Escape from Mumbai

‘Ladies and Gentlemen, please fasten your seat belts we are about to take off’

The aeroplane bumps it's way along the runway. Its four engines shoving you into the back of your seat. Nose raised. Head tilted. Landing gear tucked in. You look out of the window and see Mumbai disappear under a smear of yellow grease. Seat belt sign off. Cabin crew hand out wet-wipes. Refreshments dully served. India a distant memory. The buzzing beehive that is India, is behind you. The sickly stench of Mumbai, that reminded you of bacterial colonies in petri dishes, is behind you. The overflowing gutters mingling with visions of the poor and the indestructible pillars of refuse-heaps, are behind you. You relax. You’ve done it. You’ve escaped. In 9 hours and 35 minutes, according to the captain, you’ll be in London Heathrow. Home never seemed sweeter. Wet pavements reflecting golden street-lights never so gay. The cold drizzly November rain never more welcome.

The Airbus A320 lands safely at Heathrow. You clap your hands and cheer. Everybody looks at you and then out of the window wondering what you're cheering about. It’s been four months but it feels like a year. In those four months you’ve experienced the glut of the human condition: you've been threatened, you’ve been robbed, hassled, harangued, poked, sworn at, spat at, accosted. You've had to endure all manner of shit; bad shit, 'for fucks sake' shit, funny shit and real bona-fide shit (yes the type that comes out of your ass). You’ve used all manner of contraptions to get from A to B: trucks, buses, air con coaches without air con, rickshaws (human, cycle, spluttering diesel engine), private Jeeps, taxis, boats, canoes, aeroplanes, trains (1^st, 2^nd, and cattle class). You’ve dodged vicious airport and train station touts, psychotic taxi-drivers - like the fat sweaty Sikh taxi driver in Delhi hell bent on taking you somewhere where he can kill and rob you (luckily you jumped out at the nearest traffic lights and fled into the rush hour).

Every single transaction you’ve made; from a simple hair-cut to buying a train ticket they’ve tried to wheedle you of extra money. Pay extra for 'VIP tickets', pay cancellation fees, pay me baksheesh, pay me dollars, I want dollars! dollars!, I want money!. Nothing is simple. The pugnacious airport workers in Laos (with their official security badges) the worst – they wouldn’t let you on the plane unless you bought an on-going ticket from Bangkok– from there ticket tout! (At exorbitant prices). Dirty tricksters have tried to trick you in swiping your credit cards, stolen stuff from your bag when you were not looking and all you wanted to do was get out of the country.

You’ve been followed by the security services. Oh yes, shadowed in coffee shops and high class restaurants. Had your bags secretly examined in hotel rooms. You’ve fallen into a sewer full of shit - luckily your camera survived but not your self esteem. You've fallen in love. Fallen out of love. You’ve been scared shit by a gang of feral children in Northern Pakistan; alarmed by their brutishness, their jungle chants and their sticks. You’ve had people push you around in train stations, struggled to get tickets in the monolith that is India State Railways, been pushed out of queues, never heard anybody say 'sorry', or 'please' - rude and insolent the lot of them. You’ve had men and girls and grandmothers wanting to be your friend. ‘You my friend'. 'You my Sir' and 'You me sex’ – said the old women, her tits springy like Spaniel ears - You fled from her in disgust- the withered lecherous creature haunting your dreams for many days after.

Sometimes it felt like a dream too. Fleeing from one fleapit to another. Always dreaming of escape to a better place. A cleaner place. A less bossier place. Only to get there and find you want to get out of there too! It’s been a grapple. A grapple in the dark. A search for a place. That place. Does it exist? Did you find it?

Yes, you did.

In Northern Pakistan there is a place.

It's called...

The Deosai Plains.

Everyone needs a place

They can hide, hide away

Find a space to be alone

Nobody goes there. Not many people know about it. Good. Let’s keep it that way. It’s our secret (sush ;-)

And now here you are…at Heathrow.

You make your way to immigration. You stand in the queue for ‘UK Passport Holders’ – you look at the queue for 'Other Passport Holders'. It is huge. You smile a lopsided smile.

‘Welcome Home’ says the Sikh man in immigration. You blink at the Sikh man. For a second you wonder whether you're dreaming and that you will wake up in a fetid hotel room in Mumbai with flies swarming around your head. ‘Welcome home man!' repeats the Sikh man in a London accent. This is no dream. This is multicultural Britain. You've arrived.

You head out of the Terminal Three building carrying a rucksack, T-shirt and slippers. It’s cold outside. Your feet are freezing. You're shivering. But you don’t mind. Nothing can swipe that smile off your face.

Say it ain’t true

Say it today

When I open my eyes

Will it all go away?

Well this morning

I opened my eyes

And it’s all gone away…

P.S: In light of the terrorist attacks in Mumbai yesterday, it seems that the title of this piece is even more pertinent. As I have mentioned in an article earlier, acts of terror; especially those perpetrated in a frenzied haze of religious fanaticism, are a cancer. Such zealots have such warped ideas, their hatred is so all consuming, that there actions sully the many millions of law-abiding, gentle and humanitarian muslims. Islam is a religion of peace and understanding. I can attest for this for my parents are muslims and 'there' religion, the 'Islam' I know and am familiar with, is a million miles away from the 'Islam' that these religious nutters claim to represent. Ultimately their motives are political and to give their politics a sheen of 'respectability' or 'god given gravitas' they dress it in pseudo-religious garbs.