Maiden Martha Marden, single at 36, sighted Marquis Mark Macron at a seminar of meteorologists in Marseille in March and immediately, it seemed to her he was the man who had been missing in her mundane life. She got Megan, her soulmate and the seminar manager, to set up a meeting with Mark. Megan mentioned Mark was 40 but single. Seems like a good omen, thought Martha.

At the meeting, Martha maneuvered Mark into inviting her to dinner.

Over the meal, she made up her mind. Mark was her mate.

A brief honeymoon in Marrakesh followed the wedding in May.

The members of the august world body had been at it for more than six hours of often rancorous debate and insensitive interjections. Reports were waved around, facts were bandied about. Each speaker claimed to have the ultimate statistics. Truth was, nobody really know how many people in the world were affected and how many were still safe.

When he had had enough, the President interrupted one of the members just as he was about to commence his speech, telling him to can it.

It can wait till tomorrow, the President said. People will continue to die tonight. People will continue to be born tonight. People will continue to die and be reborn tonight. Nothing you have to say here can prevent that, but you can go out and do something about it. So let’s close today’s session, go about our work in the night and get back to it tomorrow.

There was almost unanimous agreement among the delegates. All of them were feeling the urge, the lust. Only the delegate who had been about to speak when the President interrupted wanted to continue, at till he had delivered his speech.

He was ignored.

They wrapped up and trudged out, the reborn members of the UN Security Council and their army of aides. There was work to do, and lots of it.

There were so many people in the world still uninfected.

Just a thin metal sheet around a frame, with two top mounted wings weighed down by the engines, about two generations away from the Wright Brothers. And this contraption seats nineteen and negotiates the Himalayas? God is merciful, thought Habib.

His first flight was to Simra, and he couldn’t see what he was expected to gain from the experience.

Simra was flatland, the aerial gateway to Nepal’s lush plains and jungles. Though Habib could make out the peaks to the north through the thin morning mist, Simra itself was not mountain country. Hill country, if you meant land that almost perceptibly sloped going south.

He was here to see the Twin Otter aircraft in operation on high mountain terrain. The kind of terrain with a cross-section like an EEG reading on an arrhythmic heartbeat.

He commented on that to Gyan, the pilot. Gyan grinned. “We are starting you off at the novice level. You need to work your way up, because you need to get acclimatized.”

That afternoon, Habib flew to Pokhara, a step up from Simra in that it was a valley in the lower mountains, with green mountains all round and the spectacular Annapurna range to the north. However, there was nothing to get into a flap about, flying wise. The runway was adequate; the landing approach and takeoff path posed no threat.

In the three days that followed, Habib rode Twin Otters on a grand tour of Nepal’s mountain airstrips. His seat of honor was the first row just behind the bulkhead with the doorless opening, enabling him to look out of the windshield and talk to the pilots.

Each airstrip seemed to be just a notch above the preceding one in hairiness. From the air, most of the runways looked like adhesive bandage strips of questionable width and suicidal length, stuck on mountain tops tumbling down into gorges that could have led to the center of the earth. Some strips sloped one way, others seemed to have distinct humps. All of the mountain-tops with the strips had taller mountain tops surrounding them, crowding them in. Many of the strips had people loitering around; some had cattle, dogs and even yaks. He knew that a klaxon shooed all of them away whenever it was time for a takeoff or a landing.

Habib was a veteran pilot with an obsession for flying machines and a calmness of demeanor that was legendary in Afghanistan’s aviation circles, but his eyes grew rounder and wider at each successive landing. Many of the takeoffs had him holding his breath till the plane cleared the mountains leaning into the airstrips.

He was getting acclimatized all right, glory be to god.

On the third evening, he disembarked and took several deep breaths at Kathmandu’s airport. He was done with flying for the day. He waited patiently for the pilot, Pema.

“You have some pretty hairy airports in this country, Pema,” said Habib, as they started walking toward the terminal.

“We do, I suppose” Pema replied, after some thought. ”Actually, we are used to it, and so we don’t think much about it. Except when there is an accident.”

“Accident? You have many?”

“Not many, but it happens.”

Habib pondered over the matter-of-fact way Pema had said that.

“And you don’t feel fear when you fly?”

“I told you, we don’t think about it.”

