Popagandhi

The flight was just as what every flight should be: nondescript, dark (it was 3 am), uneventful. But for some screaming babies of the usual sort, I slept soundly through the flight. I managed to be the first to get off the plane, join the queue for immigration, and only when I got to the front of the line did I realize that I was in the Indian nationals’ queue. They let me through anyway.

I might have been naive in assuming that arriving in India for the third time would be uneventful and easy. This being Incredible India, Surprising India, there had to be something ahead waiting for me. We’d already landed an hour late, and Dev had been waiting a good while for me, but customs had to pull me aside to ask to see my camera.

I’d just recently taken that same camera outfit around India, through seven states, without a problem, but Bangalore customs demanded 5000 rupees as customs duty.

He points to a sign that says Indians are allowed up to Rs 25000 worth of electronic goods. I’m not Indian, he said, pointing to another paragraph saying foreigners were allowed up to Rs 8000 of items. He insists my camera is worth at least Rs 28000 (that’s not true, it’s at least 3 times more, but anyway). I had to pay Rs 5000 for that. Too bad for him he was speaking to someone who is geeky enough to memorize the import limitations of every country she visists; as soon as he said that, I knew he either wasn’t well trained, or was trying to pull a fast one. I decide to play it cool and with style and without baksheesh. For a time. They call it the eye before the storm.

The thing about this country is, once you get the hang of it and graduate to ‘veteran’ status, you know how to get around most things, and little annoyances like this. There’s no room left for surprise or agitation. Veterans know there are no hard and fast rule in this country, who you know is paramount to what you can get, and get away with. I calmly asked to be let out to “consult with a friend outside”. While most people might say, “who” is that friend, Indian customs will want to know, “what” is your friend. What is my friend outside? My friend outside is a journalist. Mid Day, I volunteered.

He lets me out, and I spend a requisite amount of time hunting for the manager of the airport, never once thinking she’d be able to help. She couldn’t (she was sleeping, literally). I decide at this point I had to do this for myself, and it was easy enough - the thought of 5000 rupees at stake kept me going, and awake.

“Let me see your Assistant Commissioner.” Blow to the left.

They’re terrified of involving higher authority, especially when there is no case for them.

“Let me see the Assistant Commissioner, is he here?” This time stressing Commissioner. “I want to speak to him.” Blow under the chest.

I was told by someone that in order to fend for myself as a woman, and as a foreign woman, in India, the key was to be aggressive. Apparently many Indian men, especially the rickshaw drivers and touts, don’t know how to handle an aggressive woman, except by backing off.

They try for their 5000 rupees again. Foreigners allowed only up to Rs 8000, everything else must be taxed. Do you want to see the books?

“Yes, let me see the books.”

They ignore me.

Chun Li starts revving up. “Let me tell you what the rules say, dude. The rules say foreigners are allowed up to Rs 8000 in gifts. Other personal effects, of any value, are allowed in duty-free (including one laptop computer), so long as they are meant to be taken out of the country and re-exported. Strike Two. Dhalsim clutches his chest while Chun Li does a fantastic imaginary bicycle kick.

“Let me check with my friends at the embassy just to be sure.” Take out my phone, look calmly through phonebook, ignoring the fact I have no SIM card, and no auto-roaming. Certainly no friends at any embassy either. Who you know is essential to what you can get, and get away with. When you don’t know anyone, who you pretend to know, can work sometimes.

Strike Three. K.O.

“OK ma’am. Take your bag. Don’t bring any more costly cameras to India.”

I strut out victorious, and ride into 5 a.m. Jayanagar on Dev’s bike. And as I pass the ghostly early morning MG Road, and lie on my bed in the lovely Bangalore July weather, all I think of is you, and lovely Bangalore June nights we had together.