There’s still three hours before I land in Manchester and I’ve just stumbled upon a gold mine. Well, it was sitting right in front of me all this while, I just finally decided to open my eyes. The fantastic Emirates airlines and its magnificent A380 have an option for live TV, which means I can catch the big Argentina-France Round of 16 clash. And boy, what a game to watch from 40,000 feet above the ground.
A while after France’s dazzling performance, I’ve landed in Manchester in anticipation of a lengthy exit process. But that’s not the case. Between filling out a form, walking through the immigration queue, picking up my luggage and heading out for a taxi, only 15 minutes have gone by. I’ve walked out to bright sunlight at 7:40 PM (more on that later) and jumped aboard the taxi of one Mr. Raza, a German international with roots in Pakistan. Around five miles and a deep conversation about – surprise, surprise – India and Pakistan, I’ve realised my passport is missing.
A U-turn is made. In the next two hours, I returned to the airport, frantically scanned the area near the exit gates for good 15 minutes, requested a person behind a pre-paid taxi counter to survey his CCTV footage and got laughed at, hyperventilated for a bit, before the help desk inside came to my rescue.
A few phone calls have done the trick. Passport is found, the day is saved, after 100-odd minutes of hell. I summon another cab, but there’s not much conversation this time. Instead, I spend the 30-minute ride making sure I don’t let the passport bag out of sight.