A Surreal Flight

We have been travelling a lot since we moved to India from Kuwait, for though we have now settled here more or less, we still keep going back and now I have to check the entries and exits in my passport to keep any account of it. So I don't remember precisely when we traveled back from there the last time and I am too lazy to go check my passport, but it was on a Kuwait Airways flight.

To say I love my husband a lot, is belittling that grand emotion, but he is an extreme pessimist at times and for a 'nothing can keep me down long' person like me it becomes very trying. So it was that, as was the set pattern that had formed during all our comings and goings, he began predicting dolefully weeks in advance, as was his wont, that we would be overweight. Now we always get overweight when we go to Kuwait; long hours of telly viewing, lounging around all day doing almost nothing, and stuffing ourselves like junk food is going to be banned in the next hour, does help us to get a bit big, ok a wee bit on the enorrmous side. He though, Bless him, did not mean us, he was so used to that, and anyways it made him feel a bit proud to think that he was such a good provider.

No, he meant the baggage that had somehow multiplied from the original three bags we had brought with us, into six and a few small extra airbags out of which stuff kept spilling out. Reminding him of our allowance of 120 kgs did not have the expected pacifying effect. Then began the threats that he was not going to pay for the extra baggage. This was so unfair. After all who was responsible for this collection of finery? Of course he and his generous nature, that had dragged us kicking and screaming, shopping to every mall, supermarket and departmental store,( not that he really needed to exert much pressure) where invariably we would finish all the money and reluctantly put back half the stuff ( he doesn’t use plastic). So the next night feeling guilty for our sacrifice and deprivation, we would yet take more money and we would head out only to repeat the same pattern. Somehow we always ended up buying more stuff each day then we had put back the previous day and the money was never enough. Soon there was no place in the flat to put more stuff. (This is strange behaviour indeed from someone like me who is strongly actively against consumerism.I have never bough much more than I needed in my days in Kuwait and yet on these trips I turn into a greedy, devouring monster.)

Now he went on repeating that we should perish the idea of expecting him to pay the overweight charges, till I was deluged by déjà vu, for it was a set pattern that repeated each time we travelled. After all the moaning and complaining when the time came though he invariably ended up paying the over weight charges quietly.

So finally the day of our departure dawned, we were all packed and ready... but of course everything had to be opened and rearranged feverishly as usual a few times, till finally, again as usual, we were ready just a couple of hours before our flight.

Now off to the airport.. again my dearest prophet of doom droned on... "all this traffic is headed to the airport, we will never make it in time".... "what" I asked in incredulous wonder, "even that water tanker..." till at the final turning to the airport, we realized that miraculously all the traffic had taken the highway to Lord knows where, and there were only two vehicles left on the road, ours and you guessed it -- the water tanker!

Whew! I breathed in relief, it wasn't so bad, there just was a chance we would make it... of course my fingers were crossed, toes too and I had been praying non stop from the time we left the house. Twice we had paid almost the equivalent of a hundred dollars for changing the bookings … now my hubby could see another hundred quickly begin to take wings and fly off into the sunset, if we missed this one… of course on the practical side the girls did have to be back for school and college.

A surprise awaited us when we reached the counters. There was barely a queue. Look, I told hubby, all that worrying for no reason, we could have kept cool and saved on blood pressure pills. We stood in the short queue for our turn, of course I was still praying..by now the fingers and toes were beginning to hurt by keeping them crossed…. you see the luggage still had to be weighed and that horrific possibility of being overweight still loomed large upon my frightened consciousness.

So we stood wondering which counter we would get… would we get the nice looking Kuwaiti, or the Indian, or the Pakistani???? Would they be strict or putty to our wiles and smiles… Questions questions.. fears fears… “ Go to counter 26” Counter 26? My heart sank at that ominous order. My father dabbles in numerology, 26 is 2 +6=8. 8 the number ruled by Saturn, the planet that creates problems where none existed. Did not many of the natural disasters occur on a 26? The tsunami was on Dec 26.. My marriage had taken place on Dec 26… Did I need more proof? It was like a portent, an omen… A sign that said “do not take this flight… run do not take this flight” While the thoughts were surging in my mind I was unconsciously moving towards my fate and counter 26.

