I was at the Santacruz airport the other day. I'm sorry, but that's the easiest way to get there. No Bombay cabbie is going to understand "domestic airport" or Chhatrapati Shivaji "International" Airport!

Just why is the domestic airport being called international anyway? I guess it's another one of those mysterious questions that only Bal Thackeray can answer (Did Michael Jackson really pee in your loo? Are you secretly in love with Sonia Gandhi? Is Raj Thackeray actually your son? Is that why you didn't get Uddhav braces for his teeth when he was a kid?)

Uhhh... now where was I?

Yes, the airport. So I was at the arrivals section after ages and it was nice to see it all spruced up and less chaotic than before. I was picking my folks up and was looking for a Meru cab. But you can never get one of those mint-green fuckers when you need one! So I went to the pre-paid taxi counter and shelled out the equivalent of one full bottle of gin or 4 full bottles of beer, for a pretty short ride. This had better be worth it, I thought to myself.

The guy at the counter said I just had to flash the guard near the cab stand (with the receipt you perverts!) and he would get me one immediately. I thought no point in flagging a cab till my folks were out so I decided to wait. I noticed a cafe outside but could not bring myself to sit there. The smell of masala dosa mingled with sweat mingled with rancid coffee is the last thing I wanted to breathe in. Being at the airport in the middle of a hot summer's day was torture enough.

So I just hung around the railings and did what I do best - people watch. I could see women coming out in sequinned salwar kameez's, hennaed hair and big designer sun shades (Delhi for sure), men in ill-fitting business suits (could be any of our metros, or even Bangalore/Hyderabad), oily-haired and bejewelled aunties and uncles (Kerala I suppose).

The flight had already landed so I was looking for 3 senior citizens walking out with embarrassing colourful strings and ropes tied around their luggage

(You shut up, what you know? It's easy to identify this way. One fellow tried to walk away with my blue bag. Thank St. Anthony I caught him! His bag was not even blue, it was black and it was so light! He would have walked off with the sorpotel and bolinhas and grated coconut that your aunt sent you. So much trouble she took...)

coming from where else? Goa!

But before they came out and regaled me with their almost-stolen baggage tales, I noticed this guy walk out in blue jeans and a white shirt. He had these big shades on so I could not see his face clearly. He did look familiar though. That swagger and pretend devil-may-care attitude could only mean one thing - celebrity. And in India celebrity can only mean two things - filmstar or cricketer.

So since it didn't seem like I had seen him lip-synching or doing pelvic thrusts on screen recently, I thought he has to be a cricketer. But which one? Knowing me and my absolute love for and obsession with that bat-ball sport, how could I have known ;-)

Seeing as he was without an entourage or any security even, made me think he must be one of the lesser known ones. A few seconds later, the paan-spitting loud dude next to me solved the mystery.

"Oi Yuveeeeeeeeeeeee."

"Oi Yuvraaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaj. Idhar dekho na! (Look here no!)."

Yuvraj Singh! Ok, no wonder!

But the dude kept walking. My oily-haired, magenta-pink shirt wearing friend was in no mood to give up.

"Oi Yuveeeeee yaar..."

Finally Yuvi yaar stopped and turned, probably hoping it was the paparazzi. Realised it was only someone from the aam janta (common man), turned back around and continued walking.

"Arrey woh Yuvraj Singh hai yaar (Hey, that's Yuvraj Singh)," my enthusiastic friend said to everyone around him.

"Oi Yuveeeeeee... kaisa hai yaar! (How are you, my friend!)" he yelled out once again before excitedly punching the numbers on his cellphone to speak to probably his entire village in Eastern UP.

I must say I was impressed with his determinaton and high energy levels.

Finally, my troops were out and walking towards me all looking like they hadn't seen me in years! They also looked a little spaced out. So I tried to get them to a cab ASAP.

That's when I realised that Santacruz airport could never become "international." Inspite of having paid for and booked a cab in advance, there was chaos. Not only did it take forever to get a cab, we couldn't get one to fit the luggage in. And not because there was excess. For some reason, all the cool cabs at the airport are the CNG run ones with no space in the boot (thanks to the gas cylinder) and no carrier on the roof!

Apparently the taximen's union thinks that the only people to disembark at Bombay airport are the ones who travel with just their laptops and cellphones and, as in the case of Yuvi yaar, big designer shades on their faces!

So what do people with luggage do? Ride back home with your bags all over you or under you, and curse the living daylights out of everyone as you try to shake off the cramps from your legs!