A Hyena (was in disguise as a Coroner)

I am not a wild life expert, but whatever I have heard of hyenas is not complimentary. They are known to be scavenging animals, live off the dead left by hunting animals.  Occasionally they as a pack hunt by isolating their prey, then attack the prey, till the prey meets its slow death.  It so happened, that I witnessed a pack of hyena hunting down a dear cub, and I almost felt that the hyenas were enjoying their hunt, the poor cub had no chance to escape.  It happened when I was on a safari in Northern Zambia, I did not like what I saw, but, in a way I witnessed a rare sight.  My summation was that, hyenas feed on defenseless preys, and they reminded me of a coroner at Kalubowila hospital in the outskirts of Colombo, Sri Lanka.

In August 1996, my mother had a sudden death.  She was walking around, fed my newly married youngest sister of 27, then felt sick, walked into the toilet to vomit, which turned out to be blood.  My mother had a history of ulcers.  We did not know how severe it was.  My sister and brother in law took her to the hospital, but on the way she died.  One, if not the saddest moment in my life.  It so happened that I was at Colombo Hilton that night, but by the time I arrived at the hospital, I could only see my mother’s body lying on a stretcher in the basement.  The hospital refused to ‘admit’, because she was already DEAD.

The next morning the body was transferred to Kalubovila Hospital mortuary.  We were at the mercy of this hyena, which was in disguise as a coroner.  We required clearance from him, so that we could execute her last rites.  We as a family waited and waited for hours.  Interference of a family friend, who happened to be a lawyer, did not help either.  The Coroner refused to budge.  He wanted us to proof no one killed my mother!  Bizarre isn’t it?  If we the family had suspected that my mother was killed, we would have been the first to complain and find out. 

We were not the only ones, there were many grieving families waiting for his nod.

We waited the whole day, and around 4 pm, he said that he will allow her to be buried, not cremated.  He was of the view if that murder was the case the body could be exhumed for further investigation, if necessary.  We as Hindus believe in cremation of the body, the physical matter held in the body – carbon, minerals and water – are returned to earth. 

We did not know what to say.  Our family friend continued his discussions with him and finally around 6 pm, the coroner agreed for cremation.  It was time for him to go home, and he was clearing the backlog.  He has done the same thing to all.  I saw him going home; his face brimmed with a smug of a victor.  He has almost prevailed.

I am still not sure if he was after money  - in that case we would have given him what it takes.  He has preyed in defenseless grieving people, and drew an enormous satisfaction for himself.  Just like the way the hyenas do.

Even after 20 years of my mother’s death he disgusts me.  I never disliked anyone, the way I dislike him.  I do not wish that he goes to hell, only because I am not sure if there is a hell.  I hope he is still alive - the brain is active to feel physical pain, and he suffers as much as those who he victimized. I am sure hundreds who suffered because if him, will agree with me.

He is (or was) a hyena,  he preyed on the defenseless.  I wish he reads what I have written about him.  

Brush with Police

An incident yesterday prompted me to reflect on my interactions with Police over the years, so here I go.

My first brush with Police came in 1961, I was seven years old.  My father will walk me to school (Bambalapitiya Hindu) in the morning; I will hold his hands and cross a main road (Galle Road).  My school finished around 3 pm, I will walk to the main road, wait at the pedestrian crossing, a police officer will hold my hand and help me cross the road.  I will then find my way home (17 Castle Lane, Bambalapitiya) and narrate the details to my mother – how smart the police man looked and how kind he was and so on - a new Police Uncle every day, and my mother will smile at my innocence.

In 1970, now I am a teenager, I happened to be in Jaffna Town around twilight hours on a bicycle, finding my way home.  It was not dark yet, but my bicycle did not have a ‘head light’.  I was stopped at a make-shift Police barricade, detained for a couple of hours, many more joined, at around 8 pm, all bicycles were loaded into a truck, so were we.  We were at Jaffna Police Station, told to squat on the floor, till cases were filed.  When my turn came it was almost midnight, and I was allowed to go home.  Our house was about 5 km from the Police station, I literally ran fearing the dogs which may chase and possibly bite me.  I had to go next day to collect my bicycle, and two days later, a local Magistrate dismissed the case.

In 1977, I was in Jaffna during University vacation, a friend of mine and I went for a late movie which finished just after midnight.  We went to a tea boutique, had a cup of tea, and were at the counter paying our dues.  A Police jeep stopped in front of the tea boutique, and an officer walked towards me.  I thought he was going to ask me for something, instead he slapped me strong and hard.  Another one did the same to my friend.  We just RAN………..

