Evolution of love

Drama at Schiphol

There was a time when I sought Drama out. In fact, she and I went hand-in-hand for over a decade.
Now, my mother had lovingly accorded me the title of Queen since I was a wee lass, as my every wish was usually everyone's command. I was the youngest in the family and a girl, which meant that I was royally spoilt, as I was born after four consecutive sons - my three first cousins and my own brother - all of whom were stellar and strapping young lads, but no match for the delicacy and feminine affection I brought to the family table. So when Drama and I came together, we reigned supreme as Drama (and) Queen for many long years.
Then came a time when I swung the other way and sought Peace. So I told Drama, rather politely, that she and I should part ways, as we just didn't see eye-to-eye any more and simply put, I'd had too much drama for a lifetime. Now, as you can imagine, Drama being Drama, had somewhat of a meltdown to that announcement. She huffed, puffed, stalked me for a few months, but finally, reluctantly, let go. But every now and then, Drama seeks me out. She's been known to come into my life, entirely uninvited and unexpected, and with quite the dramatic entrance.
As luck would have it, Drama decided to pay us a visit on the day of our return to India after 20 glorious days in Europe. There's something about heading home to your own land. You might pick a hundred faults with it, but you can't ignore the connection. So all said and done, the four of us were in high spirits, which, I suppose, is just as well attributed to the fact that we'd just finished a wonderful three days in Amsterdam. Coffee and brownies, if you know what I mean.
Everything was going as per plan. Check-in, security check, the essential Duty Free alcohol shopping, the airport coffee, a small snack and some general meandering about the shops around. Boarding was announced, and the four of us, made our way to the gate. Paranoid flyer that I am, I'd just looked up our flight on Flight Aware and found out that we were flying in a Fokker 70. The images of the plane looked ok, even though it wasn't the usual Boeing or Airbus. With just the tiniest bit of trepidation, I handed my ticket to the KLM lady at the gate. She looked it over and then asked me to open up the Visa page in my passport. Strange. She was the first boarding personnel asking to see a Visa. Anyhow, I promptly opened the page with the Schengen Visa and handed it over to her. She had this stern, schoolteacher look about her. Big glasses positioned slightly lower on the bridge of her nose, pursed lips, thin mouth, short blunt golden-brown hair framing her tightly drawn features . She squinted at the ticket for a few, squinted at my passport and then squinted at me from above her glasses. "Your British Visa, please," she clipped. I felt like a schoolkid who'd made a grave mistake. My ears went red. "But we don't need a British Visa. It's the same flight, we only change planes at Heathrow." She looked at me like I was out of my mind. Then she asked me some more questions - like if I had a Visa to some other countries I had no plans of visiting on this trip - and then picked up a paper lying beside her on the gate counter. By then, the folks and the husband were visibly shaken. We huddled to one corner. "It's a mistake." "Why would we need a Visa." "She's got no clue." Everyone kept parroting these lines. As if saying it enough number of times would stop the horror from happening. I kept quiet. My eyes large and unblinking. A small voice inside my head narrated incidents of a few friends who'd been in similar situations, stranded in airports with tickets, because no one told them they needed a Transit Visa for the country that served the connection. "I can't let you board the flight," said schoolteacher-lady, unfeelingly. That's it. No kindness. No empathy. No sorry. Nothing. She pushed us into a bottomless abyss and watched our descent pitilessly. We stared at each other open-mouthed. Tried to say the same things again. But by then schoolteacher-lady was quickly metamorphosing into draconian lady. I stepped in. "Ok. So what do we do?"
"Go to Transfer Counter 2," said she. "Where is that?" "Upstairs, to the right."
"What about our baggage?" "I'll get it off the plane."
And with that, our fate, as far as this flight was concerned, was sealed. Even if schoolteacher-lady was somehow, miraculously proved wrong, there was no way we were making this flight. Before giving up altogether, I quickly Googled the matter. And she was right. A Transit Visa was indeed needed for the UK, even for a connecting flight, unless you have a Visa for certain countries, or if you are a Britisher. Since my husband is the only one with a British passport, it meant the three of us had to figure our way out and he said there was no way he'd board the flight without us. So that left the four of us with perfectly good tickets to India but without the right, or, in my husband’s case, the will, to travel. 
Had you found yourself at Schiphol airport that evening, had you happened to chance upon a bewildered, frazzled, googly-eyed Indian family, looking as if the sky had fallen down on their heads, you'd have known it was us.
We were directed from one counter to another, each one more disheartening, more futile than the other. Our original flight was with Jet Airways, the first of which to London was only operated by KLM. Now, Schiphol has one measly Jet Airways counter in the whole airport that only operates half the day. By the time we landed there, it was closed. The lady sitting there, who had absolutely naught to do, not even mosquitoes or flies to swat, as even parasites are hard to find in some of these picture-perfect European countries, gave us a steely-eyed glare and told us to call Jet Airways in India to find a solution.
