Terminal 2, where the hell is Terminal 2. I do not understand the English spoken by the Hindus, with that accent that becomes almost another language: As soon as a word invites me enter the phrase, and another is throwing me out. Just know that just arrived in Bombay and would have to take a plane to Goa, where Susan and her friend are waiting for me English, but the screen says that the flight to Goa has been canceled without giving a reason, and this ticket was sacred in my country is no more valid now than a role that had collected from a pond. Someone has scrawled on it in a dingy office and just understand that there is another flight, do not know when leaving the Terminal 2. So I'm going through the aisles asking police grim large mustaches: Bus to Terminal two? "Bus to Terminal two?, And his explanations are incomprehensible to me. In time to confide in their language, finger still pointing to a door, go through a corridor, I go out and I ride a bus where someone charitably, has written on a blackboard: Bus to T2. I throw my backpack on a shapeless heap of bags and suitcases, and nothing but sit the bus starts. The dense air coming through the window blowing in my mouth, I'm dizzy and confused and I'm an easy target for moisture. The bus departs from Terminal 1 and heads into Bombay, and I melt into my seat like butter on a skillet.
So begins my story "The India or fear, my contribution to the anthology Bliss. I am happy to be in this anthology: the subject, by autologous, for my teammates, for his writings ... Among those circumstances, I think, all I have written, India or fear is the tale of which I feel more satisfied.
I leave you with a link to an interview they did to Vicente Muñoz and Nacho Escuín to laRepúblicaCultural.es. And I remember the blog of the anthology: Beatitud.Visiones of the Beat Generation.
anapmares@gmail.com 
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