We landed at Lahore (Pakistan) airport, back from our trip to Italy, with a considerably darker complexion, a mind boggled with historical facts and three pounds of pasta and pizza riding quite conspicuously on my dad’s belly! We breathed in the hot, damp Lahori air as we got off the plane, glad to be home and completely oblivious to what fate had in store for us.

We made our way to the luggage belt, which coiled like a great grey snake before us. A crowd of people had already begun to form as we approached. My sister ran to get the trolleys, leaving the rest of us to happily mull over the stories we would tell our friends and family of the wonders we had seen and done. I had decided beforehand to exaggerate my account of the events that took place…..I sighed happily, anticipating the look on my friends faces. The rides on the gondolas through Venice, the haunting effect of the Colosseum, tilting alongside the Leaning Tower of Pisa, throwing coins in Fountain Di Trevi, re runs of Pink Panther at the Vatican City, misconceiving Italian words to think that the waiter is hitting on you, all the gelato(ice-cream) you can eat……..

I was snapped out of my reverie by my mother impatiently clicking her tongue. I looked around to see that the throng of people had thinned. I glanced at the luggage belt that was nearly empty save a foul smelling package and a ridiculously bright pink suitcase, neither of which (thankfully) were ours. A glance at our trolley standing there, sans our luggage, lead to me mimicking my mom’s impatient gesture. I was getting irritable and longed to escape to the blissfully air conditioned car.

A few more minutes past and after my sixth complaint my mom stormed towards the luggage claim counter and began speaking in her formidable tone that my sister and I were unfortunately too familiar with. I scratched my neck uncomfortably and looked at my sister who was sheepishly staring at the floor.

“Well?”, screeched my mom at the mouse of a man who was staring blankly at her.

“Yes ma’am, I’ll….ummmm……I’ll just find out.” There was a pause as he made several phone calls.

“Your luggage is at Dubai airport, UAE”, murmured the man in a barely audible voice.

“WHAT!?” , my mom’s shout resonated through the hall, causing quite a few people to look her way.

“Now, now.” , said my dad putting a hand on her shoulder and trying to calm her down, “ People are staring, don’t start a commotion.”

“Take me to your Manager!”, said my mom, grinding her teeth and taking no note of my dad.

My sister, my dad and I trailed behind the matriarch of our family as she made her way to the Managers office.

We were greeted by a short, pot bellied, balding man with greased back hair who was the unfortunate Manager. His office smelt of coconut oil and his constant attempts at tempting us with chai (tea) infuriated my mother, who was trying to be a perfect picture of patience and undeniably failing at the attempt. Eventually, once we were able to communicate to him our problem, in between offers of tea, the Manager went on to narrate to us the story of how a similar ordeal befell his family on their trip to India.

Finally he managed to inform us that our luggage will be with us within four days time but this was not before we all had had at least two cups of tea, had memorized the names of all his children and more unforgettably he had received a chilling threat from my mom.
We all half ran, half walked out of the airport and bid the airport “Ciao” once and for all( well till our next trip at least!).