Worked Up

Traffic Jam on the main road leading to airport at eleven in the night, this city is choking on its own traffic. Streets are extended gutters and gutters are filled with torn chips packets and empty plastic cola bottles on which ‘please recycle’ is written, so small that you have to strain your eyes to read it. Even at this time of the night, the heat is unbearable with humidity adding to the discomfort.

Two weeks of night shifts from last Thursday, nobody cares. I don’t mind them either. Airport is a nice place to have a job, the crowd is good. The site is completely air conditioned, got free wifi, and no seniors around to check. And whenever you want to freshen up, you can always go to the Departure section and gawk at the pretty airlines staffs at the check-in, who stare at you and you stare back. The girls are easy on eyes, but after spending four months here, I must say that the intelligent, dusky Bong Bombshells are just Urban Legends. I feel cheated. Ehh! Whatever!

To pass my time I could drop in at the Arrival section, where most of the time passengers are having fights with the airlines’ crew for one reason or the other. You get to see ugly word fights, which are cool, for you get to learn some good Bengali words. And the nicest part about night shifts, there is less work. It is getting back to the guest house that I hate.

They call me a PLC engineer but I am as much a PLC engineer as Sajid Khan, a moviemaker or Tushar Kapoor, an actor. But then again, I have seen people sitting at higher posts equally clueless about the systems they work upon. Main work is done by fitters and helpers, rest of us just sit there waiting for something to happen, or run around pretending to be busy. Technical sites are also like typical offices, everyone bitches about everyone else. I pretty much feel at home here.

Arrival Carrousel eight had a breakdown yesterday while passengers were waiting for their bags. It was a mess and I couldn’t do much about it then. The passengers pounced on me asking where their bags are, in chaste Bengali. I said I wasn’t the one responsible and asked them to direct their anger to that airline’ staff who was standing nearby. The crowd pounced on her. Poor girl, she must be cursing me.

Cannot afford to have such problems today. I go to the control room to have a look at the whole system which is generally done by aged engineers from the Airport Authority who actually hated us for developing a system this complex as they couldn’t handle it without our help. Departure portal F is showing fault, I observe. They have been sending oversize bags again. Have to deal with this. I shut down the whole belt and go to the portal where I meet this clean shaven, dark guy in black suit going completely nuts because the belt stopped. ‘What part of professionalism you don’t understand?’ I ask him. We have been telling them not to send oversize bags as they may damage the belts. It’s a showpiece he tells me. What the purpose of such conveyor system is if you can’t send bags of regular passengers? I tell him it is designed according to international standards and purpose is precisely to imbibe an international culture among regular passengers. It is India, he counter argues, such system wont work here. I tell him ‘You are a staff of international airlines, better start behaving like one’.

He smiles. He asks where I am from. I tell him. His smile gets broader ‘Oho, Malayali aanalle.’ he says. ‘Athe, yes’ I tell him, a bit surprised. We both laugh.

And then, we grab a cup of coffee at the CCD nearby and discuss how unbearable the weather in the city is.