Salamalaikum, I wished the officer in the Islamic greeting, smiling at him… definitely not a Kuwaiti I thought. Indian? Maybe… "Alaikumsalam" he answered in a thick Pakistani, Punjabi accent. “Ok definitely not an Indian”. He helped me lift the luggage and load it on the weighing machine all 130 kilos of it. Oh how nice! I thought, no one has ever done this before. Maybe it will be alright after all. The smiles were working...The luggage went through smoothly…. No hitch there. The 10 kilos overweight was shrugged away. The wiles worked too. All that unnecessary anguish and anxiety, should just have kept cool.. trusted the sheer power of my personality “I am traveling alone with my daughters so please could you give us seats together?” “Yes of course, no problem you can have 26, 27 and 28…. 26 again! I quivered inwardly.” “Thank you very much, you have been very kind”

Then off we walked triumphantly to meet hubby. “ See, I crowed, that was no problem at all, all that worrying for nothing. Can we eat a shwarma now please”? “They will be serving dinner on the plane, why do you need to eat now? go on, there is a long line at immigration, you will not make it” “My sugar is falling, I will certainly not make it if I go into a hypoglycaemic coma.” I can be quite stubborn at times. So we had the shwarmas and finally said our goodbyes and headed to an almost empty plane, for after all there had been almost no one in the queue, had there?

When we boarded the flight finally, the spectacle that met our shocked eyes was the horrific one of people swarming all over the plane.. Where had these people been in the queue??? I asked myself in a stunned stupor. The answer was so simple… They had arrived three hours before, completed all the formalities and waited in the lounge.

Now there are three kinds of people who travel from Kuwait to Bombay in the economy class, one is middle class Indians like us, the other is Indians traveling to India from the US, who take Kuwait airways, as it is one of the cheapest airlines from the US… and lastly the Indian workers and maids, who work in Kuwait. The passengers all belonged to the last category, no not completely, for there were no maids, only male workers. We got over the shock of seeing a full plane, and sought our seats, thinking they would be somewhere in the front of the economic section. We kept being sent further and further back till we finally reached our seats. OK, finally! Now we could just settle down and wait for the plane to take off. Or could we? The seats 26, 27, 28 were not as we thought, together, but the lines were numbered vertically and the horizontal rows were alphabetical, so we had got three middle seats and in the centre aisles, yes with two men on either side. Could it get worse?

Ok this was it! No way was I going to travel in this cramped tiny, even a mouse should not travel on it airbus, with two men almost resting on my elbows, nor were my daughters. “I am sorry ma’am but you were given the seat by Kuwait Airways staff, there is nothing we can do” piped an air hostess who looked like she had worked for the Stasi before. “Well and aren’t you Kuwait Airways staff”? I asked angry and perplexed. “No ma’am, we are not” came the mystifying reply, no explanation to who she was. Luckily two of the men got up and in true Indian style offered to take our cramped middle seats and let us have a complete row. Great, finally we settled in and sat down in row 26 (OH that number again!). Seat belts fastened, we waited for the take off that was scheduled in about 10 minutes. But the passengers were still shuffling, overhead bags were still being arranged, it took a while before everyone was settled to their satisfaction and belted down to their seats and finally the aircraft began taxiing down the runway almost thirty minutes late.

Cabin lights went off and in that eerie dark, television screens creakily descended from the roof of the plane, like some monsters from outer space. Where were our personal screens??? In vain I looked around under the seat, on the side, but there was no sign of the screens we were so used to.

It was getting close to midnight. The normally smooth taxiing turned frighteningly noisy, clanking loudly every once in a while. “Hope the wheels won't fall off” I thought. That wasn’t enough though, for suddenly a menacing message flashed on those screens, almost like a threat from somewhere in the blue beyond “Welcome aboard Novair” welcome aboard Novair, I kept repeating dazedly, Welcome aboard Novair, aboard Novair , novair , novair, novair. It kept echoing till the spelling blurred and I thought. Oh God! We have taken The Flight to NOWHERE! What does it mean? What had become of Kuwait Airways? Were we in the wrong plane? Had we been kidnapped by aliens? What airline would call itself Nowhere? I took out my camera and took a picture of the television screen. Finally, while these questions were hammering in my mind, the aircraft accelerated and in turn the clanks accelerated as well, and finally with pulses racing, hearts pounding and lips feverishly praying, we took off.

