Indigo Flight 6E42 Bangkok to Mumbai via Delhi – The Grouch Report
I am frequently referred to as a grouch. Age is not a factor here which I should clarify. I am also not too sure if I have always been this way. I remember scoffing at other kids who used to intentionally swim across the width of the SP swimming pool while I tried to back-stroke my way through its length. I then had to shift to a breast stroke around them and hated having my head above the water, like a mermish crocodile trying to figure out and evade the nearest kick from those imbeciles. Once I came back home, I used to replay those moments in my head imagining ghastly strategies I could have used including forcing them to swim in freshly turned green water in my proximity. My parents should have probably seen the signs then, as I was only 14. I am conveniently disregarding the events at the age of 7, when I used to take my year old baby brother in his pram and park it alongside the road and enjoy a game of cricket with my friends. He used to be our audience. He never clapped.
This incident though is very recent. I like to reflect. Reflecting gives me enough time to collate and assess my feelings towards someone. It took me a significant amount of time, 10 days, in the case of this airline. Indigo. Moving on from the fact that they have combined the words ‘in’ and ‘dig’ to form their company name, they subconsciously do try to make you feel ‘sufficiently serviced’ enough to dig a grave for yourself and take a long nap in it. Really long one.
I was flying from Bangkok to Mumbai via Delhi with a roughly 3.5 hour stopover. The flight was scheduled for a 12:40 pm departure. After checking in at 9:30 am and wishing goodbyes over breakfast, I finally got in for a security check at 11 am. I love the way in which the security staff coax you to remove your laptop, tablet, laptop cooler and place them in 3 separate trays. They also ask you to put all computer accessories in another tray. As I only have my headphones, laptop charger, mobile charger, tablet charger, hard disk, USB extension cable, USB drive and a wired mouse, I require 2 more trays. My wallet, two phones, keys, belt, pen go in another tray. My shoes go in what seems to be a final 7th tray. Followed by the now completely empty laptop bag and my cabin bag full of clothes unworthy of going in the checked in bag.
I then walk past the security scanner feeling quite naked, very much like the classic Monroe over the windy subway grate but without any underwear. I am also very much looking forward to dressing up again on the other side knowing what will soon feel like an entire country of India to shove back in my bag. I begin the packing ritual full of shame and guilt as the trays and bags of subsequent passengers, who always look like they do not carry their laptops with them, line up behind mine. Their angry scowls make me feel as if I have just shit myself. The adorable security dude asks me to hurry the flying fish up. I suppress the urge to explain him, that packing this stuff quickly is as difficult as trying to educate him about the global events since 1936. He sure looks and behaves like a heavily botoxed 78 year old virgin on Viagra. Virgin because I genuinely hope he did not reproduce. Viagra because of the age defying eagerness he shows on job.
I know that is little information about the airline’s performance but it is necessary to understand my frame of mind first. I started walking towards the Gate G1 (SRK references on another day). I should also tell you how much I love walking fairly long distances to board fairly cheap airlines. I love them so much that I had used the stairs to my apartment on the fifth floor for a few days to get in shape to walk this distance. I felt like I was walking to the edge of the world and was half expecting a board saying ‘Mumbai, turn right’. I also managed to relieve my bladder twice, such was the distance. Elsewhere a bunch of Indian brothers had raided an alcohol duty free. Indians have always had a problem with the word ‘free’ even if it is used legitimately, like ‘Duty Free’. ‘Free left’ at traffic signals has assumed its obvious numero uno position in the priorities of their lives, followed by #2 bribe, #3 procreate, #4 food. You can try to figure out a way to stuff in ‘bargain’ somewhere between those options, which is what they were trying to do. Bargain! At the Bangkok airport duty free alcohol outlet!
I however, saw something even more interesting. A big and thin television showing my flight 42 being delayed by 3 hours. It is like god giving me some extra time in the C++ programming exam. It is also like the ‘I am so tired’ exclamation by wifey deciding to spoon instead. The amount of extra time you are given is never clarified, the amount of rest until she is not-tired is not specified. I am substantially pathetic at C++ programming and might rate better on the latter (self evaluation) but the point is that I have no purpose for the next 3 hours when there is only one thing that I want to do. FLY!
I obviously have a lot that I can do, but procrastinating gets to the top of my list. How else will I be able to complain about this wasted time later. Damn you Delhi fog. I reached the gate which was as far and wide as Julia Roberts’ mouth. I beat the fellow Indian families running back and forth, blocking seats for their loved ones or moving chairs across the lounge areas to ensure they can sit together and eat whatever the hell they managed to sneak in or buy. I jumped in head first on an empty chair between some elderly Chinese tourists who offered smiles. Now I am not a racist but after spending a second shaking my head to the right and then to the left to figure out if they actually are smiling at me, I realize it is pointless. I open my tablet like a busy man, and start reading ‘The Bourne Identity’ a zillionth time. I wished I could be him right then. I would pay to be him right now. A kidney.
