Of Different Skies

Dr. Roopali shares the wows and woes of flying in an airplane. An exclusive for Different Truths.

“Are you travelling business class?”

“No?”

“But you must! How will you manage? Sixteen hours at a stretch.”

I never ever make eye contact with Business Class passengers. They must be different. They even get a free ride to the airport and get to enter the aircraft first! I just wrap my middle-class bank balance inside my head, clutch my purse and limp across the slowly crowding-with-life inert airplane parked somewhere.

Oh, and then there is the wheelchair pusher. His yellow jacket proclaimed No Tips Please. This time I did not sneak a thinly rolled 100-rupee note into this pocket. He was impatient, unhelpful, and yanked the handle off my carryon baggage, all the while totally ignoring my bandaged ankle. So now here I was inside the aircraft. Stuck in the middle seat between a spouse, a frequent lavatory visitor, and a small screen that showed nothing but the distances between Delhi, Doha, Dubai, Muscat, Sharjah, Jeddah, and Abu Dhabi. Other passengers appeared to be enjoying all sorts of movies!

Four hours and a change later, the aircraft disgorged us into DBX – Dubai International Airport.  Expecting an exciting shopping spree at “Fly, Buy, Dubai” and complacent about the expensive pre-paid exclusive Marhaba Welcome Service which would wine and dine us and put us on the connecting flight, we found ourselves instead huffing and puffing looking for the Marhaba Welcome Service’s electric car and reception staff. Meanwhile, I heard a voice say, “Boarding has begun on your connecting flight.” A wheelchair pusher hanging out there looked at me in astonishment as I clambered in and waved him onward! We took off like a shot, with the wheelchair pusher’s companion deftly dragging my broken carryon bag, while the spouse kept pace jogging alongside.

Apparently, our arrival into DBX had been delayed. We found out we had flown around for a bit because we were not welcome in Pakistan’s skies, and nor were they in ours. Our governments had decided. My wheelchair pusher worked with incredible swiftness as he sped me through security, through the vastness of DBX, into shuttles, and elevators and corridors full of the fragrance of dates, nuts and French perfume. “Fikar na karo, assi tuhannu pahuncha deyaange! Tussi tension na lo!” I asked him his name – after all, he was a young lad from our very own Punjab. “I am Murtaza from Lahore Pakistan,” he replied. And the young man with my broken bag? “Myself Salman from Bangladesh!” “Oh my God…it’s Ramzaan,” I exclaimed.  “You both must be fasting. I am so sorry. I am so thankful!” “Ji, we are Roza fasting. But koi baat nahin. Yeh saadi duty hai.” I will make sure you board your flight. We will get you there. He spoke in chaste Punjabi.

At the door of the aircraft, I put my hand on the bowed head of the two young men and blessed them. They both touched my feet. Exactly the way my son does in India.  Later I asked the spouse if he had been able to…? He said yes, he had given them 2,000 rupees for their Iftaar dinner. Indian currency works well at DBX. Without Murtaza and Salman, we would never have made it. I happily crouched in my seat for 16 hours. The skies looked no different. The skies are infinite. They belong to no one. The heart travels everywhere. 

There is something about airplanes that makes one a trifle nervous. It could be its shiny bloated body, which incubates some hundred strangers whose destination you do not know but who are destined to travel with you. People whose intimate physical needs you will witness, as the thirstily gurgled orange juice will stand in an impatient line. As you enter the aircraft, stealthily dragging your extra heavy carryon luggage, you pass through the plush first class/business class, and you know this is where you are never ever going to be drinking champagne and stretching your not-so-long legs. All night the thought of a depleted bank account, and your cramped legs keep you awake. Thank your lucky stars your legs are not lovely and long. Where would you put them?

The aircraft lavatories are embarrassingly small and all too common as there is always a long line of resentful people waiting to get in. Sometimes there are people groveling on the floor, and just when you think of giving up your place in the line, you discover they are saying their prayers. And what of those strangers whose corpulent smelly bodies spill onto your seat space, with only the earphones blocking out flatulence and snores?! Sometimes the person resting their unknown head on your shoulders disappears. Perhaps they got off somewhere?! You rather miss them. It was less lonely then. Perhaps they were an astronaut who had stopped by?! 

You sit in the dimness of the darkness dwelling upon the damning humiliation of your body as it had flashed across a bright elevator door while the airport was abuzz. Lifeless uniformed eyes had scrutinised an alien anatomy hidden under voluminous skirts. What did they find so unusual that merited so many others to come running? To take you aside like you were a ticking bomb. Why did those hands keep patting, pressing prodding and kneading every part of your frightened being? Practiced hands had moved slowly all over while softly and politely telling where those hands were next going to go. Slowly each muscle tensed.  The skin did not tingle with delight. It was surprising. It was to keep everybody safe. Oh, after all that you are set free …you are not a certified human bomb!

The small peek-a-boo windows are shuttered, and there is just no way to know where the earth falls away and the sky begins. Thirty-seven thousand feet above the sea when the oxygen mask drops before your face, you must first wear it and then only help your neighbour. Yes, the same neighbour whom Jesus said you must love more than yourself. This obese stranger sitting next to you, you have never met before and will never again meet, literally and metaphorically your neighbour. The good Lord ordained it so. 

There is a pause on your silver screen. Bollywood blaring Singh is Bling gyrations suddenly stops in midair. There is turbulence in the air, kindly fasten your seat belts. The crackling announcement warns you. The pregnant-with-people airplane shudders, as if in labour. 

Oh Lord of the Seven Hills, Wahe Guru, Allah, Jesus Christ, Oh Blue god, White god, Brown god, save me save my brothers and sisters who travel with me. Save me, I will give up my sinful ways. No more roast leg of lamb, no more wine. I too will pray five times; climb barefoot all the mountains you reside on…Oh my God, all the dollar shop shopping will now fall out of the sky. 

You clutch the fellow who was occupying your space and wish Murtaza had been slower so you could have missed this flight after all. “Don’t worry,” you assure the distraught person you disliked not so many hours ago. Adjusting their fat on your generous lap. The soft arm is so warm and comforting. It hugs you. 

After what seems like eons the shudder of the airplane stops. You are now back to Singh is King. Or was it Bling? You push your elbow out to keep your neighbour from spilling into you. They are now back to being strangers. The slowly moving trolley coming toward you, pushed by a smiling angel flight attendant has a Bacardi Breezer, and the chicken is so succulently delicious. Suddenly, the airplane is an exotic flying machine.  

Wait! Where did the astronaut go? Afterall, you only live twice!

Visuals by Different Truths