After we were in the air for quite a while, perhaps thirty minutes the smiling air hostesses appeared with their trolleys, to serve water. Except one, who had a very long blonde, plait, reminiscent of Rapunzel, they all looked like they had worked for the Stasi before. The service made me think perhaps we had wandered off into that time not too long ago, for they smilingly measured out half a glass of water to each of us. Half a glass of water!!!! I know we were coming from the desert, but this was too much. After all the sea was all around us and there was no dearth of desalinated water in the Gulf. Was there water rationing? “Could I get some more please, I need to take a tablet” I asked almost softly and hesitantly, my natural confidence and verve subdued by the shock. Oh God! Where had we landed? Well not landed yet, but then would we ever land? Even that seemed in question. Luckily more water was not a problem and so we sat for about thirty more minutes as the clock ticked past midnight, and there was no dinner, nor seemed to be hope of any coming. The shwarma held me together and I was happy about my stubbornness. The TV screens in the meantime, showed only the route we were following and what part of the earth we were above. I did not really approve of this new concept of inflight entertainment.

Suddenly there was an attack of colossal proportions on our olfactory senses. “Breathe” I told myself, “if you don’t breathe you will die.” The other me answered back “I might survive by some miracle if I don’t breathe, but if I breathe, I will surely die”. What was it???? Gross, evil, foul, disgusting, offensive, no make that offensive in the extreme, I was quickly running out of adjectives to describe the vilest of smells, that rose from somewhere behind my daughter’s head. “Oh God ma! this guy has removed his shoes and socks and put his feet up right behind me. Do something or I’ll die.” “Shhh its bad manners, don’t exaggerate, I can’t tell him anything, he will be so insulted? Good resolution! I managed to keep it for one minute more and then had to call the stewardess, the only nice one, and tell her to bend down to my seat level and take a deep breath. She finally requested the man to put on his shoes and we thought whew, that is that. How wrong we were, for in that short time, while I was practicing my manners, the smell had mingled with the air and it stayed with us, accosting us all the way till Bombay, yes through the entire three and a half hours.

A short time after the passenger behind us had put his shoes back on, the air hostess arrived with a few trays, announcing special meals. “Ma, I don’t think we are going to be served any dinner. Maybe they have paid extra for the special meals”. My elder one piped. After all, it was way past the time they normally served dinner. The shwarma would not hold us for much longer, and adding hunger pangs to the nasal torture, was a bit too much. “Well lets wait and see,” I said, trying to sound patient and wise. The smell by now was so bad that passengers in seats far away from us, were holding kerchiefs to their noses. To add to the aggravation the aircraft had been designed solely for Barbie dolls and there was barely any room to move a muscle. We had to sit with arms overlapping, thanking God for small mercies, I thought that at least we did not have to sit this way between strange men. How I longed for the days of business class travel. Sadly with these frequent trips, it did not make economic sense anymore.

Finally, when we had with great difficulties come to terms with the idea of starving till Bombay, to our enormous surprise the airhostesses began trundling out dinner trolleys. So we were to be served a meal after all. “Chicken or lamb? Chicken or lamb?” “Chicken” a daughter and I said “Lamb” said my other daughter. So we were served chicken and lamb, which surprisingly not only looked alike, but even tasted exactly the same.

Soon trays cleared, more water served, followed by tea or coffee, oh lucky us we could even have seconds. Finally everything was cleared away, the windows were pulled down, cabin lights dimmed, and we settled down to sleep as best we could….Undisturbed till Bombay hopefully….well for a short while at least. Just as we were falling uncomfortably asleep, the fasten your seat belts sign flashed on and the speakers boomed; “Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking, I am sorry to say we are flying into a storm and there will be some turbulence” Great! one thing that really adds excitement to my flying is turbulence. Okay I am fibbing. Of all the things connected with flying I hate turbulence most, it puts my teeth on edge. Sleep took off like it had never been and lips began the feverish praying again. Well the turbulence was not as bad as we had thought (I have been through worse) and at some point we landed in Bombay, with the now very familiar clanks. The poor over worked TV screens retracted back into the roof of the plane like an army of retreating aliens, after having entertained us in the nouveau fahion for almost four hours.

All who have suffered this ordeal with me, will now be so glad to disembark from this flight from hell into nowhere and just go home. That is exactly how we felt.

