What it’s like missing a flight (part one)

From someone who’s done it twice

It first happened 8 years ago, in and amidst the chaos that is Delhi.

A place where spices punctuate a polluted air, and people populate every street corner. A place that doesn’t know silence. Only sound.

After an eventful five months round India, Delhi was our final stop. Our flight was scheduled for later that night, so we did what any responsible couple would do, and checked into a Hotel to rest before our departure.

We left for the airport ahead of time. Not because we’re the kind of people who do that. We’re not. But because this time, time was on our side.

“Look at us being early to the airport.”

For a duo notorious for being late, this was a level up. A new era of adulting, unlocked.

We had the obligatory drink in the overpriced bar and meandered our way through the airport. We were ready to leave.

In India, you’ll find a magic like no other.

It’s a land of dichotomies. There’s light among the dark. Rich among poor. Modernity rooted in tradition. In happiness, you’ll find sadness. And what was blank, seeped in colour.

As a desi girly who’s half Indian, spending this time in my fatherland held a different kind of significance. I’d gone from being a minority, to the majority.

I visited Bhuj, the village my family are from. I heard the Bollywood tunes I know and love so often, that they became the kind of white noise you love to live with. I was graced with deliciousness everywhere I went and had the opportunity to practice the Urdu Hindi mix I’d been raised speaking.

With the help of my Mr, I saw the India so few are able to see. I had the privilege of exploring the Himalayas, gorging on the mind bending beauty that is Leh Ladakh and Spiti Valley.

For the first time in my life, I was looking at landscapes so breathtaking that my brain struggled to compute what it was I was looking at.

Screensavers have done such a good job of capturing the world’s beauty, that when it’s right there in front of you, you think you’re looking at a screensaver. I guess if we’re living in a simulation, you kind of are, but I’ll stop with that.

Even when you’re having the best time, five months on the road is a long time. Particularly for the desi girly with the white boi. People were curious. People had questions.

“Where from?” They’d say.

“UK” I’d say.

“But look like Indian?”

“I am Indian. But Indians in the UK too.”

“Yes. My brother’s friend, Indian. From UK.”

“Nice!”

“Ok. Picture?”

“Ok.”

*Picture*

“Bye.”

Was usually how it went. Sometimes I’d tell them I was also half Pakistani. Sometimes that made them stop talking.

Their curiosity was kind hearted and their questions, endearing. But sometimes, you can’t be bothered talking.

Then there’s the other times, when you don’t want to worry about shitting yourself. Bowel sensitives are part of the Indian experience. If you haven’t experienced them, you’re doing it wrong. But shitting yourself is exhausting. Ask my Mr.

So there we were, in Delhi airport, with all that time to spare. How to spend it was our only concern and that was our first mistake.

“If we get some food here, we won’t have to eat the plane food.”

Clever, we thought.

There, among the bustle shone the green and yellow lettering, synonymous with the world’s finest sandwich artistry. Subway.

Famous for having so much sugar in its bread, that some countries class it as a dessert. We placed our orders and there we waited. And waited. And waited. Turns out this Subway, wasn’t fast food.

“This is taking ages.”

“It’s all good. They’ll call our names if it’s urgent.”

So there we were. Waiting for the world’s slowest subs to make their way to us, so we could make our way outta thur.

As the sandwich artiste took payment, someone frantically ran towards us, walkie talkie in hand. He meant business.

He was calling our names, wearing an expression that suggested we were in trouble. It turned out that we’d mistaken the departure time for the boarding time, which is an easy mistake to make when you’re hungry. No?

We were sure the man before us had come to our rescue. That his arrival signalled that we’d be okay. But as he continued muttering into his device, things took a turn for the worst.

“Negative” he said. And this negative had no positive connotation.

He went on to confirm that we would not be making it onto our flight. But in typical us fashion, we refused to accept that the man who did this for a living, might know what he’s talking about.

So we ran and we ran, Subway in hand, giving Forrest Gump a run for his money.

As we arrived at the gate, we saw plane patiently waiting as we asked the hostess if we could board. All of a sudden that “negative” felt real negative. So I did what I generally do in situations like these and cried, hoping my tears would hold some kind of value.

The lady went on to explain that because our luggage had been taken off the fight, there was no way we would be getting on the plane.

There she was, laying on the tarmac before us, behind the glass window. Her wings were polished. She was ready for take off.

And then it happened.

She took flight. Heading to where we were supposed to be, without us. It was as if we were watching her in slow motion.

In that moment of shock, I expected Ashton Kutcher to jump out of some room and tell us we’d been Punk’d. I’d forgotten that only happened to the rich and famous. Only they got set up for fun.

This wasn’t happening to us. We’d done it to ourselves. Subway, still in hand.

We later learned that Delhi Airport is in fact, a silent airport. Or at least that’s what we were told . The land of the loud, home to a silent airport. Who knew?Those dichotomies know no end.

We were asked to leave (get out) or purchase new tickets to avoid checking in again. We ended up doing the latter to soften the blow.

I never ate subway again.

If you’re the kind of person for whom money is no object, watching your plane take off without you probably ain’t no biggie. But if you’re not that person, which I can only assume most people aren’t, watching your plane take off without you is pain I wish you never have to bear.

It might just be, one of the worst ways to waste money.

We told ourselves that there was a lesson in this. That it would never happen to us again. How could it? It was too traumatic for anyone to experience twice.

But eight years later, we achieved just that, when we missed our flight out of Bali.

I imagine missing two flights as a result of human error is a feeling not many can share. But if you can, please let me know. I’d love to hear from you.

If you can’t, I suppose that gives us some sort of exclusivity. I know what it feels like and you don’t. Ha! Lucky me.

That’s me and my Mr, taking one for the team.

You’re welcome.