BY MOHANAN NAIR
Sometimes life forces you to confront uncomfortable truths—not once, but over and over. And each time, you’re reminded that the glittering image projected by media often hides a far less glamorous reality. The slogans we hear—about progress, development, inclusion—begin to feel hollow when measured against lived experience.
This trip to India was meant to be different. My purpose was simple: to spend time with my mother. No sightseeing, no adventures. Just quiet days at home, broken only by short visits to a few elderly and ailing friends and relatives.
Another reason I avoided planning travel was that my usual companion had opted out of this trip. And truth be told, I’ve never enjoyed traveling alone.
But this morning, I found myself setting out for Chennai to see an unwell family member. Normally, I prefer the overnight train: board at 7 PM from Pattambi, the nearest town, and wake up in Chennai at 6 AM, rested and ready. Unfortunately, with Indian Railways, convenience is a luxury. Getting a confirmed sleeper ticket through the regular system was impossible. The Tatkal option—released 48 hours before departure—offered no certainty, and since I needed a confirmed return, that wasn’t feasible either. Onam season only made things worse.
So, air travel it had to be—an hour and 45 minutes by flight. The cost mattered, yes, but the real hassle was getting to the airport. I’m fortunate to have three options within reach: Kozhikode, Kochi, and Coimbatore. Each is between two to four hours away, depending on traffic and road conditions. A friend helped me book the tickets. I preferred a round trip via Kochi since I had some corporation work there, but he strongly advised against it. “The roads to Kochi are too unpredictable,” he said.
I wasn’t keen on Kozhikode either—my last experience there, over a decade ago, had been terrible. And I’ve seen enough broken roads in Kerala to know how things work: a government begins a project, and it often remains “in progress” until the next government takes over. Yet people have grown numb to the delays. Resigned, I agreed to book a multi-city ticket—departing from Kozhikode, returning via Kochi—hoping to wrap up my work and avoid another long trip.
I chose the first flight of the day to maximize my time in Chennai and beat the traffic. My grand-nephew offered to drop me off. He suggested leaving at 4 AM for the 7:15 AM flight. Haunted by old memories of rough roads, I insisted we leave at 3:30. To my surprise, except for a few bumpy stretches near home and near the airport, the roads were smooth. We reached by 5:25.
The airport was just waking up. I was the first passenger at both check-in and security. Aside from a few beeps from the heavy bunch of keys my wife had sent with me for errands, the process was easy. My Hindi helped me strike a friendly note with the security staff, who even offered me a seat until the gates opened. Small gestures like that go a long way.
Inside the boarding area, I looked for a bite. My niece had already given me a cup of black tea before I left home—a family tradition. In our home, no one sets out on an empty stomach, no matter the hour. The women always rise and prepare something simple whenever someone travels.
At the airport, I spotted a diner named Curry Tree. Like most places now, it had a QR code for payment. A printed menu sat under the glass counter. The numbers beside each item were unusually high. I thought they were codes. Curious, I asked the girl at the counter.
“No sir, those are the prices,” she replied.
It hit me. Hard.
Rs. 450 for a cup of coffee. Almost the same as a tall coffee at Starbucks in the U.S.
And suddenly, I flashed back to my first day in America. Tired, hungry, still converting dollars into rupees in my head, I had walked into a Chili’s—the only restaurant nearby. I opened the menu, saw the prices, and felt defeated. I walked out and settled for Dunkin’ Donuts instead.
Back in the present, standing at Curry Tree, I hesitated. Should I walk away like I did that first day in America? The girl at the counter gave me a puzzled look, probably wondering why someone with an iPhone and a blue passport was agonizing over a cup of coffee. But that wasn’t the point. It wasn’t about whether I could afford it.
What came to mind was the Prime Minister’s slogan: making air travel accessible to the common man in hawai chappals. But if he manages to board a flight, can he really afford a ₹450 coffee at the airport? If yes, then I applaud India’s progress. If not, perhaps it’s time to think beyond symbolic achievements.
Clearly, many could afford it. The shop was doing brisk business. I remembered a line I once read: “The price of a commodity isn’t determined by volume, quantity, or even quality—but by the place from where it is sold.” That same coffee would have cost ₹20 outside. Inside the airport? Twenty times more.
I bought it anyway. Sipped slowly. And decided to pen this travelogue. Because sometimes, it’s the smallest moments that bring back the biggest realizations.
