FEBRUARY 8, 2022 – As I reflect after 41 years, my introduction to India was even more bizarre than it seemed at the time.
The British Airways flight to Bombay (Mumbai) took over 10 hours. As we broke through low-hanging clouds along our gradual descent, I saw the Indian version of an uninterrupted Dickensian slum sprawling in all directions—dense poverty on a scale I couldn’t fathom. Our final approach plunged my thoughts into the harsh reality of the words I’d heard repeatedly from other travelers Down Under: “Nothing can prepare you for India.”
After landing, the plane turned off the tarmac, taxied a way, then stopped—for an interminable interval. Eventually, a mobile stairway, accompanied by a military vehicle, appeared on my side of the aircraft. No further activity occurred, and no one aboard the plane, I noticed, was preparing to disembark. I pulled the attendant call button.
“Are we getting off here?” I asked.
“Oh, are you the one getting off?” said the attendant.
My heart sank. I was aboard a fully loaded 747 from Perth to London with a stop in Bombay—and I was “the one getting off”? This revelation confirmed that I’d made a terrible error. After two months of easy, enjoyable passage through some of the most beautiful scenery in the world, I’d made a wrong turn, a regrettable decision, an irreparable miscalculation.
With daypack slung over a shoulder, I followed the attendant to the front exit, just as another attendant was opening the door. A rush of hot air, as from a blast furnace, knocked me in the face. The stairs were in place, ready for “the one getting off.” As I descended, two soldiers with automatic weapons strung around their necks and a woman wearing a green sari emerged from the military vehicle.
When I reached the bottom, the woman greeted me. “Hi,” she said. “I’m Wendy. Welcome to India.”
I was dumbfounded. And what did the two, armed, military guys have to do with “welcoming” me to India?
“We’ll escort you to the terminal,” said Wendy, “where I’ll get you through pass control and customs.” At that moment, I saw a worker toss my backpack out of the baggage hold of the plane and onto the ground. Another worker picked it up and carried it to one of the gun-club members of the “welcoming committee,” who tossed it unceremoniously into the army vehicle.
“Let’s go,” Wendy said, and with that I was transported to the terminal a short ride away. Cheerfully, she asked how my flight had been, how long I was staying in India, and what places I planned to visit. I was too flabbergasted to provide an organized response. Upon arriving at a terminal entrance, Wendy and I alighted and that was the last I saw of the military escort.
Wendy led me through the terminal doorway into bedlam. “Follow me,” she shouted above the din, her sari sweeping the ground, as we joined the throng—she, fearlessly, and I . . . scared out of my wits.
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© 2022 by Eric Nilsson
