Getting a visa to America was tough. The political relation between America and the local communist government was bitter. The experience of Vietnam was still raw. There would barely be a week when there won’t be a communist procession around the consulate; protesters waving banners and hurtling slogans against Yankee imperialism. The visa officer in the American consulate at Kolkata refused to sign my paper. “What guarantee do you have that you will return?” he asked. “But sir,” countering a hardened Foreign Service officer, I – the sheepish book bug – lost my word. Using my newly acquired TOEFL’ed accent that got jumbled up in nervousness, I tried to convince him, in many different ways: real and imaginary that I would return to India after my studies. “That’s what everyone says,” replied the visa officer, a white American in low thirties with back brushed blondish hair and gold rimmed glass, displaying his ivy league pedigree.
“But, sir, I am going on a scholarship,” I thought I had an iron clad argument. “I am financially bound to return to my country.”
“You can always pay back when you earn enough money,” he had his answer ready.
“But how can I?” I stammered. I was at a loss. “How can I earn money? I am going to be a student.” I looked exasperated. “Also I am the only son of my aging parents.”
Stuck either by my naiveté or bored by my stupidity, probably both, the officer finally relented. He stamped my passport and waved me good luck. I bet he had a good chuckle behind me.
Everyone was surprised that I got the visa on my first interview and in such short a time. So many others had horror stories to tell. Many tried multiple times; often without success. Some traveled to the Bombay or to the Delhi consulate. “It’s friendlier there,” they opined. Getting the visa was considered such an accomplishment that one of my friends carried my passport around to show off to others that I had the ‘real American’ visa stamped on one of its pages.
Moving to a new continent for unknown length of stay had its own complexity. Beside the big ticket items: the passport, the visa, the air ticket and the suit and coat, I had to pack my books to Boroline, safety pin to combs and towels to tooth brush. Then there was the medical certificate that I had to have before I could buy the ticket! I had to go to a health department office to get tested for tuberculosis. “Kee, America jacchen (So are you going to America)?” the clerk enquired.
“How do you guess?”
“Only people going to America come here to get tested,” he told. “Their government requires this certificate.” He must have known. I had to visit there again a week later to collect the certificate. And yes, the certificate declared that I was free from TB. A big sigh of relief!
I had to buy a new pair of shoes for my travel. “It snows over there” my friends cautioned “better get a pair that can handle it” as if they had the first hand experience. The only shoe to fit the standard, I was told, was a pricey brand: Ambassador. It cost me one hundred and eight rupees. A princely sum for a shoe to me! And that was also available only at the best shoe stores at Chowrangi. For the North American cold, I had to get a thick sweater as well! And on and on went the list. I was already tired. The trip to the airport did not elicit any romantic feeling in me at that point. Again and again I checked my passport, my money and the ticket. “Put it in your breast pocket inside the coat,” a friend suggested. “So it is always with you.” My brother helped me to tie my necktie. “Remember how I am tying the knot,” he said. I felt suffocated!
When I arrived at the airport, many of my friends and family were already there, waiting for me. They bought costly tickets to get inside the lounge. This trip, after all, was to America. A friend even brought a flower bouquet for me; like I saw it in a movie, given to the hero, who, somehow, traveled in planes. I felt overwhelmed. It reminded me of those personal ads in the local newspaper. People announced to the world the travel of their relatives to Bilet, England. With pictures of their sons or son-in-laws in suit and tie with layers of garland around their neck, the ad read: “Biman joge bidesh jatra (Traveling foreign country by an airplane).” And then the ad had the names and their addresses. It appeared so shallow to me. I joked that if the son-in-law relationship was described first in the ad, then the travel money must have come from the father-in-law; the rich man had bought the groom for his daughter with dowry. But that evening I accepted the flower bouquet.