I wouldn’t think about it either, Habib conceded, unspoken.

“Well, I suppose we are finished with the worst of the airports, eh?” he asked.

“Not really, you have yet to see Lukla. It is the most dangerous airport in Nepal. I know it’s on your schedule for tomorrow. Kiran will be your pilot, I think.”

“Lukla? What’s so tough about this airport?”

“Well, it’s got high mountains within spitting distance on all sides. The runway ends in a dead drop on one side and a sheer cliff on the other. Once you are into the landing approach there is no room for a go-around. You land, one way or the other. No landing aids are available, so it is all visual. It often rains there and that means no landings, no takeoffs. And it has a very short runway.”

“How short?”

“Less than 500 meters.”

Habib stared at Pema. “How much less?”

“About 460 meters. You will be seeing it tomorrow. We’ve saved Lukla for your last flight.”

Habib stopped and looked down at Pema, running his fingers through his ginger-tinted beard. At a loosely built six feet two and 220 pounds, he had at least seven inches and 60 pounds on the compact pilot, who looked back up, pleasant round face guileless.

“Last flight? Then I commend my soul to god?” Habib asked.

“Oh, sorry, I didn’t mean it that way. I meant your last flight on our Twin Otters on this visit, before you go back to Afghanistan. You don’t have to worry about a thing. Kiran has flown there a hundred times. I should think he can do it in his sleep.”

“I should think he shouldn’t. I would like to get back to Kabul, god willing,” Habib said drily, and managed to smile back at Pema’s grin.

The next day brought rough weather. On Habib’s first flight of the day, he could see the queasiness in his fellow-passengers, though the few who were obviously mountain folk from Nepal seemed to be immune. I suppose it is because they are used to walking near vertical to get to the corner grocery, he thought.

On the return flight, the stern blonde across the aisle from Habib managed a strangled “Excuse me” before barfing into her sick bag. The possibly Japanese passenger just behind Habib went off in sympathetic detonation. Habib could see the pilots were keyed up, straining to keep the Twin Otter on a reasonably even keel.

The weather seemed to improve for the Lukla flight, Habib’s second of the day and last of his schedule.

Compared to the morning’s flight, this one was fairly smooth, and Habib was absorbed in the peaks passing by—a pursuit that never tired him, even when the uneven cloud cover prevented an uninterrupted view.

He was brought back to earth by the pilot Kiran, who alerted him they were nearing the final approach to Lukla. When Habib looked out of the windshield, all he could see were jagged peaks ripping through the surrounding shrouds of cloud.

“Where is the airport?” he asked.

“Just down there,” said Kiran, pointing ahead. Habib watched wide eyed as the plane hit a layer of clouds. For a moment, they were flying blind, and Habib thought, mountain peaks can rip through more than clouds. They broke through, and Habib could now see the airstrip ahead—a short strip of dark gray stuck on a slope leading from a bottomless drop to the toy control tower and the blue-roofed toy buildings that surrounded it, dwarfed by the cliff looming just behind as if it was growing out of the control tower’s rear wall. The peaks hovered further back, hulking and ready to catch whatever the cliff missed.

Nothing toy-like about that cliff or those peaks, even from this distance.

“How deep is that drop?” Habib asked Kiran.

“More than 2,000 feet, I think. Now let me focus on the landing, please.”

Habib watched as Kiran and his co-pilot brought the plane down, now wresting with the controls and now making love to them. They set down, bounced once, and then the reverse thrust drowned out thought.

Once Habib was on the ground, he found himself enjoying his surroundings. The air was like a shot of testosterone. The peaks around were dazzlingly pristine, so close it seemed you could serve a tennis ball into them and hit it again first bounce on the rebound.

He felt faint regret that he was pretty much done with his visit to Nepal. Tomorrow at this time he would be in Delhi, on his way back to Kabul.

His reverie was interrupted by a hacking cough. A man smoking a cigarette approached him, with a smile that deepened the lines on his craggy face.

“May I join you in your inspection of our magnificent mountains?” he asked.

Habib smiled back and nodded, and the man moved near. At a possible 60 years of age, he was probably five or six years older than Habib. He was tall and gangly in a bright blue down jacket with the zip partially down, revealing a tartan shirt buttoned all the way up. He sported white running shoes below worn jeans.

