Of Nomu's mysterious ways and passports

The first 'one a week' blog post, a little over a week late. For someone who calls themselves deadline-driven, I certainly am lax with personal deadlines!

Anyway, I suggested to Ma that she and I write at least once a week (hopefully the frequency will increase) through this year. I think it will be a good way to motivate each other to write more frequently and also stay in better touch. We'll see but no harm trying :)

Warning as you (my precious few readers) start to read this: this is yet another travel-related post. It's about lost and found and messed-up passports. As I stood in the security check line before boarding my flight to India, chatting on the phone with my husband, telling him (in great detail) about the snaking queue, I was only half-paying attention to anything else.

So, when the ground crew came by asking that we check our belongings for someone else's passport, I was pretty sure that that didn't apply to me. I remembered collecting my own passport at the check in counter and made sure it was in my hand. Since I knew I couldn't have picked up anyone else's passport at the counter or anywhere else, I only gave my bag a cursory glance through. Security check done, mad rush to the plane since I was among the last few to board and I settled down for the 14-odd hour flight home.

A little over midway into the journey and after chatting about Indian politics at length with my seat neighbor, I decided to fill out the immigration forms and dug for my passport. I can't even begin to describe my horror when I opened it and saw someone else's face staring up at me. I flipped through the pages in the hope that I was seeing things and my face would appear when I came back to the bio page. Naturally, that didn't happen. So, I dug in my bag again fervently praying that I would find my own passport. Thankfully, the next passport I pulled out was indeed mine.

Since my seat neighbors were fast asleep, I buzzed for the attendant and waited. After three attempts, one of the flight attendants stopped by and I explained to him that I had found someone else's passport in my bag. He looked confused and then alarmed even as (I am sure) I looked horrified at the thought of how the owner of the passport must be feeling. He took the passport from me and went to consult with the team. By now, my neighbor was wide awake and very curious about what was going on. I repeated what I had said to the attendant and he tried to console me saying that I had done the right thing by returning it. One of the lead attendants came by and asked me to step to the back of the plane with her. Once again, I explained the situation to her as she incredulously asked me how this had happened. As I sadly (and patiently) explained to her that it was impossible to find anything in my bag, I had visions of Ma's blue-black travel handbag which would bring forth the most amazing treasures as soon as we needed them--from paper napkins to water bottles to Vicks. As an adult, I had definitely succeeded in packing a world into my travel handbag but was far from being able to make things appear magically!

Anyway, end of this story, the airline took my name and that was that. Fast forward to the end of a very relaxed vacation with my family and a six-hour halt at Delhi airport before boarding the flight back to the US. After practically hugging a phone booth at the domestic terminal for most of that time and then sauntering into the international section a couple of hours before my flight, when I stood in the final security check queue at the departure gate, I was in for another shock.

I heard the airline/airport personnel announce my name. When I identified myself, the person who was calling my name asked me to step out of the line and show him my passport and other travel documents. As I took those out of my bag, the episode from the inward journey flashed into my mind and I sent a quick prayer up for help.

But unlike the person who's passport I had brought with me, I had a knight in shining armour who had a phone with a broken screen--Avneet Singh Matta. Mr. Matta was the airport security person who had announced for me and who kicked off a series of phone calls to set things right. In between calls, he told me that the dunderhead airline official who had checked me in (extremely unwillingly) at my original port of entry, had entered an incorrect passport number. As a result, the international travel security system was throwing up an error. After about 40 minutes of some serious negotiating, he was finally able to get me and my bags on that flight.

As I was about to board the flight, I asked if I could recommend him to anyone for his amazing help and he said that there was no need. Desperate to show some sign of gratitude to this unbelievably low-key individual, I dug into my bag for a bar of chocolate I knew I had. Of course, this was my bag that we are talking about. It swallows passports, so a chocolate is no big deal. So, I had to let Mr. Matta go without even being able to thank him properly.

