A wonder that perhaps only AI or Elon Musk can crack is how come my bag has logged more miles over the past few weeks than I’ve done in years. In the parlance of a retired academic like me, luxury travel means taking the Vande Bharat instead of the usual Jan Shatabdi for my monthly run from Chandigarh to Gurugram and back. But this time, I would fly, courtesy travel miles on my son’s corporate account.
As I strut in breezily, a la George Clooney in Hollywood hit ‘Up in the Air, the young lady at the check-in counter asks, “Sir, do you really want to check in this small bag? It’s less than 7kg.” “Yes, indeed,” I reply, “Who wants to lug it all the way to the boarding gate.” On arrival at Chandigarh, I walk to the carousel for baggage collection.
As anxious eyes follow each bag popping up on the conveyor belt, the lurking suspense is of high-stakes gamblers around a roulette table in Las Vegas, hoping for the lucky roll of dice, for their beloved bag to appear. But my bag shows up early and I’m out soon. Reaching home, I ask my domestic help to unpack the suitcase.
But he gives a 1,000-watt jolt, “Yeh toh jee aap ka suitcase nahi hain (But this isn’t your suitcase).” “No, no, it’s mine. Just open the combination lock with the code,” I reply nonchalantly.
“Nahin jee aap ke bag pai toh pink ribbon bandhaa thaa maine (No, I had tied a pink ribbon to your bag),” he insists, standing his ground. “Oh my God! He’s right. This one looks similar.