It was about 5:30 am when we landed in Bombay. The immigration checks had recently become real quick and the baggage handling more professional, so in about 30 minutes we would be in one of the thousands of prepaid taxis that are available at Bombay airport and whisked off across the railway bridge to my sister's home close by.

Man lives in hope... silly women like me do too. The immigration queue looked like a short one, till we realised that it was actually a serpentine one snaking its way across two halls to finally reach the immigration desks. At some point that morning, we would be able to complete the formalities and move on to recover our baggage. A boy about ten or twelve stood ahead of us and tried to eat some chocolates from the duty free bag in his trolley. "Wait till you get home" his mother reprimanded. "Mum where is our home" the boy asked in such an exhausted and wistful tone, that I felt a complete sense of empathy with him.

Finally, almost triumphantly, we reached the immigration desk... each of us a separate one. The immigration officer looked down at me over his glasses in a very suspicious way... He was probably thinking why has this woman made so many trips this past year??? Now middle aged Indians are not supposed to be in love, at least not love in the "I can't take my eyes off you or hands for that matter" sense, oh no, we are supposed to settle down comfortably into our middle age, planning our children's marriages and pretend that we were never young..... would he actually understand if I said "you see officer, the thing is my husband can't live without me nor I without him and yet for some insane reason I have decided to make my home in another country." Doubtful!

Anyway finally, with stamped passports we could now go on to collect the luggage, or could we? We headed to the conveyor belt that said Kuwait Airways and waited patiently.... till 'Kuwait Airways' rolled off from the sign above and the name of another airline took its place. Great now we had to go looking for the right conveyor belt. That was actually easy... all we had to do was follow a large number of exhausted, disgruntled, irate passengers.

Leaving the girls at the right conveyor belt, I made my way to find a trolley, asking directions to the trolleys of everyone I saw on the way. They kept pointing at some dark, indistinct corner in the far reaches of the airport.... which after walking for over ten minutes I managed to reach... now I would just have to make my way back pushing two trolleys that had minds of their own and recalcitrant wheels. This certainly was going to take more than the original ten minutes.

The girls were angels, they unloaded the suitcases off the belt and loaded the trolleys... I hate travelling without them. I went to queue for a taxi which I was sure we could procure in a few minutes...after many more minutes and much shuffling and impatience, shown by a queue which had now reached the end of its tether, we finally enquired the reason for the delay. "Madam there are no taxis" Now anyone who has seen the lines of taxis at Bombay airport will never believe such a preposterous statement. Why those guys are like ugly, broken down, fixtures and fittings out here. maybe they had finally done everyone a favour and sent the whole lot to the scrapyard where they belonged. The man quickly disabused me of the idea though by continuing. "There was a very bad storm last night, almost a cyclone" (remember the storm we had flown through) "All the roads are filled with water, it is still raining heavily..." it seemed Bombay was not merely submerged it was nearly drowning... Great morning to choose to arrive!

I should have followed my instincts on the number 26 and stayed back in Kuwait. This was just not happening!
Well usually there is always a way if one is willing to pay for it and luckily for us we found one... after paying four times the normal taxi cost, we managed to hire an SUV that would go through any water logging and get us and our luggage home safe and dry.

As we drove home, it seemed we had taken the right decision because their was no rain, there was a wall of water. It seemed as though someone was standing on the edge of the clouds and emptying out cauldron after cauldron without a break. A fellow passenger had managed to procure a tired old, bedraggled taxi and loaded their luggage on to the carrier, we watched the taxi which was in front of us as it made its way through the thundering waterfall. There was no saying in what state the luggage would reach its final destination

I have never been happier to get home.... Actually I have.. Oh yes there have been worse moments than this one..

A Monsoon Day

Incessant rain, flooded roads, squelching mud, grey skies, dreary days, sometimes that is all we can see during the monsoon. How soon we lose our patience after the first relief from sweltering heat. Yet there is another side to the monsoon: waking to a world washed clean and bright after a night’s rain and breathing in the cool crisp morning air, listening to birdsong that seems to have a chirpier lilt in its merry notes, enjoying the sight of luxuriant grass growing by the side of the roads, and raindrops resembling dew, nestling on green blades, shimmering golden as they catch the sun that often plays hide and seek after a sudden shower. Nowhere is the monsoon more beautiful than on the hills and mountains that are so close to us. Khandala, Lonavla, Panchgani, Mahableshwar, all wear a glorious verdant look, with mountainsides lushly cloaked in green. Beautiful wildflowers in vivid hues cover hillsides and meadows and silvery white waterfalls gush down the mountainsides. The monsoons enhance the natural beauty of the Western Ghats tenfold, helping to hide the deep ugly scars of deforestation that show through most of the year. A drive to Sinhgad fort or Panshet, which is much closer to Pune, is not less rewarding.

