This happened in the winter of 2006. You may read it as a continuation of the previous post.
I had just completed a semester at the university in Arlington, Texas and was looking forward to the winter break. As a grad-student in the US one not only needs to plan semesters carefully, but semester-breaks as well. Else, there is the fear of spending those month-long breaks at the university, when the campus turns into a morgue and only zombies (read PhD. students) wander the campus endeavouring to complete their theses on time. I was lucky to have my uncle (and his family) stay in nearby Tucson, Arizona ("nearby" by the wild west standard) to flee to. A sponsored trip, and the wonderful time spent in the saguaro country is however for another time to tell. This post is about my return from Tucson to Arlington.
After a month-long vacation the day for parting arrived. My uncle's family came to see me off at the Tucson airport. It was 10a.m. in the morning. I checked-in my American Tourister and spent a while chatting with them. The usual Bengali farewell-protocol ensued. My uncle was anxious that I was making this 3 hour flight alone. While talking to them, I spotted a couple of sheikhs in black beards standing in line, wearing neatly tied black turbans and black thawbs. Their aquiline nose and chiselled cheekbones bore a sinister look. My cousin and I cracked a quick "terrorist" joke right out of the Russell Peters alley. Now, I could proudly proclaim myself to have been Americanized, since I had so fluently related to the turban-terrorist stereotype (despite those years spent reading Middle-Eastern history, conflicts, facts and fact-based fictions). The Frederick Forsyth in me nodded in disapproval.
A few hugs later I bid good-bye to the family and turned around to walk towards the security checkpoint. There were two counters for identification. I stood in the queue and took out my passport. At one counter sat a Gujarati uncle. He took a good look at my passport, then looked up to scan my face and with a broad avuncular smile inquired in Hindi, Kitne dinon se ho US mae? Pdne aye ho? I think ours is a culture of redundant queries. We like asking questions, the answers to which we already know (like asking a bus conductor if the bus will go to the airport after already having read the electronic sign displayed on its front window panel). Didn't the red seal and the visa page on my passport precisely answer his questions already? Being true to that culture I answered in kind. Then quite suddenly from my left came a jab followed by an upper-cut that completely knocked me out. Kahan pdte ho beta? Kaun sa subject mae mastery kr rhe ho? Funding mila ki off kempus krte ho? I realized that the other counter was ably manned by a Gujarati aunty and she was the one throwing the verbal punches (pardon my ignorance for I was not aware of the well known gujju-airport liaison at that time). Needless to say that a couple of gora babus were patiently standing in line behind me witnessing this exotic oriental conversation with their tight-lipped smiling face that they so often reserve for situations that are beyond their comprehension.
I had hardly escaped this pair of Gir lions when Mr. Stallone stopped me with a baritone "Please step aside sir". In Arizona there is a little bit of Mexico in every person. Mr. Stallone had a Mexican face, a Mexican haircut, had Mexican features and could conduct a perfect Mexican wave (the last one was a joke). In short Stallone was Mexican before he had become an officer at the DHS (Dept. of Homeland Security) in this hallowed land of the Gringos. On second thought, I should have addressed him here as either Jose, Pedro or Pepe. Anyway, I dutifully stepped aside, put down my backpack, and stood like Christ (albeit with legs apart), ready to be frisked by this hulk of a man. He carried two guns, of which one was possibly a taser. I had always secretly wondered how it might feel to be tased. I feared that I would have the answer soon. The officer dug into my backpack, and out came the following, 1)Ken Follett's The Key to Rebecca and Eye of the Needle (One a fiction about a covert military operation in the Middle-East and another a Nazi-era spy thriller), 2) Dominic Lapierre's O'Jerusalem (a tome on modern Jew-Arab conflicts surrounding the formation of Israel), 3) Khaled Hosseini's The Kite Runner, and 4) Theodore Rappaport's Wireless Communications (a critical text for my next semester's coursework). One of these had a rocket-launcher on its front cover. The other had a picture of the lovely city of Jerusalem in flames, while another had a swastika, and the last one had a collage of wireless devices ranging from mobile phones to satellites. A perfect portfolio for a terror suspect I suppose. Oh, and I forgot to mention that beside that backpack stood I, a lean six feet two inch lad, age 24, had serendipitously forgotten to shave his beard and held a passport which showed me in this light,
I was glad Stallone did not open the novels and start reading for he would have found that the cover pictures were mere understatements. Nevertheless, convinced that the case was completely in his pocket he made a phone call to the White House (or, more probably his superior at the airport). With his index finger pressing the already invisible earpiece much deeper towards his eardrum and his chin close to the microphone pinned to his chest he murmured my details to his invisible master. I stood there patiently witnessing my name being verbally molested alphabet-by-alphabet (suppressing the urge to snatch his microphone and spell it out in clear English to whoever was listening on the other side). He took out a small list from his pocket, carefully referred to it and then I heard him say "Yes sir, he is from a country of special interest" What! Really, a country of special interest! That's what we are to them? Hurrah! Each day we hear and read many things (good, bad and ugly) about India. But never had I heard such a strong, interesting and comical phrase referring to us. I would have given my right hand to see who else was on that list. But that would expose my terror instincts, would it not? So I kept silent (thanks to the hours of interrogation-training that I went through). Soon, Stallone received reinforcements from his HQ (who apparently thought me to be such a dangerous suspect that it was no more prudent to have the puny Stallone alone to control me). So now I had the company of Stallone, Arnold1 and Arnold2. We paraded towards the gate stipulated for my scheduled flight with Stallone on my side and the two Arnolds behind me, all in black jackets with "Homeland Security" printed in fluorescent green at the back. I felt amazed, scared, surprised, sympathetic, and fanatic stares around me, probing me, itching to know the story behind my capture.
