoon showers in Kerala, flights could not take off on time, throwing the entire connecting schedule out of gear.
As the passengers started getting impatient, a security guard stepped in, 'Aap logon ko to pata hai, yeh roz ka haal hai. Phir ap isme ticket kyon lete hain (You all know, this is a daily affair. Then why do you buy tickets on this airline?).'
The guard had intended to help by being sympathetic. Instead, he ended up instigating the crowd. A heated debate started on whether low-cost actually meant low service levels.
Air Deccan, Hai ... Hail Air Deccan, Hai ... Hail!!' The chants started reverberating in the entire airport. The counter staff, sensing trouble, disappeared.
Suddenly, amidst the loud din and the crowd frenzy, I heard a tiny, delicate voice. Air Deccan, Hai ... Hai! Air Deccan, Hai ... Hai!!!!' It sounded like a sacred chant in a noisy pub, a sprinkle of cold water in the midst of a desert storm.
I turned to look behind me. Standing there holding her beautiful mother's right hand with her left, pumping her right hand in the air, as she joined the crowd in screaming, was a small, tiny little cherub. At most, she would have been six years old. Oblivious of the public gaze, she seemed to be enjoying herself, screaming herself hoarse.
Flashback to the year 2000: The setting—Chennai airport. It was two in the afternoon. I was waiting outside the airport, waiting for the flight from Delhi to arrive. Thankfully, I was not made to wait in the sun for long. The flight was on time. Within fifteen minutes, a pretty young face made her way out of the airport holding a newborn, wrapped in a soft quilt. As she approached me, I stepped out from where 1 was standing, walked towards her and gave her a warm lingering hug. I bent down to look at the angel, blissfully asleep, gave her a peck on the cheek and then took her over from her mother and walked towards the parking lot where my Maruti 800 was parked. My wife and newborn, Anusha, had returned home from Delhi, where Dharini had gone for giving birth to our first child.
Standing beside me at the Mumbai airport holding my daughter's hand firmly was my wife of twelve years, trying unsuccessfully to control my daughter as she continued with her chant 'Air Deccan, Hai ... Hai'. This was my daughter's first exposure to a public display of anger—though she was screaming more out of fun than anger.
Somehow, the flight took off at 1.30 a.m., and by the time we reached the hotel in Thiruvananthapuram, it was 4.00 a.m. We slept for a couple of hours and then caught the flight to Male, the next morning.
At the Thiruvananthapuram airport, as we were getting off the taxi to head inside, Anusha asked me, 'Appa, which flight are we taking now?'
'Indian Airlines, Anusha. That's the only one which goes to Maldives.'
Thank God! Appa, from now on, we'll not go by Air Deccan. I will only come by Jet or Kingfisher.' These were the leading airlines in the country. My wife looked at me and smiled.
'That's clever; for a six-yea
r-old to know the good airlines from the bad ones.' She was thrilled.
I was not. For me the statement held a different meaning, something which made me uncomfortable, something way more serious than the battle between the low-cost and the luxury airlines, much more disturbing than the deterioration of Indian Airlines and Air India. Something, that evolved faster than the pace at which new airlines were entering the Indian air space.
I travelled by air for the first time when I was twenty-three years old. I was the first in my family to do so. My daughter travelled by air when she was twenty-three days old. And by six, she developed an idea about the airline company to select and the one to reject.
We always overestimate the change
that will occur in the next two years
and underestimate the change that
will occur in the next ten. Don't let
yourself be lulled into inaction.
BILL GATES
This took me back to the memory of my first flight from Bangalore to Delhi. Just as the plane was disappearing into the clouds, I had caught the fleeting glimpse of a Ferrari. A red Ferrari. And then, it disappeared. After fourteen years of toil and sweat, I was nowhere close to the Ferrari, and here was my daughter making demands of the airlines she wished to travel by.
Five
* * *
I Want My Ferrari
That night at Hyderabad, when I returned to my hotel room after the enchanting drive in the Ferrari, sleep had deserted me. I desperately wanted the Ferrari for myself. I had tasted blood. I had driven one.... Finally, when my eyes closed involuntarily at 4.00 a.m., I was still dreaming of the Ferrari.
I Bought The Monk's Ferrari Page 2