In 1981 summer, I was staying in a trailer home at Weslaco, Texas, a town in Texas along Mexican border.  Around 8 pm or so, I went to throw garbage, without taking the key to the trailer home.  A strong wind shut the door, and now I can’t get in.  I asked my neighbor to call the site manager.  Instead, he walked to my house, took a credit card, slid it between the door and door-frame, lo and behold, the door opened.  He then said that, he is a Police officer and he had to know everything the burglars know.  We had a laugh, he has never met a Sri Lankan, and we became friendly. 

In 1985, I was charged by a Police officer in Houston for exceeding speed limit at a school zone, and the fine was 80 USD.  It was a big amount in 1985, for a graduate student especially.  I pleaded him to cancel my ticket.  He advised me that I could appeal to the local Magistrate, which I did.  The Magistrate agreed to cancel the ticket, if I attend a defensive driving course run by the Police.  It cost me 20 USD, and eight hours of listening to lectures and watching videos.  It was well worth, getting the ticket, and then attending the course.  I still remember the lessons I learned.

In 1987, I was stopped by a highway trouper between Dallas and Fayetville.  He said I was doing 65 MPH in a zone for 55 MPH.  I said no, it can’t be right, he was half convinced, walked around the car and noted that my tire size was somewhat bigger than what it ought to be.  Hence I was travelling at 65, but my speedo meter was registering 55.  He said he will give me a warning, and I should change the tire soon. Phew….

In early nineties, my wife and I lived in Griffith, a sleepy country town in New South Wales, Australia.  Around 2 AM someone knocked on our doors, we woke up, and opened, to see there were two young cops.  We haven’t closed our car door properly, the internal light was on, and noticed by the patrolling officers.  They shut it, and then woke us to tell – which they are required to.  Thanks, but, they could have shut the door and left.  There was a smug on their face, which told us – we are just having fun waking you up.  It’s OK with us too.

Between 1996 and now, either I or my drivers had to pay bribes in Lahore, Madras, Patna or Delhi for traffic violations.  Police in this part take advantage of traffic violators to get rich.  I have become used to them.  When they approach me, I think of beggars in Police uniform.

It was the event yesterday, which brought all these memories.  I was in Little India, a part of Kuala Lumpur, hailing a taxi.  It was just after a shower, I was a bit wet.  A new white car went passed me and stopped.  The man at the passenger seat called me, and I assumed that he was going to offer me a lift. 

Well, I was wrong.

He introduced himself as a Police Officer –did not show any ID, and he and his driver were both in mufti.  I worked it out that the passenger must be a Senior Officer, because the driver was not joining the conversation, but gleaming in pride at the way the passenger was talking to me.  He was trying hard not to look at us.

The passenger asked me what I was doing.  ‘Hailing a cab’, I replied.

‘Where is your passport?’  ‘It’s in the hotel, but here is the ID given by the Hotel’.

He looked at it and then said that I should have made a photocopy of my passport and visa pages, and carried with me.  I said sorry.

Interrogation continued.

‘Are you carrying any drugs?’  ‘No, I do not even smoke’, I said wryly.

‘Well if you cooperate, I will make it easy for you’.  Now it’s a threat, and he showing the ugly face of Police. ‘Come near’, he was still in his passenger seat, so, I walked closer to him. 

‘Empty your pocket’.  I had a camera, a phone, a wallet, and a handkerchief.  All pockets were bulging.  He went through my wallet a few times. I had an equivalent of 100 USD in Ringgits.  Then frisked by tummy and moved his hands to my abdomen area, while sitting on his passenger seat.  This was on a public road at 5:30 PM in full day light.

‘You are embarrassing me, I am a Professor’, I said assertively.  He returned my stuff, and left.

So, what do I make of Police in my life?  Overall, only a few do their duty, I think.  They were good – like the men who helped me cross the road, I respect them.  Most are bad, like the uniformed beggars in Indian sub-continent.  There is no difference between them and criminals.  I pity them.  Some are real ugly.  The guy who slapped me and the one who embarrassed on KL streets – very ugly, I reckon.  I detest them.  They have a sick mind, and abuse their power, because they know that they will get away. 

I hope they do not. 

Hotel Living - No Good, I think

I travel a lot and stay in hotels.  During the past two months, I have stayed in eight different hotels, for a total of forty nights.  These were in eight different cities in three different continents, but guess what, they are all the same.

