26/11. 9/11 but in India. On the 26th day of November, 2008, Pakistani-based Muslim terrorists lay siege to Mumbai, India’s financial capital. Ten coordinated shooting and bombing attacks, killing 173, wounding 308. Well-equipped gunmen singled-out individuals with American and British passports. To be killed or taken hostage. Not a good day to be at Leopold Café, a popular restaurant for foreigners. Not a good day to be an American in Mumbai.
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For 2 days, I had travelled by bus from Maputo, Mozambique to Johannesburg, South Africa to catch a flight to India for my friend Sangeetha’s wedding. I had met Sangeetha as a student at Miami University where we had both pursued graduate degrees in speech-language pathology. I was now working in Mozambique; she was planning to find work in her native country of India. But first, she was to marry an Indian doctor from Calicut, India. An arranged marriage that she had welcomed.
No stranger to flying, I had minimal anxiety regarding the impending flight that would take me from Johannesburg to Dubai to Calicut. Even as I watched a crew of Emirate airline attendants attempt to process my e-reservation, my anxiety level registered at 0. Their conversation in a foreign tongue did not faze me. It was when the looks on their faces began to appear frantic and when I heard a brave soul utter to me, “Do not worry, ma’am, we’ll get it sorted” that I realized this was going to be no quick check-in. Then I was pulled aside and calmly told that for whatever reason, my individual ticket had been cancelled. There were no empty seats on the flight. I had no ticket to India.
I was told that I could go to a travel agent but one outside the airport or go online to book a flight. Either way there would be a 2-3 day delay. “Was my flight urgent?” they asked. Odd question, no one travels for 2 days from one foreign country to the next to wait days in that foreign place before departing on a flight to another very foreign place. In addition, I had convinced an American friend to come to our mutual friend’s wedding. She had never left the States. Quite hesitant initially, she finally conceded when I told her I would be waiting for her at the airport and would not leave her side for the duration of the journey. Interpreted urgent or otherwise, I did not have days to get to Calicut, India. I had hours. Tick tock tick tock.
The Emirate airline advice I disregarded. Instead, I walked from one airline desk to the next inquiring, “Do you have flights to India? How soon can you get me there?” I had gone through nearly the whole alphabetical line of airlines (Alitalia, Ethiopia, Kenyan, Qatar) until South African Airways put my fears to rest. They could get me to Calicut through Mumbai. A 15-hour layover both ways. I would miss my American friend’s arrival but I would make it in time for my Indian friend’s wedding. I had one hour to get word to my friends, go through security, and board the plane bound for India. Within 8 hours, I would be in Mumbai. I had little time to prepare. Tick tock tick tock.
The Mumbai international airport is not one of comfort. Due to its proximity to the Pakistani border and the strained relations between the neighbors, police were everywhere. Their eyes everywhere. I left. Upon entering the night heat, I was met by an onslaught of Indian businessmen looking to make a deal. I bartered with a taxi driver, but paid too much. Wound up at a hotel, where again my fair skin and American passport, made me pay too much.
The next morning, still a couple hours into my first Mumbai 15-hour layover, I embraced the chaos of the city. With a hotel staff member, I went in search of a SIM card for my phone so domestic calls (within India) could be made. My friends thus far knew little regarding my whereabouts, only what they could glean from the frantic email I had sent before my hasty departure.
Getting a SIM card in India, I quickly realized was no minute task. Closely following the hotel staff member, my passport in tow per his request, we weaved from one shantytown to the next. Inquiries placed, copies of my passport made, money exchanged. We walked on. After hours of curious perusal by onlookers, I acquired a SIM card. My first foray into Mumbai’s streets, a few blisters to sport and once white shirt now quite dusted, but not much worse for the wear.
I traveled onward to Calicut, meeting up with my friends, having a week of great fun and further intrigues: sitting in the second row for my friend’s marriage ceremony sharing space with the other 1500 guests invited, shopping for saris, tasting dried coconut by the street side, giving free “English” lessons to inquisitive villagers, seeing the countryside by train, exploring the backwater region by boat (as if in Venice), and trying to interpret the characteristic Indian “head bob”, in which Indians actually communicate by way of bobbing their heads.
Then it was back to Mumbai for my second and final 15-hour layover. This time, though, I had a personal tour guide – my friend Sheila. We first met in Maputo, Mozambique where we had arrived within weeks of each other, became friends, and then her hometown of Mumbai beckoned her back to India. With a phone and her number, we got in touch. We had a good half-day to catch up and to see the city – tourist sites and all.
It was now March 2009. Nearly 4 months since the Mumbai attacks or 26/11 as the Indians referred to it as. The targeted sites, many tourist spots, were part of the tour. We passed the Taj Hotel by rickshaw, where 167 perished. We walked past Leopold Café where 10 had been murdered. Bullet holes still blotted the front.
Being here felt so surreal, so eerie. It wasn’t a feeling I welcomed. I walked on picking up my pace. Then from the corner of my eye, I glimpsed an Indian gentlemen sprinting across 5 lanes of traffic. His eyes set on me. My heart stopped. My feet stopped. What the….
“Ma’am! Ma’am! Stop! Stop!” I couldn’t move. One lane of traffic separated him from me. “Ma’am, ma’am! Please stop!”
Now a couple feet.
Tick tock tick tock.
“Ma’am, will you be in my Bollywood movie?” What?!
“We could make a good deal. You be in my Bollywood movie? Yes, yes?” I was speechless.
“We make big money.” Blank look. Mouth agape. Speechless.
My images of the Mumbai attack – fear, trails of blood, panic, ricocheting bullets, horror – diminishing into a montage of shaking hips, stiletto-dancing women. Absurd. Unlikely.
As my ability to form sentences seemed impaired, my friend intervened.
“No, no, she doesn’t want to be in your Bollywood movie.” No. No. No. Indians are well known for their persuasive skills and persistence and the clashing of these two Indians was no exception. My heart was still pounding.
Bollywood dreams dashed, we managed to escape into a bakery with a distracting array of chocolates and sweet confections. My friend quickly forgot the incident. I did not.
I sat on the plane that night, homesick for a land I had not seen in many months, and one I would not see for many more. I was homesick for a place where upon entry I would pass through the line for “nationals” not for “foreigners.” I was homesick for a place where my nationality and fair skin garnered few second glances.
I was homesick for a place where I could just be.
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