SOME VOYAGE!

I have not posted in a long time. It’s because such a lot has happened and kept me occupied that I really couldn’t make the time. Let me update my tiny blog readership on what has happened since I tendered my resignation. I worked for a month more—till February 6, to be precise, within which I went pretty crazy completing pending work and executing the new tasks I was given. But there was such a sense of relief that this was the last time in a long, long time that I was doing all this, that I did not feel half as maniacal as I have felt in the past. Work was balanced(??!!) with numerous social visits and shopping sprees for the simple reason that I would be leaving India soon for a couple of years. My closest colleagues and seniors turned up with lovely mementos which I managed to pack in my 20-kilo treasure-trove. Goodbyes were said even as I felt nervous to think that I was off to a land where practically no one speaks the languages I know to communicate in. And my heart bled. For the first time in my life it bled for the parents who had long ago let their daughter go her way, who in a very physical way this time would be left behind. There is no greater pull than that of the umbilical chord. I wept, bawled even, like a baby being taken away from its cradle.

My visas have always created some problem or the other in the past and I have to mention this—I have no criminal record—and yet, this time was no exception. Darby’s visa had a rubber stamp of the New Delhi Polish Consulate and a sweeping glance over my visa just two days prior to our flight revealed an oversight. My visa had no stamp on it. Frantic calls to our travel agent ensued with Darby finally agreeing to accompany me to the Consulate in Kolkata. Another round of frantic phone calls to Delhi from there, until we were summarily told by the stern visa officer at Delhi that stamps were not mandatory and the Polish Embassy had only recently started putting stamps on visas. We would face no hurdle en route to our destination. Were we relieved? In a way, yes. In a sense , no. Images of gigantic, cruel SS Germans in holocaust movies flashed across our minds as we wondered how my fate and that of my visa’s depended on officials at the Frankfurt Airport. Would they waive or would they not? That was the question.

Let me also fill you in on the fact that on the day of our departure we packed and unpacked thrice, constantly trying to imagine how much was exactly 28 kilos (20+8 per passenger). Finally, we dragged our luggage down the stairs (what with a timely power cut), got everything weighed, lugged them up the staircase ( for 6 storeys), rearranged some of the stuff and left the rest to God.

An appropriate English translation of ‘ buk dhip dhip’ escapes me at the moment but this feeling, rather pregnant with its Bengali connotation, was our constant companion till Frankfurt. But, ‘bangals’ as we are, we are the last to admit a lack of courage. Here’s what happened at the Frankfurt Airport. We had to be cleared by the ‘Passport Control’ official. Now, that official in our case (non EU passengers) happened to be a plump, jolly, moustached German policeman who only spoke German to our chaste English. Oh oh! Here stepped in a much younger English speaking official who after checking Darby’s papers translated for the policeman that Darby was a Visiting Professor at the University of Lodz, Poland. ‘Ah, Professora!’—and with that one decisive expression and a faint smile on the face, he cleared Darby’s passage. Now, what happens to the 5-feet-1, puny ‘Bongonari’? She tries not to be flirtatious ( ha! As if being coquettish would have helped), nevertheless, bats her eyelids and meekly says that she was merely accompanying her husband to fulfil wifely duties. Pativrata Bharatiya Nari, Jaago! One look at the denim clad ‘Bongonari’ and bingo!—work done. I was cleared as well. Was it my vanity or my overactive imagination but I seemed to hear the English speaking ‘firang’ mutter—‘sweeth, sweeth’. In three hours I would be flying to Warsaw.

Here, I should not forget to mention the endless walking—up and down, to and fro—at the airport to gate no. A30, lugging our oversized, heavy handbags, laptop, camera, books, mufflers, caps and gloves and bazooka (just kidding), some of it obviously tucked inside our heavy overcoats worn over three layers of clothes. It did not help really that we looked and felt exactly like two midgets beside all the six- and-a-half-footers who carried way less stuff on their broad ‘firang’ shoulders. And how their luggage handles seemed to rest on them as lightly as a bird’s practised claws clasping a perch. Did we not see faint smirks lurking behind pink, white and ruddy faces—amused at our despicable plight? Shoo—rhetorical question! ‘Amar ei dehokhani tule dhoro’ (surely your mother-tongue comes back to you time and again in 'phoren' lands) –we were on the point of collapse after nine hours of captivity on board. And all the response I get from K when I scrap her reporting this is a mere—‘aha re!’ Oh, the massive injustice of it all! Is there no Bong left in the world willing to sympathize with two fellow pint-sized Bongs unaccustomed to strenuous physical labour? Oh, the unfairness of it all!

On two particularly frustrating occasions, during our connecting flight to Warsaw, I felt like telling Darby—‘Honey, I’ve shrunk the baggage’. Instead, all that we managed to do was to be totally embarrassing and disgustingly undecided as to how best to take it all down the aisle without making people wait for long behind us. Finally, when we managed to take our seats, I was too tired to even feel like disappearing altogether. I felt very sorry for the pretty Polish girl sitting beside Darby who was busy trying to keep his overcoat to himself and I must confess sheepishly that I also felt sorry for the gentleman who patiently waited for me to go ‘heave ho’ and pick up my bag and throw it over his really long legs to the other side. Finally, ‘uncle-long-legs’ got up himself and pushed my bag gently down the aisle. Oh boy! I was so shrunk by then. The worst part of it was when I imagined what my erstwhile colleagues would have said had they seen me then? My graceful ‘Bongonari’ moves all washed down an aisle??!!—‘mori eki tor dustorolajja’! (there goes Rabi Thakur in my head again)

The one and a half hour afternoon flight was okay. I faintly remember hearing myself snoring away (another unlike-a-lady performance) until refreshments came and before we knew, we were at freezing, snow white Warsaw, collecting even more luggage and being welcomed by Asia (Joanna) who would leave us at the Warsaw station to catch a train to Lodz.

Other ‘Darby’ean mishaps, fortunately averted:

1) Darby forgets to take his laptop bag, also containing his documents—a la passport—and leaves it outside the immigration counter at the Netaji Subhas Chandra Bose International Airport. Would have been an instant loss of Rs. 40,000 plus years of education sweat, toil, hair and sanity. Averted by a timely reminder from Darby’s mom.

2) Darby forgets to take his overcoat, which just could not be worn in Kolkata, before queuing up for the boarding passes and baggage checking. Would have been an instant loss of Rs. 6000. Averted by a miraculous reminder from a lightbulb inside Darby’s ‘postfoundational’ brain.

3) Darby forgets where he has kept his appointment letter when asked for it at the Passport Control Section at Frankfurt. Ignores Joan’s expert advice and instead rummages through practically his entire hand baggage, causing pieces of clothing to fly out of it with alarming rapidity, much to the amusement of ‘Ah, Professora!’-policeman and the embarrassment of a sheepishly grinning Joan. Would have been a loss of face and sanity. Averted finally by the miraculous discovery of the document exactly where it was always supposed to be.

Lesson learnt: postfoundational, Derridean anything can befuddle a man. Period.