“Middle East?” he asked.

“Afghanistan,” Habib replied.

“Ah. You are a tourist here, and I welcome you to Nepal. I am Raghu,” the man said, offering his hand. Their hand shake was a bit tentative.

“Habib. Pleased to meet you. I am not really a tourist. I am an aviation consultant to the Afghan government. I am here to study the Twin Otter at work.” Habib pointed at the plane he had arrived in. “We are thinking of buying some of these aircraft and wanted to see it in operation. The manufacturer suggested we do that here in Nepal.”

“Oh, I see. Well, it is a good plane, very good for mountains. It should be suitable for your country.”

“You are also a pilot?”

“Oh no, I am a businessman in Kathmandu. I drove part of the way and trekked the rest of the way here. I will be going back the same way. I shouldn’t be smoking here, should I?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Well, until someone comes and tells me not to, I will. Do you mind?”

“No.”

“You will be here in Nepal for a while?”

“Today is my third and last day of work. I return to Afghanistan tomorrow. You drove and trekked here? You like to trek?”

“No. It is just that I haven’t flown on domestic routes for ten years, and I won’t, ever. I have been a bus driver and a bus and truck fleet owner. I feel safe in big all terrain vehicles, and I have two Toyota Land Cruisers. Wherever I go in the country, I go in one of them. Wherever they cannot go, I do not go. It’s a long story.”

Raghu held his cigarette between his index and middle fingers in a tightly closed fist. He inhaled from the top of the fist, sucking audibly, like he was smoking a chillum in a one-handed grip.

He was full of nervous energy. He waved his hands a lot and repeatedly stamped his feet. His movements were abrupt, almost like a marionette. He radiated a craggy, elfin charm as he grinned at Habib now. It was obvious he was dying to tell his story.

Habib bit; he was always interested in aviation lore. “Why don’t you fly?” he asked.

Raghu bent down, dropped the cigarette and stepped on it. He took his time grinding it out, as if he was marshalling his thoughts.

“Ten years, ago, I was on a Twin Otter flight from Tumlingtar to Kathmandu. It was in August, monsoon time. When we took off, the sky was very cloudy but it wasn’t raining, and visibility was reasonable. I was seated in the first row, just behind the cockpit.

“I was tired, and dozed off as soon as we were in the air. When I woke up, my watch told me we were thirty-five minutes into the flight. It takes about an hour and a quarter to get to Kathmandu from Tumlingtar by Twin Otter.

“By the time another ten minutes had gone by, I became aware of something odd going on in the cockpit. The copilot would talk quietly into his mike, then lean across and discuss something in a low voice with the pilot. This cycle, you know, talking on the mike and discussing with the pilot, kept repeating itself, and they talked so low I could not make out a word. I looked out, and all I could see was that unbroken ocean of clouds below.”

Raghu fished out a pack of cigarettes and offered it to Habib. “Do you smoke?”

Habib shook his head. “I don’t, thank you.”

Raghu went through an elaborate procedure before lighting his cigarette. He tapped the filtered end of the cigarette on the pack several times, then licked that end and stuck it between his lips. He lit a match and waved it around in small circles to ensure an even fire, dropped the match and stepped on it. He drew deeply and withdrew the cigarette, holding it in his one-fisted chillum style. He pursed his lips and held his breath for a few seconds before exhaling through his nose.

Having rekindled his thoughts, he resumed his tale.

“The co-pilot looked out of his side window and shook his head at the pilot. He kept staring out, and I could see he was searching for something, but wasn’t finding it.

“The pilot loosened his seat belt and hoisted himself up slightly. He, too, looked out, craning his neck so he could see more. Then he looked back at the co-pilot, blew air through his lips and stuck out his lower lip in an action that clearly said, ‘Nothing’.”

Raghu pursed his lips, blew loudly like a horse, and stuck out his lower lip in remembered emulation of the pilot. He looked at Habib, the smile no longer on his face, and shook his head.

“By this time, I knew something was not right. Over the next few minutes, I watched the two guys repeating their actions, looking out and holding long discussions with someone over the mike.

“My fears were confirmed when the hostess walked up from her seat at the back and leaned into the cockpit. She bent over and talked in whispers with the pilots, then walked back to her seat. I watched her go, and could see her covertly checking out the passengers, probably making sure the seat belts were fastened.