They all have nice beds, but it would so happen that I will have to leave the hotel by 7:30 AM, so, I rarely get a chance to sleep in.  Most of them will have four different pillows, each with different levels of softness, but by the time I figure out which is good, the alarm is on and I have to get up, often with a neck pain.  Yep, I did not choose the right pillow.

I rushed to bathroom, get dressed and go for breakfast - which is included in the room tariff - in other words, its free.  I do my best to take advantage of it, albeit, I end up usually harming myself.  If I am in Colombo, I get stuck into hoppers, and string hoppers with all the condiments and curries available, and if I am in South Africa,I treat myself to some delicious sausages and bacon.  In the end I over eat, and of course add kilos to myself.  No good.

Then I dash to work, often sitting through meetings, but occasionally, sitting in a four wheel drive hitting a distant and remote part of the world.  I return in the evening, back at the hotel of course, and the boredom starts.

From 6 PM till I hit the bed, I am lost.  I try to be good, so, I go for a walk, then drink and at eat more than I should, before returning to my room.  As I walk, no one pays attention to me, except if I am in Colombo.  Its the pimps.  Colombo is infested with pimps, they mistake me for Indian tourists, who are their prime clients.  Initially, they bemused me, then irritated me, but now I feel sorry for them.  I wonder what had propelled them to be pimps, and wonder, if they had a choice, would they do it?

Now I am in my room, dead tired, but I am also a email -internet junkie.  So, I get into the virtual world of amusement.  After an hour or so, I am tired, I crawl into my bed and start checking out pillows.

Sometimes, I wish I could enjoy all the luxury a five star hotel gives -lazy mornings, quiet and long breakfasts, walk past busy streets doing window shopping, a light lunch, then a siesta, gym then pool before a drink and a a dinner.  It appears that I am not entitled to them despite my office taking the tab (or is it because my office taking the tab)!  

Remembering Ayesha

Ayesha was our maid in Oman for a few years.  When she worked for us, she was a young woman, probably in mid to late twenties.  She got married when she was 10, had a child at 11, left the child with her family in Kerala, India, to join her husband in Oman.  Her husband Jaffer was a kitchen help in one of the many kitchens belonged to the Sultan of Oman.

When we moved to Oman in 2002, she found out that we were looking for a maid, and knocked on our door.  My wife thought that she was 'interviewing' a conservative woman, well covered on purdah, for the position.  I think my wife was half-hearted, so, she asked for my opinion.  We were in need of a maid to look after our two kids,three and one.  I said let's give it a try.

Ayesha joined us as a maid.  Without purdah, she looked young and nice, did not speak much with me, but it seems that she was talking a lot with my wife.  They exchanged recipes, stories of women in Oman, and so on.  She will come to work around 8 AM, and leave by 3 pm, so I hardly saw her except on Thursdays, when we both were home.  In Oman, Thursdays and Fridays made the weekend.  She did not work on Fridays.

The first month came to an end, and we gave her a fifty rial note as her salary.  Its 130 USD, considered a good salary for part-time maids in Oman.  That was the agreement.  Ayesha was not happy.  She thought we gave her a ten rial note, which is a similar color note to a fifty.  Its then we realized that Ayesha could not read.  She did not know the difference between 10 and 50, and she had never seen a 50 rial note.

Later she found that two other families, resided on house numbers 22 and 24, required a part time maid after 3 pm, and she wanted to check them out.  My do-gooder wife wrote 22 in her right hand and 24 in her left hand, and told her if the house is on right its 22 and if its on left it will be 24.  Pretty sad.

Whenever I traveled, Ayesha will stay home over night, she will not do any work on hours other than from 8 AM and 3 pm, but being at home was helpful.

There are many interesting incidents between us and Jaffers.  Once they wanted us to have lunch on a festival day, and we agreed.  Both were so happy.  Jaffer offered me a bottle of whiskey (about 5 USD - still twice as expensive than the whiskeys they drink).  He will come to our place occasionally, and cook some very good food.  The first time, I too wanted to reciprocate, I offered a bottle of Chivas Regal, he cleaned half a liter in no time, as he was cooking.  I could not make similar offers every time he came, it was not easy to get Chivas Regal in Oman.

My wife and Ayesha got along well for a few years, then things started going sour.  My tolerant wife will complain to me, but will not confront her.  She just do not know how.

One day, my wife called me from my kids' school and said Ayesha had to go.  I was in the College, I went home, called Ayesha, and said we do not need her services anymore, paid her dues, and told her to leave.  I was polite but firm.  She was in the middle of ironing, she too was mad at us, yet, she said she will finish ironing and leave.  I told her that there's no need for that and she should leave straight away.  I had to get back to work.  She covered herself, walked out of the house, paused, returned, but finally left without making any fuss.  She was proud too.

