It’s been
fifteen years since the World Trade Centres were brought to their toes and the
US discovered what we had known for many years: that The Terrible Terrorists
have no religion, no nationality, no compassion or logic, nor fear of dying
with those they kill. Like termites, they are hard to eradicate with regular
pesticidal methods, turn up secretly, devastatingly, and are discovered with an
element of surprise.
The outcomes of such attacks are that
security measures are increased for normal/ordinary citizens (assuming that
terrorists are extra-ordinary). Like me.
On the tenth anniversary of this date
I stepped onto USA soil for the first time, on holiday, to be with an ailing
member of my family.
I ‘had tension’ (love this Indlish
term) from the time I left India. Mumbai airports’ security people confiscated
my nail-cutter which had neither pen-knife/folding-scissors/nail-file attached
to it. Quite obviously, I looked the kind that would hijack or crash the
aircraft by nibbling off the Captain’s flesh millimetre by millimetre. At
another stop, I looked threatening enough for the guards to take away the only
tube of tooth-paste I had. It was used; I offered to eat some so they knew it
wasn’t a dangerous chemical, but rules were rules and into the trash my
personal hygiene product went.
By the end of three flights across
three continents, I became an expert at removing and wearing my shoes/belt. Of
the shallow, colourful plastic trays, I chose those with some distinguishable
dirt-marks so that no-one would maro my foot-/waist-wear. Would be unfortunate
to go barefoot and with slipping pants in a foreign country. As a tourist, I
was representing India. Talking loudly, spitting and breaking queues are part
of my culture; bad behaviour is my birth-right, but looking sloppy is not
acceptable. Moreover, I’d bought those items exclusively for travelling abroad;
no way was I giving up a chance for making paisa vasool.
At one transit airport, I was asked
how I earned a living, how my husband earned his, my late father’s date of
birth, my mother’s maiden name, the location of my hosts’ homes, their
occupations, and whether their pets had worms in their stools (ok, this one I
invented, sorry to have misled you). The person at the counter looked at me,
then at something on his/her screen, at me again, then screen… so on and forth
until satisfied that I was me and not a lookalike. Passport-visa inspection
took a couple of seconds and I was waved off.
At the point of entry into the USA, I
noticed there were lots of cops. Maybe they were always there, but it was the
tenth anniversary of 9/11, and no one was taking any chances. Though why any killer-planner
would choose an obvious date to be ‘naughty’ I don’t know.
A Stern Madam asked me how long it
had taken me to pack my suitcase and whether any stranger had given me a packet
to carry in my luggage. At the time I didn’t know whether this question was
asked of everyone or whether she’d picked on me for a reason. When, at the
metal-detecting gate I was stopped because the gold bangles on my wrist set an
alarm off, I was certain I was being picked on. Off came the bangles. Stern
Madam’s underling told me to ‘step back’ and ‘take everything out of (my)
pockets including paper napkins’. I was worried. I had no pockets. I was more
worried because the colourful plastic tray had reached the other side and if
someone stole my brand new purse, I would lose the only foreign money I was
carrying, plus the phone numbers and addresses of my hosts. It also contained
complimentary snack-packs from the flight. Convinced that I didn’t have
pockets, Stern Madam came across and asked me if I had any medical devices
inside my limbs/ears or near my heart. No, I confessed. Then she patted every
inch of me: a quick, impromptu, free spa-massage. Convinced that I was
harmless, Stern Madam became suddenly kind and helpful, stamped a clearance on
the tabs concerned and sent me on my way.
At one desk, in the confusion of that
memory, I can’t remember whether it was before Stern Madam came into my life,
where passengers from everywhere showed their documents, I was stopped again.
“Are,” asked the expressionless man behind one counter, “You carrying any dairy
products or seeds?” I couldn’t follow his accent, didn’t understand the
question. He couldn’t understand my counter-question. We stared at each other
exasperatedly for a couple of minutes. He asked again, I said ‘pardon?’ and
‘excuse me?’ one time each. When I subsequently deciphered what he had said, I
shook my head in the negative, but couldn’t figure out why he was asking me
this question. I am not, never was, did not intend to be even remotely
connected to the field of agriculture, not even regarding smuggling of cows,
cow-products, seeds, trees, roots, soil and was willing to sign any document to
say so. In spite of the time this procedure took, it was a minor and easy one.
Nowhere else was I checked.
9/11 changed the way we looked at
dates. 9/11 is month first, day next. In India, this date is 11/9, day followed
by month. For example, the VT-station-Taj-Trident tragedy took place on 26/11
not 11/26 (2008). And the Mumbai floods were on 26/7 (2005). We have to mention
the year, for ‘memorable’ events are quite common here. Tumbling trains, devastating
earthquakes, horrible ambushes in Kashmir, regular killings in the North East,
Maoist attacks... Years are important to us. We may copy the West, but up to a
point.
Security guards at theatres,
railway-stations and ‘exhibition-cum-sales’ make me believe I can outrun them. Handheld
metal-detectors are waved around me superficially. Someone peeps into my bag/purse with unseeing
eyes. Cameras don’t ‘catch’ inefficiency.
There’s one thing we can learn from
the West.
Professionalism.
Feedback: sheelajaywant@yahoo.co.in
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