by Ning Cai
I was just thankful she hadn’t blown up at me or
bashed me into a pulp. I’m quite scared of her because Ning can be very fierce! I felt lousy. I couldn’t believe I had made such a grave mistake. Why did I assume it was just a transit stop at Bangalore? Why didn’t I consider the possibility that we might need to clear customs there?
See, this is where online booking platforms fall short – there is no human touch, no travel agent to inform you of these easily overlooked details. Such booking sites just churn out a list of all the available flight combinations from Destination A to B, sorted by price. Do they alert you to visa requirements? Nooooo...
And so we had a crisis on our hands. The lady at the check-in counter directed us to the Air Mauritius ticketing booth a distance away. “I suggest you cancel all your flights and re-book them,” she advised kindly. “Hopefully, there will be flights leaving tonight or tomorrow that still have available seats.”
I turned to face Ning, who looked equally serious and thoughtful. I was thankful we were not playing the blame game tonight. And even more thankful that we were both not PMS-ing on that date. We simply pulled on our problem-solving hats.
As they say, two heads are better than one. Of course, that is not always true – unfortunately, two stupid heads don’t make a smart one. I’ve witnessed how two heads can make things worse, or almost bring the universe to a complete standstill. But I think Ning and I are OK. Not the most synergistic universal mind-meld, but when we set our minds to it, we do come up with some brilliant ideas.
“I’ll call Expedia now to cancel our flights. I think they have a 24-hour hotline,” I said, sounding more positive than how I actually felt. “Let’s hope they allow last-minute cancellations... and refund us something!”
“OK, I’ll check all the flights out of Mauritius tonight,” Ning chipped in, grabbing her bag and slinging it over her shoulder. “Hopefully there are some, or we’ll have to find somewhere to sleep tonight...”
We both leapt into action: I dialed Expedia’s U.S. number while fumbling for the booking confirmation codes of the various connecting flights to cancel them one by one. I knew that Expedia would have to contact the various airlines separately to cancel the flights on our behalf and enquire about cancellation refunds, so I was prepared to have my brains fried by my phone’s radio waves.
Ning began searching for flights departing from Mauritius that night. We could only pick direct flights to Indian cities that issued on-arrival visas for Singaporeans. That gravely limited our options. But I trusted Ning completely to find a way because my best friend is one of the most capable people I know.
And she did! We managed to find a flight to Chennai that very night, and the Air Mauritius staff confirmed that we could make our on-arrival visas in Chennai. From Chennai, we also managed to find a domestic flight to New Delhi at about noon so that we could still reach the capital city on the same day!
“What do you think?” Ning asked as I was on hold with Expedia.
“Let’s do it!” I beamed. My hopes were lifted.
After being on the phone with Expedia for 45 brain-frying minutes, I hung up with a big grin. I couldn’t believe it. Just an hour before our plane was scheduled to take off, the airline allowed us to cancel our flight and receive a partial refund!
“That’s great!” The BFF hugged me tightly.
“And Jet Airways has also cancelled our Bangalore-Delhi flight... with no cancellation fee! They will fully refund us!” I announced proudly, my head throbbing from my brain being ‘cooked’ into pulp. The BFF patted me on the head (ouch) and I beamed.
Everything was set. We were finally on our way to India!
I’ve never felt prouder of the two of us than I did that night. No complaining, no finger-pointing, no fighting... just sheer determination to find a solution to a tough situation. We were – and still are – truly a formidable team under crisis.
23
the heart of kashmir
Kashmir . October 2011
PAM
The evening light was starting to fade as we rolled into Srinagar, Kashmir’s capital city. We had just rocked-and-rolled our way down from the Kashmiri Alps, where we had spent the last couple of days. The snow-capped mountains of Kashmir are breathtaking, reminiscent of those in Switzerland.
We were nearing the end of our adventure in Kashmir, in the northernmost region of India, and our friend Adil had arranged for us to stay with his family.
I’ve known Adil for many years, but this was the first time I’ve seen him in his world. He was so eager to share everything with Ning and myself that he was almost like a little boy bursting with pride and excitement! He had taken us to the Alpine towns of Pahalgam and Gulmarg, nestled amidst majestic snowy mountains. We’d even rented a houseboat and stayed there a couple of nights to explore the waterways of Srinagar.
“My home is nothing fancy,” he said with a sheepish boyish smile. “But my mother cooks very well!”
I don’t like long car rides. Don’t get me wrong, I love road trips... but only if I’m driving. It’s quite another thing being tossed around in the backseat of a car. And we had been in the car all day. I was dying to tumble out of it and French kiss the ground.
As we neared his neighbourhood, we found ourselves stuck in a bad traffic jam. A jam at night? Surely this could not be happening!
I pressed my forehead against the frosted window of the car. It felt cold against my skin. It was snowing in the mountains where we’d just come from, but here in Srinagar, it had been raining for days; icy cold rain that made me pull my pashmina shawl tighter around myself.
We observed the flurry of activity outside in silence. The opposite side of the road had been closed off. So the oncoming traffic was spilling onto our side of the road, and what was supposed to be one lane had swelled into two or three lanes.