So, how come I remembered her after almost 9 years?  I am in Pretoria today, and I had chicken wings for dinner tonight with South African red wine. Ayesha's husband as a kitchen help had access to bags full of frozen chicken wings.  He will send them through Ayesha, she will fry a few every day for me to have it with my whiskey when I come home.  That was good.  Just think about it.  A maid's husband sending  food for her Master.  Funny isn't it.

My wife and I have seen Ayesha a few times later on the streets.  She will wave, we too will wave, make a polite small conversation and move on.  I think she regretted offending my wife.   We have no idea where she is.

Its disappointing when a reasonably good relationship ends on a sour note.  But, that's the way life is.  All good things must and will come to an end.

Tales of Two Traffic Wardens

A red Benz sedan was parked in the portico of Muscat International Airport's arrival hall.  It was early 2000s, the airport was much smaller than what it is now.  The car was blocking traffic, arriving passengers, and the rest.  It was not helpful, and illegal.  A young traffic warden came and looked for the owner for a few minutes.  Stood there, scratched his head, walked around and around.  There were no takers.  The frustrated traffic warden pulled his 'Chalan' booklet, wrote a ticket, put it under the wiper and walked away.

My guests haven't arrived, so, I continued to loiter.

There came a man with a cigar in his mouth.  He looked at the ticket and was offended.  Now, he was looking all over, and finally located the traffic warden.  Clapped at the warden and summoned him to the car.  A conversation ensued, the warden looking at the ground as if he had sinned, and the man with a cigar lecturing in a low,but stern voice.  There was hardly any response from the traffic warden.  Finally after five minutes of scolding, the warden pulled the ticket out and tore it up.  The smoker got into the car and drove away.

Those of you unfamiliar with Oman's power structure, there are families, who have enormous informal power over the others.  The Royal family is of course on top, and then depending on their relationships with or recognition by the Royals, varying degrees of power prevail.  I suspect that the smoker is in one of these circles of power, not very close to the Royals, but not very far from them either.  Else, no one would dare challenging  member of the ROP, Royal Oman Police.  That was Tale One.

Tale two.  In 1981, when Mrs Indira Gandhi was the PM of India, her car was  parked 'illegally'.  A young female traffic warden - later became the most decorated female police officer in India  todate - had the car towed away.  The traffic warden is Kiren Bedi, a prominent advocate for transparency in Government.  Despite all it flaws and its lurch towards development, there is something in India which gives hope.

Kiren Bedi is a symbol of such hope.

Sam & Faraq - A Sri Lankan meets an Egyptian

Let me introduce Sam.  That's me.  When someone wants to know my name, and I am sure that the relationship is temporary, I spare them the agony of learning my name - Prathapar.  In 2004, I was in Cairo attending a workshop.  I wanted to hit the town on the first day after the workshop.  As I walked outside the hotel, a man approached me and asked if I needed a Taxi.  I said yes and asked for his name.  He said he is Faraq.  So, now you know who we are and what our relationship was.  It was a five-day relationship, and that was brief.

I negotiated a price with Faraq to take me into town and return, and at the end of the trip, he took his money and asked if I needed to see the Pyramids.  I said yes, of course, and he agreed on a price and time for us to meet the next day, which was a holiday.  He arrived on time, drove to the point where the Nile diverged, and then off to the tourist area.  He introduced a man who had offered to take me on a camel into the tourist park.  I made a mistake; I did not agree on a price.

The Camel owner walked along with me on the camel, did the right things like photos of sphinx and pyramids, tombs, and so on, and when the trip finished after about three hours, he asked for money, more than what a regular tourist company would ask.  Faraq was watching.  I knew the demand was too high, but I was not in a position to argue.  Too late.  I paid him, and Faraq went with him.  I came back when I realized that Faraq had a cut in it, too.

I am upset, but again, I could not confront Faraq.  Instead, I told him that I felt the Camel owner had cheated on me and that Faraq should not take tourists to the Camel owner.  Faraq was quiet and listening.  In my mind, I have decided not to hire Faraq anymore.  When we reached the hotel, I paid his dues, agreed, and was about to go into the hotel.  Faraq called me, "Sam," and I stopped.  "How about this afternoon?" he asked faintly, and I said, 'Don't worry.'  Then, he insisted that he liked to take me around and agreed to a reasonable fare.  I had the afternoon free and needed a taxi, but the fare was reasonable.

