A search for randomness
At Heathrow Airport the police officers perform routine ‘random searches’ to prevent terrorist attacks. This ‘random’ search is basically a process where armed officers go around checking passports of non-whites. They looked at my documents too, and a smirk appeared on their lips when they found that I stay in the US. It was the same smirk many Londoners carry when they refer to USA or when their leading daily, ‘The Mirror’, comes out with an issue titled ‘How can 5 million people be so stupid?’ with a photo of Bush on the front cover. Obviously their sense of self-righteousness never allows them to remember that they were also equally stupid in electing Mr. Blair to office -the man who is often referred to as Bush’s pet dog by the US media. The verification process for my documents took some five minutes or so, and I realized that their so called ‘random’ search was based on a sort of a racial profiling in disguise. I do not mind even if these people were racist. Nor do I resent the fact that they wanted to see my passport; they actually helped me to kill five minutes of my six hour transit time, but what I do resent as a researcher is that they were using a sophisticated mathematical concept like ‘random’-ness so frivolously. I wanted to sit with them and teach them the probabilistic meaning of randomness but refrained from doing so as I feared an arrest.
The Qantas outside my window
As I sat at terminal 4, waiting for my next leg of a 10 hour flight to India, I watched the red and white Qantas Boeing Jumbo jet 747 standing outside the glass pane of the terminus. The jet stood proudly with ‘The spirit of Australia’ painted in black on the front part of the fuselage, just below the cockpit. The electronic display near the boarding gate informed that it was to fly from London to Australia via Singapore. Indeed this aircraft carried on its wings the onerous duty of keeping the island nation connected with the rest of the world. I sat watching it with admiration, exchanging silent glances with it. I had probably fallen in love with the plane. Yes, fallen in love with an inanimate object, and I will go on to say that it was perhaps the most purest form of love as it was most spontaneous and free from lust. I know that you are saying that I am weird, but I protest. I voluntarily distance myself from you all too humans. You, humans, try to define love in a very conservative way, and as a matter of fact you don’t even want to separate love from lust. And those who protest against it are branded by you all as weirdoes. It was perhaps those few hours of silent glances and a strange affection for that body of duralumin that made me a bit depressed when I heard the news that QF30 had suffered a minor accident on its way back from Melbourne to London. I hope that one day I will be able to get on board that flight and make a journey of a lifetime across the great oceans to the island continent.
Aubergine on British Airways
The British Airways is now serving pathetic aubergine curry and rice on its long distance flight to India!-what can be more fascinating than to have an allergic reaction and an itchy lip at thirty seven thousand feet above the sea level for some nine hours or so?!
At Heathrow Airport the police officers perform routine ‘random searches’ to prevent terrorist attacks. This ‘random’ search is basically a process where armed officers go around checking passports of non-whites. They looked at my documents too, and a smirk appeared on their lips when they found that I stay in the US. It was the same smirk many Londoners carry when they refer to USA or when their leading daily, ‘The Mirror’, comes out with an issue titled ‘How can 5 million people be so stupid?’ with a photo of Bush on the front cover. Obviously their sense of self-righteousness never allows them to remember that they were also equally stupid in electing Mr. Blair to office -the man who is often referred to as Bush’s pet dog by the US media. The verification process for my documents took some five minutes or so, and I realized that their so called ‘random’ search was based on a sort of a racial profiling in disguise. I do not mind even if these people were racist. Nor do I resent the fact that they wanted to see my passport; they actually helped me to kill five minutes of my six hour transit time, but what I do resent as a researcher is that they were using a sophisticated mathematical concept like ‘random’-ness so frivolously. I wanted to sit with them and teach them the probabilistic meaning of randomness but refrained from doing so as I feared an arrest.
The Qantas outside my window
As I sat at terminal 4, waiting for my next leg of a 10 hour flight to India, I watched the red and white Qantas Boeing Jumbo jet 747 standing outside the glass pane of the terminus. The jet stood proudly with ‘The spirit of Australia’ painted in black on the front part of the fuselage, just below the cockpit. The electronic display near the boarding gate informed that it was to fly from London to Australia via Singapore. Indeed this aircraft carried on its wings the onerous duty of keeping the island nation connected with the rest of the world. I sat watching it with admiration, exchanging silent glances with it. I had probably fallen in love with the plane. Yes, fallen in love with an inanimate object, and I will go on to say that it was perhaps the most purest form of love as it was most spontaneous and free from lust. I know that you are saying that I am weird, but I protest. I voluntarily distance myself from you all too humans. You, humans, try to define love in a very conservative way, and as a matter of fact you don’t even want to separate love from lust. And those who protest against it are branded by you all as weirdoes. It was perhaps those few hours of silent glances and a strange affection for that body of duralumin that made me a bit depressed when I heard the news that QF30 had suffered a minor accident on its way back from Melbourne to London. I hope that one day I will be able to get on board that flight and make a journey of a lifetime across the great oceans to the island continent.
Aubergine on British Airways
The British Airways is now serving pathetic aubergine curry and rice on its long distance flight to India!-what can be more fascinating than to have an allergic reaction and an itchy lip at thirty seven thousand feet above the sea level for some nine hours or so?!
I used to think that only food on domestic airlines sucked, but it turned out that food on British Airways flights between UK and India was even worse. To incease your exaspertation, you should contrast it with the food on the flight from US to UK, which is substantially better, and definitletymuch more edible. I guess that maybe the ‘first-world’ countries need to meet out different treatment when it comes to service on flights to ‘developing’ countries. Gate Gourmet, the official caterer for BA has angered me even in the past; the last time I cose BA in the fall of 2005, their workers went on an indefinite strike, forcing me to fly all the way from Calcutta to London on a breakfast of one samosa and a piece of sandwich. So my experience is that the food on British Airways is always substandard. They should start following the path laid out by their American counterparts where they literally serve peanuts on a 7 hour long flight from Philadelphia to Los Angeles.
Landing in Calcutta
The first thing you get to notice that the international terminal still doesn’t have the jet bridges to let people enter the airport premise directly from the aircraft. And the next thing I noticed was that my fellow traveler emerging out of the executive class of the BA flight was none other than Biman Bose, CPM leader party Secretary of West Bengal -a true patriot and the leader of the poor against Western imperialist powers, who divides his time wisely between denouncing the bourgeoise class and indulging in a little bit of luxury and a few yearly visits to the enemy lands.
Landing in Calcutta
The first thing you get to notice that the international terminal still doesn’t have the jet bridges to let people enter the airport premise directly from the aircraft. And the next thing I noticed was that my fellow traveler emerging out of the executive class of the BA flight was none other than Biman Bose, CPM leader party Secretary of West Bengal -a true patriot and the leader of the poor against Western imperialist powers, who divides his time wisely between denouncing the bourgeoise class and indulging in a little bit of luxury and a few yearly visits to the enemy lands.