No. I am NOT Mrs. Nahar. Really, I’m not.

So here I am flying Qatar Airways from Manchester to Doha. Headed to Bahrain from Doha on Qatar as well. The pit-stop between two connecting flights is 20 minutes.

The flight is supposed to take off from Manchester at 1400, it takes off at 1515. I was really impressed by the onboard flight entertainment system, movies – neatly clubbed into categories (no horror, and there was a reason for it, as I later found out), TV programs, Games including Kasparov Chess. During the 7 hour flight I ended up watching “Cloudy with a chance of meatballs”, “The headhunter” and “World’s greatest Dad”, and beat the computer in Battleship, Caveman and Chess.

But there is more.

So the seat number on my ticket was 40B. The passenger next to me was to be 40A. A was the window seat, B aisle. Having rationally observed that the plane had started to taxi to the runway and rationally assuming that passenger 40A would not knock on the plane’s door at 30,000 ft; I shifted my seat to the window – 40A. And I still curse myself for it.

The flight took off. We were served hot towels, some soup and bread sticks, coke and drinks and peanuts and stuff – the usual. I was in the middle of my first movie when I start to smell food. Ah! The lure of good Indian food. What anticipation! The flight attendant – a guy – comes to my seat and says – “You have a special dietary requirement, and here it is”.

Me – anticipating that the special requirement is Indian Vegetarian – smiling and drooling – “Thank you.”

The flight attendant opens up the food tray in front of me and puts a plate on it – I instantly recognize that the salad has fish in it.

Me – “This is not vegetarian.”

Flight attendant – “Yes, since you have diabetes, this is diabetic lunch…”

Me – thinking WTF? – “But I never ordered diabetic lunch, this is not my food.”

Flight attendant – “It is sir, I can show you the list, and we have your name in there…” with a smile that clearly says ‘I passed high school, and I am smarter than you.’

Me – thinking How the f&^% does he know my name anyways? – “Can you please show me the list?”

Flight attendant – “Sure sir” with a smile that says –‘I am a flight attendant, I can read and write.’

He gets a list and after some fumbling through the 280 passenger list, points out a name – Mrs. Nahar (full name omitted to protect the individual’s identity) – “There you are sir.”

That completely explained why they had no horror movies on board – the flight crew made up for it –brain-dead zombies.

Me – “Listen, my seat is 40B, but I shifted coz there was no one here, you might want to look for passenger 40A elsewhere on the plane…”

Flight attendant – after a long pause to comprehend this complex unsolvable mathematical singularity – “Oh, sorry sir, I thought…” leaves.

I wondered that if Mrs. Nahar looked like me – a dark Asian, with black circles under eyes and stubble on her face, then I was pretty glad she missed her flight. I would prefer the abominable snowman.

I finished the movie(s) and it was time for dinner. The miscommunication became apparent when another member of the flight crew served me bean sprouts – but this time it was resolved in less time.

Finally after having enjoyed the movies and games on the flight we were 40 minutes to landing and another flight attendant comes to me and says – “Sir, you need a wheelchair.”

Me – “No, I don’t.”

Flight attendant – “Sir, you ordered for a wheelchair and you need it.”

I don’t bother to answer and just stare at her.

The flight attendant goes to the back of the plane and pulls out the almighty list, comes back and says – “Sir, you are Mrs. Nahar, and you need a wheelchair”, pointing her long fingernail at the name on the list.

Me – “Do I look like MRS. Nahar to you?” stressing on the EMMM, AAAR, ESSS.

Flight attendant – realizing that I’m a guy, goes to the back of the plane and doesn’t come back. Zombie.

I wonder what would happen if some day one of these magical lists got exchanged with another list on another plane?

Flight attendant – “Sir, you are pregnant and we have a doctor onboard for your Caesarian.”

Or maybe if it got exchanged for a list of political leaders of the yesteryears?

“Madam, you are M.K. Gandhi, and you will be served goat’s milk for the duration of the flight?”

What if the list got exchanged for the list of a ship’s cargo that is carrying live animals to a zoo?

“Sir, we have extra seatbelts for all your arms, you will be served live fish and worms.”

The flight crew won’t know the difference. After all, they have the list.

I get down at Doha, and the flight is 40 minutes late. On checking the departure times, I find that my next flight is on “LAST CALL”. I would have to go through security anyways. I try to explain my situation to airport service personnel. No use.

I go through the usual procedure, take my jacket, mobile, wallet, belt, laptop bag in my hand and rush to the gate where my flight has to depart from. If I miss it, my luggage will probably be shifted to that flight (it has a “rapid transfer” tag on it) and I will lose my luggage as well.

I think that women’s dupattas are like dog’s tails – completely useless. This Indian woman has her loooong dupatta sweeping the floor and I stepped on it. And fell. I came to my senses when the smell of Dettol filled my nostrils and I realized that my nose is a bit too close to the bacteria free airport floor. She looked back and doubled her pace and vanished out of sight. Probably the best thing. The worst course of action for her would be to come to me and say – “I’m sorry. Are you OK? I’m Mrs. Nahar…”

I manage to reach the gate and get a boarding pass. Board the flight. I make sure that I am on my OWN seat.

When I reached Bahrain I was half expecting someone to welcome me as Mrs. Nahar. Luckily that didn’t happen, or I would probably be on my way to see my habibi husband. Chunnu and Munnu …er… I mean Al Chunnu and Bin Munnu would follow suit.

I was welcomed by company’s car as myself.

Bahrain is a great place.