As the intercom announced the arrival of our airplane and the passengers were requested to finish security and check out their luggage, I looked at my mother. She was wiping her tears with the corner of her sari. “Kendo na (don’t cry),” someone consoled my mother, “Cheler okollan hobe (it would be inauspicious for your son).” They all made me promise to write to them when I reach America safely.
From the tarmac, we passengers took a short trip in a bus near the stairs of the humming Air India plane. The picture of the airline mascot, the greeting Maharaja, with clasped hands in a humble bow on the door, was inviting. I could see the smiling airhostess in a beautiful soft silk sari greeting the passengers at the doorstep. She reminded me of Sonali, the girl next door. I felt squeamish inside. She came to see me yesterday. Alone. At night. And I was shy, I avoided her. The memory haunted me in my sleep: I knew she would cry the whole night, her dream demolished, the life would be different from now on! “Uttistotha jagroto prapyo bara nivodito,” the Upanishad silently reminded me. “Khurosso dhara, Nishito durottyo….” The soft green sari she was wearing looked so much similar to the sari the airhostess was wearing. Only Sonali was so much prettier! I tried not to think of her. From the stairs of the plane I waved towards the crowd of well wishers jostling on the terminal’s roof. It was getting dark and I could not recognize any face. I was sure none of them could discern me either. And then I got inside the plane: brightly lighted and crisply clean; my first experience inside a different world that I was entering into.
The plane had two rows of three seats on either side of the central walking aisle; much like I saw it in a movie hall, but here it is like a narrow corridor. The seat number was written on the storage bin above the seat. I had chosen a window seat, like I always do in a bus or a train. I pushed my hand bag underneath the seat in front of me and then I put the seat belt on. This must be the belt that my mother once told me a story about. We were still in East Bengal then and we would see the airplanes flew over us; far, far up in the sky. And an uncle of mine once flew to Dacca on one of those airplanes and he came back with many strange stories about it. He told to all the inquisitive villagers that the passengers were not allowed to roam inside the plane when it was flying and were kept bound to their seats, with belts! And I would touch the belt of my pants to get a feel of how those can be used for tying up passengers!
I looked through the small window of the plane. It was grayish dark outside. The electric lamp post at a distance spewed a dash of yellow light underneath, brightening the hazy winter fog. An airhostess distributed candies around from a colorful oval shaped glossy container. Must be foreign candies – my senses told me. I picked one at first. And then, hesitantly, a second one. I did not want to look very greedy (though I was). I chose orange juice, which another airhostess was serving in plastic glasses. It was chilled, tasted a bit too cold for my palate. A fellow Bengali passenger could sense my ambivalence. “Dada, this is not your bus to Kalighat,” he joked with a smile. “Or the train to Sonarpur,’ I smiled back.
We were talking about the daily commutes around the city. We fought for space inside over-crowded trains every day. Passengers perilously hang from the bustling buses. During the summer months, when the temperature goes up and the air becomes humid, a bus ride becomes energy sapping, bone jarring endeavor. And just as dangerous. I hated those long trips standing upright in a crowded bus. The plane appeared so luxurious in comparison! Like, may be a palace! A bell chimed in the intercom.
“It’s your pilot speaking,” the voice announced. We will be flying soon, he mentioned. A three hours trip to Bombay, he said. It will be past mid night when we would reach Santa Cruz airport. He asked the support crew to close the plane doors and get ready for the take off. The stewardess came to check that we all had our seat belts fastened, that the tiny tables in front were folded back and that our seats were brought in upright position. As the air hostesses demonstrated how to use our life support system in case of an accident, I once again tried to see my relatives. But I could not. The airport building looked too far away as the plane slowly moved towards the runway. And then after a loud whining sound, the plane started to run. And run like a wild beast. I closed my eyes in prayer (and fear). Not soon after, with a thud underneath, the plane took to the air. From my window, I looked at the city lights below as the horizon became wider and wider. I felt a whizzing sensation inside my ears. And as the plane flew, the lights turned fainter and further away. And, within minutes, there was only darkness outside the window. I left Kolkata.