The Firang Diaries: Another 12 hours in India...

Yesterday 2.30 pm - I leave for the airport. I am flying to Delhi to attend the reception in honour of the Bulgarian Prime Minister who is visiting India. I am flying Jet Airways, so I expect no surprises.

My driver is again imagining he is on a Formula 1 track. I try to buckle up, but the buckle is neatly concealed behind the seat. Who needs seat belts in India anyway?

At the airport, I indulge in a Baskin & Robbins English Candy ice cream. Mmmmmm! Delicious!

I have printed out my boarding pass, so I am ready to go through security. Suddenly, a problem - a new rule has come into place - even passengers who have checked in online have to physically go to the check in counter, show an ID and get the boarding pass stamped (oh how much we LOVE stamps in this country!). I refuse to go back. Luckilly, a Jet employee is hanging around, so he stamps my boarding pass after an incredulous look at my Indian driving licence. The girl who is searching me is so thrilled I speak Hindi that she continues chatting oblivious to the growing queue.

I go in and start watching the news. India has fired a test missile. A VIP passes by, dressed all in black, with a mignion from the airline carrying his briefcase and newspapers.

Boarding. Everyone is rushing as if they are going to miss the plane. Surprise! Another hand luggage screening at the boarding counter... Only for Delhi-bound passengers. Those going to Bangalore just go through... Bombs are only allowed to Bangalore today! I am tempted to make a joke, but remember that at American airports just mentioning the "b" word may land you in prison. So I keep quiet.

Desperate paging for someone who has left their mobile phone at the security check.

On the plane. Have a great seat but the lady next to me decides to partially drape me in her sari.

The Jet crew have new awesomly handsome uniforms. Just as I admire them and mentally praise the finish, the material and colour, I notice the cheap transparent plastic buttons and the horrendous pumps (how do I even describe them?). Why invest in new uniforms and forgo the small last details?

Arrive in Delhi. It's 6 in the evening and its 36 degrees C!!! At the moment we touch ground, people start flipping out their mobile phones, despite repeated requests from the crew not to. Dinner cooking instructions and "han ji"s start resounding. The crew gives up...

On the bus, a member of the crew rushes in and asks passengers if anyone has mistakenly carried out someone else's laptop bag.

Trying to get out of the bus, I am almost trampled by three netas (a word for politicians which I would like to think is derogatory) who abide by the rule "gentlemen first".

Now the interesting part comes - trying to get a pre-paid cab. I first go to the government counter and I am quoted a ridiculous price (500 bucks to just drop me to Chanakyapuri). At my astonishment they answer "Then go to Easycabs" - which is basically their competition. I notice a new booth and go to enquire. A rerale decent Delhiite informs me that these cabs are very basic and don't have a radio, but it's my choice. I almost choose this company just for this guy's sake, but decide in favour of Easycabs. While there is a long queue at other counters, Easycab is empty. I ask them why. Thyey say it's because they are more expensive and have better cars. Tired, I just go for them.

I get out of the airport and as usual am surrounded with touts offering hotel rooms and cabs. I finally find my cab and driver and get in. I explain where I am going and how exactly I want to be taken there. He gesticulates reassuringly and seems as if he has taken this route thousands of times. I am promptly taken by the wrong, longer way, of course. En route, he stops to put air in his tyres. And the car makes an incredible noise, as if the wheels are going to fly off at any moment. To reinforce the fact that it is an AC cab, the blast is to the maximum, and the deep freeze ironically adds to the fire of my anger. But fortunately, in this car, the seat belt is fully operational and I have the semblant of a feeling of security in Delhi's frenzied traffic.

At the moment I reach the Embassy and crash on my mom's sofa with a sigh of relief, I get a call. A cheery voice: "Hello, M'am, I am calling from Indian Airlines!" (I am flying them on my return). A bad predicament creeps up my spine. "I am sorry to inform you that your flight has been delayed by 1 and half hours! But you can come to the airport right now and we can give you a booking on an earlier flight." COME BACK TO THE AIRPORT??? I try to keep my cool... And decide to just "f..." it and enjoy the evening.

The reception goes well. I meet the honorary council of Bulgaria in Calcutta, and his son happens to be married to the daughter of my newspaper's chairman. That's India for you - one billion and still small like a village!

Next day, I go to the airport and manage to get onto the 9 am flight. I am rushing to the gate, but a security guard directs me to another gate for "my class". At the other gate they send me back to the first gate. I run there and the guard tries to send em back to the other gate. I scream! And soon enough I am in the business class bus full of netas in white kurtis and lunghis. Of course, why should they fly economy if they have so much of public money??

Finally back home. I love the first few minutes of being in Bombay - the faces, the manners, change completely. People mean business here and touches of coolness are everywhere. To confirm my feeling, a bright red Bentley with a huge sign "government of Karnataka" overtakes us. The driver is wearing huge silver rings depicting bones and skulls.

The Firang Diaries