If R had not read out that particular chapter in the library session, I would have never borrowed ‘Airplane Mode: A passive-aggressive history of travel’ by Shahnaz Habib. Books on travel do not hold much appeal. I would rather travel than read a book on travel, and given a choice, I would rather read a book than travel.
I have dear friends struck by the darts of Roama*, the naughty angel of wanderlust. They make lists, they plan itineraries, and, perhaps, secretly count the number of stamps on their thick passports and giggle. I have dear friends who eschew passports and travel across the length and breadth of this country of ours in trains and buses or sometimes by a four-wheeler (it never is a car; it is usually a jeep or some technical name involving crosses). They know their meter gauge from broad gauge, they will refer to station masters by name, and will tell you which highway’s petti kada has the best midnight chai or early morning chutney. Invariably, they are smokers or have just quit — this is empirical evidence in search of a theory. Then there are those who bike, walk or cycle across long distances, and write letters and blogs about who helped them fix a flat tire and whose chickens kept them company when they crashed in a shed after pedalling zillion kilometers. They usually are the quieter ones in the group; their warmth reserved for strangers who are angels in disguise.
Of course, what I do not enjoy are the tales of certain older men that are predictably conversations around size. How long their air miles extend; the petty perks of not having to stand in certain long lines; long, elaborate, travel rituals involving packing a certain way; and picking a certain seat involving lengthy calculations about sunsets, jetglag, and lounge access.
I enjoy the stories of all my friends’ adventures without a sense of FoMo; my WoTo, worry of travel ordeals, is higher. Which is why, the chapter that R read out resonated with me. The chapter was about the author’s father, who did not like travel. He did not want to let go of his bed, with a coir mattress that had been softened to the exact firmness that made it just right, adhering to the Goldilocks principle. He had to have his creamy kappa, and mangoes in April, and all the comforting culinary joys of local seasonal produce of Kerala. He had a routine, which I shall someday perfect too, and he, like me, did not crave train/plane/bus rides that invariably mean a sore throat. As R read out this chapter, N looked at me and giggled, for I had just been cribbing to her about exactly this, how I shall miss my fifteen-year-old ilavam panju mattress, dreading my two-week long trip that was coming up.
Shahnaz obviously has no attachment to her mattress. She has traveled across the world, from Turkey to Ethiopia, but the book is not just about the story of her travel adventures, which pop up now and then, but is also about negotiating with the idea of travel itself in the times we live in. We live in a time of travel dogmas, and drawing from historical references, novels, and various other sources, she speaks of these dogmas and her dilemmas in negotiating them.
Close your eyes and think of who do you think is an ideal traveler, who speaks to your imagination of all the romance travel has to offer? Is it that person with the weather-worn crinkled skin whose scents remind you of unseen shores, whose clothes look as tired as the soles of their feet, who knows with one single look whether that is indeed an Egyptian scarab or some stone scrabbled up for tourists. Now, doesn’t this person, usually male, smell of a colonial past? Shahnaz Habib unpacks this idea of an ‘ideal’ traveler, tracing the history of travel from the European tour meant to educate English elites. In various chapters, she talks of how the white gaze colours not just imagination of what travel is supposed to be, but also guide books, passports, and other such travel rites.
In negotiating these dilemmas — do you take that plane when you do know about climate change; do you go to that tourist spot when you do know it is depleting ground water there; do you get a North American passport, knowing it will open doors without bureaucratic whines. As Shahnaz reflects on these dilemmas, the sub-title of the book makes sense — it is indeed a passive-aggressive history of travel. She snipes about white privilege in capitals, but the capital letters seem more for effect than emotion; she complicates her own and our understanding of these terms, and therefore, the register slips from anger to aggression to passive-aggressive prose.
What I found most refreshing are the chapters on her taking bus rides around Brooklyn after she had her baby, and the one on her childhood and hometown in Kerala. She speaks of listening to stories of Queen Sheba as a child and how the queen’s desire to travel for curiosity and not for conquest enchanted her. These travel-adjacent snippets from her life add a tadka in coconut oil flavour to the book that bring home the point — it does matter who tells the story, whether it is set in Brooklyn or Ernakulam.
*Roama, is obviously doubly fictitious, existing neither in myths nor mores. They are like Kama, but well-traveled. Their weapon of choice is a pepper spray. Their darts are stored in a carved wooden box. Pray to them before you get onto the IRCTC website to book your tatkal ticket.
This is timed perfectly, while we are setting out on our Lapland trip, squashing all thoughts of the impact on the environment and the size of our carbon footprint. I shall go, guilt-free, hoping that my family and I have done a bit, and will continue do our bit, to compensate for this giant-size footprint we will make. Please tell me I am not one of those who told you all about our travel rituals :)