A sandwich, two loo breaks, a few chapters, a surprisingly stimulating chat on economic conditions of India with the adjacent Gwalior based military couple later, the screen seemed to have updated instructions. The flight 6E42 was ready for boarding. I did not actually see the screen. All I saw was an entire country get up and sweep their ego and dignity off the floors, and drag the living daylights off their moral values behind them, on wheels. They were scampering towards the gate as if the Ark’s about to leave, as if Hritik was explaining the benefits of an extra thumb, Aishwarya showing her aptitude test results and Ekta Kapoor explaining the reasons behind an extra ‘K’. No offence intended as I commend the lovely Ekta who is the founder of the size XXK while we mortals have only dealt with XXL’s.
An escalator ride down to the actual gate, I see ‘all Indians are my brothers and sisters’ standing in a queue. Seems like there is an additional security check, by the airline off its own accord. Now there are about three dozen empty seats where people can sit and wait their turns but we all love to queue don’t we? Breathing down each others’ neck, nudging each other in the back, sharing the lovely garlic smell off the mouth with subsequent noses by talking really loudly about the Meena Auntie’s rare ear hair growth, in native languages obviously. The airlines security is very interested in my bags again and devour themselves. Another guy is also interested in my buttocks, twice waving the wand as well as his hands over them. His in-seam scanning is quite scary too. I do the ‘walk of shame’ again after packing the bag. Meanwhile, other fellow passengers have managed to buy ‘Duty Free’ lighters for their smokes which are found and thrown. Once everyone is huddled up at what seems to finally be the gate entrance, the staff advices the elderly and handicapped to get forth for priority boarding. The civic sense kicks in and the entire country again heads towards the minuscule slit in the glass. She clearly forgot that everyone on this flight is mentally challenged. Like a deer caught in the headlights, the pretty staff member moves aside and the rhino like crowd runs to the plane. I half expect it to start moving.
Once inside, the people in rows 3 and 5 obviously seem to have boarded first. They also seem to be smuggling the entire fashion industry of Thailand into their half a dozen bags. Its a huge family. Could have used a condom. Stowing their cabin bags takes about as long as India’s fight for independence and I patiently wait for a few of them to give their lives in the process. I pray for that too. Once they are seated safely with more relief on the husbands face than on his honeymoon night, I walk past to secure my seat. Taking plenty of time by blocking the aisle to stove my bags in, I avenge. Once I am seated, I switch on my laptop and search for the shift+delete button to erase the last three hours.
The flight is less eventful than the neighbours farts. The disinfectant spray should have been used on his arse than in the plane cabin. I make a mental note to suggest this in the feedback. I settle down calmly and enjoy worrying about how I will be missing my connecting flight to Mumbai for the next 4 hours and 20 minutes. I also have been automatically refunded my pre-booked on-flight meal when I rescheduled my ticket, the powder-heavy ghoul says. How caring. I pay the extra green to enjoy my guilt kheema roll. Guilt for booking my tickets with this superb airline.
We touch down in Delhi and I am relieved to have exactly an hour to board the connecting flight. I am on Indian soil now and see myself transform into the smart vegetable. I try to say sorry as I push and shove people away while I run to the immigration counters. I join the queue and beg each of the travellers to let me move up as I am scared to miss my connection. For once I am thankful for the kindness shown and I head to the front of the queue. I have obviously chosen the slowest moving counter on this planet. Feels like consecutive solar eclipses would be quicker. A woman with three kids looks like she is on her kitchen counter and takes more than 10 minutes off everyone’s time. I pray for the kids as I get through the process after her in exactly 20 seconds. I run to the baggage belt and thank the good souls behind the scenes as my bag appears through the bay. I pick it up before it joins the belt.
I am now running to the Domestic Departures. At the entrance the guy asks me for my tickets and looks me up and down. I look myself up and down too and realize how proud Mo Farah with 3 bags would look after a marathon. He mumbles something really slowly. I have no time to waste and I mannerlessly shout out a ‘what?’ in his passive smiling face. He then tells me that my domestic plane leaves from the domestic terminal which is 7 km away and I have to take a shuttle to change terminals. How the hell is that possible? I check the ticket and nowhere is it mentioned that I have to change terminals. Nowhere is it mentioned that I have to lug all my bags around with me while doing this too. Nowhere has the dratted airline mentioned where my bloody refund for the meal is. There is a tiny volcano bubbling in my stomach. I am less worried about the missed flight but am extremely angry with the service. There is not a single customer service representative to make things clear or usher us. There’s about 6 of us now with the same problem. The airline should really be taking care of this considering that it is their plane which was delayed and has caused us all this hassle. It feels like they not only seem to have flown us here but have also taken us for a ride.
The bus shuttle is after every 20 minutes. I check my phone for the status of the connecting flight and see that it too has been delayed. The bus gets here after 20 minutes. I keep my anger aside and help a couple of oldies with enough luggage to fit Vidya Balan’s stomach. The bus crawls 7 km through the Delhi traffic to the domestic terminal. I definitely feel I could have crawled faster. Meanwhile, I feel like my nails have grown longer too since I boarded the bus. Once the bus reaches the domestic airport, I help them get off and then start hurrying behind them. The oldies get to the check in queue. Once they are done, the remaining 4 of us are told that this queue was only for wheelchair passengers and we should move to the next queue which has about 5 people by now. We queue up behind them as I avoid confronting him with the fact that the bloody oldies were definitely NOT on a wheelchair. I don’t have a big problem with them being dealt with swiftly but he really could have told us to move as soon as we entered the queue instead of choosing to wait 5 minutes.
