For those unaware, my application for entry to Singapore was recently approved. I will be travelling there at the end of September 2015 to commence a two-year research attachment towards my PhD. As the day draws nearer, I have begun looking for flights. And one particular development brought back memories from a fateful day 14 years ago...
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I remember very well the last of the three trips I have made to the motherland of Pakistan in my life - we flew
out with PIA (Pakistani International Airlines) on 30th March 2001. My grandma
had flown out the previous summer to spend time with my granddad, and they
awaited us in Islamabad. Therefore, great-aunt Razia (now no longer with us)
stayed at home to look after the 19-month-old Zak and our two cats, Smokey and
Snowy (both of them also no longer with us).
There were three of us: me, my mum and her cousin Noreen from Bradford
(who was then known to me, in the most traditionally reverential fashion, as
"Aunty"). Although my mum had booked all three tickets at once, the
airline took it upon itself to put us in different parts of the aeroplane: I,
though only 9 years old, was allocated the seat behind my mum; as we sat down
we waved goodbye to Cousin Noreen who was carted off to the other end of the
plane by a beard with eyebrows (had he been known to us, I'm sure he would have
been "Uncle Beardy-ji"). Anyway, after accepting this unusual seating
arrangement, I settled in to watch the in-flight movie, the previous year's big
horror-thriller, 'What Lies Beneath'. And I think it is a very good film.
Unfortunately, I only discovered that it is a very good film (or even what
actually happens in it) several years later, when I watched it for the first
time with the sound on. I am reminded of the old Woody Allen joke, in which he
tells us that he took a speed-reading course and then read 'War and Peace' and
"It was about Russia." The crew neglected to pass me any earphones,
so it wasn't quite the thrill I was expecting.
Evening descended and dinnertime came along. My mum decided that I was
going to have the chicken and rice. And I did wonder if she had decided to
sneak into the galley and personally cook it, as well, because it contained her
unique blend of enamel-corroding, eyeball-popping spices. My pleas for water
went unanswered by the beard with eyebrows and one of his colleagues, who were
involved in a heated discussion with each other, either blessing the meal of an
elderly passenger in the middle aisle or attempting to find and pick something
inedible out of it. It was difficult to tell which, after my eyes glazed over
with concentrated capsaicin tears.
Landing at Islamabad airport the following morning, I thought the worst
was over, but the rush of the passengers off the plane was exceeded only by the
pace of the stifling heat that invaded every crevice of the aircraft as soon as
the door was opened. It didn't help that the building was some ten minutes away
from where we landed, so we had to stand out there, blazing gently on the
unshielded tarmac while we waited for the shuttle bus to get us to the door of
the terminal.
Once safely in the arrivals terminal, we had a run-in with the security
staff, who insisted that we submit our bags for an x-ray, even though they had
been scanned in London and we could not possibly have added anything to them
since then. My mum almost got arrested for pointing out the absurdity of it,
but eventually relented, possibly for fear of what the heat might do to her if
she carried on shouting at the moustache with a hat.
And finally, waiting for us at the other end were my grandparents, who,
despite having been born and raised in the British Raj, always greeted every
day with almost grief-stricken puzzlement at the thought that it really could be
quite so hot! They were perching unusually close together on the edge of one end
of a bench, the only bench that had any shade. She had formed a hammock out of
her shawl, and both of them were holding one end of it while they fanned
themselves with crazed sweeping motions. And it was there that we blithely
melted. For some two hours, if I recall correctly, waiting for my dad to arrive
so that he could take us back to his house. He said he thought the flight would
get in later. Looking back on it, I suppose they might have hurried things
along a bit to get the curry-scoffing passengers off the plane before the
irrepressible will of Allah worked its way into people's digestive systems and
something horrific really did end up lying beneath...
Why do I tell you this? Well, it just so happens that, so far, the
cheapest flight I have found to Singapore on my intended travel date of 29th
September is with Air India. And I was reminded of that famous PIA flight.
Since then, my tolerance for spice has improved considerably (my mum must have
known that repeated exposure to chili peppers when I least expected them would
eventually do the trick). And I also now know the plot of 'What Lies Beneath',
although 14 years on from that flight the procurement of earphones on
aeroplanes is, I gather, not quite so difficult. Perhaps even the worst comedic mishaps of traditional South Asianism won't be so bad! And yet I can't help but think
that if the situation of Air India is somewhat comparable to its nemesis, then
it is, perhaps, a comedy I would sooner watch in silence from a hotel room with
a plate of sweets, rather than one I would want to appear in again myself...
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By The Imperial Orange, 22nd July 2015
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