Buckled into

an aisle seat on Indian Air, I was bound for Kolkata. My first trip to India—traveling as a solo female—felt like gulping down cheap champagne: nerves and excitement bubbling up, giving a heady sensation. With my chest tightening, I focused on taking deep gulps of air.

Sunshine streaked through the plexiglass windows, encasing the cabin in a warm, honey glow. We ascended through the atmospheric layers, like slicing through an air-cake beginning at the bottom, finally bursting through stiff-white meringue clouds. Dolloped, whipped, whirled, a cloud-confection composition. Our plane cruised through time zones, the solidity of reality quickly melting away.

What is time? Does it really exist?

I saw Dali’s clocks, hanging limp on a tree, seconds and minutes melting away. We zoomed forward—into the past—left the present moment to move five hours back. Rather than ponder how I could reach my destination earlier than my departure time, I surrendered to Baudelaire’s verse: “So as not to be the martyred slaves of time, be drunk, be continually drunk! On wine, on poetry or on virtue as you wish.” As I did not have any wine to drink, I examined virtue, wondering if I had enough inventory in which to drown myself.

The flight attendant,

a corpulent, middle-aged woman with scarf tied around her neck in a jaunty bow, began the service, moving front-to-rear. With the ease of a seasoned veteran, she guided her wide girth nimbly along the narrow aisle, returning errant feet, elbows and arms to their respective allotted seat-space. From her cart she plucked a square napkin and square peanut packet, practiced over many years, many flights. With military precision, she distributed the snack to each passenger in an unbroken flow of motion: pluck, pluck, extend arm, pluck, pluck, extend arm. She advanced in rhythm, row-by-row. Her efficiency on full display, it settled the passengers into a comforting lull. I gazed out the window. Egg whites and sugar, that’s what billowy clouds are made of, my mind said. Sugar and spice, and everything nice.

She had pushed her cart past me when the Indian man in front of me accused in a loud, guttural tone, “You didn’t give me any peanuts!” His voice stabbed the calm cabin air. I flinched.

The flight attendant—interrupted from her flow—refuted him, “Sir, I served you already,” she said. 

The man shouted, “You have not served me! You didn’t give me any peanuts!” Meanwhile, he had snapped open a can of beer, its pungent scent undeniable.

The flight attendant corrected him, “Sir, I gave you your peanuts already.”

“You do your duty! You serve me now! Do your duty and give me peanuts now!” He banged his tray table. His friends snorted.

Without warning, the woman looked at me and said, “Did I serve him his peanuts? I served him, didn’t I?”

I was physically in the middle of these two, and now I was in the middle of the argument. Torn from anonymity, I was thrust onto the stage. In a rush of fear and confusion, I blurted, “I don’t know, I didn’t see anything.” 

Although I knew she had served this man, I cowered in fear, feeling helpless. The flight attendant’s eyes—black and cold—left me shriveled and shivering. I had let her down. I should have supported her in female solidarity. 

She turned to her cart. Pluck, pluck— “I already served you sir. This is your final bag of peanuts” —extend arm. 

The man spent the entire flight drinking, crunching and crashing his table tray, much to my dismay. “…be drunk, be continually drunk!”

The flight attendant

spoke into the plane’s intercom, announcing our arrival into Kolkata International Airport. We heard the “click” of her hanging up. She appeared at the front of the cabin, her bow jaunty and her back stiff. I wondered if I should salute her or put my hands in namaste. I did neither and said “Thank you” instead.

She extended her arm toward the open door. “Welcome to India.” It sounded like a condemnation.

I crossed onto the gangway clutching the scarf around my shoulders. I peeked back and saw her with arm extended, repeating her greeting. Soon, deplaning passengers obscured her from view and I was absorbed in the condemned crowd, oblivious to the taxi driver who would scam me or the Indian men who would menace me. I had nibbled on salted peanuts, I had drunk warm soda. Still basking in the comforting order provided by the flight attendant, I naïvely proceeded toward the writhing mass outside the gate.