We head to the next queue and the first two in front of me check in. As I get to the counter, the attendant tells me that the check in has automatically closed and I won’t be able to board my flight 197. There is a Thai lady behind me and we are the last two passengers left. He asks me to quickly meet the supervisor at the first desk. We rush to her and show her our tickets and ask her to help us check in quickly so that we do not miss the fight.
At this point she quickly tells us that she will not be able to help us board the flight. I ask her for alternatives as I understand there is little she can do if the process is automated. This is when she says, “No sir, we cannot do anything for you as you have come late for check in.”
I feel my patience signing off its relieving letter in my brain, but before any words reach my mouth, I hear a huge howl. I take a step forward as it seems to have originated near my ear. Half expecting my brain to have come out of my ear to really give a piece of itself to this lady, it is actually the Thai lady behind me. She has clearly taken severe offence to this accusation by the lady. “How the hell can you say we are late? It is your stupid airline that was delayed and has caused us this mess…” and her wail seems to be snowballing into a massively loud rant. My brain buys some salted popcorn with a Coke and settles in its recliner sofa seat waiting for some expletives to roll from the Thai’s mouth. They never come. Only the wail continues.
Everyone’s rooted to their spots. Passengers, attendants, babies stop crying, papers start flying in slow motion, the spit shower is just about to begin when the Manager runs to us. Ignoring what feels like an entire bangle market on both her hands, she asks us if we were on the Bangkok Delhi flight 42 which was delayed despite that being obvious, from the tickets in her hand, our faces, and the sweaty stink from lugging three Vidya Balan’s across three terminals today. The supervisor points a finger at us and screams that we never told her we were on the delayed flight 42. I can almost feel a new Adam’s apple growing in my forehead. The newly married Manager shuts the supervisor up and asks us to give her a few minutes to check for options.
The airline seems to be having a rough day because of the Delhi fog. She tells us that there is another flight 187 to Mumbai scheduled for an 8.30 pm departure. Its 8.10 pm in the clock and we have definitely missed our original flight 197. She asks us if we would like to board that. We ask her if she can guarantee us quick passage through the airport. She says she will try her best. She makes a few calls, prints out new tickets, directs us to the ‘wheelchair’ section to check in. The daft guy who refused us the first time is nowhere to be seen now and another lady checks us in.
From there on it is a bollywood movie-isque ending where both of us run to the security. I get nude again for the wand. Meanwhile the Thai girl is first out on the other side and she helps me pack and dress, the irony of it wasn’t lost on me even in that rush. As we ran to the gate, there is a huge crowd standing there with a completely different flight number on the screen. Scared the ordeal might not be over yet, I pessimistically shout out, “Flight 187 please…Flight 187 please…” with my boarding pass up in the air. The attendant at the gate shouts back, “Sir please be patient, everyone here is waiting for flight 187 since 6:45pm.” I look around at the passengers who are all frustrated yet smiling at my stupidity and childish behaviour. I am looking for a shovel to dig a grave for my patience as it has not only resigned but died. A painful death at that.
The plane is ready after half an hour. The airhostess welcomes me warmly onboard. I tell her that I am travelling since 10am and her company has scarred my day and life. She is apologetic and asks her colleague to stow our bags and gets us water. Thankfully, we have been assigned the two seats towards the rear. Despite the flight being almost full, the last two rows are empty. We each take a row and go to sleep preparing ourselves for another terminal and newer problems.
We eventless-ly land after a couple of hours and my bag is again the first out onto the belt. I take it, the Thai girl is nowhere to be seen as I mentally wish her a short ordeal ahead and get outside the airport into the warm arms of the wife. My face says it all.
I doubt I will ever fly Indigo again as they sure turned my customer service experience into one hell of a colour. It is silly to accuse them for delays as those are but a part and parcel of everyone’s lives. Their appalling attitude to accountability, service and communication sure need to be given a good spanking though. They may well be the fastest growing cheap airliner, but they will not last long with such lamentable attempts at customer retention. I am not a hard customer to please. Hell, I even appreciate the cabin crew while leaving each flight even if they were awful. In this era where delighting the customer defines service levels, only the most simple, insightful steps in establishing the consumer connect will lead to a powerful brand and a sustainable business.
That being said, I am grateful to the newly married Indigo Manager at the Delhi airport who avenged some of the shamed service by providing us a quick and thoughtful solution.
I hope I forget these events of the 24th of February 2014 and am worried I might end up giving this airline another chance. Hope they don’t live up to their name this time as it would be a shame if their customer service has to ‘Go’, ‘Dig’ and lay ‘In’ its own grave.
-The Grouch
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