Seven years ago today, I got on a plane from London Heathrow to Detroit. Approximately eight hours into the flight, the captain announced that the US had declared a state of war and the border was closed; he was going to try and land in either Canada or Mexico. But both Canada and Mexico closed their borders and the captain’s voice came back on and announced he was turning back. All of us on the flight had no idea what had taken place – the captain kept saying that he had received no specific information. I was sitting next to a couple who was returning from their honeymoon in Europe. All sorts of speculation abounded, but none of us even got close to imagining what had taken place.
A total of 15 hrs on air later, the flight landed in Manchester, England. After disembarking, we went through 3 rounds of security screening – the most thorough security screening I’ve ever seen or experienced till date. The airport was dark. The usual hustle and bustle was missing, all the television screens were black and everyone looked tired. We learnt that ours was the 72nd flight to have turned back. Somehow, I found my baggage. An elderly gentleman who couldn’t speak English attached himself to me; I translated for him.
Some higher force must’ve been watching out for me that day. I did not have enough money to stay on in Manchester. But the ticketing agent booked me the last seat on the last flight for free to London, where I have an uncle. My body and the darkness outside told me it was late at night. I can’t remember what time the flight left Manchester, but I arrived at Heathrow around 2am. A couple of security checks later, I started to look for a pay phone to call my uncle, when a fellow passenger pointed out the baggage belt to me. And, again, my luggage was there – the one red suitcase with my yellow comforter. I had another bag that I can’t recall anything about anymore.
I finally spoke to my uncle. All he said was, get in a cab asap, come over, we’ve been worried about you and hung up. There was a long line outside the airport for the black London taxis. It was chilly and unusually quiet. The heavy feeling somehow stopped the passengers from asking questions or talking to each other. I realized that it had been over 20 hrs since I boarded the British Airways flight. Finally, after a wait that seemed longer than the flight from Manchester, I got into a cab. I asked the driver what was going on. He silently turned on the radio. I started to cry.
I stayed in London for some weeks after that. For a long time, I couldn’t get any open seat to fly to Michigan or back to Dhaka. It rained ice drops all the while I was there. I remember a bomb scare of some sort in one of the London underground stations and I walked past/peeked into a Salvador Dali exhibition close to the London Eye. I made it back to Michigan eventually. What ensued next was the worst 3 years of my life, where I learnt important life lessons in some very unpleasant ways. My yellow comforter kept me company.
