the hacking sounds coming from the toilet, the captain himself—a
stocky fellow with a crazy waxed mustache that did an aerial loop-de-
loop on his face—also emerged from the cockpit and announced to
the passengers that it should be smooth sailing from here on in. He
then shuffled back to the coffee machine to fix himself a cup and
nibble on the chicken-and-cheese entree. Bantering with the
passengers, he recounted his greatest aerial accomplishments, his
impressive marital accomplishments, and finally his equally
impressive business acumen (precious gems—here’s my card should
you ever return to Bangladesh). Then, he slipped off into the other
toilet and personally carpet-bombed north-eastern India from
20,000 feet with his own brand of chemical warfare. Judging by the
odor filling the small cabin, the bomb seemed to have backfired.
All this left the passengers wondering who was actually flying
the plane. Luckily, after a few moments, the green-faced co-pilot
opened the door of his lavatory and stumbled down the aisle towards
the cockpit, allowing us a sense of temporary relief. Upon reaching
the door to the cockpit, he grabbed the doorknob and tried to turn it,
but his hand slid around the smoothly polished steel. He put his ear
against the door, and gingerly curled his fingers into a loose fist. He
knocked.
The next sound was the collective gasp of the forty-odd
passengers watching in horror. The co-pilot knocked again, and then
looked up to see a small sea of faces frozen in fear and the captain
walking down the aisle towards him, zipping up his fly. They both
froze, aware that they were on stage, and that this stage seemed set
in the ballroom of the Titanic. The expressions on both their faces
seemed to suggest that this was a predicament that neither of them
were trained to handle in their air-force flight school classes. This
was an unusually big problem. It was precisely then that I first saw it:
the unmistakable subcontinental head-wobble. That kingpin of all
gestures, which not only describes the Indian way of life, but defines
it: a loose, sideways tottering which lounges in the gap half-way
between yesand noand not really even maybebut more like why
yes, of course I have no idea. Most definitely perhaps. Don’t worry
my friend, we’ll all be reincarnated.
After a mutual head-wobble, they gathered around the door and
conferred with each other in hushed tones. One of the stewardesses
joined them in the discussion, while another frantically passed out
more Indian sweets in an effort to distract the passengers. I
BIG AMERICAN BREAKFAST
140
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