Most people who know me, know my proficiency at acting totally gawaar-like or for the lack of a better word, country bumpkin when it comes to things like big cars, celebrities and the other such high-flying things. I cannot help it. There are still jokes about me staring agape at Manish Malhotra, for a good five minutes, mind you, no words coming out of my mouth when I saw him in a five-star hotel in Bombay, when I was eighteen. Or the time, just a couple of years ago – I spotted a red Lamborghini – and I forgot to cross the road, a friend had to drag me across, and later give me a giggly hug, because my response to her screaming was – “But it was the first time I saw a Lambhorgini!” You get the picture.
As usual, I digress – so when it comes to flying in a plane, the first time I ever flew was for our honeymoon – a naive child-bride of 21. I swear my face was glued to the window the whole time, I was beyond enthralled. And the best part is, I still am. It’s been a good 12 years since that day, but I still ask for the window seat, when given a choice and even fight with H for it. Flying is something that I still haven’t come to in terms with, in my head. Everything, from the rumbly take-off when I see buildings and houses become tinier and tinier and then disappear into nothingness, making up stories about who live in them, the sheer fluffiness of the clouds and the blue skies, I can never get enough of that view. And no matter what happens, I hope to God I never lose this sense of awe and weightlessness that I feel when the plane takes off. I’d much rather be the country bumpkin than a person who’s jaded to see the beauty in the small, tiny things, any day.