I went online to book my flight to Delhi and a message popped up asking whether I wanted a Muslim or a Hindu meal.
There was a list of other choices as well: a gluten-free meal, a baby meal, kosher meal, vegetarian meal, and I wondered who that unlucky chef was in the catering department who had to prepare meals for such a fussy crowd.
I was about to select the Muslim meal, but then I thought, “Wait, what is a Muslim meal and what if I don’t like it?” But there was no explanation about what it was and no listing of the ingredients.
Most Indian Muslims I know eat very unhealthily. In south India, they usually want a slathering of oily, fiery-hot, red-meat curries poured over a mountain of polished rice. In the north of the country, they dip into the curries with butter-soaked naan, a soft, white bread. So I looked for chicken meals, but unfortunately there were none.
I was going to tick the Hindu meal when I wondered if that would cause a scene.
A harried stewardess would call out, “Hindu meals” just as the seat belt sign went off, and when I put up my hand, “What is your name?” and then, “Sir, you are a Muslim”!
I would then need to explain, “I am sorry I do not wish to hurt anyone’s sensibilities, but can I just have a Hindu meal”? “Please wait. I will have to call the captain and he will explain things to you.”
Better to have a hassle-free flight and order a vegetarian meal, I thought. I imagined how an Indian vegetarian meal looks like. Indians mash the vegetable till it becomes a paste, or they boil it till the greens plead guilty. (What is this? Sir, it is spinach, ground in a smoothie maker and garnished with a curry leaf. And what is that? That is French beans fusion-cooked after finely chopping each one, sauteed and immersed in tomato sauce).
I was born in Hyderabad and I know how fiery-hot vegetable curries can be and while I was trying to make up my mind, the meter was ticking and I could see the ticket price changing.
Panicking, I quickly filled up my Visa card details, the 14-digit number, a three-digit number from the back of the card, my name, my date of birth, my mother’s maiden name, my favourite city, my cat’s name, when a message said to wait as they have to check with my bank, and that sent shivers down my spine.
Finally, everyone was satisfied that it was me who was travelling.
Hogging the seat
“Why can’t I see online whom I am travelling with?” I wondered. What if those sitting next to me are obese and hog the hand rest? I would have to sue the airline as an Australian did on a flight from Abu Dhabi, saying that he suffered a back pain because of his neighbour.
The crew tried to move him but the flight was full. So they made him sit in a crew member’s seat, but when the plane was landing they brought him back to his seat and next to his extra fat seatmate.
Besides knowing what food you will eat on your journey, it is also very important to know whom you are travelling with. As Ernest Hemingway the great travel writer said: “Never go on a trip with anyone you do not love.”
I wondered if in the future it will be possible to ask for a person of the same religion on the seat next to you, but then we will have these problems: “Sorry sir, the Muslim seats are full today. Would you mind if we seat you next to a Buddhist?”
“We will offer you an extra chappati [unleavened bread] for not seating you next to your coreligionist.”
Mahmood Saberi is a freelance journalist based in Dubai.
