Sat, 26 May 2012 18:48:48 -0800WeeblyFri, 21 Oct 2011 11:33:37 -0800http://www.varshadixit.com/2/post/2011/10/only-wheat-no-white.htmlChapter 1:  The blue-eyed monster            
 
 
 
Location: One of the tarmacs at the John  F.Kennedy  Airport
Date 5 September, 2010
Time: 2:30 p.m.
 
US newspaper headlines:“Trapped Chileminers advised to  exercise”.
Passengers on Emirates flight E514, direct from
New Delhi to New York, too needed exercise and air after fifteen hours of straight flying.

 “Excuse me!”

 ‘Ufff!”    
                
“Oww!”  

Noises similar to those at a post-Thanksgiving sale at Nordstrom or Best Buy. However, I, Eila Sood, a nearly
twenty-six-year-old economy-class passenger, grunted and grumbled along with others while getting up
from a seat more suited to a newborn than someone 5’8 in height. Thanks to my father’s moronic travel agent, I
had spent the last fifteen hours stuck between  a verbose Indian grandmom and her snotty, Indian-looking-American-sounding teenage grandson who thought armrests on plane seats were their private property.
 
An obese Caucasian man, with a stained cream fedora on his head, was squeezing his
carry-on luggage and himself into the crowd heaving towards the exit. He could pass but his navy blue bag with multiple pockets could not, causing him to heave and tug at the bag straps. 

Hooray!  I wasn’t the only one duping the airline by hauling a carry-on that weighed heavier than my checked-in
luggage.

 “Hold on, sir!” An air hostess with crimson lips and an annoyed look came through for him. She was the one who at boarding had seen through my Oscar-worthy retching performance. Quoting claustrophobia, I had begged her for an aisle seat but she had thrown the ‘flight’s full’ excuse in my face until I had run out of fake gags, literally.

Clutching my boarding pass, that after so many checks and rechecks stood reduced
from its original size of an envelope to a stamp, I squeezed into the narrow aisle where other passengers struggled to stand. How quickly I moved was decided by the exclamations and grunts chasing my rear and they were quite a few.

“Welcome to New York. The temperature outside is 77 degrees.” The voice on the PA system intensified
my urge to crash through the round windows just for a whiff of fresh air. Flights from  India to USA took their toll not only on wallets but  also on sanity.

“Have a nice trip!” the air hostess proclaimed, her fake smiles now genuine at the prospect of getting rid of us. 

Bite me! “Thank you,” I said, exerting all of the 600 or 700 muscles in my body to pull my bag
out of the overhead compartment. The ones above my seat had been full, so my carry-on sat somewhere ahead. “Ouch!” The side of a bag smacked me right on my face.
As I was rubbing my face, something jabbed the back of my head. Irritated, I turned
around.

Another passenger was retrieving his luggage, which on its way into his hands had poked my scalp.  Meeting my irritated look, he uttered a belligerent,  “What?” I was tempted to press my heel into his foot but at the last minute chickened out. Confrontations were not my forte.

 “Your bag!” I said, taking out my frustration on the strap of my red carry-on.  Awkwardly, I placed my bag on the armrest of the adjoining seat that was already stabbing my midriff and thigh. Damn, I could not wait to get out of this pigeonhole overflowing with pecking crows.Finally, after ten minutes or so of cramped space-walk, my feet touched mother earth,  wearing a worn blue carpet. JFK Terminal.  My eyes swept around. People, electronic signs, more people and a hot-dog stand. My mouth watered. Emirates serves good food but eating in planes is more of a chore and less of a meal. This much food in this much space and in this much  time!

 “Baggage claim!” I muttered, peering at the numerous signs that sent innumerable people
scurrying in various directions. Burdened by my carry-on and laptop bag, I tottered onto a moving walkway.
I passed more food, signs and people. It struck me odd that JFK resembled an  airport that could belong to any country. I saw Caucasians, South Asians, African-Americans, Asians and Hispanics. It looked like a world atlas had come to life under one roof and on a worn blue carpet. Hmm. . . Food for  thought.
Just the thinking of the F word made my stomach rumble. To make matters worse, the strap of my heavy carry-on chaffed my palm  and wrist. Stepping off the moving walkway,  I shuffled a few steps ahead. 
 
The space opened to a large hall lit up with bright lights and several lines in front of various immigration counters. I sought the line for H1 visa. 
  “Shit!” All my required paperwork sat snug in a folder in the  carry-on. I had just  bent down to unzip the bag’s front pocket when a push from behind nearly sent me flying to the floor. Someone
caught me at my waist in time brought me back to my feet. My face didn’t kiss the
mosaic floor.

“Hey!” Peeved, I pirouetted, simultaneously shrugging the hand off me. My angry eyes met a pair of angrier eyes, an incandescent blue in color, color of topaz. I was glaring at a tanned Caucasian man well above six
feet.I had to crane my neck far to  look up at him.

 “Is this a place to stop?” His tone stung.