I remember what a joy it was, splashing through puddles, during my school days in Mumbai, or walking out for miles as the first rain fell. It is impossible to forget the power of the winds that almost pushed one at Nariman point or the intense pleasure of meeting the rising waves on Marine Drive, Worli Seaface or Haji Ali, as we were drenched by the falling rain; salt mixing on the lips with cool fresh rain drops. A few days back we were back in Mumbai and woke to find it submerged in water. For working people it was an unscheduled holiday, time to relax, watch TV or just eat hot pakodas and watch the falling rain, or pretend the sun had not risen and go back to sleep. We postponed our departure from there, following the advice given on TV to stay indoors till 5 pm. Fifteen floors below we could hear the children from a nearby slum screaming in delight, looking out of the window we watched them as they played a tug of war. A little distance away we could see a group of boys, in a maidan, playing some game, while almost waist deep in water.

As we drove to the highway there was still water in places and youngsters were out in the rain without the protection of raincoats or umbrellas and little children were swimming merrily in the knee deep water collected on the side of the roads. Much later leaving Vashi, we were rewarded by our first glimpse of snaking waterfalls. Then followed the paddy fields between Panvel and Khopoli; a truly entrancing sight during the monsoon. These are small patches bordered by tall trees with wide canopies, and rain washed leaves, gleaming emerald bright. Once in a while we were greeted with the sight of a single tall palm or a small group of towering palm trees. The rivers flowing through were full and surging with power but rather muddy. Clouds half shrouded the mountains of the Khandala ghats. A little further we were rewarded by a sight of monkeys sitting on the expressway wall. A number of monkey families sat on or clambered up the wall. Mama, papa, baby monkeys along with aunts, uncles and cousins were all over the place. It was quite a sight. A few minutes later a policeman stopped us, very considerately choosing a spot from where we could spy a glorious waterfall, though shrouded in misty clouds. As the driver spoke to him, we took the opportunity of taking some pictures. We left the expressway at the Khandala exit and headed to Lonavla and Lion’s point which is on the way to Ambi Valley. We headed up the steep, curving road, and stopped at a spot where we could park the car and walk in the grass. Wild plants, cacti and wildflowers grew in profusion. Water fell from a mountainside close by and it was an idyllic scene. Walking a little further we came upon a brook singing its way down the mountain. Wispy clouds floated around like chiffon curtains. Reluctantly we moved ahead to Lion’s point, but we had lingered too long and it was dark by the time we reached it. Lion’s point is impossible to miss, due to its popularity, as there are always a number of cars parked there. It is blessed with a breathtaking view but more often than not, this is cloaked in clouds during the monsoon, yet it continues to attract people. The mist was swirling when we reached it and it was quite dark, yet there was a beauty in the scene. We parked on the other side of the road, where a dark hill loomed high behind us in the gloaming. Clouds added to the darkness and visibility was lessened, creating a strange unreal atmosphere. Passing car lights appeared eerie, diffused by the mists. A little distance away a reddish glow perhaps of a parked car, lit the silhouette of a tree, producing an unearthly scene. Carts of roasted corn on the cob or tea stood on both sides of the road, their fires adding to the mysterious atmosphere. People blended with the night, their faces barely discernible. Occasional showers of red sparks flew in the deepening darkness as the shadowy hawkers fanned the flames. There was neither view, nor light, nor colour, nor moon, nor stars, yet the rolling hilly mists, the growing shadows, the secretive night, all held us entranced.

Mornings at Six

Often when asked about our day we tend to recount all the setbacks and frustrations that it may have contained. This, though helping us take things off our chest, can sometimes blur those moments that may have been beautiful and worth remembering, till they begin to fade, and we can barely recollect their colours or textures.It's better to record these wonderful moments, however short or few, so they maintain their freshness.

