Plane Talk

Turn this crazy bird around / I shouldn’t have got on this flight tonight. Joni Mitchell.

‘Are you veg or non-veg?’ As an opening gambit for a conversation with a perfect stranger, I found this a rather unconventional question. Why would someone you did not know from Adam be asking you about your dietary habits, straight off the blocks? I mean, if I had been introduced to a person at a party, I was hardly going to kick things off by asking if the party of the second part was veg or non-veg now, would I? Any more than I would be asking if he was straight or gay. That would seem pretty daft, not to mention improper, when there are so many other avenues of polite inquiry or even pressing concerns available such as, what the person does for a living, is he married, how many kids, what brand of car does he own, does he support the BJP or Congress, is he au fait with the implications of America’s Secondary Sanctions, is he a fan of Donald Trump and so on. You do not dive straight in at the deep end and query the fellow about matters culinary. Too personal.

Except that this inquisitive (or so I thought) person was sitting, seat-belt fastened, next to me on a domestic flight. And his question, which at first seemed odd, was dictated not so much by idle curiosity but by the fact that the air hostess was making breakfast menu inquiries of the passengers and he was merely trying to be helpful in passing on what the hostess was saying, which was barely audible owing to the ambient sounds of people chatting and the insistent drone of the plane’s engines. Bearing in mind I was occupying a window seat some distance away from the soft-spoken hostess. Having said ‘veg’ and being perfunctorily handed over a soggy box wrapped in aluminium foil, the hostess wheeled her meal cart on to the next row.

That was that, I said to myself. I can now concentrate on navigating the contents of the dodgy cardboard box (after some tedious and clumsy unfoiling) in which were two vadas floating in a watery sambar and a little container with a blob of green chutney on the side. A flimsy, white plastic fork and knife was provided. The fork snapped in two the moment I pushed it into one of the rock hard vadas while two of the broken prongs from the fork embedded themselves into the unappetising, cold offering. I pushed the box away untasted. My neighbour, who was comfortably wolfing down a cheese omelette, essayed a pitying smile. ‘That is one reason why I never order the vegetarian breakfast. You end up consuming more than you had bargained for. In your case, disastrously, it could have been bits and pieces of the plastic fork. Ha ha!’ I did not see the funny side of it but before I could respond tartly with an ‘And you are?’ he stuck his hand out and said, ‘Prakash, consultant physician,’ by way of introducing himself. I offered my right hand and promptly dropped the knife which wedged itself between the back of his trousers and the backrest of the seat, smearing a few drops of sambar for good measure. ‘So sorry, clumsy of me. Here’s some tissue. Why can’t they provide us with metal cutlery? I know this is cattle class, but still. We pay extra for the food, don’t we? I am Suresh, retired brand and marketing mish-mash. Nice to meet you.’

‘Mish-mash?’ The consultant physician looked puzzled.

‘Well, we marketing chaps dabble in various things. We are professional dabblers. Advertising, media management, brand architecture, PR, market research – it’s a sort of smorgasbord disguised as a tutti frutti. Looks and sounds nice but is less than the sum of its constituent parts. Hence mish-mash. Mind you, I was not being derogatory or anything. After all, it’s a career option that kept the home fires burning and all that. Just a spot of healthy cynicism.’

After raising his eyebrows and muttering ‘brand architecture?’ my doctor fellow passenger shovelled another forkful of omelette into his cavernous mouth, his plastic fork intact, and was starting to say something but choked on his omelette and began to sputter and cough uncontrollably. I reached out for the red button above my head for the air hostess to bring drinking water pronto. That darned red button is always tantalisingly out of reach unless you happen to be a giant. It was an American aircraft. Figures! Meanwhile, a few curious passengers had gathered round, tut-tutting and even taking photos on their mobile phones! Watch the birdie and hey presto, we are on Facebook and Instagram! Caption – Passenger chokes on dodgy omelette. I did not bother telling them it was the vada that was dodgy. Anyhow, I shushed them away. It took the hostess 10 minutes to arrive with the water. The doctor was in extremis while I kept patting him vigorously on the back and on top of his head. He took a few sips and a gulp and, mercifully, sanity was restored. He did not collapse on me. After a few more clearing coughs Dr. Prakash apologised profusely and was now breathing normally. As was I.

I chided him. ‘I am sorry to have to say this but as a doctor you ought to know better than to talk with a mouthful of food. You gave me the heebie-jeebies. Didn’t your mother teach you anything? We could have had a crisis and there might not have been another doctor on the flight to attend to you. Market research experts tell us that the chances of there being more than one doctor on a regular flight are infinitesimal. Unless it is a delegation of oncologists or cardiologists flying somewhere for a conference. Physician, heal thyself, about sums it up.’ I can get quite Biblical if greatly exercised. I probably overstepped my limit but he had it coming. Smirking when my fork broke and bolting his omelette like there was no tomorrow or that he had just come out of a period of intermittent fasting. I wouldn’t consult him for any medical issue if he were the last doctor left standing on earth.

To give the man some credit, the good doctor did seem somewhat contrite. ‘Once again, I do apologise for the needless commotion I caused. Thanks for all the care and attention. It was one of those unfortunate accidents. Food getting stuck in the throat. Could have happened to anybody.’ Now he was making excuses but I decided to let it go. No point in rubbing it in. Normal service was resumed.

‘To get back to the subject, are you strictly vegetarian or do you occasionally stray?’ He would not give up.

‘Given the state of the vadas they gave me, I would have happily opted for the omelette. Only I did not get the chance thanks to your histrionics. Truth to tell, I come from strictly vegetarian stock, but you know how it is. Eggs are conveniently not considered non-veg. Hope that answers your question.’

Dr. Prakash, now fully relaxed, smiled. ‘I come from Kerala, where we eat pretty much anything that moves. And please don’t start on that hoary, old chestnut about cruelty to animals. Since you are fond of quoting from the Bible, allow me to return the compliment. In Genesis 9:3, God granted permission to eat meat after the Great Flood; Every moving thing that lives shall be food for you. We drew the line on domestic pets of course, but the Chinese and their ilk tend to interpret God’s word quite literally.’

‘Touché. For you don’t count the dead when God’s on your side. That was Bob   Dylan, incidentally, not the Bible.’ I was beginning to enjoy the repartee.

The doctor was impressed. ‘This is quite fascinating. One last question as we should be landing in about 10 minutes. Vegetarians tend to get sanctimonious and, at times, downright unpleasant about those of us who consume the flesh of animals, fish and fowl. Did you know that a group of scientists (in Japan, I think) once conducted experiments on plants and vegetables with very sophisticated, state-of-the-art equipment? They concluded that when vegetables, fruit and leaves were plucked or cut from their parent trees or plants, they experienced indescribably excruciating pain; the flora that is. Not that the scientists were left untouched. The resultant screams of agony were faithfully recorded and amplified. Word is that many of those involved in the experiment could not sleep for months after their investigations. Some of them sank into deep depression and even committed hara kiri. The Japs are like that. Makes you think, what?’

I took his final question to be rhetorical and declined to offer an answer. As the plane was in steep descent, and the undercarriage was opening, I closed my eyes and pretended to pray, as many people do on flights when taking off or landing. Instead, I was thinking to myself, next time on a morning flight I shall order the omelette.

Moral of the story: When breakfasting on a flight, be an eggetarian and not a vegetarian. And chew slowly. Like the cows.