I arrived at my seat and settled in, continuing to dig, just in case the chocolate magically appeared. And I guess I was nearing Ma's handbag magic, because this time, it did. The plane was still being held for another passenger who was receiving medical attention, so I rushed to the front and asked if Mr. Matta was still around. He wasn't but thankfully, one of his colleagues who had talked to us earlier, was. So, I explained what had happened and asked him to give the chocolate to Mr. Matta. After an initial refusal (I can only imagine how puzzled he was by my insistence), he finally accepted, smiled and said he would give it to Mr. Matta.

As I walked back to my seat, feeling a little happier and extremely relieved, one of the attendants laughingly said to the colleague that Mr. Matta should go on the airport and airline's ads. I agree, my knight in shining armour would be a good partner for the Maharaja!

The happiness in independence

I scoured Facebook today to see what people were posting for our Independence Day (I am going to call it I-Day). And it should have made me smile to see the Happy I-Day wishes. Strangely enough though, it didn't.

All I kept feeling as I thought of I-Day was that we have failed those who brought us independence. And possibly pushed a lot of people much below or at least into the same deep trenches that the colonial British had them in. Of course, it didn't help that I was listening to patriotic Hindi songs on Gaana.com's loop, which kept switching between the Mr. Bharat mold and telling the world how unique India is!

But as I read the Assam Tribune every day (I often rely on my husband for any non-Assam news), neither happiness nor success screams from its pages. Instead, I see violent uprisings in my home state as people demand separate states, or a steep hike in the price of onions that roundly beats inflation. I read hollow statements that the state and central government make about border conflicts that are claiming young Indian soldiers as they do absolutely nothing to save these lives.

And I find myself searching for the happiness in our independence.

As I step away from reading about my country, and back to my life in a well-functioning, rich land, I often feel like I have cheated my country. Be it the great super-subsidized public higher education that I received and definitely did not pay back fully or the fact that any volunteering I do, does not directly help someone back home, I find it tough to accept that I can't do more to give back.

Among the few things that I can do from here is to contribute money. And since I find it hard to ask others to donate to a cause I believe in (I would probably stink at fundraising), I was thrilled when I realized that my (awesome) employer matches donations to non-profits of the employee's choice. You can donate up to USD 1,000 and they match it fully. So, last year, I got a full match for donations to four small NGOs based in Guwahati, Assam. NGOs, which were far from the big boy scale and for whom this money made a serious difference.

I thought that some of you who struggle with how to help people back home may want to explore options like this with your own employers. Big companies are much maligned (and sometimes for good reason) but they also have the enormous power that comes with size. Be it the amazing power of employee engagement and volunteering or good ole' cash.

End of the day, if you can work with the system and still do some good, big isn't that bad at all. It definitely makes it possible for me to make things a little more right. And maybe some day, help bring that happiness back into my I-Day.

We are friendly people around here

As we left the city (more like the suburbs) behind and headed south to Lake Erie, the traffic decreased. One of the main highways that we took was the QEW (Queen Elizabeth Way). They even had a little picture of a crown above the QEW on all the signs--long live the Queen, I guess!

The landscape changed too and suburban homes and malls gave way to farmland. While it was very charming, a practical warning to city dwellers--it's really easy to get lost in farm country! The roads have names but sometimes a sign at one end of the road will say X and a sign at the other end will say Y. So, you travel about 20 minutes hoping to reach your destination and see a different name and you scratch your head wondering if you took the wrong road in the first place. Let's just say navigating farm country involves getting turned around a bit :)

Though I admit that Google Maps and MapQuest served us well. We first asked for directions when we were about thirty minutes away from Port Maitland at a food trailer. The temperatures had soared by then and we figured we deserved the ice cream shakes that they were serving. Though my stomach turned a little to see two men biting hungrily into good-sized burgers--it was just too hot for me to eat anything that heavy!
The old lady at the food trailer knew exactly where we wanted to go when we hesitantly told her the name of the place and gave us really easy directions--once you get to the river, go over the bridge and then take the left at the petrol pump. And if you get lost, just ask. We are pretty friendly people around here!

