They are sending that Tharoor fellow for the phoren bijit. Surely you know as many big words as he does, no?” asked Misser Ji, my neighbour.
“Well…,” I responded, “It would be splendiferous indeed if for some idiosyncratic reason I were chosen for the peregrination. I would have gasconaded about that ad nauseam. But the littlest cogitation will amply bespeak that Dr Tharoor’s sesquipedalian and discursive skills are unparagoned. He is a magnolius choice.”
“Eh? Whatever. But boss, you are an excellent negotiator! Didn’t you persuade that chaatwala who sits outside our condo to serve seven golgappas per plate to residents, instead of the six he gives to ordinary customers?”
I had to admit that the golgappa negotiations were among my greatest diplomatic triumphs, yet I wondered if such an achievement alone was sufficient for someone to be selected as an emissary of Bharat. Misser Ji and my other neighbours were certain that it was. It is this unwavering loyalty that makes the otherwise insufferable life in a condo worth living!
Fortunately for the izzat of our condominium, an American friend invited me to New York to his son’s wedding at about the same time that Shashi and others were gallivanting around in those parts. I was elated, yet apprehensive because of the horror stories I had heard about the inefficient Indian immigration authorities and security staff.
Illustration: Job P.K.
The day to leave arrived soon enough, and I was happy when check-in and other formalities at Delhi airport were done quickly. The only unpleasant bit was an argument between the airline staff and a shifty-eyed man with a bulbous alcoholic’s nose, who demanded a wheelchair. Bulbous Nose looked half my age and seemed fit in body and mind, though he claimed he could not walk. Anyway, I forgot about him once I boarded the flight and started enjoying the long journey to America. Halfway to New York, I noticed that a miracle had occurred! Bulbous Nose was traipsing down the aisle for cadging a beer from the cabin crew!
On landing at JFK, I thought that, unlike the inefficient Indian authorities, the US immigration and customs would welcome me to the Big Apple with alacrity and whoops of joy. Alas, that was not to be! The immigration hall was packed, and I joined a serpentine queue that seemed to have no end. Meanwhile, I saw wheelchair passengers proceeding past separate immigration counters. Bulbous Nose, with a smirk on his face, was among the first to get cleared. Standing in the long queue, I fretted. I fumed. I waited. I waited a lot more. I finally cleared immigration after two and a half hours! When I left the airport terminal, I was tired, irritated and close to fainting.
My stay in the land of the free and home of the brave was highly enjoyable, but there is really nothing like one’s own country. So, when it was time to return, I danced gaily into Terminal 4 of JFK, quite certain that, while departing, the emigration formalities could not take long. Check-in was prompt, and I was courteously invited to the Air India lounge, which I was told was near the departure gate. I had arrived almost two hours ahead of the expected boarding time, so I had visions of myself lounging, so to say, in the lounge, with nary a care in the world. I imagined myself guzzling Air India single malts, while waiting to be invited on board like a Maharaja!
That feeling of euphoria lasted all of ten minutes—the time it took to walk from the check-in counter to the security area. Here, a long queue stretched from one end of the concourse to the other and then looped back on itself several times like an evil anaconda. The line moved sluggishly in fits and starts, and I could finally clear security after an hour and a half. I also noted that there was a separate queue for wheelchair passengers, who went through security in a jiffy.
I wended my way to the Air India lounge, hoping to get at least a bite before boarding commenced. On entering the lounge, I saw the same Bulbous Nose, standing near a wheelchair, helping himself to what looked like his third scotch and soda. When he saw me, he sank down in the wheelchair and winked.
On landing in Delhi, yet another miracle took place. Bulbous Nose bounded off like a greyhound the moment the aircraft doors opened, without needing a wheelchair! By the time I reached the immigration counter, he had disappeared, and I could visualise him grinning away as his Uber carried him home. It took me 20 minutes to clear immigration in Delhi which, compared with JFK, was not bad at all.
Misser Ji and other neighbours hosted a party to celebrate my ‘successful phoren bijit’. Asked to make a speech, I shared my most valuable learning. I said, “Always ask for a wheelchair at the airport. Then you will breeze through all formalities. If anyone makes nasty comments about the sprightly steps you take once you clear immigration or security, just hold up a bottle of ordinary water. And loudly declare, ‘This water is from Lourdes! Miracles do happen!’”
K.C. Verma is former chief of R&AW. kcverma345@gmail.com