 My voice was quiet but cold. “I don’t see a sign that says otherwise.” 

“Common sense!” he barked. 

I had stopped for a purpose. And you, sir, pushed me,” I accused his straight-nosed, high-cheekboned  
and pouting profile. Men pouting so looked silly. I tried to avoid a completely unexpected grin but he saw it.

“Did I miss the joke?” he growled. His eyebrows came together as his chin lowered challengingly.

 I waved my hand dismissively. I was wasting time. “It  was an accident.” The devil in me could not resist from adding, “And mostly your fault.”

The man appeared incredulous. He tugged his laptop further up his mildly creased  
navy-blue jacket. “My fault? You don’t just stop in the middle! If you have to stop, you stop on the side.
Either this side or that!” He gestured with his right arm for added emphasis.

 As he swung his arm, I noticed the stub of a boarding passing in his hand. It proclaimed First Class. I saw red.
Travelling for  fifteen long hours like a cow  in a herd, my rage was justified, unlike  this blue-eyed monster who had probably been cosseted in  a bed-like chair and fed wine and gourmet chocolates the entire
flight. Unlike  the other approximately six billion people of the world, the angrier I get, the calmer I become. Sounding like a saint, I said, “I would stop to  a side if I knew where I had to go. In case you hadn’t noticed, we are in an airport. And not wearing a  uniform means I’m a visitor, I’m
new here. I had my back to you. You have two eyes stuck to the front  of your face. Why don’t you use them? You should  have  seen me.”  My stare was ominous. 

His eyes positively shot off sparks. He opened his mouth to give me another tongue-lashing but
whatever he was about to say went unsaid as he nearly took a tumble.

I stretched out a hand reflexively to help him, but he caught himself in time and straightened up. Before turning around to see what or who had bumped into him, he gave my still outstretched palm an acidic  look.

Chapter 2: When it rains, it  pours

Irked with myself, I dropped my hand. 
An Asian boy of around ten with light brown hair and pale skin stood near-by, a rolling bag with action figures next to him. “Don’t stop in the middle. Stop on the side,” the boy said, his tone high-pitched and eyes
narrowed accusingly at the blue-eyed monster.
I  smothered a laugh. The look the monster gave me spoke volumes. “Divine justice,” I taunted. A
smirk shaped my lips. Turning around smartly,  I resumed my search for  the H1
visa  counter. My smile faltered. Outside the airport my sister would be
waiting, accompanied by someone I had no wish or desire to meet – her husband of
seven years , Steve Jacobs. The reason my sister’s immediate family,
including me, had snapped off all ties with her. Seven years ago my
decision was more coerced than self-arrived. However, today I had
suffered the seemingly never-ending tortuous flight, settled for lower
consulting rate than what I would get in India for a consulting job in the USA
economy nearly in the toilet, just to mend fenceswith my sister.
Damn! I noticed the line  for H1 visa. It  resembled a canned pack of sardines. 
I glanced about. The string of humans, as in the line, under the  “American Passport”
sign was the shortest. Should I? Moreover, my hand was
beginning to  seriously hurt, thanks to the weight of my bag. I would!
I dumped ethical in favor of  exigent. A popular colloquial Indian term for it
is ‘Jugaru’. With the speed of a crashing elephant and keeping
my  passport hidden between my hand and jacket, I headed straight for the
line that I did not belong to. 
A bespectacled Asian man, bulging out of his uniform and with thinning salt and pepper hair officiously removed the thick rope to let me in. Giving him my most winsome smile, I took my place behind a  
family of whites where the adults were clearly losing to their truant children who appeared to be still in their
diapers.
The little boy swung precariously on the short pole next to him and his sister, nearly his age and all in pink, insisted on kicking the bag of the person in front of them. Her mother pulled her back. I saw the little girl’s eyes wander to my bag. Her pink shoe twitched in anticipation. With a finger stuck in her mouth, she quickly looked up to see if I was distracted enough not to notice. 
Our eyes met. I could not help my sudden knowing smile and she
answered with a quick sheepish one of her own before shyly turning away.
The mother misunderstood our interaction.“Please do not encourage her.”
With that cold rebuke, she grabbed her daughter’s hand and pulled her
closer to her.
Self-consciously, I shifted my stance. Remember Mr. Newton and  one of his laws about action and equal and opposite reaction. Well, it took effect. The weight of my bag caused me to back into another person. The
angry groan had me swiftly turning around. “I’m so sorry.”
This  was not my finest moments. The bag slung on my shoulder further poked the Hispanic man waiting behind me in his chest.
“ Jesus!” he burst out, moving back and falling on someone clad in sky-blue cotton.
Even though I was alarmed as I watched the tottering man, I could not help but frown.  
Why did I know the light blue shirt? The Hispanic recovered his balance.  
“Ofcourse you!” The voice and contempt was familiar and it came not from
my immediate victim.
My eyes travelled up the blue cotton shirt, past the chin with a cleft and pouting
mouth. Inwardly I groaned. Seriously, him again? Resigned, I met the condemning, arctic
gaze. 
Ignoring him with a shake of my head, I returned my attention to the shorter man.“I’m so sorry it was an accident.”
“Oww!” he moaned. I saw fresh discomfort on his face.
“I’m  sorry! What?” I asked confused.
“Lady!  Your bag on my foot!” he said between clamped lips.
I  turned an ugly shade of red. My  carry-on that weighed a ton had come lose in the
confusion and landed on his foot.
“Crap!  I’m so sorry! So sorry!” I pulled the bag strap and it moved, but only the strap. I heard a definitive snap and, horrified, watched it swing loosely from my hands. I felt my armpits dampen. No, no, this could not be happening. I wasn’t the klutz in the family, I was the organized, unflustered one.
“Please move, miss!”
I glanced at the Asian man who was ushering me forward. 
Embarrassed, I stuttered, “I am . .   . my bag…”
“Move!”  The impatient grunt came from the blue-eyed monster who was fast becoming my new nemesis. The others being zits and my wallet at the end of the month. He had stepped around the Hispanic man.
“Excus-"
I felt some movement near my foot. Glancing  down, I spied a tan loafer come
under my bag and give it a hefty shove. The bag slid neatly, stopping a few 
inches short of the red line, where I was to wait before being called by
the immigration officer.
Manners prompted me to mutter, “Thank you 
for…”
“Save  it!” With a snappy brush of his hand, the tall stranger cut off
my apology.  “Can’t wait here all day. Most of us have somewhere to go.” He went back to
standing behind the Hispanic man.
“Jerk!” I whispered under my breath, turning away and taking a place next to my bag. If 
the almighty was listening, my bag and the arrogant man would immediately
self-combust.
“Next!” The quick imperious call came from an African-American immigration officer sporting a highlighted bob of some stiffness and lavender nails that could reach any place a mile away. I shoved 
the bag with my leg. Damn, it didn’t even quiver. Shit! Shit! Shit!
The tan shoe again came to my rescue and kicked the bag, which obligingly went
sliding to the counter where I was to go. Remembering his earlier response, mygratitude ended just as it began.
Politely, I stopped in front of the four-feet-high counter and extended my paperwork and passport to the
woman who resembled a bored cow chewing grass. We Indians are not prone to only cow and snake
anomalies but that is what the Wild West knows us best for, so be it.