Umm, get to a river. What if there is more than one river, our city brains thought. We'll be smart, we thought. We'll combine her directions with our map. So, we got to the river and our map said, go straight. So, we did. And then had to stop to ask for directions at a wayside auto repair place. The shop was manned by two elderly men, who not only knew the area well but had also mastered Google Maps! So, they drew us a quick map and sent us off on the right path (the earlier lady had been right, of course).

We finally arrived at the Port Maitland to a fluffy welcome from Sisi and the elderly couple who owned the place. A quick luggage drop-off and rinse later, we were at the 'pebbly' Lake Erie shore. The sun shone down brightly as we ran into the water with our Go Pro camera ready to do some underwater photography. As I sat splashing water and blinking in the sun, I crossed off one item from my travel list. Lake Erie, done :)

Finally, a travel blog post: Canada, eh?

So, we are back from our Canada trip, one that we had been planning for the last couple of months. And now that we are back, one that makes me wish we had planned it for later in the summer (you know, just in the vein of saving the best part for later).

We got off to a really good start for our early Wednesday morning flight from O'Hare to Toronto. The train got us to the airport on time, security was a breeze with no lines and our departure gate was the first one as soon as we crossed security. As we waited for our flight to be called, we had the added good fortune of watching a guy strutting about talking on his phone with his trouser fly open. We probably should have said something but the entertainment value was too high to end this free show ;)

The 120ish-seat plane had about 25 people on board, which made me feel sorry for Air Canada's business. I have since learned from more regular travellers on this route that our experience was an anomaly and that Air Canada doesn't need my sympathy just yet. We landed in Toronto after an uneventful flight and breezed through customs and immigration. I think the airport was fine except they really need to have a bathroom closer to the arrivals gates!

Just as I was beginning to think that this was probably going to be a super-easy and fun trip, we realized that the car rental we had pre-booked at (obviously because of super-low rates) was not at the airport. We managed to find the Link bus, which was substituting for the Link monorail temporarily, and got to the Viscount station (pronounced Vycount) for the car rental agency pickup. Using one of the courtesy phones, we called Ace car rental twice and waited for 45 minutes before another rental agency offered to give us a ride.

When we reached Routes Truck and Car rental, a Punjabi operation, we were basically told to forget about it. No apologies but we did get an upgrade. After Papa reminded me (over the phone) that the distances and more importantly, the speed limits would be in kilometres, we set off to our first destination, Port Maitland, Ontario on Lake Erie.

The little things that money can't buy

Well almost.

Yesterday, while we were on our pseudo-run to the library (I am making it sound like a regular occurrence, it isn't), we interrupted a food chain. We began by spotting a little bird (I think xalika/sparrow) that looked like it was limping. When we stopped to check if it was ok, it jumped on to the pavement/sidewalk from under a parked car and just stood there.

Almost instantly, a hawk swooped down, perched on a little fence and began to stare at the xalika. It looked like it was ready for some little bird-dinner. As we debated whether to interfere in the natural food chain or not, our nosy habits (read love of animals) kicked in. We inched closer to the xalika, which just remained rooted to its spot, with a dazed look on its face.

As the minutes passed and none of us moved, the hawk probably realized that it had been trumped by bigger predators and had to say goodbye to dinner for now. As it flew away, I kept talking to the xalika in Asamiya, trying to coax it out of its stupor. All of a sudden, it flew straight onto a perch above a door looking pretty healthy. It seemed safe and we knew that we could be on our way :)

The part below cost money.

Today, the weather was almost perfect, with a slight breeze and a warm sun. So, we decided to go out for dinner to a neighbourhood place. As we sat in the restaurant, Vintage's outdoor space, I looked around at the flower baskets and thought about how nice it was to be in this idyllic space. 

And about how much we are losing out in India in the quest for the good stuff. A friend recently told me that in the bigger Indian cities nowadays, one hardly gets to see xalikas. That makes me really sad because we grew up with xalikas and paros (pigeons) and trees.

As we hanker for the bigger cars and fancy clothes and accessories, we destroy our hills, our forests and our wildlife. The xalikas and the hawks go with it. As Ma said the other day, only the kauris (crows) remain.

Maybe that's the only thing we deserve. Scavengers.

