When I was leaving for the USA, it’s \u00a0president, a peanut farmer from Georgia, was grinning in the glory of the Camp David agreement between Israel and Egypt. To most of us, though, the image of an America, one of whose last helicopters\u00a0was perched precariously above the roof of the Embassy in Saigon was still\u00a0dominant. The boat people leaving Vietnam were bobbling in the south China sea. The Soviet Republic, the USSR, had then signed a treaty with the Afghan government permitting deployment of their military in Kabul. And in Tehran, the Shah of Iran was tottering in its last gasp of survival. At home, Indira Gandhi had been reelected to the Parliament but not yet been the prime minister of India, again. And little did I know, one day, as an international student in an American university, many of these events would shape my life and belief in the magnificent melting pot that I would inhabit.<\/p>\n
Going to western countries for higher studies has been dream for a vast number of students in India from the time the British brought the public education in India. If it is not for this western education in India, that some liberal locals accepted against their conservative counterparts, I might not have been taking this flight today. And I wonder (and no one is around!), if the westerners did not come, would we be still living under the medieval rulers from the hinterland of Hindukush?<\/p>\n
\u201cKee re tui naki Bilet jacchis<\/em> (Hey, did I hear you are going to England)?\u201d a friend excitedly asked me when he first heard I will be going abroad. Bilet<\/em>, as England is locally called, though I don\u2019t know why, have been the dream destination for generations of elite Indians. A \u2018bilet pherot<\/em>\u2019 (England educated) has been THE cream of Indian social hierarchy. The parents dreamt of their sons being educated there, the marriageable girls aspired to marry them\u00a0and the relatives made sure to bring up the story of their \u2018bilet pherot<\/em>\u2019 cousin or son-in-law among their compatriots. And old freedom fighters who sacrificed their future to free the country from the British rule, didn’t mind having such relatives either. They became the new rulers of the society. No wonder that the old Brahmins were so afraid of this new breed\u00a0 that they tried to dissuade people from crossing the sea to England with threat of making them outcasts. It did not work. The glitz of material and money of the new class overpowered the old powers.<\/p>\n When the plane reached altitude, the bell chimed again and the \u2018fasten seat belt\u2019 and \u2018no smoking\u2019 signs were turned off. The airhostess in green sari distributed a beautiful menu card with a red picture of the Maharaja logo on top. It is a list of foods and drinks they were going to serve in the flight. \u201cYou need a card for that?\u201d I whispered in surprise to my friend! Of the choices I had, I decided to get the chicken curry. \u201cOr mutton?\u201d I thought to myself. Too many delicious choices! And orange juice for drink.<\/p>\n The stewards pulled out rolling carts from the back of the plane and started serving us food trays from the racks inside. Inside the tray, several square shaped dishes of different sizes, with plastic wrappers on top, were placed compactly. The main dish of white rice with spicy chicken curry was piping hot. A dish with green cabbage(?) mixed with green cucumber and sprinkles of hair-thin carrot; included was a package of white cream, labeled \u2018salad dressing\u2019, \u201cMade in the\u00a0USA\u201d! A plastic wrapped piece of dinner roll was in a cup along with a packet of butter and a plastic-wrapped piece of cheese, both with the picture of a fair woman in a\u00a0blue dress with braided hair and \u2018Land O Lakes\u2019 written on them; also made in America. A tiny plastic container of doi<\/em>, labelled \u2018yogurt\u2019,\u00a0a piece of cake, and\u00a0a narrow plastic packet packed with a spoon, a fork, a paper napkin, tiny packets of salt and pepper and a toothpick; there was also\u00a0cold water in a dwarf plastic glass with a blue embossed aluminum wrap with \u201cCrystal Glacier\u201d written on it, and a \u201cProduct of the\u00a0UK\u201d label; all tightly assembled inside the twelve-by-six-inch tray. And the air hostesses walked around with hot coffee and tea to serve to\u00a0the passengers.<\/p>\n We finished our dinner on the tiny table attached\u00a0on the back of\u00a0the seats in front\u00a0of us; and the toothpick served its purpose very well; thank you! It was past eleven at night; a constant overpowering hum from the plane engine kept us all submerged in the sky. From my window down I could see patches of area below glowing in the\u00a0flood of flickering lights against pitch black darkness; it was\u00a0as if the devotees lit millions of deepavali<\/em> lamps\u00a0so the gods can find their way to their humble huts. By the time the stewards finished cleaning up, the bell chimed and the\u00a0\u201cfasten seat belt\u201d sign reappeared. The captain announced that the weather in Bombay was normal and that the visibility was good. He gave us the temperature and announced that we shall land soon. It will be first time that I will be in Bombay, the city by the Arabian Sea. But it will be a brief stop, a transit point; I will be there for a few hours till I board the next plane, a bigger one, the one that will take me, I was told, all the way to New York. On the way, the plane will stop at Rome, Paris and London. The names sounded so glamorous! I only read those names in stories and novels.<\/p>\n The airhostess came back again to count the passengers, to check that we had our seat belts fastened, the luggage bin closed, the small table in front folded and that our seats were in the\u00a0upright position. There was a mechanical groan underneath, that I learned later is the sound of landing wheels coming out from the plane’s belly. The earth below was getting closer, the lights brighter on the narrow streets and the moving vehicles appeared clearer. The airport buildings became visible and the red lights along the runway showed the landing path. With a loud thump and screeching sound, we felt a sharp and sudden jerk and the plane landed on the ground, running furiously on the runway. The wings of the plane began to extend out and curve as if to catch as much air as it could. With many more mechanical whining on the wings, the plane eventually slowed down, taking a turn to another runway towards the airport buildings. As it moved slowly to its designated spot, I saw planes from so many countries; planes much larger than ours, till I saw the Aeroflot plane. I might have taken this plane today, I thought to myself, had I chosen to go to the Patrice Lumumba Friendship University in Moscow. I applied there also and they showed great interest. For reasons not so clear, at the last moment I decided to accept the offer to America. Though the\u00a0USSR was more friendly to India during the Cold War, most students, chose to go to America. So did I. The air staff opened the door to the airport terminal: a narrow, closed corridor leading\u00a0towards the lighted building. It was the Santa Cruz airport in Bombay.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" When I was leaving for the USA, it’s \u00a0president, a peanut farmer from Georgia, was grinning in the glory of the Camp David agreement between Israel and Egypt. To most of us, though, the image of an America, one of … Continue reading