When my parents planned our holiday for the end of the year, India was not on the first on the list.

In fact, it was kind of at the bottom.

My parents went through a number of destinations:
"What about the Phillipines?" my father suggested.
"What about India?" I offered.
"No... there's not much to do in the Phillipines," my mother said.
"What about Singapore?"
"What about India?"
"No... Singapore looks so much like Hong Kong."

It continued this way, with my parents considering every country on the planet while I suggested India. In the end, my mother put me on the spot.
"What is there to see in India?" she said while taking me to a lunch with some friends. I blurted out various names of places that I knew off-hand. It was enough to persuade her at last.

My sister, I thought, would be able to give me more support. When she came over the next weekend, my parents told her that we were thinking of going to India.
"No way! You'll hate it there," she said. "Don't go." My chances were nipped in the bud, but if only I heeded her words. She later approached me and whispered, "You should go alone there."

However, between a trip to India with my parents and no trip at all, the choice was clear. And so, on the 6th of January we set out to the airport, for the flight to Mumbai.

The first thing we did at the airport was turn back.
My mother had forgotten some pictures she wanted an artist in Thailand to draw for her, and assured us that this was as important as our passports. In the end, the artist was too busy anyways, so we may as well have left them behind.

Unbelievably, we still managed to make our flight - which was fortunate indeed, for it was the only flight for a week. It was delayed - first for security reasons, and then because the pilot had to turn off the runway because he forgot to do some paperwork, and in the end, we only took off an hour after scheduled. This was to foreshadow all our flights: we did not board a single flight that left on time.

Since we're on staff tickets, we don't always get seats together, my parents and I. I prefer it this way - I meet interesting people on planes. In this case, a Scottish-born geologist working in Udaipur who looked exactly like Simon Baker. He told me of his various adventures in India and Africa, and taught me how to flirt with the stewardesses.

While I didn't actually use those newly acquired skills, I did make use of my contacts. It's nice to have an Indian godmother who works in SAA and knows all the pilots. I asked one of the stewards to send my regards to the pilot. He returned with a bottle of champagne. My new Scottish friend ordered himself some wine, we toasted and had the crew sign the champagne bottle. They couldn't - ballpoints don't work on bottles - so i gave them the first page of my manuscript to sign. The stewardess who took it was soon stopped by a couple sitting across the aisle from me, who wanted tea.
"I'll have someone send that to you," she waved the page in front of them, "let me just finish this work." Amused by the fact that having the crew sign my manuscript was work, I had the couple sign the page as well. By the end of the flight, I had the signatures of everyone sitting around me, as well as the entire crew, including the captains, on the page. I even got the rude Moroccan stewardess, who had no sympathy for an old woman who spoke no English, to sign it.
"All right, but I'll sign it in Arabic," she asserted.
"That's all right," I said. "Please do." She gave me a vulpine look as she signed it, but despite urges from the Scot, I didn't pursue. While she was beautiful, the stewardess who held back the other passengers' tea was no less beautiful, but much nicer.

While on the flight, the Scot and I debated what the time was in India. We differed by an hour and were both uncertain, so I turned to the couple sitting behind us who spoke Hindi. I had been looking for a chance to speak with them for a while to get myself back into practise, and this was it.
"Sorry, Bharat me.n waqt kya hai?" I asked. It turned out I was wrong, and turned back to adjust my watch. When the flight landed the man approached me to find out if I really spoke Hindi. He asked me a variety of questions, how long I was travelling for, where I was from, how I learnt Hindi - it created quite a show: soon, everyone was watching this conversation. When my mother joined the fray to boast of my language skills, the man told her, "He speaks damn good Hindi!"
The ground-staff were no less impressed with me, especially the immigrations officer who saw my Hindi signature as well. I knew what this foreshadowed. I couldn't wait for it.

And so we reached our hotel at about one in the morning, thoroughly exhausted, and I - ready for the adventure to come.

Photos shall come as I continue with my adventures in India