JOIN USThe tour manager
Having a complex loco-motor disability hasn’t quashed my desire to live, love, work and travel. The last – with badly planned tour circuits, shoving-nudging groups and ill-humoured tour guides – have sometimes caused an issue. So, my mom and I (great travel buddies, incidentally) have kept off charted paths of conducted tours for a long time. One fine year, we mustered enough guts to try it out once again.
I was assailed by anticipatory worry throughout our 10-hour-flight from Bengaluru to Paris. The few unsavoury experiences I had had, where the all-powerful tour guide would insist that I remain in the coach while he took the rest of the group sightseeing, rankled and reverberated in the deep recesses of my mind.
The TGV ride from Paris to Strasberg was an agonising one, with my obsessing if I’d be allowed equal participation. Mom and I arrived at the hotel in the evening. Sleep-deprived and travel-weary, we skip-ped dinner and hit the sack immediately. As we walked into the breakfast lounge the next morning, dread renewed its grip on my heart. I was to meet my nemesis – the omnipotent being who could make or break my trip – the tour manager! As a gentleman with an unmistakably supervising air approached us, I froze.
Mr Irani (name changed) approached me and my mom and welcomed us into the group. A pregnant pause followed. I nervously waited for the inevitable question. In a second, it came: “Why…?” he asked indicating my crutches, “did you have a fall or something?” “No, sir” I ans-wered truthfully, “this is an issue I’ve had since birth.” I expected resistance, a sign of protest maybe. But Mr Irani merely said, “Okay. No problem.” So far, so good.
As I stepped into the coach, mom and I were asked to occupy the designated back seat. Mr Irani didn’t suggest that we take the front seat. I was at peace, considering I had lived my life sans expectations or exemptions. But my mom bristled at what she interpreted as Mr Irani’s unaccommodating attitude.
The next half an hour set an unsettling pattern. Mr Irani reprimanded a gentleman for being late, snapped at another for being too noisy and rudely shot down one of my mom’s requests. The signs were clearly not good. This trip was bound to be a disaster.
As time passed, the ambience in the coach changed dramatically. Mr Irani kept the group engaged with lively games and debates. Soon, all of us emerged out of our cocoons and chatted away like long lost buddies. Mr Irani was a gold mine of information, and under his enthusiastic guidance, we traversed sprawling lengths of exotic lands, savouring each detail.
And I participated and how! Every time I needed help, Mr Irani’s ready arm hoisted me up. Every time I was disoriented (my mom and I took slight detours at times), Mr Irani manifested out of nowhere and steered me in the right dir-ection. Not a dispiriting word was utter-ed, nor a demoralising comment made.
During the last leg of our trip, a certain reflective weariness came over me. I urged my mother to visit the renowned Arc De Triomphe (The Triumphal Arch) all by herself. As my mother reluctantly left, Mr Irani grew alert.
“Lasya” he called sharply from the front of the coach “don’t you want to get off?” “Well…” I trailed off, not wanting to admit that I had given up. “Is anyone around to help you get off the coach?” Mr Irani asked. “No, sir,” I replied. Lithe as a cheetah, Mr Irani was at the side door to help me get off the coach. While I was ready to accept my end-of-the-trip fatigue, he obviously wasn’t!
As I beheld the surreal, beautifully-lit Arc De Triomphe, I felt victorious! My innate enthusiasm was matched by the tour manager’s unrivalled kindliness. A presence like Mr Irani’s was refreshing, even touching, in a world which robs the differently-abled of opportunities for equal participation, however spirited or capable they might be.