When even strangers were trusted

In May 1973, I had to go to Trivandrum, now Thiruvananthapuram, for an official visit. There was no direct flight from Calcutta. I took an afternoon flight to Madras, now Chennai, to fly from there.

I reached the airport in the evening. It was my first visit. It was called Meenambakkam Airport, named after the village where it was built, like the Dum Dum Airport of Calcutta, the Santacruz Airport of Bombay, Palam Airport in Delhi, and others. In India, the naming of airports after national leaders of the region had not yet begun.

My flight to Trivandrum was scheduled for early morning. The airport was not large, so the first task was to find a place to spend the night, either within the terminal or nearby. Fortunately, an air-conditioned room was available in the airport retiring rooms for just ₹75 a night. After a refreshing shower, it was time to walk down to the terminal for dinner.

I found a security guard in a blue uniform and asked if there was any nearby restaurant where I could have South Indian food. He did not understand my intention and said, “Sir, there is a neat and clean restaurant at the airport. Why do you have to go out?”

“They must be serving conventional food, as at other airports. I am looking for something typical Tamilian food.”

“Sir, those restaurants are a little away and not within walking distance.”

I was disappointed.

“Sir, can you ride a bicycle?”

“Yes. I do.”

“Then, I suggest that you take my bicycle and go to the main road. On the left, if you go about half a mile, you will find several restaurants, and you can select the food you wish to have.”

I liked the idea and was not surprised by the generous invite. Those were the days of trust, and strangers were trusted as well. Without restrictions, people were allowed to go to the tops of airports to see how aircraft flew and landed. Security guards were to guide people inside the airport. There was, however, manual screening of the passengers and their accompanying baggage.

The security guard asked me to accompany him, opened the lock on his bicycle, and handed me the key.

I thanked him and asked where I could find him after I returned. He said, “Sir, my name is Paripoornam. Ask any staff member at the airport, and they will find me for you.”

It was very humid outside, and it was also dark due to poor street lighting. I could, however, feel the sea breeze with a fishy smell while cycling. After cycling for about 15 minutes, I could find shops on both sides of the street and a few restaurants. I chose the most crowded one and had a good meal with sambar and rasam, and a cup of filter coffee.

When I returned to the airport and was anxious to look for Paripoornam, a young man wearing a typical whitish dhoti and bush shirt in the Tamilian way asked me, “Sir, how was the food?” I did not recognise him at first, because I was expecting Paripoornam to be in his blue uniform. He said his duty was over, and he had prepared himself to go home.

“Who is with you at your home?”

“My mother, my wife and a three-year-old daughter.”

I thanked Paripoornam profusely for his brilliant idea and for trusting me with his bicycle.

I returned to the Meenambakkam airport after three days and wanted to hand over the toy I had bought for his daughter in Trivandrum to Paripoornam. So I asked one of the security guards, “Where can I find Paripoornam?”

“Sir, I am sorry to inform you that two days back, when he was returning home from the airport, he died in a street accident.”

The toy fell from my hand.