India, March 14 -- Thirty-five minutes remaining - I have never missed a flight in my life. I inherited the traits of my father - a duty-bound man, who sits in the porch waiting, with well-oiled, neatly-parted hair, a perfumed handkerchief in his trouser's pocket, wearing polished leather shoes, with all luggage packed two to three business days before the travel date.

I am usually on time, but today's different. I have just managed to reach T2 in Delhi - an airport that doesn't deserve a whole integer for its name. It could have been a T-1.5 or something. It's just a food-court with an attached runway. It always feels like it's evacuating citizens in an emergency.

I don't really like flying. The only bearable part about flying is when ...