India is apparently the hypertension capital of the world.
Medical experts have identified the causes to be a combination of genetics,
diet, obesity, thyroid dysfunction and what not. They are wrong. Even though I
put the maximum possible distance between Biology and myself as early as class
XI, I believe I have cracked this one. The singular cause for this epidemic in
India can be tracked down to one word - the Queue. Or, in a letter, the Q.
For the sceptics who doubt my theory, here’s a demo - let’s
take the simple example of my recent brush with air travel.
There is nothing more unearthly than waiting in a Q to get
into an airport at 5 am. Human beings were not designed for this. Long,
serpentine Qs. Everyone trying to slime ahead. The man behind me is inching his
way forward and is now almost by my side. He is nonchalantly looking the other
way, but his evil designs are clear. I’ve seen all this before, and seamlessly
bring body language into play. I put my hands on my hips, stick my elbows out
at right angles and create a barrier, while moving forward a couple of inches.
Message delivered, or so I thought. However, during the nanosecond when I
fumble with my wallet to fish out my photo ID, he forges ahead, flashes his ID
and gets in ahead of me. There are few things in life that make you feel more
like a loser than when someone jumps you unfairly in a Q. BP touching 130/90.
Reaching the check-in Q, I am confronted with some tough
choices. Should I just trust my luck and get into the shortest Q or should I invest
a couple of minutes in observing which Q is moving more rapidly? “Which Q to
join” is a puzzle that ranks right up there with solving the Times crossword in
5 minutes. It’s also funny how people want the Q to move fast until they
themselves reach the counter, at which point they are ready to discuss the
world hunger problem with the check-in attendant. I am usually sweating at this
point as I see the other Qs move faster. The only solace I derive is from the nervous
man behind me, who is having an early breakfast of his nails. And suddenly from
nowhere, a new counter is thrown open. Alas, I was not alert enough. All the
passengers behind me rush to that one. The Nervous One actually checks in ahead
of me with a triumphant grin! Aaaarghhh. Surely, this can be done better?! BP pushing
140/100.
Security check. Huge Q at all the X-ray machines. There is
nothing more stupid than getting up at 4 am and missing the flight. Passengers at
different stages of anxiety attacks queued up. And the X-ray machine inspector
is humming a Hindi film song. Not one of the recent songs with pulsating beats
and therefore capable of spurring him on to quick action, but one of the old
Rafi lullabies. He is an oasis of calm in the bustling airport. Time stands
still. The conveyor is not moving. He is looking at the ceiling, the floor, his
colleagues, anywhere but the screen. And just as I finally get to the machine,
a bunch of crew-members barge in and jump the Q. I make a mental note of their
faces. If this is the crew on my flight, I’m going to ask for water every 5
minutes. Again, as I’m unloading my bag on the conveyor, the last and final
call is announced for some other flight and another group of stragglers on that
flight jump ahead. They are mumbling apologies outwardly but smirking inside,
making a bad situation worse. Much gnashing of teeth. Heart rate leaps. BP
leaps higher.
But nothing can match the process of Q formation when
boarding is announced. It all starts with a few people generally hanging around
near the boarding counter prior to the flight being announced. Once the
announcement is made, everyone rushes in, and a curious phenomenon unfolds. The
Q starts with something resembling a line. At about the tenth person, it
branches into two Qs. And a few people down the line, into more branches, till
the whole thing resembles the Ganges and its tributaries. New branches of the Q
are constantly being formed. The Q is now constantly morphing in an amoebic
fashion. Where does it begin? Where does it end? Chaos rules. Close to
palpitations now…
The airport examples are only illustrative. Ever seen a
traffic light where vehicles line up behind each other? And why does the Q at
an elevator resemble a bunch of hockey players arrayed at the “D”, tensely waiting
to convert the penalty corner? And don’t get me started on the Q at any
Doctor’s clinic. You are at the mercy of the receptionist, who will typically
botch up the sequence, leading to much argument, heartburn and angst – which is
probably good for business anyway.
Someone was prescient when he or she named this thing the
“Q”. It is easily the most complicated alphabetic form in the English alphabet
and closely reflects the pattern of how lines form in India. I’ve traveled a
fair bit in India and observed only two cases where I have seen Q’s form in a
proper fashion. First, the Qs in Mumbai bus stops. Second, those in the wine
shops in Kerala. Go figure!
It’s understandable that we should fume when we lose a few
minutes because someone didn’t follow the Q etiquette. On the other hand, it’s
bizarre that we should feel elated when we are able to similarly short circuit
some part of the Q and save a few minutes. Any one from the outside would think
that we are a nation of high achievers who cannot wait to get through the Q and
do all kinds of important things. But insiders know that’s not the case. What
Indians do with the 30 seconds they save by sliming through Q’s is anyone’s
guess!
What all this means is that as you approach a Q, any Q, you
cannot switch off and attain a state of yogic trance while you wait for the Q
to automatically progress. You have to be constantly alert, brain whirring
actively, looking for openings, ensuring others do not spot one, wondering whether
we should move to the next Q, whether we can risk visiting the washroom and
lose our place and so on. Any situation where you are making a crucial decision
every 10 seconds is a sure shot recipe for stress. If your BP is anywhere lower
than 160/110 when you get to the head of the Q, you are ahead of the game.