We reached the gate where my boarding pass was promptly cancelled and I was handed another one for the next flight which happened to be in the late evening. Arnold1 explained to me that this was "standard procedure" and that the "system" would be running an extra set of "background checks" on me. He kept referring to the "system" as if it was an entity that was controlling their behavior, and over which they had no control. For once I believed him. My sympathies were with them. It might be truly frustrating to be such physically powerful men yet have no intelligence of their own and thereby having to believe in the intelligence of the "system". Stallone looked at me with eyes that showed how sorry he was that the "system"had chosen me for the random check.
I walked out of the airport and called my uncle to pick me up. He was furious that the fellow Americans (since my uncle is a US citizen) had treated his nephew is such a despicable way. A few options were explored; like protesting through some forum, or asking to talk to Stallone's supervisor (Americans always want to talk to "supervisors". It is supposed to be a threat to the person handling the matter), etc. He asked me why I had not been smart enough to tell the officer that I had an important meeting with my professor and that I could not afford to miss this flight. I imagined myself doing that and Stallone calling up my professor and getting to know instantly that no such meeting was scheduled, thereby driving the last nail in my coffin. I kept quiet. Later that day we visited sundry persons (professors, surgeons, and research scholars) all friends of my uncle who shared their own little airport tales and surmised how pitiful it was to suspect a bhhalo chhele like me of being a terrorist. I kept looking at my watch.
When I finally took the evening flight there was no random check. I could hear the "system" say, Thou shalt pass this time, as I walked towards the gate. This incident became the favourite topic among my friends and we laughed over it till one day I finally got tired of narrating it. Some years later, I read in the newspapers that a similar treatment was meted out at the John Fizgerald Kennedy Airport in New York City to an Indian movie superstar. It made the headlines for a month and made his movie a box-office hit. The gentleman's name is Shah Rukh Khan. I guess great men can truly turn adversity into a fortune. Others merely write rambling posts on their blogs and hope they cross the eyes of an interested reader.
I had just completed a semester at the university in Arlington, Texas and was looking forward to the winter break. As a grad-student in the US one not only needs to plan semesters carefully, but semester-breaks as well. Else, there is the fear of spending those month-long breaks at the university, when the campus turns into a morgue and only zombies (read PhD. students) wander the campus endeavouring to complete their theses on time. I was lucky to have my uncle (and his family) stay in nearby Tucson, Arizona ("nearby" by the wild west standard) to flee to. A sponsored trip, and the wonderful time spent in the saguaro country is however for another time to tell. This post is about my return from Tucson to Arlington.
After a month-long vacation the day for parting arrived. My uncle's family came to see me off at the Tucson airport. It was 10a.m. in the morning. I checked-in my American Tourister and spent a while chatting with them. The usual Bengali farewell-protocol ensued. My uncle was anxious that I was making this 3 hour flight alone. While talking to them, I spotted a couple of sheikhs in black beards standing in line, wearing neatly tied black turbans and black thawbs. Their aquiline nose and chiselled cheekbones bore a sinister look. My cousin and I cracked a quick "terrorist" joke right out of the Russell Peters alley. Now, I could proudly proclaim myself to have been Americanized, since I had so fluently related to the turban-terrorist stereotype (despite those years spent reading Middle-Eastern history, conflicts, facts and fact-based fictions). The Frederick Forsyth in me nodded in disapproval.
A few hugs later I bid good-bye to the family and turned around to walk towards the security checkpoint. There were two counters for identification. I stood in the queue and took out my passport. At one counter sat a Gujarati uncle. He took a good look at my passport, then looked up to scan my face and with a broad avuncular smile inquired in Hindi, Kitne dinon se ho US mae? Pdne aye ho? I think ours is a culture of redundant queries. We like asking questions, the answers to which we already know (like asking a bus conductor if the bus will go to the airport after already having read the electronic sign displayed on its front window panel). Didn't the red seal and the visa page on my passport precisely answer his questions already? Being true to that culture I answered in kind. Then quite suddenly from my left came a jab followed by an upper-cut that completely knocked me out. Kahan pdte ho beta? Kaun sa subject mae mastery kr rhe ho? Funding mila ki off kempus krte ho? I realized that the other counter was ably manned by a Gujarati aunty and she was the one throwing the verbal punches (pardon my ignorance for I was not aware of the well known gujju-airport liaison at that time). Needless to say that a couple of gora babus were patiently standing in line behind me witnessing this exotic oriental conversation with their tight-lipped smiling face that they so often reserve for situations that are beyond their comprehension.