“I looked at my watch and saw that just over an hour had gone by since the plane left Tumlingtar. This was my seventh or eighth flight on that route, and I knew that by this time, the pilots should be preparing for landing.”

Raghu dragged deep and mashed the cigarette beneath his foot. Releasing the smoke slowly, in short puffs, he leaned toward Habib and tapped his watch with his right forefinger. Habib noticed that he didn’t seem to smoke his cigarettes all the way down. He stubbed them out when they were about two-thirds of the way down.

“My side of the plane had single seats, while the other side had double seats. A young recently married couple sat across from me. I could see they were feeling uneasy, too, and they watched me with wide eyes as I undid my seat belt and leaned into the cockpit area.

“‘Is something wrong?’ I asked the pilots. At first they didn’t want to hear me. I had to repeat myself twice before the pilot turned to me and said, ‘Oh, there’s absolutely nothing wrong, sir.’

“‘So when will we be landing?’

“‘In a few minutes, sir.’

“‘Excuse me, sir.’ The hostess had come up again. She leant again into the cockpit and had another whispered consultation with the pilots. She drew the curtain across the opening into the cockpit and went back to her seat.

“The couple across were getting pretty high strung by this time. They had stopped feeling each other up, and I could see fear on both of their faces. They stared at me, and then the man, who was in the aisle seat, leaned across.

“‘Is something wrong?’ he asked. He had a loud, strong, voice, and it carried back. I felt other passengers behind stiffening.

“‘That is what I would like to know,’ I said, softly.

“After ten more minutes, I could not bear it any longer. The plane was showing absolutely no signs of a landing approach. You can feel it when your plane is on the way down, am I right? I had actually been getting the distinct feeling that the plane was going around in an endless loop, alternatively gaining and losing altitude, all done very slowly and stealthily.”

Raghu stuck his arm out, fingers straight out and palm facing down, and spun around slowly on his feet, a complete circle, waving his arm up and down. He stared at Habib, lost in his thoughts, then shook his head and grinned.

“When I get nervous or angry, I can’t sit quiet. I have to say or do something. When I say something in that kind of mood, I become talkative. I can’t help it. That is what my wife always tells me, and my children agree. They say I sound like a scratched LP when I am in my mood.

“I stood up, jerked the curtain back and poked my head in again.

“‘I think something is seriously wrong, and I think you should tell your passengers about it.’ I said, struggling to keep my voice down. I didn’t want to set off the other passengers.

“I guess my tone told the pilots they would not be shushing me any more.

“They looked at each other and then looked at me for a long moment before the pilot said, ‘There is nothing seriously wrong, sir. Please sit back and fasten your belt. I will address the passengers in a minute or two.’

“The hostess had come up again. She tapped a finger on my shoulder and said, ’Please, sir, sit back and fasten your belt.” I ignored her.

“Out of the windshield, I could see nothing but endless dark cloud below us. Occasionally, the plane went through patches of cloud, but for the most part, I got the impression the pilots were taking care to stay above the cloud carpet.

“Then it hit me. Those motherfuckers were lost. It was a crazy thought, and I resisted it. How could commercial pilots get lost on a regular route? I was sure that the pilot at least would have considerable experience behind him.

“The thought refused to let go. For a few more moments, I watched the two pilots and the clouds scuttling by. They studiously ignored me, and so did the hostess behind me. She probably didn’t want to panic the other passengers, but I am sure they were all alerted by that time, anyway.”

Raghu lit another cigarette, this time forgoing his routine. He looked at the lit end and frowned.

“I know I smoke too much, but I can’t help it.”

“You should try quitting, then, if it makes you unhappy,” said Habib gently.

Raghu shook his head. “I don’t smoke too much when I am at home. I work from home, and my wife hates my smoking. Because of her, I smoke less than five or six cigarettes a day. I make up whenever I am away from home.” He laughed and resumed his story.

“‘You are lost, aren’t you?’ I asked the pilot, and I couldn’t control my voice. I was aware of the instant buzz behind me. I felt the hostess behind me stiffen; she caught my arm and tried to pull me back. I allowed her to. My mind was elsewhere. The hostess pushed me back into my seat and helped me with the seat belt, closed the curtain again and went away.

