Varanasi’s airport had three gates. None had jet bridges.

Instead, passengers reached the tarmac through a large set of double doors at the back of the building.

Chains and padlocks held them together, leaving a two-inch gap between the doors.

Outside, a storm of locusts gathered against the glass beneath the setting sun.

Then one slipped through the gap.

Then another.

Then dozens.

They spiraled around the terminal lights until the ceiling disappeared behind a black cloud.

Fist-sized bugs landed on my food.

Smaller ones clung to our clothes and caught in people’s hair.

Passengers ducked and swatted at them. We watched through the windows as the swarm crawled across the glass and thickened until even the lights on the tarmac disappeared.

Then the flight attendants came.

They unchained the doors.

One pulled them open.

The locusts poured through.

The attendants covered their faces with their arms.

“Run!”

We ran the other way.

I pulled my shirt collar over my face, grabbed Dani with one hand, and swatted with the other as we fought toward the plane.

The locusts followed us inside.

They buzzed through the cabin.

Then the plane lifted off.

The cabin pressure dropped as we climbed.

And the swarm dropped with it