It has been some months now since we moved to Pune, we have been here through the monsoon,the short warm autumn, the winter and now the emerging spring. Summer will complete the cycle for us. The weather for the most has been pleasant and enjoyable, even the rains brought their own pleasures.

The best part of the day though has been the time I wait with my daughter at dawn each day, for the school bus. Together we share the pleasures in each new sight and experience. There was the first sighting of the mongoose,as it ran out from one bush and into another, then as a pleasant surprise ran back into the first bush. There have been moments of wonder as we watched the bayas (weaver birds) build their nests in trees beside our apartment complex, and moments of sadness and loss when the entire area was bulldozed to make another building. There were times when the bus was late or we were early and had enough time to sit in the gazebo watch the crow pheasant strut in the bushes, or stand by the frangipani tree, breathing in its sweet fragrance. Sometimes the rain would catch us and we would shelter in one of the buildings and watch it fall, its drops rippling the puddles that formed at our feet. It was in the garden that my daughter first saw the red vented bulbuls and heard their song, or I saw a shikra on a wire in the field next door.

Later in October after my daughter would leave, I would walk down by the fields watching the sun rise through the morning mists, the birds flying in the reddening sky, and somewhere over the bridge near our house she would witness the same sunset over the river; a very special moment of her day. As we watched it, the sun would bind us closer. These were times of easy camarderie bonding us together with memories to be cherished always.

Then one day after my daughter came home there was a terrible sound. A few minutes later the bus driver called saying there had been an accident. The top of the bus had caught a corner of our building, as the driver had swerved to avoid, we never really knew what, and had been ripped off from one side. That was the end of our mornings in the beautiful garden. From that day the bus started picking her up from the gate.

Now our path changed direction completely and with it our surroundings. We had to go to the lane outside the complex, passing buildings in the first stages of construction and building materials; bricks and cement, spread out. As winter advanced and the nights grew longer, we had to go down when it was still dark. There wasn't any gate really and everything wore a rough, unkempt look. As we stood waiting for the bus, mosquitos would hover over our heads, many sucking our blood like insatiable gourmands. As the sky lightened, stray dogs would come to relieve themselves close to where we stood, if we were not careful an unguarded step could land right into it. To add to the woes, if the wind blew from the east it would carry the strong stench from the buffaloes at the dairy farm next door.

One would think that our times together in the begining of the day now brought only misery, but this was not true. Even now we enjoyed new sights and learnt many things. As we were going down in the dark, often we saw the moon in its various stages over the eucalyptus trees or sometimes as it was about to set it stood in glorious orange splendour.

There was a small vacant plot in front of our gate, sometime in October it had been encroached upon and first one hut and now three stood there. When we began waiting for the bus at the gate there was only one hut. As we stood there a young girl would wake up and begin her chores. First lighting a wood fire outside the tent like hut, she would then make chappatis for her family, while it was still dark. Her face in the dancing red firelight was a fascinating sight.

Sometimes the bus would be late and we would watch the early risers; maids hurrying to work, arms crossed in an effort to keep out the cold, giggling twosomes walking to school, old couples warmly wrapped, out for an energetic walk, enthusiastic joggers, people walking their dogs, which thankfully did not choose our feet to complete their days business, among others. We learnt that it was at 7:45 am precisely, that the candyfloss man cycled by each morning, his wares displyed in their pink prettiness in a basket on his handlebar.

One morning, quite by chance we looked up at a eucalyptus tree to find a number of cattle egrets roosting in its highest branches. There was another time when a bird, which could not quite be identified, perched on the bare branches of the tree opposite. A little later a crow came by and perched very close to it, the bird flew at the crow and the crow backed off for a moment but returned and came even closer, this went on for a few minutes till the bird could take it no more, and chased the crow right off the tree and over the opposite lane. For a while nothing happened, then the crow returned and proudly sat cawing from the branch the other bird had been on.

There have been many other delights enjoyed during our mornings; watching the cormorants flying in different formations till they come together in a straight line, or listening to a purple sunbird calling from a branch, hearing the many cries and songs of the birds in the trees and fields, finding another tree full of weaver birds' nests. Though it is short, it is a time we look forward to each day. The moments we spend together are precious and prove that it is not quantity but quality that truly matters.