Only the poor can afford to be human

One of my friends posted on FB today about an incident on the streets of Delhi. An old man with an LPG cylinder on his back who was riding a bicycle, fell down. As a group of people stopped to stare, two little kids ran up to help the man and put him back on his cycle.

The first question that I asked was whether the kids looked like they were rich or middle class. My friend responded saying that the kids definitely looked poor. Odd question for me to ask but her post had made me think of something that Ma always says. That in my country, it is much more likely that the common man (read poor) will help you if you are in an accident or some sort of trouble in public. The well-heeled will most probably look away.

Living in a different country makes me wonder if that phenomenon might not be India-specific. Walking in downtown Chicago, I often see a couple of poorer old men shouting out cheery hellos to passersby. They smile and talk to strangers, mainly to get their attention, no doubt. That aside (and yes, I am being romantic), they try to make a strange connection with people they do not know. On the other hand, the rest of us mostly walk with our heads down, earphones firmly plugged in, rushing for our buses and trains. We aren't rude to passersby but I doubt if many of us notice them either. We definitely don't have the time or the inclination to say hello to our fellow pedestrians.

Things would be different in an accident in Chicago because this is a country where the value of each life is very high. I have seen a busload of people help a stranger who has collapsed in the bus. That changes when the value of life drops, which is what happens in India. But that's another post.   

Going back to the incident in Delhi and the many that occur across India every day. The rich (and the wannabe rich) in our country often couldn't care less about most non-rich beings. And we--the middle class--are always so worried about getting into trouble. It's as if the poor are the only ones that can afford to be spontaneous and human.

Much ado about nothing?

This weekend I spent about one hour on the phone with three customer service agents. Here's why:

I have a product that I had bought from a well-known Indian company about eight years ago. It is a long-term product and offers online access. I needed to update my mobile phone number to be able to use some of its online access features. However, as I discovered this weekend, the only way to change that number is by going to one of their stores in India.

The first time I called customer service, they told me that I needed a specific piece of information to confirm my identity. Once they had that information, they could help me change my number over the phone. The second time when I called back with that information, the agent told me that I was missing another key piece. The same thing happened when I called the third time. And this is when I got angry and started to tell the agent that transacting with his company was a horrible experience. And that I would end the relationship as soon as I could. As he read me the company line of 'we need this information to make sure you are our client', I hung up the phone on him.

When my husband tried to ask me what had happened, I asked him to give me a few moments to calm down. I felt fine in a little while but still had some things to say about how poor the experience was.

Later that day, all of a sudden, I remembered my sister's recent adventure as she tried to get her passport renewed in time for a conference abroad. The process started with her trying to get an appointment via a website that opened up only for 15minutes every day. Once she had the elusive appointment in hand, she stood in a day-long queue at an Indian passport service centre. The next step is that the police come by to verify proof of residence. When a month went by and there was no sign of the police and her travel dates were drawing near, my sister went to the police station. This set into motion the 'workings' of a flawed system. The entire police 'thana' seemed to be in on this and began to send her from one office to another in every day. As another month drew to a close, my sister met a senior bureaucrat who was shocked to hear about the whole experience. And who had the power to make things happen.

Within two weeks of this officer coming into the picture, my sister received her passport. An effort that cost her over a month's work and endless agony. And all through this, she did not let her frustration take over.

I thought about this as I reflected on my frustration with the customer service agent. All I had done was spend about an hour on the phone and I was so upset with the company's inefficiency. On the other hand, my sister had survived a very unpleasant ordeal with much less ado.  

Maybe I have become too used to systems that work. And maybe that isn't always such a good thing. Maybe difficult experiences and difficult people teach you to cope and adapt better. And maybe that's a lesson I should remember more often.

A crime to overeat and to be obese? Yes, I say

I know I do it all the time. Overeating is one of those guilty pleasures that most of us seem to succumb to, even if rarely. Today, suddenly, as is often the case, I started thinking about overeating and resulting obesity.

Maybe, it was because of the overweight and obese people I see everyday. Maybe it was because when I head to the gym after ages, I am not too happy with the new rolls I discover. Whatever the reason, I got thinking about the connection between overeating and obesity and if it amounts to a crime.