Vehicles were going head-on against each other, both directions refusing to budge, and everyone was honking incessantly. Bikers and cyclists were weaving in and out between the cars, and the situation was so chaotic that no one could move an inch. What made it worse was that it was dark and raining, and the street lamps were few and far between.
As we inched our way forward, I noticed that the opposite side of the road was under construction. There were stretches scarred with potholes and other stretches that were not yet paved. But the oddest thing was that there was no machinery or any evidence that the road was being worked on. It just looked... abandoned.
As if reading my mind, Adil exclaimed, “The money for building the road, the Indian government has put in their own pockets. So we are the ones that suffer!”
I don’t know how much truth there is in his words, but I do know that the general sentiments of the people I spoke to in Kashmir seemed to echo Adil’s. There was a lot of unhappiness and resentment towards the Indian government.
According to them, Kashmir had been a rich, thriving and free country until India took over its administration. Now its people live in fear, with regular senseless bombings on busy streets and curfews imposed ever so often. We were told that anyone – including women and children – found roaming the streets after curfew hours would be shot dead. They had seen it with their own eyes.
The streets were getting darker as we inched our way towards Adil’s home. It looked like a blackout to me; something I had not experienced in Singapore for decades. I could see street lamps but they were all unlit. Even the shops were all cloaked in darkness.
“Why is it so dark?” Ning, the Mind Heister, broadcasted my thoughts.
“What day is today?” Adil asked absent-mindedly from the front passenger seat.
“Tuesday,” she volunteered. I was kind of surprised she knew. I had lost track of dates.
“Oh, there’s no electricity today from 7pm to 10pm,” Adil stated as a matter of fact. “Two nights a week, we have no electricity. This week it’s Tuesday and Saturday.”
Ning and I exchanged glances. There was a pained
look on the BFF’s face. I knew what she was thinking. After a long day on the road, all we wanted was a nice hot bath and a good home-cooked meal. How could there be no electricity?! Plus, it was freezing cold...
It was almost 8pm when we pulled up in front of a small, raised door in a quiet lane. Adil slid out of the car and instructed our driver to carry our bags into the house. Ning shivered and pulled her shawl tighter around her as we stepped out into the chilly, wet night. I was feeling tired and irritable because I knew it would be a while before I could finally climb into bed.
It was dark but a few men had trickled out of their homes and gathered around our car. I felt like an alien specimen under scrutiny. They were checking us out from head to toe – perhaps they didn’t see many Chinese faces in this part of town.
Before we could escape through the narrow doorway into the privacy of Adil’s home, a bevy of women spilled out from that doorway onto the street and enveloped us. A stocky elderly woman exclaimed in delight and clasped both of my dad’s hands in hers. I could see her white teeth against her brown, wrinkled face. She greeted us warmly in a language I did not understand and motioned for us to enter her house. Two younger girls standing a distance away clung on to each other and giggled as they watched us.
I felt like a grubby tomboy in my faded jeans and Amsterdam jacket. Ning was clad in her black Puma windbreaker and skin-tight jeans, her head wrapped in a brown scarf. Even in the dark, I could see the women before us were clad in feminine Kashmiri dresses, their heads covered in matching headscarves, as Muslim women do.
We made our way through the main door, past a two-cubicle toilet shed, and into a small open-air courtyard. I could see the silhouettes of neighbours straining their necks to take a peek at us from their second-floor balconies. We climbed a short flight of stairs and slid off our shoes before entering Adil’s cozy little living room.
The room was illuminated only by the flickering lights of an oil lamp. We were greeted by a flurry of people talking excitedly around us. The BFF and I had no idea what was going on because we didn’t understand a word they were saying. We were then hastily ushered out of the room, up a long narrow flight of stairs and into a room that would be our abode for the next few days.
“This is Adil’s room,” my dad informed us as we looked around, allowing our eyes to adjust to the dim light. “I usually sleep here when I’m in Srinagar.”
It was a small room, covered with rough rugs and completely bare except for some shelves lining the walls. There was no bed, no chairs, no nothing. Ning and I, together with my dad, were invited to sit on the floor. Almost immediately after our butts touched the ground, the two young girls descended upon us with large thick blankets to cover our legs. I felt the comforting warmth all at once, and heaved a happy sigh.
A long colourful mat was laid on the floor in front of us, followed by plates and plates piled high with cookies, candies and cakes. Oh my God, this could feed an army!
“Eat, please eat!” one of the girls gestured, speaking in almost perfect English.
“You speak English so well!” A surprised Ning complimented.
The girl laughed. “We study English in schools here,” she explained confidently. “Hi, I’m Shazoo. This is my cousin Saba.”
We shook hands and the two girls settled opposite us on the floor, tucking their legs under them as they watched us eat. I felt a little self-conscious because they were watching us very closely... every time we took a sip of our tea, they would refill our cups with more. And they weren’t eating. They were just watching us.
“Come join us,” I said, picking up a plate of sweet butter cakes and passing it to them but they politely declined.
“It’s OK, you eat! We will eat later,” Saba said with a grin and a shake of her head. She’s 18 and studying Food Science in school. And quite a chatterbox, as we discovered!