“Can’t you read English?” The officer waved my passport at me. “You are in the wrong line!”
 
I began to feel hot under the collar of my light denim jacket. “Sorry, I got confused.” Yeah, right!

 “Please read for me the sign above my head!” the immigration officer demanded loudly, the purple nails
pointed up. Instead of a gun she flashed a Homeland Security badge. The latter
was probably more effective given the present scenarios. From peripheral vision I saw quite a few heads turn to glance at me, including the one that  belonged to a pair of tan shoes, angry eyes and raven hair. I knew the looks  were accusing.  People who hold up lines are pretty high up on the list of  most disliked people, the first few spots being taken by kinds who blow up buildings.

“I’m really sorry! I didn’t realize I was in the wrong line,” I lied through my teeth.

 Crossing her arms over her chest with an air of finality, the woman responded, “Well, you do now. Go back to…” 

My newly discovered nemesis broke in.“I’m sorry. I guided her here. Could you please just
take care of her? Her bag’s strap is broken.” Immensely grateful, I glanced at him but he was smiling at the woman officer. That horrible man did have a great smile that flashed all the way from his eyes to mouth. 

“Hmmph!” She glanced at the line, which grew only longer and more impatient with every passing second. 
“Fine!” She grabbed my paperwork that lay limp on the
counter between us. 

“Thank you so much!” My voice was a little more than a 
squeak.
 
Rolling her eyes, she replied. “Don’t thank me honey, thank him!”

I  turned to offer him a tentative smile. Head bent he was busy with a
phone that covered half his hand. Murmuring a limp ‘thank you’, which I knew would be ignored, I immersed myself in the process that would enable me to enjoy the seventy-seven degrees outside.

Within minutes I got my passport and papers back and received the customary“Welcome to America”greeting and the added cautionary words, “Read the signs better next time!”

Pulling, shoving and dragging my bag by its broken end, I made my way out of the
immigration area and reached the luggage trolleys. As I pulled a trolley out I
had to quell my instincts that shouted at me to turn around and hop on to the
next flight back to India. Reception so far had been far from calming. However, the  
need to see my estranged sister pushed me to heave the bag on to the cart, albeit reluctantly.
Just  then someone passed me by.

It was the blue-eyed monster walking tall, with an attitude outmatching the have-been
celebrities competing on Celebrity Apprentice. He did not glance my way and
going old-school-mafia-style, I slunk into the collar of my denim jacket. And   
that was the end of our story. And I have been wrong before.

]]>Fri, 21 Oct 2011 10:46:29 -0800http://www.varshadixit.com/2/post/2011/10/first-post.html