A Tryst With A Foreign Land

Image : indiatoday.in

It was October of 2006. Earlier to it 20 Octobers had whizzed passed in my life. All went remarkably unremarkable. But this was special. For this was the first time I was to step into a foreign land. And it was not Nepal. Bhutan?. It wasn’t either. 

My college had signed a student exchange program with a German University a year earlier. Students from each university were to visit the other. Few privileged seniors from my college had already been to Germany as a part of this exchange program. It was time for the next batch. 10 of us were nominated to go to Germany. We were asked to get Passports asap. The touts and brokers outside passport offices helped us to secure one faster than asap.

Prior to that my closest association with the word 'Passport' was with the passport size photograph. But this time passport meant Passport. Back then, unlike now, Passports were rare. Unlike other government Ids the passport was given its due respect. You could actually see the scanned photograph and more so you could resemble yourself with it. Those who had it used it as an address proof. Like talent in India more number of passports died without ever being recognized to serve its intended purpose. My passport was rather lucky. It didn’t die a lonely death without ever being stamped. It got to show its power and together with a Visa it was destined to fly away in the very first year of its birth. The stamped Visa inside the passport was even better. Colorful and bright.The authorities had taken pain to present a milky white version of me that was nowhere like me.

On the morning of October 6th the 10 of us and 2 additional professors stepped into my first flight of life- that too an international. Our family members lined outside the Delhi airport and gave a farewell as if we were NASA astronauts heading for ISS. Unlike astronauts we were ordinary people with ordinary hopes, ordinary aspirations and ordinary dreams. A foreign visit was nowhere in our scope of bucket list. Not even in an Indian mugga list. So we were treated like specials. My mother hugged me. My father patted me and whispered " there is a letter in your jacket's pocket. Open it when you are up above". 

We Indians have a tendency to cheer everything that is excitingly unique for us, especially when we are herded together.So when the flight ran on the runway, we cheered. It ran further. We cheered louder. It ran further. We doubted if it will run all the way to its destination or will it ever fly. Someone from the passengers shouted " Jai Hanuman" and we all followed "Jai Hanuman". Just then the flight took off and the sanctity of science and religion both prevailed. A few minutes past it was up and above.

I felt the letter with my hand and opened it. In bold blue letters of hindi my father presented emotions that reverberated with the then ongoing time. As if the letter shared similar feelings to mine. It echoed in words what I felt during those moments. "Upar Surya tumhare bhaagya ki tarah prakaashit and divymaan hai..." I turned around and the sun was perfectly glaring in its beauty. "Aur tum Pavansut k teevra veg se aakash ko cheertey huay pavan se badhey jaa rahe ho" . I looked far deep into the sky. I was actually cruising. In a four page letter he blessed me for a bright future and happiness.  As I read it, I knew I will cry. I did. For him it was a great day and so was it for me.

Coming back to my Passport, it spent its remaining entire life in the company of other stupid I-cards, sealed inside a folder with a diminished hope of getting a chance once again to prove its worth. It never got another. Since I was no Jason Bourne, that was my only passport. With its demise died my hope of another foreign tour.  

That was in 2006. Orkut was rife, testimonials were still being written, facebook was yet to gain immortality ,'like' still meant liking and had nothing to do with an unemotional click on mouse. Foreign tours were still rare, I was in my 20s and I still had hairs. 

Come 2018. Orkut is only in memories, I am in my 30s, the hairs count sum up to 30. Facebook governs the status war. Updates of foreign trips of my friends and friend’s friend’s friend’s are all spluttered on my homepage. I, for one, possess still those lovely ordinary thoughts, that in its fantasy and grandiose manage only to travel as far as Andaman Islands. 

In a private job it may be a regular phenomenon to be asked about your Passport and an onsite visit to a foreign nation. But a govt. job is bound by the law of the land. The law ensures that you are always grounded on this very land and never take off. 

Amid such laws arrives a moment when I am asked "Do you have a passport?". I had regressed to my naive stage and produced two passport size photographs in response    "I have two". The person concerned consoled my mental apathy and said " Passport sir, the one which gets you out of our motherland". 

Full twelve years after that auspicious October someone was again interested in sending me to a foreign land. And again it was not Nepal or Bhutan. This time to the land of the rising Sun-Japan. So once again I own a sleek new Passport, bearing my scanned colored image, duly stamped with a Visa. The authorities have done justice to their work this time, for now I look like a dacoit and I can totally relate myself from the image.

40 of us are to visit Japan as a part of technology learning program. Not that we are the chosen few. There have been earlier groups as well and future groups are scheduled ahead. I like others just happen to get an opportunity to be a part of it. Nothing outstanding and no bragging.  A mere mix of luck, coincidence and God’s will, that’s it. Nevertheless, the opportunity in itself bestows a big exposure on all of us.

For me and people I know, foreign visits are still held in awe. We still 'like' and envy the status updates of our friends and relatives from a foreign land.  It is still a big game for my kind of people. So tomorrow will be a fortunate day.

