Most global authors are delighted to attend the Jaipur Literature Festival and have the chance to address audiences running into thousands. Marlon James, the winner of the Man Booker Prize 2015 for his remarkable novel A Brief History of Seven Killings, must have been happy too, at the chance to be there.

He didn’t seem quite so happy though, soon after arriving in India, going by a post on his Facebook profile, a post he set for everyone – and not just friends – to read. Of course, many of his posts have this particular setting, to enable his 6,200-plus followers to read them.

The upshot of his rant? That his experience after landing in India – Delhi, we assume – and trying to take a domestic flight to – to Jaipur, presumably – landed him deep in the heart of the mess that is the country’s pre-flight ritual.

His specific grouses: not being allowed into the domestic airport because he didn’t have a print-out of his ticket, being made to pay for his luggage being overweight on this leg though not on the international flight, having to get his baggage scanned once more, not getting a reclining seat, and finally being told the flight was delayed. ‘Nice first impression, India,’ he concluded.

The bit about not being let into the terminal seemed to rankle a great deal. “But at the airport they won’t let me in because it seems I don’t have a ticket. No problem, I’ll just walk to the airport ticketing people, pull out my laptop and scroll through emails until I find proof that yes, despite you having my f***ing name and me having my f***ing ID and visa, you still need proof I have a seat on this flight. “

Here's the full rant:

So I jump in this jeep because domestic flights are at a different airport than international. No prob, lets get in the jeep. But at the airport they won’t let me in because it seems I don’t have a ticket. No problem, I’ll just walk to the airport ticketing people, pull out my laptop and scroll through emails until I find proof that yes, despite you having my fucking name and me having my fucking ID and visa, you still need proof I have a seat on this flight. But wouldn’t you know it, domestic flights have a totally different weight standard than local and my hand luggage is suddenly too heavy by 8kg. But hey, he’ll only charge me for the overweight. Hold on, what’s that, officer? You need to see ID? Sure thing, take it and go whisper something to the guy checking me in. Oh wait? The bags aren’t going to the plane? They haven’t been security checked? You know what, whatever you fucking need dude, let’s go, scan it for bomb materials, scan it for weed, hell, scan it for peppermint tea. Oh I can go back to baggage drop? Sweet. Oh wait, checkin-chick, it’s now overweight 12kg? Just like that it went up by 4? You know what, take my credit card. Oh you don’t accept payments? I need to go over by that corner? Boo, I’m always down for an adventure. 38 bucks? Sounds like a deal to me. Yes I’m wearing a belt. Yes, jeans have metal on them. No I’m not even the slightest bit pissed that I’ve been awake now for 27 hours and I just want to make this raasclaat flight that this other flight person made sure to tell me that though I don’t have a reclining seat, he’ll gladly upgrade me for some 1000 figure I forgot. Dude I just want to board my fucking flight. Oh it’s delayed, you say? Nice first impression, India.

Perhaps James expected precisely the same experience as at an American airport. That might have included full-body scanning, an insistence on taking off your jacket and belt and shoes, and, sometimes, some awkward questioning. Or, perhaps, it would have been better to pay for the entire check-in baggage, as airlines in the US do, instead of only for whatever is extra.

What he got, instead, was a set of whole new strangeness, which, of course, Indian travellers have learnt to accept if not love. For instance, the curious practice of paying for excess baggage at a different counter instead of just swiping your card on the spot.

It’s true that Indian airports are among the few in the world that do not let in anyone without a ticket – a passenger’s or a visitor’s. It’s easy to wander into any airport in the world, a fact that makes the innocent happy, if a little less secure. But all James – or his agent or his host – had to do was their homework.

Still, there’s no denying that the writer has indeed touched a couple of raw nerves by ranting about the excruciatingly annoying process of taking a flight at an Indian airport. But “checkin-chick”, really? So sensitive.

You can bet that the Tweetsmiths jumped in at once, less than amused.

Yes, by the time the Jaipur Literature Festival has ended, Marlon James will probably be a fan of India – because of all that rockstar writer love. Don’t expect him to set a novel here anytime soon, though.

It would be a pity, however, if this rant were to take away from the importance of his novels or of his position on political issues like racism.

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