It has been a while since I wrote. It has also been a while since I sang a Tagore song. It has been a while that I visited home or any other place for that matter. So it has really been sometime since there has been any change, excitement or a story juicy enough to liven up a dinner party. My friends back in Delhi now call me " a boring grad nerd".
I went back to visit my parents, to drink off the same china I grew up with, to eat carp cooked in tomato and coriander broth caressed with my mother's hand. Too many deaths, even more weddings and a general sense of erosion of my childhood, my memories and my anchor.
Papa tells me, that your home now, give everything a second chance, people here have moved on. To top it all, the very people with whom I spoke Bengali with or had a discussion about what fish or fuchka to have are either dead or married to their SO or worse, married to their jobs.
So a week passes by too quickly, pronaam done, Godivas exchanged for chanachur and son papri and jowan. New sarees packed in, time to get back to this part of the world.
I am now getting my carry on luggage checked by some folks at the Indira Gandhi International Airport. Surprised that they are not sleepy at this hour, even more surprised by their supreme efficiency which was previously unheard of. It seems Sheila Dixit and the Commonwealth games has done Delhi a lot good. The bag goes through the x ray and I am done in a matter of minutes. They stamp the tag on my purse, I dont bother to check if they do the same for my carry on bag. About an hour later, the flight is called, I am about to board an aircraft and sit still for the next 15 hours. I am a little miffed by the many families and kids traveling with us. I hope they don't cry, I badly need to catch up on sleep. I am on the last boarding group. Just about time when I am about to enter through the frosted gates, a guard stops me and informs that I cannot board the flight as my bag is not stamped. I claim it has been checked. but I am not given an option. Go back, get it checked and stamped through security or wait for us to take action. I give in let them take charge. I am told to wait, offered water. Five minutes pass, then ten, close to twenty. I am not worried about the flight departing without me, there are three other poor souls in a familiar situation. Nor am I concerned about seating, I have already been unfortunate enough to be allotted a middle seat. I am worried because there are several families with children traveling who have well exceeded the " two carry on luggage limit". There will not be single overhead bin remaining by the time I board the flight.
Panic strikes as I now foresee myself carrying this bag on my lap or worse near my feet and will have even little room to stretch my legs than what an economy ticket can afford.
A woman in uniform arrives. Crisp khaki saree, the only hint of ornament is a black bindi and a classy Titan watch. She is accompanied by a middle aged man, clearly lower in rank, but greater in gait. She starts with the Brit gentleman. The poor Englishman's laptop is pulled out, so are his files, pens, pictures of his kids and couple of things. he is asked to pack, his bag is stamped, his boarding pass number is noted as this was not the actual airport security at the gate.
The duty free shopaholic is next. An expensive camera, some t-shirts, a Toshiba notebook, a couple of duty free shopping bags, magazines come out. . She empties out the pockets, more personal belongings are rummaged through before he is finally stamped and let off. There are two of us now. A young man, a student maybe and me.
The male officer opens my bag. I will be embarrassed. The last day's soiled clothes and underclothes are packed in this bag, along with other things. The search party begins. I know my layers. First up is a hand towel that ma packed. then the books and then the embarrassing stuff. The man pulls out the towel and is about to remove the books to see what lies beneath. Just then, the lady turns and catches a glimpse of what is in my bags and shrieks. "Bangalee??? Apnar baccha ki New York e thake"
I am taken aback, happy, hurt and relieved. How does she know that I am a Bengali and tell myself to hit the gym as I now look old enough to have a child who can read. But her reason of this sudden exclamation is that she has laid eyes on " Gitobitan" a common book, loved, revered back by Bengalis across the world and I am bringing a copy of it for a dear friend back in Columbus.
"Bah eita bhalo jinish niye jaccho....eita to onnno private press?"
I smile. She signals the man to stop digging further into my bag, and I am stamped, faster than I hoped and asked to travel safely, take care of myself and the book. I am relieved to have been let off but even more delighted at the sudden outburst of emotion that a common language, a common love, a book can evoke.