Tomorrow as I fly again to a foreign nation I will recall that October and the friends from the last trip. I will again remember my father and his letter. Standing outside the international airport I will try to recall the place from where he waved me then. Tomorrow I will wish my Passport a better luck than its predecessor. I wish it gets to see many more colorful Visas on all pages of its life. And many tomorrows later I would like to turn around and see how I felt prior to this trip which I could not do then. Normal?Excited?Can't tell. May be both, may be none. I may share this post or I may not. But tomorrow this post will serve as a memoir of that lovely October and this eventful December both.

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An Encounter With The Airtel 4G Girl

It started unlike the recent Airtel ads have started”

The camera first focused on the Airtel 4G girl as she produced an incandescent smile, brighter than the Ujala supreme safedi on white shirts.

" Yes this is me”, she assured me, as if I didn’t know that she was her. “You must try and test before opting for Airtel", she insisted, with an expression signifying that she is bothered about my poor mobile network.

"I have tried, tested, disliked, abhorred, got mentally stressed, pledged to never use Airtel and only after that stuck to Airtel", I said without a hiatus.

Happy to hear my estranged association with Airtel, she smiled leaned back and smiled again    "So 3G or 4G?"

"Parle G", I said

"No no no", she corrected me, " your network? 3g or 4G?".

I pretended to manoeuvre something out of my pocket below the table, and when it came out it was Nokia 3310. Having listlessly kept the phone in between us, I said  “Check for yourself".

She might have sensed that this is not going the way as the script demanded. In all her previous encounter with people, things were well planned and rehearsed. She had to convince already convinced people that even though they must be using Jio or Vodafone, all they had to say was Airtel is the best. She had to act as a medium of exchange between the alleged Airtel followers and the Airtel kafirs, say a few good words in the end to sum up the conversation. But this was different. Here, unfortunately she met an irritated government employee, who had just lost his 120 rupees in frequent call drops. 120 Rupees meant 120 rupees to him and the lady Airtel had to bear my grunt for the losses.

The camera roll was on and it was her turn to speak. Looking at my prehistoric key pad phone on the table she thought ‘hell, who uses Nokia these days’ and comported herself to say “Wow, you are still using Nokia these days”

“Yes”, I smiled, “I have a penchant for antiques”

“You sure? it supports internet connections?”, she was dismayed.

“The phone does but not the SIM”

“Which SIM “

“Airt…..”

“NO! wait… wait… wait…”, she stopped me in between and tried to steer the conversation away to a point from where she could finally get to prove the worthiness of the brand that sponsors her.

"What about UCLA?", as a hint she gleefully dropped the name of UCLA, the alleged what they call the-global-speed-tester. Like zillions of Hindustanis I had never heard of anything like this before the advent of recent Airtel advertisements.

"Why? what happened to UCLA?", I sounded double concerned.

"UCLA dear, the-global-speed-tester. You must say that, it is part of all our advertisement. We are here to make it a household name", she whispered as she hid her anger behind her smiles.

"Madam, ask me anything about Upla aur Upma and I am ready. While Upma is every household breakfast,  Upla from cow dung is our indigenous household fuel. People like me still see the number of lines on top of my mobile screen to check whether the network is available or not", I confided.

“But that is so ancient way to check your speed”, the disgust on her face was clearly visible and all she did was smile.

“There is the other way too”

“What?”, she leaned forward on the table to listen to the ultimate truth ever spoken before her.

“ The speed of the buffering wheel on youtube, ting tang tiding!. Simple”, I smiled.

“Holy GSM”, She felled back on her chair aghast, “ God Save this Man, this phone plays youtube for you?” and covered her face disbelievingly.

“Madam this is Nokia taitteess dus,  baap of all smart phones”, I had a boisterous laugh, the one bollywood villains had after having their sinister ploy unfold before their eyes.

Lady Airtel turned tired, she asked for a glass of water, drank it till the last drop, looked at me and asked “Why? Why you are doing this? When you can go home happily watching Jio TV after just few good words about my sponsors”

I stared at the empty glass then looked in her eyes and said, “Vengeance madam, vengeance”

I went on a discourse of my association with Airtel “It was because of you that I took Airtel. Few years back every hoarding and billboard, which now are flooded with Oppo and Vivo, had your innocent picture. You were up against all the mobile network service providers with your Airtel challenge. Like many Indians, I simply believed in you and switched to Airtel. After few months of usage I realized the blunder I had done by choosing the network meant initially for bourgeoisie families. Being a proletariat, subscribing to Airtel is like being a pauper boyfriend to an affluent girl. Both are difficult to maintain. Moreover, when in need both the network and the girlfriend are difficult to find. Utterly irritated, I looked out for only two things. Ask me what”

She was absorbed in my monologue and was also pleased to know how I remembered her first advertisement. For the first time the most assertive girl of Indian advertisement seemed to hear more from me. She asked, “What?”.

