Never Sleep With Them

It was May 6th, 2026. Flying 10,000 meters above sea level, my eyes as heavy as a boulder and my brain leaking melatonin; and yet I couldn't catch a nap. All because of a random video I'd watched on a sleepless night. Some medical practitioner (Dr. Joseph J. Allen, O.D., FAAO, Dipl ABO, 1.3M subscribers; the algorithm gods chose violence that night) saying, "Never sleep with them."

To know how it came to this, we have to wind the clock back.

It is April 2021, and my head is as hot as a desert burning under the afternoon sun.

— Not that far back... go forward...

It is September 2024, and I am just about to board a train back to Singapore...

— Wait, that's still too far. Just go back to yesterday, you idiot.

— (laughs apologetically)

It is the night before the day of departure, and I have been searching for a cheap way to prove onward journey at immigration. I considered dummy tickets but rejected the idea for being too gray an area. So I went down the rabbit hole of finding airlines with the best cancellation policy.

The reason I'm doing this a day before departure is that my travel agent, Dharmik, had called me the day before:

"Sorry, Nikhil, I'm currently at Ram's wedding."

"Ganthiyo??" I exclaimed (our nickname for Ram; ganthiyo is a Gujarati fried snack).

"Yes, apano ganthiyo." (Yes, our friend.)

"Then it can't be helped. Don't worry, I'll figure this out. Have fun at the wedding."

Both Air India and Indigo came onto my radar. Air India's Flex and Indigo's Upfront fares have flexible cancellation and change options, not as flexible as a full-service airline like Emirates or Etihad, but good enough. I chose Indigo since they allow easy cancellation for ₹1,500 (~$16). But just as I was about to book and pay, something caught my eye: something so small, so interesting. Yes, it was an * (asterisk). And like any normal person, I scrolled all the way to the bottom of the page and started reading the fine print. A bulb lit up in my mind when I saw:

You can cancel the ticket without any charges if you cancel within 48 hours of booking and the journey is 14 days apart. Convenience fees may apply.

And there it was. The treasure most coveted by any budget traveller. Not just an answer but a loophole. A secret passage through the impossible, buried under the wall of texts, waiting for someone daring enough to see it.

— ...okay, it's a cancellation clause. But still.

That very minute, I laughed maniacally while booking the ticket for May 22nd, planning to cancel it the moment I arrived at my hostel. But by the time I'd booked it and noticed the clock, it was already 3 AM. My mouth hung open, jaw tight, tongue ready to click in embarrassment, and then panic hit. I had to wake up by 5:30 AM to catch a taxi. It took almost half an hour for my heart to slow down and my hands to fall flat on the mattress.

I woke up at 5:45 AM with adrenaline surging to the sound of my alarm. I got ready and — being the fashion-forward man I am — decided to wear contact lenses instead of my usual glasses. I arrived at the airport safely, on time, and cleared the usual check-in. At 8:30 AM, I ate a microwaved samosa worth ₹90 from a small airport shop tucked away in a corner. I know that's an absolute rip-off right? Even in Dubai you can buy three samosas for that much. But you pay when your stomach growls.

And now we are back to where we started. The flight to Bangkok. Five hours long. Drowsiness, falling on me like rain whether I liked it or not. I am trying to sleep.

And just as I am about to drift off...

Never sleep with contact lenses.

The voice. From the video. From that night.

I open my eyes. I try again. The voice comes back, louder.

NEVER sleep with contact lenses. NEVER.

I close them. Try one more time.

NEVER. Sleeeep. Wiiith. Theeem.

Like Dr. Joseph is sitting in the seat behind me, leaning over my headrest, getting louder with every blink.

The cabin air is drier than the Sahara, something I read once and immediately forgot, until my eyeballs started reminding me. My contacts are turning into little discs of sandpaper sitting on top of my corneas. I keep them open and they burn. I close them and the voice comes back.

Sleeeep. Wiiith. Theeem.

I give up. I reach into my backpack for the dibba — the case, the little plastic thing with two screw-tops, you know the one; there is no good word for it in English that doesn't sound clinical — and the all-purpose solution. I'll go to the lavatory and take them out. Problem solved. Sleep, finally.

I unbuckle. I stand up. Dibba in one hand, solution in the other.

And of course, of course, that's when the PA crackles.

"This is your captain speaking. We are expecting heavy turbulence ahead. Please return to your seats and keep your seat belts fastened."

I returned to my seat with muffled footsteps and unfocused eyes, resigning myself to fate.

I somehow reached Bangkok. At immigration I had my Indigo booking ready, refund timer mentally ticking, the loophole loaded like a chambered round. The officer glanced at my passport. Glanced at me. Stamped it.

He didn't ask.

Five hours of dry-eye hell, 3 AM fine-print archaeology, a ₹500 convenience fee waiting on the other side, and he didn't ask.

I felt slightly insulted by my own preparation.

After getting rid of my voluntary parasitic friends from my eyes, the next thing I did was to cancel that return ticket and get a sweet... sweet... refund of the full ticket minus a ₹500 (~$5.50) convenience fee. Half the price of a dummy ticket. And, unlike a dummy ticket, real.

And finally, I walked to the street food stalls and had the mouth-watering Massaman Thai curry with world-famous jasmine rice, then treated myself to mango sticky rice for dessert.

With my stomach full of carbs and my brain singing the melody of sleep — serotonin and melatonin humming the sweet tune of slumber together — I returned to my dorm and slept like a baby until 11 AM the next morning.