Relieved that I had made it in time for the connecting flight to Bangalore( by the skin of my teeth!), I made my way down the aisle of the packed plane. Reaching seat 3E, I noted with not a little irritation that I was stuck in the hated middle seat. My neighbours were already in place, a fat woman at the window and a nondescript, bespectacled uncle type in the aisle seat, who politely got up and moved aside to allow me access to my seat. I squeezed in, called and reassured all the people I had called in a panic at the idea of missing my flight and pulled out ‘On Wings of Eagles’ by Ken Follett that had kept me company on the flight from Leh.

A few pages on, the gent next to me suddenly took off his glasses and stretched out in his seat in a nonchalant manner that sent my creep radar whirring. Kicking myself for not claiming the vacant aisle seat in the row ahead, I shifted slightly away, in an unobtrusive gesture that all Indian women have mastered by the age of 16 (Most perverts assume that a woman who does not move away from them wants to jump into their laps). Sure enough, a few moments later, the guy I had absent-mindedly dismissed as nondescript leaned familiarly towards me with what he no doubt believed to be a swoon-into-my-arms smile and his best imitation of a bedroom voice and purred,” So where do you live in Bangalore?” to which I retorted, “I don’t live in Bangalore” and went back to my book.

Undeterred, he continued,” So where do you live?” Taking my time, I answered (through my teeth) “Leh”. This earned me another why-haven’t you-swooned-into-my-arms-yet smile (read oily leer) and ”So what is the temperature now in Leh?” “14 degrees. Do you mind if I read?” I asked curtly, indicating my book. “No” was the generous reply. I had just inwardly sighed in relief, when a few seconds later I heard, “Does it also go below zero?” “Yes. Look, I really would like to read.” My teeth had begun to hurt.

Finally something seeping through the haze of testosterone, he sat back reluctantly in his seat.  By then, the regret of not having changed my seat had been replaced by fury that I was being backed into a corner, pushed into defending my personal space, all because I lacked one measly Y chromosome. This, by a wimp of a man who looked like he got beaten by his wife if he so much as changed the parting of his hair.

As I sat seething in my seat, the grey haired Casanova got up and swaggered back to the rear of the aircraft. To ooze his oily charm on the hapless airhostesses, I thought darkly. Focused on my book, it was a few minutes before I realized how much more comfortable I suddenly felt, how much cleaner the very air smelt. After a brief battle with my pride (or conscience, I still wonder) I picked up my things and moved to another seat, caught between equally potent feelings of sheer relief and shame at not having stood my ground.

Then the seatbelt signs came on and the captain announced that we were approaching Bangalore and all else was forgotten in the anticipation of going home again.


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