Welcome to India

That line of lights stretching into the sky had to be the Burj Khalifa. What other building could be so tall? It towered over that cluster of orange speckles, far in the distance, bleaching the night sky with its luminous yellow cloud. A face popped in front of the lights, blocking the view, deep concern etched into his features as he looked down the plane. A running man jostled my arm and I looked back down the aisle towards the scuffle I’d been unsuccessfully trying to ignore.

It had started five rows down from me, I didn’t know why, the insults being hurled in Hindi. Something about taking up bagging space in the overhead lockers, guessing from the way a man continued trying to shove a suitcase over a woman’s head, who started slapping him with her coat. The pilot pleaded for calm over the intercom as more passengers leapt to their feet. It was hard to tell who’s defence they were jumping too, the man or the woman’s. It seemed both had a loyal following gathering on either side of the tussle, trading insults and slaps, arms struggling to reach their opponents through the narrow gaps between the aisle and the cringing, seated bystanders.

‘They should stop fighting.’ The man with the concerned face in the window seat said.

‘Why are they fighting?’ I asked, turning and talking past the frail Indian man seated between us who somehow had a face even paler than mine.

‘Who cares? But if they don’t sit down this plane isn’t going anywhere.’ The man’s look of concern had suddenly taken on a whole new agenda.

I looked back to the growing fight for row 16, trying to ignore the building tiredness behind my eyes, the doubts resting alongside them. I’d just come off an eight-and-a-half-hour flight from London to Dubai, following a 90-minute flight from Glasgow to London and a 45-minute flight from Belfast to Glasgow before that. With each boarding and departure, every waiting room and security check, I felt worn down, that bit keener to quit, and the troublesome question continued to crop up more and more; what on earth am I doing here?

There was a shout as someone threw a punch amongst the crowd that swayed up and down the aisle, like a penned in rugby scrum of middle-ages businessmen and agitated mothers. I cast an eye about the cabin, wondering where the flight stewards had gone. Then I saw them, stranded in the middle of the fight, their chequered shirts blending in with the civilian guerrilla campaign of the Dubai airport runway. This was it. We were going to be stuck here for hours, perhaps only to be relived by the UAE police force coming to our rescue-

But just like that, it was over. I doubt, even if I knew the language, I could have worked out why the fighting stopped. The combatants had become collectively bored of the clash and within a minute everyone was seated once again. The soothing rush of recycled air blew overhead as the plane taxied at a leisurely pace towards the take-off strip, the flight attendants, seemingly unfazed by the fight from moments ago, scanning everyone’s seatbelts as they trotted down the aisle.

I squirmed in my seat, trying to find a position a modicum more comfortable for the ache in my lower back. I let my thoughts settle as my fourth flight of the day raced down the runway and rumbled into the sky. Perhaps now I could relax with no more hiccups until I reached the hotel, although somehow, I doubted it. Within half an hour, those pesky doubts were confirmed when the two men seated next to me woke me from my brief doze.

‘You’re not sick. Stop making a fuss.’ It was the man by the window, the concerned look replaced with a much grumpier one as he chastised the man between us.

‘Yes.’ The man in the middle seat said. ‘I’m sick.’

‘No, you’re not.’ I though the man suddenly tried hitting the other with his outlashed hand, but then he simply rested it on his forehead. ‘You feel fine.’

‘I’m cold.’ The man complained, shivering as if to prove the point.

‘Then you should have brought a jumper. Stop complaining and-’

‘Here, take my coat.’ I said, shrugging off my khaki jacket and offering it to the pale man. Hopefully it would stop the squabbling if nothing else. The pale man nodded his thanks. The other glared, probably annoyed I’d cut off his opportunity to argue some more. I ignored him and sat into my seat again, twisting as my upper back took its turn to complain. I closed my eyes as I tried to snatch some sleep, but even with the air vent above me turned off, I noticed the chill settle in on my freshly exposed arms. I opened an eye and saw the man next to me had already dozed off, snug beneath the jacket. I sighed and shut my eyes, trying to think reassuring thoughts of how I’d made the right choice coming out here. It was just the day of flying. Once this was over it would all be easy. Nice and-

A shrieking noise wrenched me from my half-slumber. A baby -there’s always a baby- had started crying in the row behind. I checked my watch. Three and a half hours to go.