“Your network and you”, I spluttered in one go.

Expecting a similar reply, she was not taken aback. Instead she found an opportunity to end the directionless conversation. She turned towards the camera confidently, smiled pleasantly as she always does and said “tabhi to kehti hoon, sab kuch try karo fir sahi chuno!”. And off she went to baptize another Jio subscriber into airtel.

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Got A Sunday?Yawn & Protect It

When I see the seven days of a week, I see them not as days but as seven immature school kids. Kids sitting inside the classroom of life. Every week, I enter as a class teacher into that classroom and deal with all seven individually. My 5 notorious children, Monday to Friday, like to herd near the back benches, create noise and make my presence utterly uncomfortable. While the other two innocent studious kids, Saturday and Sunday, take my notes down peacefully at the front. The fearful five always create nuisance, with Monday leading the pack. In the name of daily routine they try to make my life miserable. When I crave for pin drop silence, they drop bombs. When I try to set them in order, they become innovatively chaotic. My two studious children dislike them. They are obedient, peaceful, sincere and always eager to listen to me. It is in tranquillity of Sat and Sun that I seek solace after losing my sanity on Mon, Tue,Wed,Thu and Fri. They are the only reason that I could face the other five. As a class teacher I need to cater to the demands of all seven. But, I consider it a bigger responsibility to guard two of my peaceful pupil, Sat and Sun, from the bad company of miscreant five.

But that was up to a few years ago. Because, a few years ago, I started losing my hold on Saturday. I ignored signs when on few occasions Sat behaved like one of them, totally chaotic and restive. It was wooed away by the false sincerity of work pressure and fun of the mischievous five. The imaginary urgency to manage my work on each day of a week secretly encroached my much adored Saturday. And somewhere in the middle of journey, due to the hectic nature of work and the din surrounding my life, Saturday fell behind.

So lately, in my life I have started guarding my Sundays. The loss of , what could have been a peaceful Saturday to the heckle and bully of group of  weekdays made me overprotective of my Sunday. I started having this impulse to protect my Sundays from outside world. I treasure my personal space on a Sunday and more or less treasure it alone. I wish no one calls me on a Sunday, no one tells me what to do, no one bothers me. At least , for one complete day in a week, I wish I don’t exist the way I exist. A bit similar to this inspiring man below ;).

The only day when I become one with myself is on Sunday. This day defines me and I define the course of this day. I may treat myself a feast or I may famish. I may spend the day reading a book or I may pass it aimlessly observing traffic from my balcony. On Sundays, I plan to be as out of routine as possible. An out of routine lazy schedule gives a sense of ownership over this day to me. The morning is prolonged till afternoon with regular interval of tea. Lunch seldom sees me on time and dinner includes a distasteful dish prepared on my own.  I try not to pick any phone calls. If I do, that is only after swearing a mouthful of curse to the caller and gaining the right tone in time to say, “ Hey hi! What a wonderful surprise, Kaisa hai bhai?”. The airplane mode on smartphone comes a little handy while I wander in my city of thoughts. Actually, I keep a secret desire to live a day out from the lyrics of the song, Dil dhoondata hai fir wohi fursat k raat din and that desire comes alive on every Sunday.

Even as a child I waited desperately for Sundays. With no phone calls to attend, no whatsapp forwards, no facebook updates and no urgency of work and little care for future, Sunday brought the cheerful spirit of life at hand. The morning started a little late than normal weekdays. Mummy never needed to scroll through hundred channels on youtube to prepare a delicious meal. She did that beautifully out of her own experience. Television which was restricted to limited hours for kids on weekdays was left all at our whims. Back then, no one told us what to do. Neither had we cared about the next day’s schedule. Evening started a little earlier when we came out to play. Back then, a match of cricket or kabaddi or just an ideal talk with neighbourhood friends brought more pleasure than watching an online viral video. At night the whole family huddled around television to jointly savour any movie bestowed on us by erstwhile Doordarshan. Back then, Sunday meant an actual carefree holiday.

It may sound like being nostalgic or brooding over the past, but Sundays count among many other things that I miss from my childhood. In today’s overburdened busy life keeping myself reserved on Sunday is a way to connect to my past and to myself. These days, we are struggling to keep pace with streaming fast life, mindlessly consuming bombarding information, competing to prove our worth in ever demanding professions and actually disconnecting to connect online in virtual world. We are clueless and trapped in chambers which echoes everyone else's opinion except our own. An intermittent period of deafening silence and luxurious leisure to really know ourselves is all what we need. I want Sunday to be that period of mine.The stay-active-stay-fast schedule has crept over all of us. It has taken away the immense joy in sitting idly. There is no crime in being lazy for a day. In fact ,there is pleasure in staying afloat in our thoughts with no purpose at all. There is real pleasure in a lazy Sunday. Try it for yourself. :)

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