I am off the plane after a mind-numbing, joint-stiffening flight. The maida-laden, last breakfast does not help as I brace up for an encounter with Homeland Security which will decide whether I will enter this country or not. It’s about 10.00 in the morning. I have been warned ' “They are really tough ' my colleague’s brother-in-law’s cousin was detained for six hours, a friend of my aunt’s nephew was grilled for an entire morning”. I am nervous because I too am somebody’s neighbour’s something. “Try to go to a counter with a coloured person, the white officers are the worst”, I was told. I had already parted with my fingerprints in Mumbai in exchange for a ten year visa and I was curious to see what happened next.
I queue up. It’s a huge hall with many cubicles with officers in Prussian blue uniforms. On my right were two African American officers and one with oriental features. Or was she Hispanic? On my left is a handsome, blonde white American. The queue moves slowly; everyone is being closely questioned. And of course when my turn comes, it’s the blonde one that gestures to me to approach his counter.
“So what brings you here” he asks flipping through the pages of my passport. The counter is designed such that I cannot see below his face. I can hear the rustle of pages. “I have come for business meetings”, I say. That sounds important and serious. “So what kind of meetings?” He is clicking keys on his computer. “I have come on the invitation of the American India Foundation which supports our work with the children of seasonal migrants in western India”. “Oh! Where do you live?” “In Ahmedabad”. “Where is that?”
“North of Mumbai”. He nods; he has placed me geographically. “So what’s the population of India?” I am taken aback. “Well, about a billion and counting”. I can hear him setting my passport down with thump. “A billion huh”! He leans forward with something like concern in his eyes. “Is there place for everyone?” (I am wondering if this is a version of are there tiger and elephants on the streets but this one is smart). “It’s a big country, you know ” More clicks. “How big?” Is there a challenge in his voice? “It’s the seventh largest country in the world”. “You mean it’s bigger than America?” “No, no”, I soothed him, “not bigger than America”.
The conversation shifts. “So what work do you do”? “I work for a non-profit and we work with seasonal migrants who move in search of work for eight months of the year. We run hostels so children can stay behind in their villages and continue their schooling while their parents work at the salt pans and brick kilns”. “You mean these people come from other countries”?
“No, they come from the arid and poorer areas of our state and they move after the monsoon rains when there is no work on the fields. Some come from the neighbouring states”. “Well, it looks like you are doing good work”. I smile weakly. “Could you place your index finger on that little machine, first the right, then the left (or was it the other way around) and maybe you could just move to the left and look into the camera?”
The conversation shifts again. “So we are friendly with your country”? I realize he is referring to Indo-US relations. Is this a trick question? I nod and say yes, not completely sure if we are. “And we are friendly with Pakistan too”. Where is this leading? I nod once again. “But you are not friendly with Pakistan”? I cannot identify the tone of his voice; it is a complex mix of innocent question, challenge and I don’t know what. And I have a nanosecond to decide what to say. Sub-continental pride comes to the rescue. “It’s like this”, I tell him. “The people of the two countries share many cultural ties; it’s the governments that don’t get along. The area where I live, we have a long border with Pakistan you know”. “I know, that’s why I asked”. This one is smart. Anyway something in what I say appeals to him. He smiles. “I like that, the people get along, it’s the politicians that don’t”. Now what, I think.
“How long do you plan to stay? “Till the end of November”. “Well, enjoy your stay”. I can hear the thumps of his stamps on the passport. He smiles widely. “And I really enjoyed our chat. I love asking questions and you have been very forthcoming with your answers. Thanks, I really liked that. Have a nice stay and enjoy yourself”.
I am taken aback at his cordial goodbye. I recover my wits and smile my thanks and walk toward the bright California sunshine.
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