One noticeably sleepless flight later, I retrieved my jacket from the man who seemed surprised I’d want it back at the end of the flight, and made my tiresome way through the hour long immigration queues. I reached the luggage carrousel for my flight and stopped. I squeezed my eyes shut, pressing my thumb and forefinger to them, giving myself a moment to process the noticeable lack of bags before me. I lowered my hand and opened my eyes, scanning for somewhere to start.

Where does one look for lost luggage at four in the morning in New Delhi airport? Perhaps an information desk of some sort? Well on this night, all they provided was the latter half of their name and none of the former. No one had been updated on any bag movements from the Dubai flight beyond the empty carousel. How about the staff? No news, just a lot of shaken heads and pointed fingers, bouncing me from one attendant to the next. Perhaps it had been stolen? I asked a guard, dressed in the classic brown shirt and trousers. He just looked at me as if confused as to why I was talking to him, before waving me on.

As I traipsed through the vast terminal yet again, I reflected it would be nice to have someone with me to share the burden of this lost bag. Travelling with other people can be like a marriage. You’re there for the good times, and the bad. As long as there’s someone there to share it with, that’s all that matters. Was I relieved when I finally found my backpack randomly strewn against the far terminal wall an hour later? Perhaps, but by then I was too tired to feel much of anything. Just the usual niggling of embarrassment as I came out of the departure lounge to see a man standing there with my name printed on a sheet of paper. The hotel had sent a driver. I’d completely forgot.

‘Sorry.’ I said as I came up to him. ‘Did you have to wait long.’

‘Two hours.’ He said with a slightly mocking, slightly annoyed smile.

I got my first taste of Indian driving as we barrelled down the early morning motorway, rocking from side to side in my seat as the driver squeezed our van through the gaps between massive trucks that could have easily crushed us with one wrong turn of the wheel. The driver was keen to talk but I don’t remember much of the conversation through my sleep fatigued brain. All I remember was the driver asking, ‘You like India then?’

‘Maybe.’ I said with an exhausted smile. ‘I’ll have to give it a day before I can answer.’

‘Here we are.’ The driver said, pulling to a stop in an incredibly tight alley.

I stepped out into the morning haze, trying not to think too much about what squelched underneath my feet, as I gaped around at the street I’d found myself in. Paharganj, the “trendy backpacker enclave,” I’d read about online, looked like something out of a post-apocalyptic movie from my first viewing. The houses either side of us seemed to be haphazardly stacked atop each other, three stories high, wires branching between their roofs to create a makeshift canopy overhead. Different coloured paints and cardboards clung to the rundown walls of exposed brick and plaster, splashing onto the mud floor between them sprinkled with discarded plastic trampled into the dirt. Vague figures floated from doorways further down the alley, a few curious looks shooting towards our van and my backpack as the driver heaved it out of the back seat and dumped it onto the wet floor.

‘Here we are sir.’ He said.

‘Yes, thank you.’ I said, struggling to think of anything else.

He held out his hand.

‘Oh right.’ I reached for my wallet. I’d paid 800 rupees in advance online, but a tip only seemed fair after all the waiting he’d done. I thumbed through the notes, trying to work how much was reasonable for a tip. I handed him a 1000 rupee note. He looked up at me expectantly. Hesitantly, I handed over another 1000 rupees. He looked up again, with an expectant raised eyebrow.

‘Nah.’ I pocketed the wallet. ‘That’s plenty.’

He shrugged. I later found out I’d tipped the man half a week’s wages. Not a bad trade for a 2 hour wait. The Glow Inn hotel receptionist was asleep when I tried checking in. He stumbled up from behind the desk, startling me as I knocked on the see-through door. Walking up the stairs after my check-in, I glanced behind the desk as I passed and saw two more men sleeping there, snuggled up against one another.

I didn’t even want to think about how many hours I’d been in transit as I entered my room and threw my bags onto the floor beneath the creaking aircon fan. I crashed onto my bed, still fully dressed, only staying awake to check my phone as it buzzed in my pocket. I briefly thought of family or friends before I saw the message. “Welcome to India. You cannot receive any calls or texts in this destination.”