America at last!
I had
stopped believing in palmistry. Hosts of palmists have deciphered the rather
strange line on my left hand as the ‘Foreign Line.’ “You will go to foreign
many times,” said one of them when I was ten years old. The closest I got to
this promise was the glass doors at the Sahara(as it was known then) Airport in
Bombay, where we received and sent an endless stream of relatives. I almost
gave up till the line justified its existence at last. Anita Raj, a New York
based producer invited me to write scripts for her programmes on India to be
telecast on her Bombay Broadcasting Network in New York. Bidding a fond
farewell to my family, I stood in the long line of passengers at the Air India
counter. It was 4.30 a.m. Like a typical first time “foreign goer, “I wove
dreams of what I would do in the Promised Land and occasionally pinched myself
to make sure it was all happening. It seemed to be happening rather slowly
because the computers at the counters were misbehaving. So were my newly acquired
shoes, which pinched me as I inched my way to the counter.Two hours later, my
enthusiasm considerably dimmed. I presented my economy ticket and passport. My
adventure had begun! The economy class was over booked and I was upgraded to
the business class. “They also benefit who stand and wait,” I said to myself
and hurried to the exchange section for the $ 20 before I was whisked off to
take the flight to dream-land. Dragging my pinched feet and my overloaded sling
bag bursting with MTR mixes, pickles and agarbattis, I wended my way to the seat.
“Are
you Chaya Srivatsa?” asked the lady seated in the third row.” I met your aunt
who told me you would be on this flight. I am Lily and this is my husband. We
know your aunt very well.” Its a small world !Later, Lily invited me to her
daughter’s wedding in the famous Balaji temple in Pittsburg.
I
also met four very lively officers from KEB, Bangalore who were on their way to
London for a short course. If KEB could afford Business Class for them, it must
be thanks to us consumers who pay hefty bills! They were ostensibly on their
way to study some sophisticated method of conserving energy and were themselves
bursting with enough of it as they chatted away in Kannada, exchanging notes on
what they would buy in London. I got talking to one of them and complained
about the lack of proper street-lighting, erratic shut-downs and fluctuating
voltage, in Bangalore city. He was politely attentive but more interested in
the delicious food the air hostess started serving, minus the papad and pickles promised in the snazzy menu card.
Palmistry is a believable
science after all, I said to myself as I walked out of the Air India tunnel
into the JFK airport. Following others, I went to get a luggage cart. Trying to
look like a seasoned traveller, I tugged at one of them, tugged again, tugged
harder the third time... nothing happened. I then spotted a sign which said to
insert one dollar. I only had the two crisp $ 10 notes I had exchanged in
Bombay so I went to the counter nearby for change.”
“May
I please have one dollar notes? “I asked the gum-chewing officer who looked
slightly puzzled for a moment and then brightened up with a “Oh, you want
bills,” counting out the change!The first thing that struck me was that the
cart would cost me Rs. 16. “Don’t convert” was the advice my recently foreign
returned friends had given but that is more easily said than done. The Customs
officer eyed my cardboard box with suspicion, “Mangoes there?” he asked and I
told him they were only books and shoes. He didn’t believe me.
“Show me the mangoes,” he persisted.
“They are not mangoes,” I persisted.
But he had come across too many
mango carriers and was in no mood for debate. I opened the box and satisfied
with the absence of mangoes he said, “OK, have a nice day.”
“You bet,” I mumbled under my breath
as I repacked.
“Welcome to New York,” said Anita
Raj effusively in American style and ushered me out of the airport onto the
sun-drenched pavement. I looked around with curiosity.
Is this the land that absorbs all
the brain that drains out of our country? Is this the attractive monster that
swallows up the talent produced by India? Is this the EI Dorado that pulls
fortune-seekers so irresistibly? Is this the country that stands for human
rights and dignity of labour? Is this the dreamland of my expectations?
Questions like these crowded my mind as we drove through the city towards
Manhattan where I was going to stay in an apartment.
Of all “foreign” jaunts, America is
“top of the Pops” and I wondered if it would live up to its reputation. Well...
I was there and I would wait and see...
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