Shazoo is slightly older, in her early 20s, and pursuing a Masters degree in the local university. She was such an articulate and confident young lady, and with a brash sense of humour too, for a young Kashmiri girl from a conservative family.
Do you believe in friendship at first sight? It’s amazing how we connect instantly with some people, even though they could be from a completely different culture. That was how we felt with Shazoo and Saba. These girls were exceptionally affectionate towards us, and very open with their affections. We became instant friends!
As our tummies were filled with the delectable spread of sweets, the girls excused themselves and disappeared downstairs.
“They were so excited to meet you, you know!” Adil said, with a twinkle in his eyes. “They skipped their classes this afternoon to come here and help my mother cook dinner and clean the house!”
Ning and I exchanged grateful glances. We felt special and very welcomed.
I couldn’t help but feel a little tug of guilt at my initial impression of Kashmir. I’d heard people say that Kashmiris are proud and arrogant because they are rich. Tall and fair-skinned, they look almost like Europeans. They are blessed with a beautiful country, often described as the Switzerland of the East. And for centuries, Kashmiris have been known to be shrewd in business dealings, compared to their Indian neighbours south of the border.
But this was not what I experienced after spending a week in Kashmir. The people there were... for lack of a better word, nice. But they looked sad. They weren’t particularly rich either. In fact, their country looked to almost be in shambles.
The mountains, which were once likened to the Swiss Alps, were ill-maintained. The basic infrastructure in the cities was also grossly neglected. In fact, at most major traffic junctions, I noticed soldiers from the Indian military stationed behind well-protected guard posts, armed with rifles. Where was the wealth and arrogance I had heard about?
Adil’s cousins returned with his mum moments later, carrying trays piled high with pots of food. There was more?! I clutched my tummy instinctively. It felt 80 percent filled. If the earlier spread of cakes and cookies were just appetisers, then I didn’t dare imagine what she had in store for us now...
“She usually cooks a lot of mutton, but she knows I don’t like mutton so it’s all chicken,” my dad leant over to tell me with a smile. Whatever it was, it smelt good!
The women knelt down and started to lay the pots out in a row in front of us. I felt like we were kings and queens at a royal banquet. It wasn’t something I was accustomed to and I felt almost compelled to get on my knees and help them. Somehow, I felt disturbed by the fact that the menfolk weren’t doing anything, and that it was the women who did all the cooking and serving. It was a culture foreign to me, archaic almost. But who was I to judge? They looked happy and proud to serve.
I don’t remember exactly what I ate that night but I do remember thinking that the spread was very elaborate for a family that didn’t strike me as being particularly well-to-do.
Adil’s father repaired faulty electronic goods. His shop was just a hole in the wall, which could be accessed from the internal courtyard. He would open a big window that looked out into the street and serve his customers from there. Adil’s very capable mother taught other girls and women in the neighbourhood how to knit.
The dinner spread – chicken infused with rich Indian spices, various curries and freshly-baked breads – looked enough to feed the four of us multiplied by ten. Each time Ning or my dad finished something on their plates, one of the ladies would lean forward and scoop more onto their plates. So I decided to eat as slowly as I possibly could, lest I explode.
The food was delicious and I wished I hadn’t eaten so many cakes and cookies earlier. The conversation, too, was stimulating. We formed a square in the room, leaning against the walls with our legs covered in thick blankets. I shared a blanket with Ning and we sat in the dark, with just the glow of oil lamps illuminating our faces as we ate.
Shazoo and Saba were charming and engaging. They had a feisty spirit about them, a fire in their eyes. They were educated girls who
craved knowledge and culture. They made us tell them everything about Singapore – about our jobs, our families, and especially our travels around the world because they had never left Kashmir.
I think they were hungry to see the world through our eyes, and perhaps they saw in us what was possible for women, if circumstances allowed. They were especially fascinated to discover that Ning is a professional female magician, something unheard of in their culture!
When we were done, the womenfolk cranked into life again, gathering the pots and carrying everything downstairs. What had been our dining area was bare again; ready to be converted into a bedroom. Adil’s family disappeared downstairs for their turn at dinner, and Ning and I were alone again.
It was 10pm, and the lights had finally come back on. We grabbed our toiletries and headed downstairs to the open-air courtyard, where the outdoor toilet shed was, to wash up. It was freezing outside and I wished I had more layers of clothes on, but whenever I had to use to the bathroom, I always wished I had less. It was too cold to bathe, so we both decided we wouldn’t.
When we went back up, Adil was tucking in the final layers of our bed, which was a thick mattress with at least ten layers of blankets! It looked warm and inviting. I couldn’t imagine that he had to do this every night, and then fold it all up again the next morning! The sweet man wished us good night and quietly left the room to join my dad in the guest room.
I remember staying with my friend Jolly John in Kerala many years ago, before he became the big shot Ernakulam lawyer he is today. Back then, he lived in a humble house by his family’s shrimp farm. His parents gave up their room for my ex and I when we visited. I wasn’t sure where they ended up sleeping. But you see, that is hospitality in the Indian and Kashmiri vocabulary. It was a big and humbling lesson for a Singaporean girl.