I had hardly escaped this pair of Gir lions when Mr. Stallone stopped me with a baritone "Please step aside sir". In Arizona there is a little bit of Mexico in every person. Mr. Stallone had a Mexican face, a Mexican haircut, had Mexican features and could conduct a perfect Mexican wave (the last one was a joke). In short Stallone was Mexican before he had become an officer at the DHS (Dept. of Homeland Security) in this hallowed land of the Gringos. On second thought, I should have addressed him here as either Jose, Pedro or Pepe. Anyway, I dutifully stepped aside, put down my backpack, and stood like Christ (albeit with legs apart), ready to be frisked by this hulk of a man. He carried two guns, of which one was possibly a taser. I had always secretly wondered how it might feel to be tased. I feared that I would have the answer soon. The officer dug into my backpack, and out came the following, 1)Ken Follett's The Key to Rebecca and Eye of the Needle (One a fiction about a covert military operation in the Middle-East and another a Nazi-era spy thriller), 2) Dominic Lapierre's O'Jerusalem (a tome on modern Jew-Arab conflicts surrounding the formation of Israel), 3) Khaled Hosseini's The Kite Runner, and 4) Theodore Rappaport's Wireless Communications (a critical text for my next semester's coursework). One of these had a rocket-launcher on its front cover. The other had a picture of the lovely city of Jerusalem in flames, while another had a swastika, and the last one had a collage of wireless devices ranging from mobile phones to satellites. A perfect portfolio for a terror suspect I suppose. Oh, and I forgot to mention that beside that backpack stood I, a lean six feet two inch lad, age 24, had serendipitously forgotten to shave his beard and held a passport which showed me in this light,
We reached the gate where my boarding pass was promptly cancelled and I was handed another one for the next flight which happened to be in the late evening. Arnold1 explained to me that this was "standard procedure" and that the "system" would be running an extra set of "background checks" on me. He kept referring to the "system" as if it was an entity that was controlling their behavior, and over which they had no control. For once I believed him. My sympathies were with them. It might be truly frustrating to be such physically powerful men yet have no intelligence of their own and thereby having to believe in the intelligence of the "system". Stallone looked at me with eyes that showed how sorry he was that the "system"had chosen me for the random check.
I walked out of the airport and called my uncle to pick me up. He was furious that the fellow Americans (since my uncle is a US citizen) had treated his nephew is such a despicable way. A few options were explored; like protesting through some forum, or asking to talk to Stallone's supervisor (Americans always want to talk to "supervisors". It is supposed to be a threat to the person handling the matter), etc. He asked me why I had not been smart enough to tell the officer that I had an important meeting with my professor and that I could not afford to miss this flight. I imagined myself doing that and Stallone calling up my professor and getting to know instantly that no such meeting was scheduled, thereby driving the last nail in my coffin. I kept quiet. Later that day we visited sundry persons (professors, surgeons, and research scholars) all friends of my uncle who shared their own little airport tales and surmised how pitiful it was to suspect a bhhalo chhele like me of being a terrorist. I kept looking at my watch.
When I finally took the evening flight there was no random check. I could hear the "system" say, Thou shalt pass this time, as I walked towards the gate. This incident became the favourite topic among my friends and we laughed over it till one day I finally got tired of narrating it. Some years later, I read in the newspapers that a similar treatment was meted out at the John Fizgerald Kennedy Airport in New York City to an Indian movie superstar. It made the headlines for a month and made his movie a box-office hit. The gentleman's name is Shah Rukh Khan. I guess great men can truly turn adversity into a fortune. Others merely write rambling posts on their blogs and hope they cross the eyes of an interested reader.
3 comments:
So you were in great company, isn't it, SRK? Or was it substandardizing?
Good one, but was the bhalo chele tag self acclaimed?
Well, a few sympathetic fellow-Indians have indeed read this, if that's any consolation. I hear it's even worse in some other countries. One old boy was repeatedly "random -checked" in a certain country down south until one day he took the bull by the horns and raised a ruckus, insisting that he was being fatuously victimized because of his skin colour. Luckily for him he must have touched a chord, because they let him go at once, and he assures me the harassment has never been repeated thereafter.
Ah well, we Indians are not very nice to foreigners either, are we - unless they are very rich, very famous, and very well-connected?
Bua dada; The bhalo chhele tag was always conferred to me whether I wished it or not. Over time I guess I learned to use it to my advantage. However, as you can very well see in this incident, it did not work too well!
Suvro Sir; I did not mind being "random-checked" at all. In fact I found it hilarious the way they tried to mask the fact of what they thought of me. However I have known students who fail to see the funny side when in duress. Such incidents must be tough on them. And I cannot agree more with you that we treat our "foreigners" much worse than they do unless its an SRK we are talking about. Ooops that was a bad example!
Post a Comment