Read Online Abby Spencer Goes to Bollywood by Varsha Bajaj - Free Book Online
Authors: Varsha Bajaj
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seat. She finds an unsuspecting glamorous Indian woman to occupy the seat beside me.
I’ve never been so embarrassed. Physically I feel better after chucking up. The barfing realigned by body’s internal organs and magically cured my hiccups. Yippee!
After a quick wash in the miniscule capsule pretending to be a bathroom, I change into pj’s.
Yes, the nice flight attendant gave me pj’s!
Airline’s huge hint to Abby Tara Spencer, Shut up and fall asleep!
The plane now inches toward Europe. I didn’t want to be sick again. I take the tablet Mom gave me and conk out.
Hours later, I wake up over the edge of Africa. The cabin is dark. The woman beside me looks less glamorous with her head lolling to the left and emitting a barely audible snore.
My stomach growls in protest.
The flight attendant with the smiley freckled face sees me and comes over. “You missed dinner. We’ll serve breakfast in a few hours. Would you like a snack?”
I nod. She comes back with peach yogurt and granola, which have never tasted so good. After being asleep for so long, I’m wide awake. Everyone on the dimly lit plane is asleep while I read my travel guide to Mumbai. It’s a present from my grandparents. The cover is a photo of the Gateway of India. Soon my brain is buzzing with facts—like how Mumbai was originally a group of islands and that the city is India’s economic and commercial center. It’s India’s most diverse, cosmopolitan, and westernized city.
The flight map on my TV console says we’re over Afghanistan. It feels weird to be flying 30,000 feet above a war zone. Same space, different altitudes, and different stories I think as I page through my book.
Finally the captain announces that we’re about to begin our descent into Mumbai International Airport. I gather my belongings, tighten my seat belt, and pray through the bumpy landing. The plane shudders, sighs, and touches its wheels to the earth in exhaustion.
“Good luck,” The flight attendant squeezes my hand as I get off the plane, my backpack over my shoulders and clutching my violin case. Because I’m an unaccompanied minor, an airline employee with immaculately creased pants meets me at the gate.
For the first time in my life, I’m in a foreign country. My string quartet is quiet as if it too wants to hear all the foreign languages spoken around us. The sounds are gibberish to me interspersed with familiar nuggets of English. Huge rusty fans swing on pedestals, valiantly fighting the heat. Surrounded by newness, I struggle to take it all in. Women in saris walk all around me—some are travelers like me while others are airport staff. There are other people dressed like me in jeans and shirts.
At the immigration desk, I say I’m visiting friends. What if I tell them the truth? Would the earth stop revolving? Would it be like a scene in a comedy when chaos rules? I grin, imagining an elephant running through the busy airport, clearing desks with his tusks and crapping in the gift shop.
I look at my watch as the immigration officer checks whatever it is immigration officers check. It’s eleven a.m. in Houston. What is Mom doing?
He stamps my passport with the seal for entry. Thunk!
He slides it through the window.
My airline chaperone hustles me through customs and out of the airport terminal. The sliding doors open, and hot, humid, pungent, dark night air sneaks into the airport to cool down.
I scan the faces behind the rusted metal barricade. It seems like hundreds of men are holding up signs for the passengers they’re meeting. I disregard the signs and focus on trying to locate my father’s face.
Right to Left. Left to Right. I’ve never seen so many people milling around at this hour at an airport. Mumbai, I read, was the most populous city in India—with a population around fifteen million. It’s the fourth most populated city in the world, and I’m sure a good chunk of those people are at the airport!
My eyes scan the crowd. A
I’ve never been so embarrassed. Physically I feel better after chucking up. The barfing realigned by body’s internal organs and magically cured my hiccups. Yippee!
After a quick wash in the miniscule capsule pretending to be a bathroom, I change into pj’s.
Yes, the nice flight attendant gave me pj’s!
Airline’s huge hint to Abby Tara Spencer, Shut up and fall asleep!
The plane now inches toward Europe. I didn’t want to be sick again. I take the tablet Mom gave me and conk out.
Hours later, I wake up over the edge of Africa. The cabin is dark. The woman beside me looks less glamorous with her head lolling to the left and emitting a barely audible snore.
My stomach growls in protest.
The flight attendant with the smiley freckled face sees me and comes over. “You missed dinner. We’ll serve breakfast in a few hours. Would you like a snack?”
I nod. She comes back with peach yogurt and granola, which have never tasted so good. After being asleep for so long, I’m wide awake. Everyone on the dimly lit plane is asleep while I read my travel guide to Mumbai. It’s a present from my grandparents. The cover is a photo of the Gateway of India. Soon my brain is buzzing with facts—like how Mumbai was originally a group of islands and that the city is India’s economic and commercial center. It’s India’s most diverse, cosmopolitan, and westernized city.
The flight map on my TV console says we’re over Afghanistan. It feels weird to be flying 30,000 feet above a war zone. Same space, different altitudes, and different stories I think as I page through my book.
Finally the captain announces that we’re about to begin our descent into Mumbai International Airport. I gather my belongings, tighten my seat belt, and pray through the bumpy landing. The plane shudders, sighs, and touches its wheels to the earth in exhaustion.
“Good luck,” The flight attendant squeezes my hand as I get off the plane, my backpack over my shoulders and clutching my violin case. Because I’m an unaccompanied minor, an airline employee with immaculately creased pants meets me at the gate.
For the first time in my life, I’m in a foreign country. My string quartet is quiet as if it too wants to hear all the foreign languages spoken around us. The sounds are gibberish to me interspersed with familiar nuggets of English. Huge rusty fans swing on pedestals, valiantly fighting the heat. Surrounded by newness, I struggle to take it all in. Women in saris walk all around me—some are travelers like me while others are airport staff. There are other people dressed like me in jeans and shirts.
At the immigration desk, I say I’m visiting friends. What if I tell them the truth? Would the earth stop revolving? Would it be like a scene in a comedy when chaos rules? I grin, imagining an elephant running through the busy airport, clearing desks with his tusks and crapping in the gift shop.
I look at my watch as the immigration officer checks whatever it is immigration officers check. It’s eleven a.m. in Houston. What is Mom doing?
He stamps my passport with the seal for entry. Thunk!
He slides it through the window.
My airline chaperone hustles me through customs and out of the airport terminal. The sliding doors open, and hot, humid, pungent, dark night air sneaks into the airport to cool down.
I scan the faces behind the rusted metal barricade. It seems like hundreds of men are holding up signs for the passengers they’re meeting. I disregard the signs and focus on trying to locate my father’s face.
Right to Left. Left to Right. I’ve never seen so many people milling around at this hour at an airport. Mumbai, I read, was the most populous city in India—with a population around fifteen million. It’s the fourth most populated city in the world, and I’m sure a good chunk of those people are at the airport!
My eyes scan the crowd. A
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