February 1, 2004

From a tipsy Sardarji to an ignorant self-praising politician, life is full of amusing experiences

IT was in March last year that a small Indian delegation to the two-day peace conference, led by Tapan Bose, arrived in Karachi. I missed the opening session but went for the post-lunch session. The proceedings didn’t begin on time, which was no surprise since the conference was being attended by Pakistanis and Indians. As I entered the hall a Pakistani politician (whose name I have conveniently forgotten) rose from his seat, mistaking me for Bose. He had been told that Bose was a man of medium height and that he was wearing a kurta and Aligarh-cut pyjama. I don’t blame the politician for I too aptly fitted that description.

The politician held my hands warmly and went on and on with his long monologue. He said that he had large landholdings in a village in Sindh but at heart he was a commoner. He was a diehard democrat who struggled against the military dictator Ziaul Haq. The General humiliated him by not sending him to jail and that when his leader was hanged, he didn’t take his food for three days.

Suddenly realizing that I was getting bored, he asked me if I had come from Delhi. “Well, I live quite close to Delhi Colony,” I said. “Oh, so you have a Delhi colony in Delhi also?” he queried, sporting a smile.

“Maybe, but I was referring to the Delhi Colony in Karachi,” I said, rubbing my hands in glee. I had fooled a self-centred politician, which, at least, at that moment didn’t seem too difficult to do.

“So, you are not Mr Tapan Bose?” he said arching his eyebrows.

“Of course, not,” I said.

“Why didn’t you tell me so?”

“You never gave me a chance to do so. But I am shocked a seasoned politician like you doesn’t recognize a journalist who has been on the scene for so many years,” I pretended that I was feeling insulted.

The strategy worked, the politician was all sugar and honey. Like policemen and custom officials, politicians try to be polite with journalists.

That was not the first time I was mistaken for an Indian. When I was in my twenties, which was not a very long time ago, and was visiting my native town — Mumbai, I saw a movie a day. In those days there were no videos, so a trip to India had a special attraction for film buffs. Most cinemas had hoardings in English, in addition to Hindi. But there was one which exhibited mythological films and the titles of the movies were displayed only in Hindi. Unacquainted as I was with the Devnagri script, I asked two teenagers to read the title for me. “Jai Santoshi Maa” read one of them and the two looked at me in amazement. I heard one of them telling the other “Isn’t it surprising? He is dressed up like an educated man.”

Yet another incident lingers in my memory. In the eighties when I was travelling from Delhi to Agra on the comfortable Shatabdi Express, where I could book a seat on, what they call, the ‘Foreigners’ Quota’, at a short notice. I found myself sitting next to an Australian couple. The man was quite friendly. He was keen to know about Pakistan. I fielded all his questions. Breakfast was served. The man wanted to have an extra cup of mango yogurt. I told the waiter to get him one. “You speak their language?” he inquired in astonishment. I replied in the affirmative. But he was all the more puzzled when he found I couldn’t read the label for it was in Hindi. It took him quite sometime to understand that while the waiter and I spoke the same language, he could not read my script and I couldn’t decipher his.

When we reached the Taj Mahal, our guide, took the goras to a queue earmarked for foreigners. He then whispered in my ears “Join the queue meant for Indians, and pretend that you are one of us, otherwise you’ll have to pay five times the amount we pay for the entrance ticket.” Needless to say, I took his advice.

That was sweet of the guide, but sweeter than him was the chap manning the front desk of a three star hotel in Panjim (Goa), where I checked in sometime in 1993. I had left all my dollars with an aunt in Mumbai, not knowing that all foreigners were supposed to pay their bills in foreign currency in hotels. I was only carrying Indian currency. The receptionist, a burly Goan, gave me a card to fill in. As I was writing “Pakistani” in the nationality column, he asked me if I had foreign currency. When I replied in the negative, he said “Oh, man, not to worry, you just write you are an Indian and give any address in India, otherwise you’ll have to go out and buy dollars or pounds in black.” I did as I was told. The room, with a king-size bed and a TV set, was clean and so was the bathroom. I just put my suitcase on the rack and took a cab for one of the beaches.

Back to the hotel room after a sumptuous dinner, I went to sleep the moment I hit the bed but woke up with a start around midnight. I suddenly recalled an incident about a Pakistani importer of books, who declared himself an Indian. He was arrested by the Intelligence people for making a wrong declaration. The poor chap remained in the lockup for four days until the Indian exporter of books, to whom the Pakistani owed a lot of money, got him released. It was in the exporter’s interest that the Pakistani went home safely and remitted the amount he had to pay him.

I realized there was no one who would have me released if I was arrested. I went to the reception only to be told that the burly receptionist would not be back until the next morning. I returned to the room muttering all the prayers that I could recall. I was scared that there would be a midnight knock, and sure enough there was one. As I opened my door a tipsy Sardarji barged into my room and made himself comfortable on my bed. “Sardarji, why don’t you go to your own room?” I protested feebly. “That’s what I want to ask you. What are you doing in MY room?,” he said.

“What’s your room number?” I queried. “204”, he said. “Look, 204 is just across the aisle. This is 203,” I said, hoping to make him realize his folly. “How clever! So you have changed the number plates also,” said the Sardarji smiling from ear to ear.

I couldn’t reconcile with the idea of sharing a room, let alone a bed, with a tipsy male, and at the same time I didn’t want to create a row for I was afraid that the nationality cat would be out of the bag. So, I went out of the room, saw a waiter, slipped a ten rupee note in his pocket and asked him to help me get rid of the Sardarji.

“No problem sir, give me two minutes,” he disappeared only to resurface with a half empty bottle of whiskey in his hand. He showed it to the Sardarji, who got up from his bed and swaggered his way out of my room.

The next morning I found the receptionist. He helped me buy dollars at reasonable rates. The old card was torn to pieces and I filled in another card. And as for the Sardarji, I didn’t meet him again for the three days that I was in the hotel. I did, however, see him on the flight to Mumbai. The moment he saw me he hid his face behind a newspaper — a Hindi newspaper. I couldn’t read the name of the paper. Not that it mattered.

Please Visit our Sponsor (Ads open in separate window)