From a no nonsense high ranked police officer she softens up to a chatty bong who escorts me to the aircraft, without having to pull out embarrassing stuff in front of strangers. This is what I call one of life's alpha moments. Robithakur, you rescue me yet again!
Adios
I went back to visit my parents, to drink off the same china I grew up with, to eat carp cooked in tomato and coriander broth caressed with my mother's hand. Too many deaths, even more weddings and a general sense of erosion of my childhood, my memories and my anchor.
Papa tells me, that your home now, give everything a second chance, people here have moved on. To top it all, the very people with whom I spoke Bengali with or had a discussion about what fish or fuchka to have are either dead or married to their SO or worse, married to their jobs.
So a week passes by too quickly, pronaam done, Godivas exchanged for chanachur and son papri and jowan. New sarees packed in, time to get back to this part of the world.
I am now getting my carry on luggage checked by some folks at the Indira Gandhi International Airport. Surprised that they are not sleepy at this hour, even more surprised by their supreme efficiency which was previously unheard of. It seems Sheila Dixit and the Commonwealth games has done Delhi a lot good. The bag goes through the x ray and I am done in a matter of minutes. They stamp the tag on my purse, I dont bother to check if they do the same for my carry on bag. About an hour later, the flight is called, I am about to board an aircraft and sit still for the next 15 hours. I am a little miffed by the many families and kids traveling with us. I hope they don't cry, I badly need to catch up on sleep. I am on the last boarding group. Just about time when I am about to enter through the frosted gates, a guard stops me and informs that I cannot board the flight as my bag is not stamped. I claim it has been checked. but I am not given an option. Go back, get it checked and stamped through security or wait for us to take action. I give in let them take charge. I am told to wait, offered water. Five minutes pass, then ten, close to twenty. I am not worried about the flight departing without me, there are three other poor souls in a familiar situation. Nor am I concerned about seating, I have already been unfortunate enough to be allotted a middle seat. I am worried because there are several families with children traveling who have well exceeded the " two carry on luggage limit". There will not be single overhead bin remaining by the time I board the flight.
Panic strikes as I now foresee myself carrying this bag on my lap or worse near my feet and will have even little room to stretch my legs than what an economy ticket can afford.
A woman in uniform arrives. Crisp khaki saree, the only hint of ornament is a black bindi and a classy Titan watch. She is accompanied by a middle aged man, clearly lower in rank, but greater in gait. She starts with the Brit gentleman. The poor Englishman's laptop is pulled out, so are his files, pens, pictures of his kids and couple of things. he is asked to pack, his bag is stamped, his boarding pass number is noted as this was not the actual airport security at the gate.
The duty free shopaholic is next. An expensive camera, some t-shirts, a Toshiba notebook, a couple of duty free shopping bags, magazines come out. . She empties out the pockets, more personal belongings are rummaged through before he is finally stamped and let off. There are two of us now. A young man, a student maybe and me.
The male officer opens my bag. I will be embarrassed. The last day's soiled clothes and underclothes are packed in this bag, along with other things. The search party begins. I know my layers. First up is a hand towel that ma packed. then the books and then the embarrassing stuff. The man pulls out the towel and is about to remove the books to see what lies beneath. Just then, the lady turns and catches a glimpse of what is in my bags and shrieks. "Bangalee??? Apnar baccha ki New York e thake"
I am taken aback, happy, hurt and relieved. How does she know that I am a Bengali and tell myself to hit the gym as I now look old enough to have a child who can read. But her reason of this sudden exclamation is that she has laid eyes on " Gitobitan" a common book, loved, revered back by Bengalis across the world and I am bringing a copy of it for a dear friend back in Columbus.
"Bah eita bhalo jinish niye jaccho....eita to onnno private press?"
I smile. She signals the man to stop digging further into my bag, and I am stamped, faster than I hoped and asked to travel safely, take care of myself and the book. I am relieved to have been let off but even more delighted at the sudden outburst of emotion that a common language, a common love, a book can evoke.
From a no nonsense high ranked police officer she softens up to a chatty bong who escorts me to the aircraft, without having to pull out embarrassing stuff in front of strangers. This is what I call one of life's alpha moments. Robithakur, you rescue me yet again!
Adios