So we went back to the departure check-in area, sat ourselves down and tried to figure out next steps. Jet Airways could do nothing. We knew that. The flight had taken off and the fact that we didn't have a Transit Visa was probably our fault. At best, the Visa office in Bangalore and Delhi should've informed us of the requirement, but they hadn't. Still. I made the call. The customer care executive told us we would have to call up the online portal we'd used to book the tickets as it was done through them. We knew from past experience how useless these companies can be, so we didn't even try that route. Next step. Check tickets to rebook a direct flight back to India. Two options - Jet Airways or KLM. The former less than half the price the latter. The funny thing was that KLM was offering the same flight, as it was operated by Jet Airways, but at double the cost. It was a no-brainer. We chose the 1140 am flight for the next morning, 23rd August. But Drama hadn't had enough. We tried and tried and tried, but the husband couldn't book the tickets. We figured it was because our India numbers weren't working and both of us were using London SIM cards. I called up Jet Airways to attempt to book online via customer care but even then, the bank rejected the transaction attempt as they were unable to reach us. We called up the bank to intimate them of the impending transaction. They promised they'd let it through. But another attempt was rejected. Meanwhile, the hours were going by and we were running out of options. We started calling people back home. It was late in India by then. I called up my father. It was a good hour past midnight and I knew he'd be fast asleep, but we had to. The call went through, Dad picked up and though disoriented at first, he caught up quickly and opened up his laptop. He tried booking the same ticket on Jet Airways and again, even his card failed. Maybe it was the site itself, maybe it was Drama, still unsatiated - we'll never know. We thought of Cleartrip and asked Dad to log on to the site. Now, my father is ok on the Internet and the computer, but that night he was stellar. We went through the booking process smoothly and waited for the transaction to go through. A few heart-stopping seconds later, he'd done it. He'd booked us on the morning flight the next day. Next, the husband and I ran to get our baggage and in about an hour's time, the four of us were together again. We decided we were going to spend the night in the airport as it was past nine and less than twelve hours to check in. But more surprises lay in store. The airport was closing down. No food. No water. No people. We were tired, hungry and wondering where we could lug more than five pieces of heavy baggage and five pieces of  hand baggage to grab a bite. Then, the father went off on a walk all by himself and came back with some news. The same Jet Airways flight for the previous day had been delayed. By 14 hours. And the one before that, again the same flight, by 36 hours. Our hearts sank. There was high probability of our flight the next morning getting delayed as well.
We did the math and fourteen hours meant 1.30 am local time, which implied people for the previous  flight would be checking in...right about now! We ran ahead to check out which departure hall was active. Maybe we could request them to allow us to check in for the flight the next day, so that we could be relieved of our luggage, at least.
We raced across the slippery floors, the four of us, with our crazy hair, two piled up trolleys and all our five pieces of hand baggage. The very last departure hall, right at the end, we saw it, as pleasing to the eye as a mirage in the desert, an open counter and oh, turbans, loads of turbans popping up, over heads, in the distance. We looked at each other - that had to be the delayed flight to India. We reached there and another thought struck us. What if? Oh, it couldn't be. But what if, just suppose, they let us on to this flight instead? Nah! We discussed it amongst us. The chances were really dim. People in these countries follow protocol to the letter and any deviation requires adherence to formal processes. We queued up, last in line and struck up a chat with the people. They'd had a long and harrowing wait but they'd been accommodated into a hotel so at least they were rested. They asked us what we were doing there. We told them we had one of two hopes - they check in our luggage for the morning flight or, by some miracle, let us in on this flight. We were in queue over an hour. Three counters were open but it was moving slow. I'd been observing the people behind the counters and I knew we needed someone extra helpful to attend to us. From their demeanours, the lady on the extreme left counter seemed rather jovial, cheerful and kind. I hoped and hoped she'd be the one for us. Finally, our turn arrived, and cheerful lady was free to attend to us. We made our way over to her and I narrated our story as short and sweet as I could manage, and she understood immediately. "I can't promise, but I will try." Those words, they were music to our ears. She made one call. Definitely to someone in India who was remote handling this horribly delayed flight. This person didn't know much and I heard cheerful lady, whose name tag read 'Dominic', say "I'll call Nimesh then." Another call was made and this time, we heard the unbelievable. "I can? Ok, what do I need to do? Go show? Ok. Yes, these are the last passengers on the flight. The crew just left as well." With that, she put the phone down, requested us for our details which she entered into the system, checked in our luggage and told us she'd meet us at the boarding gate for the 'go show'. We couldn't believe it but did everything she said in a sort of happy haze, but sans the Amsterdam brownie. We walked to security check, then to board, incredulity, gratitude and wonder in our eyes. We'd just saved ourselves twelve hours and miraculously bypassed what would've been a harrowing, hungry and tiring night at the airport. We said goodbye to Dominic, thanked her profusely, the folks blessed her and the father chipped in with twinkling eyes - "Indian blessings go a long long way." I saw it then, in Dominic's eyes - a profound love for her job and the innumerable human connections she made everyday. "Oh, I know, sir. Thank you," she said. With that, we walked to the aircraft, thinking about the mysterious ways of the universe. About an hour later, as I finished digging into the best tasting rice-dal I’d ever eaten in my life, and readied myself for some sleep, I thought to myself, perhaps, a little bit of Drama, every once in a while, isn’t such a bad thing after all. Just so long as it ends with Peace, on nights like  these.