“Anything in yer pockets, guv,” asked the giant uniformed man, a lookalike Dwayne Johnson in his “The Rock” days
Illustration/Uday Mohite
My two-week vacation in wonderful London was over, it was time to return to my birthplace.
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One thing stood between me and the jet airliner that would carry me home—the dreaded entry into that ‘ metallic buzzer’ thingy, to be body scanned— that small cubicle that could potentially reveal—
1. The small “silencer” tucked away in my sock.
2. The silver filling in my fourth molar.
3. The ten rupee coin lost in the inner lining of my jeans pocket.
I prayed, stepping into that 1970s Star Trek “Beam me up Scotty” gizmo, for silence.
No such luck.
“Anything in yer pockets, guv,” asked the giant uniformed man, a lookalike Dwayne Johnson in his “The Rock” days.
“Nope”
“Guv, can’tcha read the sign? It says ‘remove anything metallic from your person’… that’s a chain around your neck, innit?”
“Haanji,” I agreed The Rock, stopped, the scowl replaced by some smouldering sunniness “Wha’ didja sayy, sir?” he asked, the Cockney twang quite distinct.
“Haanji... chain hai.”
“Where you from,” The Rock asked “India.”
“Which part?” The Rock asked “Mumbai.”
“Which part?” The Rock persisted
“Uhm… Colaba...”
“Ohhh posh… Mira Road, this side,” he informed, as he patted me down, a tad gentler than before.
“Mira Road is quite cool,” I attempted, hoping that would get me through the “frisk” faster.
“Nonsense, Mira Road is the boonies, mate… whydya think we left Bhayandhar for Brick Lane?”
“Foo who?” he asked, inspecting the tag around my neck.
“Foo Fighters… it’s a rock band.”
“Tsk tsk praaji… tussi kiss tarah de ajeeb desi ho? Daler Mehndi… saada apna banda ae… Tunak Tunak Tun… that’s the tune…”, and I could swear he did a tiny “bhangra”.
“I’m Jeff… by the way… aka Jaswinder Singh Sondhi, from Patiala… have a safe flight,” as we pumped fists.
I felt a well-earned beer and fries was in order.
“What can I get for you, sir?” the waiter asked.
“A beer and some fries.”
“You Indian?” he asked “Yes.”
“Guess where I’m from?” he asked
“Uhm Pakistan...”
His face went from sunshine to thundershowers.
“Sorry, India,” I said. Sunshine was back.
“You are correct sir, now guess which part?”
My fries and beer seemed very far off.
“I’ll give you a hint... I’m from the South part of India.”
Oh no... please God, I just wanna get on that flight home.
“Eenie meenie minah moh catch a Tamilian by his toe… or Malyali or Kannadiga,” I thought.
“I’m Mangalorean!” he announced, cheerfully
“Where you from, sir?”
“Mumbai,” I said “Ah big city… Bollywood… Shah Rukh Khan… Sunny Leone!”
Post the beer, I thought, one quick visit to the loo at Heathrow… nothing can come in the way… 30 secs and I’m out… ah yes, nature beckons.
And then in the quiet confines of the “Gents”… no, no it cannot be, could I be hearing things? Yes, it was clearly Konkani being spoken by two people.
I turned around—indeed the two cleaners were conversing in the father tongue.
I could have walked away quietly, instead I asked.
“You’re both from Goa?”
The cleaning stopped, the mops came to attention.
“Hoei,” they said in unision
“Which part are you both from?”
“Mapusa!” said Mrs Doubtfire.
“Margao,” said Mr Doubtfire.
“Which part you prefer?” they asked, in chorus.
Oh boy, a North Goa vs South Goa conflict in the men’s toilet of London Heathrow!
My flight had been announced and they were blocking my entrance.
And then it hit me… divide and conquer.
“I like South Goa for the beaches, North Goa for the food… but I like Central Goa for Panjim…capital city.”
Mrs and Mr Doubtfire looked at me askance, they finally agreed on something, I was a bit crazy.
But as I walked away, Mr and Mrs Doubtfire waved me good bye—the gloomy monotony of a London Heathrow Airport toilet a far cry from the glorious confusion of a Mapusa market.
“When you going Goa, maka saangshi?”
“Soon,” I said... “Adeus.”
“Dev Borem Karum,” the lady said, as she ended with a sign of the cross.
Rahul daCunha is an adman, theatre director/playwright, photographer and traveller. Reach him at rahul.dacunha@mid-day.com
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