Mr. Singh's Adventure....
It's clear to me that the only way to avoid anybody talking to me in Hindi is to start the conversation myself in English. So at the check-in counter I give my ticket and ask, with a strong Indian accent that I have been practicing for many years (little did I know that it would turn out to be so useful), if my plane is on time. "Yes," says the guy behind the counter, "everything's normal, the plane is only forty minutes late...and you will have a stop-over in Bombay."
So far so good.....I use the time I have available to go to the toilet (am I nervous?) and, as I walk passed a big mirror on the wall, I see, with the corner of my eye, something that I don't recognize. I turn to face the mirror and I am amazed to see that which twenty years ago I would have thought of as a character coming out of a Rudyard Kipling book and which now seems to be almost a past life flash back! I am really amazed and also pleased with my appearance which seems to touch a well known space inside myself.
Once I get on the plane and sit on my assigned seat, I feel quite comfortable with being what I look like to be, even though my head and ears are boiling hot under these five meters of material! But all the sounds are muffled and soft, and in such a noisy country to have a ear filter is a real treat. Through the thick layers of fabric, I keep hearing an announcement made in Hindi on the speakers, and it's repeated several times. The only thing that I can understand is 'char', that means 'four'. Somewhere, in a dark corner of my mind, I start wondering if it's at all related to me, as I am sitting on seat number four. Almost echoing my thoughts I see the hostess walking towards me (as she gets closer my heartbeat becomes faster) and finally what I was really afraid of happens-she stops right in front of me!
I can't believe it! Did they really already uncover my fraud? With my heart now beating where 30 years ago I had my tonsils, I am waiting for her to utter the first Hindi sentence that will throw me in total darkness. "Sir, you forgot to identify your luggage. The plane is waiting for you," she says in what seems in this moment to be the most beautiful and sweet Indian accent I ever heard on earth, "Could you please go outside and identify your suitcase?"
"With pleasure," I tell her with a big smile on my face and feeling the blood starting to move again through my all body and my heart going back where it belongs.
Once we arrive in Bombay I find out that I have to get on a different plane to go to Poona and, being this is a time in India of strong and bloody fights and riots, particularly between Muslims and Hindus, they put all the passengers through a security check, very much like the ones for international flights.
I am standing in front of this guy wearing some kind of uniform that looks like it has been worn for a couple of years too long. He has a very dark skin and doesn't exactly look friendly. I have a sense that some troubles are on their way. He grabs my bag, opens it, and pulling out one thing at the time, he looks at me and starts questioning me in Hindi!
Holding up my camera he looks at me sternly and gibberishes something. All I can figure out is that he is asking me what is this, (as if it was not a self evident camera?) so I answer him in English, "Oh, that's my camera...you know...souvenirs..." He keeps looking at me even more sternly than before and pulling out something else from my bag, he holds it in front of my nose and gibb- erishes something else in a very coarse tone. Wishing my parents would have sent me to study Hindi instead of English when I was a child, the only thing I can do is try to guess what he is asking me and give my answer in English.
Every time this happens the tension between us is clearly growing as we don't find a direct comunication. On top of it, it seems like none of us is giving
up-he is not switching to English (could he?) and I am not switching to Hindi (I can't!). I also suddenly realize that in my pouch-belt I am carrying a lot of dollars! That could mean two things and are both bad news for me-first I am an Indian carrying illegal foreign currency (in those years it was still illegal) and therefore I am in trouble, or the second possibility, I am a foreigner traveling under a false identity and therefore I am in trouble....meanwhile the contents of my bag have been almost completely emptied on top of the table and now the air is thick and the feeling between us is like a violin string that has been pulled way too tight! I am waiting for it to snap on my face any second...his hand reaches once more inside my bag to pull out the last thing left in there. The very moment the box of tea appears in front of me, looking straight at him I scream CHAI!!!
Immediately the violin string is released to its normal tension. The air is breathable again. "Aah! Chai, chai!" he repeats putting all my things back in the bag with a big smile and shaking his head from side to side. The magic word, one of the five I know in Hindi was uttered creating a bridge between our two separate worlds, all tension dissipating at the sound of the word 'chai'. To my astonishment he gives the bag back to me without even looking into my traveling belt, and making a sign to me that I can now go, he utters the another Hindi magic word (also one of the five that I know), "Challo!"
The rest of the trip is just like cruising, and when Mr. Singh walks out of the Poona airport, I enjoy immensely not being assaulted by beggars and children asking for "baksheesh" and not having to bargain for the taxi fair and feeling totally one among others, at home.
"Ahh, yes," I tell to my- self, feeling the warm turban as a soft pillow between my head and the headrest on the back seat of the taxi driving towards Koregaon Park, "It's great to be an Indian in India!".
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