Anyone who knows me and my rants on air travel would be well familiar with my disdain for passengers who end up on the centre seat on flights. In an age where airlines have offered every possible means for passengers to snag an aisle or window — web check-in, tele check-in, kiosk check-in, early check-in and so on — why would one still end up on the middle seat? As I note in Aisle Be Damned , ‘centre seats are only occupied by monks, children and duffers who checked in late. Centre-seat pockets are the waste buckets for window and aisle passengers, who shove in chewing gum, chocolate wrappers, used diapers, snorted tissues and insect parts when no one is looking. Centre-seat occupants deserve sympathy, a pat on the back and any loose change in your wallet.’

My hypothesis is that centre-seat passengers have a significantly lower IQ than those on the window or aisle. Maybe it’s just a temporary lapse of intellect and they are full-fledged Einsteins on the ground but I am yet to encounter any centre-seat passenger who has impressed me with his brainpower. I recently encountered one prime example of this species of intellectually challenged flyers on a Mumbai-Bengaluru flight.

I was seated on the window, this dimwit in the centre, and an aged gentleman on the aisle. The old gentleman was part of a larger group and soon after boarding was completed, he moved to a seat next to his friends. So that left me on the window, ignoramus in the centre, and the aisle seat vacant.

Phew, we shall have some elbow space after all, I thought and turned to the fused bulb with a knowing smile. He looked at the empty aisle seat next to him and smiled back, without making any attempt to move. Maybe he’s waiting for the plane to take off, I thought, and waited until the plane reached cruising altitude and the seat belt signs went off with a ‘ting’. I turned towards him but he was fast asleep, his head lolling against the empty aisle seatback. I decided against pinching him awake and impatiently turned away. A while later, the meal service started and the food trolley hunkered by with loud clanging noises. Dumbbell woke up, smacked his lips, glanced yet again at the empty aisle seat next to him but made no attempt to move.

I was losing it by now. The flight attendants who kept passing by were giving us enquiring looks — as one might to two people, who are not a couple, sitting next to each other rather than adjacent to, at a restaurant table. I tapped him on the shoulder, “Excuse me, would you like to move to the adjacent seat so we both have some more space?” And I pointed to the obviously empty seat next to him.

Dingbat turned towards me and stared with guppy eyes, his tongue darting in and out of his lips like a serpent. There was a long pause as his little used brain cranked itself up. “No, I’m comfortable,” he said. I stared at him speechless. He stared back. And then with a start he leaned over and pointed to the seat recline button. “Here, you be comfortable too,” he said, pushing an imaginary button in the air with his thumb. If looks could kill, he would have disintegrated into ashes right there and then. Which I would have gladly smeared on the empty aisle seat next to him.

Rishi Piparaiya is the author of Aisle Be Damned

rishi@aislebedamned.com

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