I'm on the porch of what appears to be a lodge in Mongla. It's cold, foggy, and I can see prayer flags. Suddenly, a tornado funnel, black as coal smoke, descends from the clouds. We all grab hold of the porch as the wind picks up. It's totally silent except within a few feet of the funnel, which seems to have an intelligence, feeling it's way along the porch, flinging teacups, maps, cards and lamps into the air.
Boards from the lodge are being pried off and sucked into the sky. I hold on for dear life, squinting against the terrifying wind. An elderly Japanese man runs up the path, dropping an armful of gardening tools. The funnel approaches and he falls flat, grabbing the nearest thing, my legs. I can feel his boney hands clutching at me and see the fear in his eyes. But I can't let go to help him.
He looks me in the eyes, almost sadly, as the black tentacle of wind sweeps him away.
I close my eyes, and feel the funnel engulf me, then I'm airborne, gone. It's utterly silent.