This is my attempt to pull together a day in the life of a dear friend of mine. I struggled to stop laughing when he was crying his woes of the day. I do hope you enjoy reading this as much I did listening and writing it.
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I’ve long found solace in the wonderful world of P.G. Wodehouse, where life’s absurdities are transformed into witty moments that lift up your spirit. His novels, replete with witty wordplay and brilliantly crafted absurd scenarios, have been my constant refuge. It has been a reminder that even the most chaotic days can shelter moments of absolute comedy. I haven’t read such humour with any other writer in the everyday, only to be delightfully surprised when one fateful morning unfolded like a chapter straight out of a Wodehouse escapade—complete with mix-ups, red-eye flights, and an unfolding adventure that defied all expectations.
It all began in the calm early hours of a day that promised high stakes. I was boarding a flight to get to a meeting with one of India’s most noteworthy businessmen to discuss a project we had just won. Instead of a dignified, meticulously planned journey, the universe decided to serve me layered doses of chaos.
Picture this: I’m scrambling to catch a flight from Mumbai, only to discover that my assistant’s mix-up has landed me on a red-eye flight instead of the intended 5:30 PM. He apparently treats AM and PM as if they were interchangeable symbols. Now I know what Wodehouse meant when he recognized someone as having just enough sense to open his mouth when hunger called – and no more. I am screaming “not so good-a-morning” while arriving at the airport half-awake, wondering if I’d accidentally discovered time travel. Apparently, in the world of corporate scheduling, red eyes are a badge of honour, even if they lead to a very different kind of early start.
In my rush, the packing took a nosedive into absurdity—I’m not even sure if I have managed to pack sufficient clothes. And if that wasn’t enough, as someone who is fussy about changing at least twice a day, the glaring shortage of inner wear became the cherry on top of an already precarious situation.
Just as I was recovering from the shock of my unintended nocturnal journey, my taxi driver—let’s call him Mr. Perpetual Reminder—gave me a piece of advice I won’t soon forget: “Sir, you really should read your ticket carefully.” And all this with the gentle authority of someone who’s seen it all. It seems even taxi drivers have a vested interest in my punctuality, or at least in ensuring I don’t add “misread ticket” to my list of daily faux pas.
As if fate wasn’t already having a field day with me, the universe then decided to test my interpersonal negotiation skills. Enter the persuasive passenger, whose upset stomach became his passport to securing the infamous middle seat. With all the conviction of a seasoned diplomat, he argued that his gastrointestinal distress made him the de facto owner of the aisle seat. This is the Wodehouse character who had ‘drunk from the cup of life and found a dead beetle at the bottom. I found myself occupying the centre stage—an unintended position of honour or, perhaps, the culinary equivalent of being the extra garnish on someone else’s plate.
I land, take my phone off the airplane mode and see that there are close to ten missed calls from the family. Unseen in the background, fate was slipping molten lead into my boxing glove. My family woke up to the shocking disappearance of yours truly in the wee hours, their minds swirling with questions—had I run off in protest, or was I so angry on being forced last evening to watch an audacious movie that I decided to vanish? The air was thick with worry as they debated whether I had finally reached my breaking point, or perhaps had said something so upsetting that I decided to embark on a life of self-exile. Post the detailed explanation that was demanded, all their concerns took the turn of a million suggestions to replace my assistant with individuals I had never ever heard of. I had secretly hoped for sympathy, not perplexity. I took a deep breath. It gave me small comfort when I realised that my family was at the end of a telephone line.
I am a good person. I can be kind and compassionate!!! I am the hero of my story, AND I have my moments. 🔥
The day’s absurdity wasn’t over yet. As I navigated the chaos of urban transit in Ahmedabad, a taxi driver demonstrated that not all heroes wear capes; some drive taxis and are inexplicably loaded. He overheard me narrating to my friend of my morning woes, that I didn’t have time to withdraw cash and how my wallet is now in a sad lean state. The driver lends me 5000 rupees, his generosity as surprising as his choice of hobby. And like that wouldn’t suffice, he walked me through his memory lane sharing all his grievances on the umpteen times he had run short of money and wanted help. If there is one thing I hate – is someone airing their grievances, when I want to air MINE!!!! I wondered though if he was a secret millionaire moonlighting as a taxi driver and if he wanted to consider investing in my company.
I finally check into my hotel, only to discover that the establishment serves strictly vegetarian food and it hit me that the city is part of a dry state. For someone whose taste buds were still recovering from the chaos of the morning and was secretly longing for a cold beer and a hearty meat dish, this was the final twist of this saga. Here I was, locked in a hotel with menus that could only dream of offering the indulgences I craved, while the clock ticked closer to a meeting with a business titan.
So, after a morning that felt like a surreal assortment of miscommunications, mistaken seats, and unexpected kindnesses, I emerged with a few undeniable truths: always double-check your flight times, read every word on your ticket, never underestimate the eccentric generosity of a taxi driver in Ahmedabad, remember family (s)cares, and alcohol is advanced medical thought! After all, life’s best stories are often written during the most unexpected of mornings.
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