On August 14th 2006 I landed in cowboy country, Texas. From above, I had seen the arid landmass, the tawny pastures, with a few horses galloping across under the uber-bright sunshine. If it was a spaghetti western I was watching the scene would have been a delight. It was not though, and there was no Gary Cooper to save the day. I had chosen this place out of all places in North America to come to study, to invest the last bullion in my parents' coffer. I tell you it had looked less dismal from half a world away.
The American Airlines flight (with its Arsenic and Old Lace-style air hostesses) landed in the massive Dallas Fort Worth (DFW) airport and kept taxiing in circles and ox-bows till I felt like Abhimanyu entering the Chakravyuha. As I exited the airplane, human sizes seemed to have gone up a scale. My 6ft 2in frame barely escaped the Lilliput-tag. My girth however couldn't, and I still looked small. There were godzilla-sized humans all over the place; males, females, blacks, whites (with patches of red that made them look angry. Little did I know that I was seeing the real rednecks). I looked around but could not spot a single shotgun, leather belt carrying bullets, or a pair of boots with metal spurs attached at the heels, as Mr.Leone had promised in his movies. I was not complaining though since my hands were full already, literally, with my baggage.
A saviour named Karthik from the University's Indian Association had promised to rescue me from the airport. I scanned through angry, polite, suspicious and condescending faces but could not find a brown one that could go by that name. So I eventually picked my bags, belly-full with sachets of garam masala, paanch foron, haldi, a pressure cooker, pots, pans and other useless items that everyone back home had sworn would not be available in the godforsaken land of the Yankees.
I waited with two 30kg bags like Claudia Cardinale for her husband. True to the plot, the husband never arrived! So, I eventually fell in line to take my own trolley so that at least my dear luggage could rest. On my turn I realized that the trolleys did not come for free. I had a couple of 20 dollar bills, but not the "quarters" that the machine would take. Behind me, Uncle Sam was frowning at this poor Indian farmer who had probably come here to rid his son of his daily bread. Buhind im the owld laidee was verrry verry aingree 'cus this brownie lad dint kno nothin! So, there I was in my first Mexican standoff!
People (including Indians) often think that Indians are not brave. That is not true. You just have to push them to the corner and choke them till they have nowhere to run and no air to breathe. It just takes a bit longer to shake the inertia of fear out of their system. I turned back to Uncle Sam and asked, "Can I borrow a few quarters from you?". Americans are an independent breed and do not understand the share-and-prosper attitude like us. They do not share cars, backyards, kitchen utensils, or apartments for convenience. Uncle Sam replied queryingly, "What was that?". That was the first time I encountered that expression (Since then, I have learnt how common it is and have pre-emptively used it on people at the first opportunity). It has such a you-stupid-fool-what-language-are-you-talking-in undertone that it demoralizes you first and eventually makes you forget the topic and concentrate on your fake American English accent. I twisted my tongue to grotesque angles to talk like the old man. I spoke the English language with the worst pronunciations I had ever spoken in my life. That somehow seemed to work. He gave me the much needed quarters.
Outside, the place was the sun's anvil (that expression is out of the Lawrence of Arabia movie). There was no Clint Eastwood wrapped in a Mexican shawl on a well-fed steed waiting for me. However there was Karthik with his white Toyota. Don't ask me how I knew it was him. I just knew. He drove me to the University in silence, with a chivalric air of Don Quixote saving one of his ladies from captivity. I made a few feeble efforts to befriend him with inquiries about graduate courses, campus jobs, grocery stores, and grading systems, but to no avail. I think the combination of the sweltering heat and a querying desi-boy was getting to him. I kept my mouth shut and breathed the warm air in.
The roads in Texas are much wider compared to other states in the US. I did not know this then. I marveled at the six-lane highways and the speed at which everyone drove. I was amazed to see respectable-looking people driving what looked like TATA 407 mini-trucks. I was informed by Mr. Quixote that they are called "pick-up" trucks, and I should not be surprised to see my professor drive to school in one of them. He kept repeating "school" till I deciphered that the University is also referred to as graduate "school". On reaching the graduate school campus Mr. Quixote became a little more chirpy (I think his earlier silence was probably just due to the tension while driving on the highway). He educated me on traffic rules (primarily to acknowledge the importance to the life of a petty pedestrian), on the concept of yield, and on not trying to be a pilot car to an ambulance.
The campus bore the look of the Atacama desert. Not a soul was to be seen. It reminded me again of Gary Cooper and of High Noon. Mr. Quixote parked his car in a corner and we walked to one of the University's housing complexes. He took a print-out from his pocket. It was a list of fresh Indian imports for that semester. I spotted my name with a number next to it. We looked for that apartment no. and knocked at the wooden door. A red-eyed desi face popped out. I was glad. I had enough of the culture-exchange for a day. Disheveled hair (that had been gelled before last night's party), a pair of Abercombie shorts and a basketball vest (with the Longhorns symbol in front) characterized my friend. Soon four more pairs of red eyes appeared from the bedroom (I looked around but could not spot the Jack Daniels bottle). There apparently was a graduation party on the previous night and that was all they remembered. Laughter and crazy talk filled the room. I felt transported from the wild west to my undergrad hostel days in the heart of Karnataka. I felt at home. I said goodbye to Mr. Quixote and joined the crowd. After all, I did not need to be a Roman to survive in Rome. I had met my group of Gauls!
4 comments:
Nicely written !
Liked the way you finished up the storytelling, kind of abrupt but at the same time signifying positivity
Sorry I haven't commented for ages. Yes, very well written indeed, what with the continuous undercurrent of self-deprecating humour and the way you sign off with the flourish a la Asterix. Many of your observations re. Texas agree with my own experience of it, although I didn't find Dallas quite so hot, despite arriving in May. That was maybe because I had come from Arizona, though! And I did find the natives a trifle more friendly than you did. Overall, from whatever little of the state I saw, barring Houston and Dallas, my impression was that it was far less slick and shiny than what I had seen in Arizona. My worst memory is being cooped up in a flat for a whole week, because I had no car, and little money left in my pocket, depending on my cousin to show me the sights during the weekend, and I remember having to watch 52 movies in one week. Never again!
I do hope your acedemic experience, at least, was good enough to justify spending the family bullion...
Vishal; Thanks for reading. Had to leave the ending abrupt to keep the undertone of nervous uncertainty in the post intact.
Suvro Sir; Thank you for noticing the "Asterix" at the end! Yes I agree that the Dallas summer pales in comparison to that of Arizona. I was lucky to visit that state in winter. And 52 movies a week is an awful lot. Were some of them spaghetti westerns? As for my academic experience, yes it was certainly worth.
Post a Comment