Flying back to Delhi on Sunday, I was surprised when my wife volunteered to pick me from the airport, even though it was a mid-morning flight. Having accepted as routine the red-eye flights booked by the office, I'd switched to using a taxi because the driver grumbled about reporting for duty at dawn, ignoring the generous overtime he made in the bargain. If I hoped someone from the family would do the drop, my son assured me that he was required by his instructor to be at the gym earlier than usual, my daughter said she knew I didn't care to upset her sleep, and as for my wife, let's just say she did not extend herself to such menial tasks any more.
Yet, here she was, insisting on the pick-up, and what time was the flight landing, anyway? While I was still at Mumbai airport, she informed me that our daughter would accompany her, and by the time I'd boarded the aircraft, my son's confirmation for the expedition was a matter of record. They weren't at the airport when I landed in Delhi, but a text message suggested I take a cab to the mall where they'd decided to check out the sales.
When the taxi dropped me off at the entrance, I realised the disadvantage of carrying luggage into a busy mall. It was difficult manoeuvring through the queue, the security staff was required to open all bags, and I was tasked with hunting down my family while managing a wheelie, a laptop bag, and a carton full of office stuff. My daughter was at Zara with a handful of clothes she wanted to try for size that she'd love me to pay for; my wife was waiting her turn at the counter at Marks & Spencer and in need of my credit card; and my son suggested that since I was paying for the others, it was only fair he should be allowed a splurge too.
It turned out they'd also made a late afternoon booking for a new, popular restaurant, so what else was there to do but bide their time shopping, now that I had chosen to arrive early? What with being prevented from entering the stores wielding so many bags, and finding it cumbersome to check them in and out every time the family decided to check out another brand, and being jostled by shoppers who don't recognise the concept of private space, I decided to hand my cards to them while I found a bench to rest on in the lobby.
At the restaurant - pricier than most - the steward said, "Welcome to Delhi" but refrained from helping me with the baggage. Because it was still packed with diners, there was very little space to put down the bags, so I sat scrunched up over a pile of shopping, to assure the waiter that, yes, I was enjoying my prawns. Having paid a hefty bill for what, I suppose, was a decent meal for the others, I was looking forward to the ride home, but my family, it seemed, had other plans "now that we have the car". This included going to another mall, meeting friends, perhaps even a movie. Seeing my distressed look, my wife came to my rescue. "Darling," she said, "why don't we find you a taxi to take you home." What with the detours, the shopping and dining, the commute from the airport to the house had turned out to be my most expensive ride ever.
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