First thing's first. To account for any objections from the 'glandular weight-gain' brigade, I have to say that I am not talking about people who are overweight or obese due to a disease. But it is unfair and (yes I will say it) stupid to consider eating-related obesity a health condition or worse, a disability. Ala the South Park episode that had an obese kid on a wheelchair make fun of another kid on a wheelchair who was sans legs, I see plenty of obese people claiming disability spots on public transit and in car parks. And I feel more anger towards these people than sympathy.

For, isn't it a crime that these people have fed themselves so much that they weigh as much as a baby elephant (and in some cases, more)? Because by putting all that extra food into their mouths, aren't they snatching it away from others who are starving? Maybe this is all in my mind. But the classic American defense comes into play here too. Good ole' 'we didn't know'!

For, how can someone be accused of snatching food from another human being, if they don't even know of the latter's existence. Most Americans seem to seldom acknowledge the fact that there is a world outside of the U.S. This changes of course when a TV channel tells them that the world outside is trying to attack them. Then they raise their guns in panicked defense. But I digress.

The defense of 'I didn't know' doesn't work. It doesn't work when Bush and his army force their way into a sovereign country. And it doesn't work when a fat American continues to stuff unbelievable amounts of food into his mouth while a huge part of the world's population starves to death. If everyone who overeats in this country gave away all food that went over the prescribed human calorie intake for a day, I have an unscientific hunch that at least two starving people would eat well. This CNN story does talk about the crazy meals that some very popular American restaurants serve.

That foreign aid bill is unaffordable but the U.S. can afford to dole out social welfare and medical aid to its own human pachyderms. I guess end of the day they really believe what an immigrant once told me 'We are American. So, we are special'.

The 'fairness' doctrine

Back from our annual trip to India with a lot of things swirling through my head. Along with the repeated reminder that I have to blog about some of them at the least. So, what do I write about first--the racism, maybe?

I live in a predominantly Caucasian country (A) where I belong to a minority race and come from a 'brown' country (B) which does not recognize race but aspires to be 'fair' (read light skinned). This trip from A to B, however, took me through three different continents and very different manifestations of race. On our way, we had a 9 hour layover in London. The visa regulations on their official website stated that if you have a passport from B and a visa from A, the immigration officer could allow you to go out into the city. Therefore, when we arrived at London immigration, we went up to the officer on duty and asked if we could head out into the city. My husband, a citizen of A, could go out without a visa but my case demanded further inspection. Our Caucasian officer conferred with his colleague, an Arabic woman, who was very hesitant to let me step outside the airport, and then went to check with his boss. When he came back and told us that I could go out too, I asked what had prompted the decision. And his answer was 'we understand that you do not want to spend such a long layover in the airport'. I was very happy to be able to go out and did not let a caustic remark slip out about how I wondered if the immigration decision would have been as favourable if my husband had not been a citizen of A.

When we reached B, my husband was continuously feted by much older people, who asked for his opinion on topics that he had likely never given a thought to (like how to develop an eco-tourism complex). Just fyi, my husband teaches communication. Without him asking for any extra attention, people shouted from across a lake asking him to pose for photos.

The stories don't stop though. On our way back through an oil-rich desert nation, we had to pass through a security checkpoint in the airport. Part of the check included taking off belts, shoes...you know the drill. The officer on duty told the poorer-looking citizen from B right in front of my husband, very rudely, to make sure he took off these items and put them in a tray. But when my husband forgot to take off his belt and walked through the scanner, the same officer very pleasantly said 'Sir, don't worry, you don't have to bother about that'. As I felt angry and helpless (you just know better than to protest in an oil-rich desert nation), I had to bite my tongue again instead of pointing out the unfairness on display.

It is easy to say that colonialism left an indelible mark on countries like B but if we, the citizens of these countries don't change things, nothing will ever change. The Economist Intelligence says it is better to be born in Switzerland than Nigeria. While it will make a huge difference to the privileges you will receive, how can a citizen of A be better than a citizen of B just because he or she was born in A? A thought that always baffles and hurts me.