Early morning flights! : Or how I learned to stop worrying and tolerate the neck pillow.

Making small talk with the cabbie on the way to the airport. Mimicking the facial expression of the picture on the identity card at the terminal entrance. Conveying the preference for an emergency exit on the aisle at the boarding pass counter. Posing as the Vitruvian Man for the security scanners. Trying to balance without holding any support as the shuttle bus swerves around to the plane. 

The eyes are heavy and puffy, the dark circles betraying the rude awakening from nightly unconsciousness.
The mind is on a disoriented overdrive. Thought and imagination lack coherence and clarity.

"Ladies and gentleman! I am your chief attendant and on behalf of the captain and the entire flight crew, I welcome you aboard".

Bloody hell! Stuck. And stuck for quite some now. I look around and secretly hate all the co-passengers who are blissfully asleep. But I am too proud to admit. Not to myself. Not to any other soul. Who needs to sleep in a flight, anyway? Sleep is for suckers. The brave and the honourable stay awake.

And afterall, this is the only time you get  to do the things you wanted to do but couldn't find the time. Not a bad idea to resume reading the book from where you left off in your last flight ride. Not a bad idea at all. I am not a teenage girl to play Candy Crush on the dumb phone, nor a humourless suit to follow the financial times. Too bad that the mind refuses to fully grasp the words being read.

The eyes are rubbed, the head is shaken and the mind is willed to make sense of it all. Between the longing stares out of the window, the forceful cracking of joints and the wishful daydreaming of an inviting bed, a few pages are flipped with partial comprehension. 

"Excuse me. Would you like to have something?" 

"I would like to have a sprawling castle on the banks of Scotland" is what I would have liked to say. "A glass of water, please" is what I manage instead, with the blood red eyes and a forced grin probably disconcerting the air hostess. The realisation of me momentarily slipping into blankness before being awoken strikes. And the thought is swiftly dismissed with the blame being laid ironically on the lack of sleep. 

I then start pondering about one of these great mysteries in life. As to how after every return from a trip, there is a truckload of work which magically manifests and every pending task suddenly acquires critical importance and becomes top priority. It is going to be a long day and I won't be hitting the bed anytime soon. Damn it!

"On behalf of the airlines and the entire crew, I would like to thank you for joining us on this trip and we look forward to seeing you on board again in the near future. Good day."



The neck-pillow was considered a boon to the frequent fliers. But to me, it represented the touristy way of life. Preplanned and packaged. The neck-pillow sucked the variability out of the flight ride by coddling one into a beatific dream. And I hated it with a vengeance. It was everything I stood against.

The broken-doughnut-shaped monster was to be seen at most airports. On display in stores in the retail arena of terminals and hanging from the dragged luggage of hurried passengers. And it was to be seen more and more, its presence greatly multiplied in colours and absolute numbers over the years.

Soon it would consume everyone. An entire generation of travellers would fall prey to its alluring charm. But not me. I always considered myself to be the influencer rather than the influenced. So no amount of eulogizing by any of the die-hard loyalists of the ever-growing cult of the neck pillow, would make me change my mind.

I would resist it. I would protest against it. I would fight the good fight till the very end. I didn't need to snooze on early morning flights. What if I didn't get more than a few winks of sleep the previous night? What if the the body was stressed and strained?  And what if the mind was drained and fatigued? After all, I have survived all those innumerable travails in all those ungodly hours. And doesn't whatever that doesn't kill you make you only stronger?

A particular item was billed at the WH Store at the Terminal of the Rajiv Gandhi International Airport.

"Your boarding pass, please. Have a pleasant flight, Mr Varma"

The eyes are heavy and puffy, the dark circles betraying the rude awakening from nightly unconsciousness.
The mind is on a disoriented overdrive. Thought and imagination lack coherence and clarity.

"On behalf of the airlines and the entire crew, I would like to thank you for joining us on this trip and we look forward to seeing you on board again in the near future. Good day."

Now....where was I?

Of 22 men chasing a ball for 90 minutes

It was that summer again when people all around seemed excited about the funny game where a bunch of guys in shorts pursue a round lump around a rectangular field.

When the football jerseys of various nationalities were worn for aesthetic hollowness rather than enduring honour.

When the players were more often venerated for the sleek coiffure they sported than for their silken touch of the ball.

When the games were followed for the fodder they provided for imaginative updates and not for their tactical plots.

When the aliases of teams were bandied about in foreign tongue for topical charlatanism and not for historical perspective.

When the undivided loyalty to a team was purely on the basis of the recent success on the pitch rather than original affiliations.

A lot of things were said of the teams and players, which the fastidious purist in me ached to hear.   

The Hidekguti, Kocsis and Puskas triumvirate of the Magic Magyars couldn't overcome the steel of the resilient Die Mannschaft at the Miracle of Bern in 1954. That was a Mean German Machine. The current side resembles a fun and slick joyride in comparison.

The humiliation of the Seleceao in the semis wasn't entirely due to the crack in the vertebra of a certain lanky 21 year old bloke and the subsequent national mourning. There was also tactical naivety at play with the buccaneering full backs showing scant regard for their primary job role and leaving spaces for the opposition free-roaming bohemians to exploit throughout the tournament, crescendoing into the massacre at Belo Horizonte.

Lionel Messi for all his unbelievable exploits for "Mes Que Un Club" has not shone at the international level like some of his luminary compatriots of the past. Speaking of him in the same breath for the La Albiceleste as the electrifying Maradona or the prodigious Kempes would be blasphemous.

The long-haired retro stars directed by Rinus Michels and featuring the irrepressible
Johan Cryuff showed the world the beauty of harmonised attacking flair and the unadulterated joy of Total Football in the 70s. The Oranje side of 2014 rely largely on the pace and cunning of their two nimble left footed forwards.

Who cares for the decade and a half of watching the game being played across various leagues, countries and tournaments. Who cares for the infinite time spent going through the previews, reviews, analysis, reports of the innumerable matches. Who cares for the insights gleaned from watching and re-watching the official documentaries of many a competition. Who cares for the numerous books, articles, editorials read in an attempt to assess and understand the beautiful game in all its glory.

Who cares, when your flashy mobile app gives the popular predictions and the funny tit-bits. Who cares, when the sports section of your favourite newspaper shares oversimplified stats and juicy WAG stories. Who cares, when you have a hilarious joke about the Suarez bite or the secret diet of the sculpted Ronaldo.  

It wasn't enough for me to back France, the team I have supported since inception or the secondary inclination to Italy courtesy of the Juventus connection. I was expected to support one of the two teams in every match played. That was the whole point of watching the contest. After all what sort of a person would follow a match for the clash of opposing tactical philosophies. What sort of a person would view the game for the defensive solidarity and passing proficiency exhibited. What sort of a person would see the contest for the skill and technique on display. After all what sort of person follows the sport for the sake of sport.

The vast majority would have preferred to see the dream contest of a Brazil Vs Argentina or the galactic clash of a Ronaldo Vs Messi in the finals. It wasn't to be. Instead it was going to be a battle between two golden generations cultivated over the last few years by meticulous harnessing of alluring talent for collective brilliance. Only a faithful bore like the author could see the beauty and romance of such a match-up.

After all, football is a simple game. 22 men chase a ball for 90 minutes and at the end, the Germans always win.