The Passengers

My neighbor, an elderly white haired gentleman, desperately needed  to reach Chennai.

“My driver is drunk,” he said pathetically, “I can smell the alcohol.”

“My father is leaving at 1 o’clock, you can travel with him.” I said.

Father pushed the front seat all the way back in a reclining position and slept all the way to Chennai. The neighbor sat in the back.

On the return trip, (late night after a Gin) my father forgot about the neighbor. He slept soundly in his front seat. 

Half way to Chennai, the neighbor asked ,”Would you like a sandwich?”

“Aagh!” shouted my father. The driver got a fright and jammed on the brakes. Luckily at that time of the night, there was not much traffic. No one rear ended us.

Once he was safely home, father said,” that man suddenly squeaked about sandwiches at me from the back seat. I had forgotten about him. He has white hair like a halo. I thought my late wife’s ghost had entered the car. He was offering food too! Just like her!

I was relating this incident to my friend.

“Oh that is nothing,” she said. 

Apparently in their younger, more romantic, less affluent, before cable TV days, they regularly went for the late night movie show by motor bike. After the movie was over, she hung her handbag on the handle bar. Taking it as a signal, her husband sped off, leaving her standing in the middle of the road. This was before the days of cell phones. Not knowing what to do, with no handbag, she started to weep. The theater was next to the government bus depot. A few off duty conductors and drivers came to investigate the matter. After several smothered guffaws, they took a collection, called an auto-rickshaw and negotiated for him to take her home. She was scared of the auto driver, it was the middle of the night, so, she wept all the way home.

Once they reached, the bike was neatly parked, the husband had locked up the house and gone to sleep. The auto driver and she rang the bell and pounded on the door.

“Sister, “ said the driver, “which room is he sleeping in? I will climb up and bang on the window.”

After a great deal of noisy intervention and shouts of “thief , thief  “ from the startled husband, he finally ran downstairs and opened the front door to escape from the thief.    

My friend was hysterical. “How could you? How could you?”

“I thought you were sitting pillion! I even discussed purchasing a car with you all the way home.”  Said the husband.

”Don’t say I participated in the conversation!!”

“I never listen to what you say anyway,” said the husband sheepishly.

“After we reached?” Asked my friend.

“I thought you were behind me. I thought you went to the kitchen. So I went to sleep-----.”

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identity

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Identity

Around ten years ago, the most important document needed in India was a ration card. It didn’t matter that you never purchased anything from the ration shop, it had to be shown for various government transactions. It was a family card so all members of the family  had the  same ID.  Eve getting cooking gas cylinders was linked to this. The election card then followed this. Only those above the voting age got these. Any change of address was a nightmare. To solve all these problems, the government started issuing Adhar cards.

My parents shifted to Vellore from Chennai around fifteen years ago. They lost their ration card. I tired to make a new one. The Tashildar said father  had to make a personal appearance for verification.

My father was having nothing of this.

“I won’t go” he said. “I don’t need a ration card. I don’t buy rations.”

I tried pleading with him. “You need an identity”.

“I am sitting here aren’t I?” he said irascibly.

 It was no use.

I have  a 75 year old watchman. He is white-haired, balding, bearded, bespectacled and ex-army.  I sent him as proxy to the office.

“What if they ask me questions?”

“Pretend you are deaf. Like this. “ I cupped my hand around one ear. “Eh! Eh!.” I said.

The impersonation went off without a hitch. We got a ration card.

Then came the Adhar cards. “You have to come!” I told father. They are taking photographs and fingerprints.”

He refused to budge. “I am 92 years old. I don’t want an Indian identity. Already they make me pay tax. I don’t like the government. Why should I pay tax after 90? “

I kept silent. He didn’t go for the Adhar card.

Then they decided to link pensions and bank accounts with the Adhar. We were back to square one.

By gifting the princely sum of Rs. 500 the Adhar center agreed not to make him wait. He took a photograph and viola! He was an Indian again!

Then the Adhar had to be liked to cell phones. You had to actually go there and place finger prints. I went with another Rs 500.

A very nice lady was sitting there. When she heard my plight she said, “just ask him to transfer the card to your name. It only means you pay the bill. “

Problem solved. Money talks!

I came to Houston to visit my son. I was really impressed. All you have to walk around with is an all purpose driving license! No Adhar card, voters ID , ration card, -----etc etc!

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identity

travel

Travel

“Take your crutch with you” said my grandson, “then we can go in the handicapped line and don’t have to wait.”

“I can walk,” I protested, “I just need you to carry the lap top bag.”

Finally I agreed and we took the crutch.

“Do you need a wheel chair?” Asked the helpful Emirates staff at the counter.

“Okay,” I said, and sat in a wheelchair with my hand baggage and crutch.

There was an entire wheelchair brigade from Chennai. No one had a crutch, splint, limp or any other obvious handicap except me.

When I mentioned it to my son once I reached the USA, he said, “Yeah it’s a scam. They don’t want to wait in line. The children in the USA encourage it. It makes life more predictable for the relatives. If they are actually in a wheelchair they will reach the gate on time and are less likely to get lost in the airports.”

My wheelchair attendant was actually quite shocked that I really limped and lurched when I walked. “Give me Rs500” he demanded.

“I thought the service was free? I can walk. I don’t need you.” I waved my crutch.

We reached a stalemate.

“Okay, “ he said and we compromised on Rs 100.

(Made me all the more determined to stand erect like a coconut tree as soon as possible, and double my exercise to do so.)

The seat in front was meant to seat three people but had a sole occupant, an elderly lady. She lifted the arm rests and stretched out with a pillow. Periodically she would raise her head over the back of the seat.

“Beta,” she said, reclining luxuriously and looking at my grandson r,”Zera go to pantry and bring me a tea.” Next it was biscuits. Then water.

“Don’t mind it,” she said, “I have a grandson just like you!”

My grandson was speechless.

We had an obese individual next to us attired in jacket monkey cap and a muffler. He sweated profusely for 16 hours and was unable to get in and out of the seat without the arm rest being lifted. (BMI 40?).

Before leaving USA people were being requested to step aside and asked ,”How many $ are you carrying?”

“Nothing ,” said a lady. They found $25000 in her bag.

“Its not mine,” she said.

“Then you won’t mind if we confiscate it,” said the official.

I did not know what happened after that. She was taken to another room.

On our return the hub was Dubai. The notice clearly said “One hand baggage weighing 7 kg.” They were boarding with alphabetic zones. Our country men did not care. They pushed and shoved. They had three to four hand baggages. One man was attempting to carry 21 kg. A couple with a small child in a perambulator had stuffed the bottom and side with things. The child was perched at an angle on the top of this pile.

“What is this?” asked the attender,.

“Food for the child,” said the father smugly.

“Is your child going to eat this much in three hours?”

They added the weight of items purchased in the duty free shops in Dubai airport.

They started removing luggage.

Between the shoving, the arguments , and endless pleading I began to wonder if the flight would ever take off.

Once safely in Chennai, I told my grand son ,”Use the toilet now. The immigration lines are very long.”

In the restroom three ladies were in animated discussion. They had jewelry and currency. They were wearing long sleeved jackets with zippered linings. They stuffed everything inside and walked out nonchalantly. Courier mules perhaps?

No wonder every now and then gold is found in the Chennai airport toilets!

Glad to be back in home sweet home.

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