“I noticed that the couple had changed seats. The young man was staring out of the window, his neck stiff and his body rigid.

“The buzz around me was steadily building up when the pilot’s voice cut in. He was trying to sound soothing, as he requested the passengers to keep their seat belts fastened. The flight had unfortunately run into some technical difficulties that were being resolved, he said, and added an apology for inconvenience caused to the passengers. We will be landing soon, he finished, and clicked off.

“That announcement was about as satisfactory as smoking a cigarette with a broken filter because you have run out, and I was sure my guess about the pilots being lost was right. It did, however, have the effect of silencing the passengers. Suddenly, that cabin was scarily quiet.

“I undid my seat belt, opened that damn curtain and leaned into the cockpit again.”

Habib saw Kiran wave at him and put up his hands, all ten fingers spread.

“Ten minutes left?” said Raghu, grinding out his cigarette. “Sorry. I guess I talk too much.”

“I am fascinated. Please continue.”

“All right, I’ll try and keep it short. We had been flying for what seemed to be hours when I heard the young man across from me tell his wife, ‘I see land’. He was excited and loud, and I saw the pilot stiffen. He craned his neck to snatch a quick look at the young man and whispered something to the co-pilot. The plane banked perceptibly.

“Now both of the pilots were craning and jerking their necks, looking ahead and down, looking to the side and down. After a few minutes, the copilot punched the air, said something and pointed out of his window. The pilot turned his head, took a long look and smiled. The plane’s nose plunged, and we went down in a sharp dive that had many of the passengers gasping.

“In another minute, I saw mother earth through the windshield. Wonderful, stable mother earth.”

Raghu kneeled down, crunched his right palm into the ground. Then he rose and kissed his palm. He looked at Habib with a grin that threatened to tear his face in half.

“The pilots were in luck. Once below the clouds, they were on familiar terrain, just above the East-West Highway. Are you aware of that road?”

Habib nodded. “It was pointed out to me during my first flight to Simra, three days ago,” he said.

“Oh, okay. My pilots stuck to that road like a leech, flying damn low, and were able to land that damned plane in Simra twenty minutes after they plunged through the hole in the clouds.”

Raghu took a deep breath and grinned yet again at Habib. This time his grin was different somehow: it had a strange ephemeral quality.

“The co-pilot seemed to collapse in his chair like a pricked balloon as soon as we rolled to a stop. I heard him tell the pilot, ‘We had less than ten minutes of fuel left.’ And he wasn’t whispering.

“The pilot nodded and said, ‘I know’. He wasn’t whispering, either.

“I decided right there and then, once I had my feet firmly back on mother earth, that I would not be flying in Nepal again. If I can’t walk, ride an animal or drive there, I’ll not go there, no matter what.

“There now, I have been going on and on. It is something my wife keeps complaining about. I have bored you to death, haven’t I?”

“No, absolutely not, I am fascinated by any story to do with flying. Well it is time for me to leave,” said Habib, offering his hand.

They shook hands, and it was not tentative this time. There was something hard, firm, and almost telepathic about that shake.

Habib turned around and walked slowly, head down, toward his plane.

Back on the tarmac at Kathmandu, Kiran smiled at Habib. As they walked to the terminal, he said, “Well, that wraps up your Nepal task, doesn’t it? Will you recommend the Twin Otter to your people?”

“I haven’t made up my mind yet.” said Habib. “I am grateful to your airlines and all of you fantastic pilots. You reminded me that pilots are just as important as their planes. I will miss you all.”

“We will miss you, too. By the way, if you don’t mind my asking, who was the man who was talking to you for so long at Lukla?”

“He said his name is Raghu. He told me a story about a Twin Otter flight he took ten years ago from Tumlingtar, I think he said, to Kathmandu, when the pilots got lost for a long time and finally landed at Simra with less than ten minutes of fuel left. It was a rather wild story, and I am not sure if it was true.”

Kiran missed a step, then stopped walking. Habib stopped, too, and turned around to look at Kiran.

Kiran’s face was flushed. He studied Habib’s face carefully, and grinned. A huge, lopsided grin.

“What?” asked Habib.

“Did that man know you the name of the co-pilot? Did he tell you?”