The Trouble With Hari

It is 2.40 am. By right, tradition and precedent I should be slumbering. Sleep should be around the corner or, if I am lucky, the next one. Nothing of the sort. My body is traveling at a height of 10,345 metres, at a speed of 784 kilometres an hour with gentle headwinds of 45 mph. I am spiritually somewhere between Bratislava and Bishkek. This is not a bad place to be if the spectre of going to work early tomorrow morning didn't haunt me quite so much. Who said the work ethic was purely puritan ?

It is in this continuum lacking space and time that makes me believe I am truly the Global Soul. Apologies to Pico Iyer whose title I have ripped off. And whose picture I have ripped off as well. The receding hairline alone is enough to get me to vote him for a Booker Prize. With a cheesiness that belies belief I picked up a copy of The Global Soul at Kuala Lumpur airport. That was the day, many years ago, when the Americans decided to start bombing Afghanistan. I arrived at Dubai airport with all potential flights cancelled, but secure in the knowledge that I could read through Iyer. The Global Soul tells of a world of airports, controlled lighting, multi racialism and, highly relevantly, sleeplessness. Generally a world of the human construct. Can humanity exist, let alone survive, in Terminal 3 en route to Utopia on UA 377 ? I think it can.

On my last flight back, I discovered I was the only passenger in my section. Ok, First Class. My only steward ( I think "flight attendant" sucks) was Harry. Or Hari as I later discovered. Cute. Fair. Stocky. Hmmm. "Dinner sir ?" "Its 3 am". "Drink then? " "Water." "No Champagne?" Nope. This was an inauspicious start. I took the seat as far back as it would go. It went further than most people I know. Ouch. My reverie was shattered by some pretty scary turbulence. Hari happened to be strutting by to discover a man who had declined his offer of Dom Perignon but was scared shitless by a little bumpiness. "Everything OK?" "Sure." "You look a little scared." "Well, yes just a little." "There's only one cure. Get out of your seat and come to the galley." This could well have been the beginning of a gay porn flick, had I not been quite so queasy. I was offered the jump seat with Hari leading the way. Chill. I do this every day, I kept repeating to myself. The mantra was working.

He sat beside me. Punched a finger onto a computer screen. The lighting dimmed. This was heading towards Emanuelle meets Star Wars. Hari looked at me. I looked back and grinned apishly. I slipped a hand onto his thigh. Gulp. "I could lose my job" he whispered. "Me too"I retorted flaccidly. There was a slight snog. "Islamabad" he said. Heck. Was this a signal ? "What?" "Islamabad" "What about it ?""Never been there."But you're on your way there now.' 'Yes. But we spend ninety minutes there. Turn round. Never been there." Ah. I was getting it. "How come ?" "Indian passport. No visa." I nuzzled his neck. This was becoming positively illicit. "Islamabad." Oh no. Back to that again. "What's it all about. Islamabad." Errr. "Well think of Delhi without the Mughal architecture, but with hills." Bite on my earlobe. "You're nice." "So are you?""Are all Pakistanis like you ?""Some are. Others aspire. Some aren't" Thud. Bump. "One sec. Flight announcement."Seat Belts.

And so it went. We chatted. Musharaf. Sonia. Kiss. Borders. Nuzzle. Islamabad. Mumbai. Loves. Lifes. Touch. Champagne? Kiss. Yes. Nice hair. You 2. Is it always this deserted ? Yes. At this time of night. Mmmm. Blanket ? Nope. Do you have a thing about men in uniform. Nope. I could make an exception. Can you ever come back ? Nope. Visas. Borders. Visas. Borders. You're sweet. You too. Ruffle. Nuzzle.Mummy knows I'm gay. Really ? I think mine does too. All this flying ? Do you normally chat men up at cruising altitude ? No. This is the first time I've done it. I could lose my job. Me 2. Borders. Visas.

I walked through immigration with a Cheshire grin on my face. Anyone ready for Track 3 Diplomacy ? I'd like to think I'd almost crossed the Line of No Control.