FEBRUARY 10, 2022 – Upon entering the domestic terminal, I was assaulted by the same pandemonium that’d filled the international terminal—except “Wendy,” of course, had flown off to Never, Never Land. I had to navigate on my own.
In a foreign land, “on your own” inevitably requires interaction with strangers. Amongst a crowd, who has the softer gaze, the friendlier face? Who moves patiently? Whose eyes bear the light of intelligence? By necessity you learn to assess people quickly.
In the curious way of India, the gentleman I chose for direction shook and nodded his head simultaneously, and in clipped English, said, “Over there.” Where he pointed, I saw crowded “reservation desks”—large, wooden tables staffed by sari-clad women armed with pens, checking and entering information in huge, record books that looked straight out of the oldest, dustiest shelves of “Civil Filings” in my dad’s office in the Anoka County Courthouse.
When my turn arrived, I said, “I’d like to make a reservation for London.” I knew, of course, that this was the domestic terminal, but the idea of bolting from India hadn’t occurred until I was aboard the shuttle. Surely the “agent” could provide information.
“You vill need to go to the international terminal,” the woman said predictably with signature sing-song-Indian-accented English. “But,” she added, “you’ll find that it generally takes at least three veeks to book such a flight.”
“How long?” I’d heard her perfectly well. An instant later, I realized sentence had been pronounced: captivity for a period longer than I could survive on two bags of Australian granola and what remained of potable water (from Perth) in my canteen. I had no choice but to adapt.
I sensed impatience in the queue behind me. “How about a flight to Delhi?” I asked.
“That I kahn doo,” the woman said, as she ran her finger down a list of hand-written entries, then turned the page to another set of entries, then flipped back again. “I kahn put you on an Air India flight on the 27th [two days later], leaving at [some time that morning].”
“I’ll take it.” At least I’d be getting closer to mountains.
The woman asked for my papers, which I turned over, whereupon she wrote my information into the “record book.” I don’t remember how my reservation was transformed into a boarding pass (my around-the-world ticket already showed passage from Bombay to Delhi)—but then again, much of what happened in India was a mystery, as if the whole country ran on some magic potion . . . and pockets full of baksheesh.
Before leaving the “reservation table,” I inquired about cheap hotels close to the airport. The woman kindly jotted down two within walking distance and drew a simple map. I thanked her and proceeded apprehensively to my next unknowable adventures—a hotel room overlooking slum-life, a crushing ride in a sardine can, and . . . “The Swindle.”
The Himalayas were a long way off. Meanwhile, wherever I looked, I heard the echo, “Nothing can prepare you for India.”
(Remember to subscribe to this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email.)
© 2022 by Eric Nilsson