Faraq showed up promptly, and we toured all over Cairo, waited where he had to, told me to pretend to be a Muslim when walking into old mosques so I need not pay an entrance fee, took me to the joints where taxi drivers hang out for a snack - good food-cheap price - and it was fun.  Then I told him that I would like to go to a nightclub.

In Egypt, nightclubs open at midnight until the early hours.  He took me to one and negotiated a price for him and me with the owner, and it was reasonable.  The price included an entrance fee, a couple of beers, and dinner for both.  The club had several music troupes performing an hour each, and each one was different.  One of them was a male-only, drum-only band.  Beer, music, food, and Faraq were happy.  So was I, although the smoke started to bother me.  Around 3 AM, I told Faraq that it was time to go.  He dropped me off at the hotel, and we agreed he would pick me up again the following afternoon.

There he was, and he said he wanted me to visit his family.  I said fine, and after an hour's drive, we were at his village.  He took me to his 'one room all in all house,' and the wife was cooking.  She had no warning of this Sri Lankan visitor.  There was no electricity, and firewood was smoking like it used to be in our family kitchen some fifty years ago.  The food was simple and ready.  We walked into his banana patch (a few trees well watered), a few more joined in, a carpet was rolled out, and we all sat and ate.  It was an unexplainable feeling.  I was in a peasant's backyard, eating his hard-earned food.  But I liked the whole thing.  It was about to get dark, and then he said, why don't you come to a wedding in the neighborhood?  Sam, the ever curious, and I could not resist the offer.

I have no idea where the couple were, and the party was on a back street.  Chairs were arranged in circles, men sat with their friends, and a local band sang.  I sat with Faraq's friends.  A man brought room-temperature beer, someone bought a six-pack, and I, too, bought another, and we started to drink.  Then I heard the band singing Sam Something Something.  At Faraq's instruction, the band was welcoming me!  I was called to the stage; I obliged, waved at all, and returned to the seat.  Suddenly, I saw one of the men ripping tobacco out of cigarettes, raising my curiosity.  He then took a small plastic packet of Marijuana, mixed it with the tobacco, and started to roll the mix into cigars.  Well, I thought I better get out of there.  I told Faraq that I was feeling tired.  Faraq and I said bye to everyone, and he dropped me off at the hotel.

The next day was the final day.  Faraq was there to take me to the airport, and I needed a small handbag for various souvenirs I bought.  Faraq took me to a travel bag maker; he bought me a sturdy, well-made bag for a very good price.

It was almost lunchtime, and Faraq insisted that he buy me lunch because I had been paying for his meals for the past few days.  I said OK, we went to a cafe frequented by Taxi drivers.  It was not a street cafe; Faraq wanted to treat me well and ordered a meal - a mixture of noodles and fried rice.  We had our lunch and were ready to head towards the airport.

Faraq asked if I needed to buy anything more.  I said, "No, my money is finished".  What I meant was that I am running out of Egyptian shillings.  Faraq thought I had no money and offered money from his car's dashboard.  I told him that I meant Egyptian schillings, and since I am now leaving Cairo, I do not need it either.  He understood.  Faraq dropped me at the airport; I gave him whatever Shillings I had, a bit more than the taxi fare, and he reluctantly accepted it.  We bid bye to each other.  A poor taxi driver had shown me good times in Cairo.

I still wonder why he was nice to me.  Was it because I expressed my unhappiness with the Camel man and indirectly accused Faraq of dishonesty, and he wanted to show that he was a decent man?  Or was I a friendly customer, and Faraq was enjoying my company?  I am sure Faraq is not doing this to all his customers.

I will never know why, but I will never forget Faraq either.      

Memorable Air Travels

For a Jaffna boy born in the fifties, contemplation of air travel itself is something extraordinary.   I knew air travel is possible, but did not think about it much, and fancied it to a much lesser extent.  Travel within Sri Lanka is always by road or train.  I do however have a vague memory of going to an Airport when I was less than five to receive an aunt who was returning from India.

My first air travel eventuated in 1980, when I traveled from Colombo, Sri Lanka to Bryan-College Station, Texas, USA.  I got myself a pin-striped suit made for the travel.  Two of my uncles and a few friends came to the airport to see me off.  I could come out of the airport after checking-in to say bye to them.  The plane went from Colombo to Karachi, to Athens, to Amsterdam where we changed planes to travel to London.  I stayed over-night there and flew to Washington DC where I was a guest for a few days.  Then I flew to Houston, Texas via Jacksonville, Florida.  Finally, I flew from Houston to Bryan-College Station.  I think the reason for hop-scotching across Asia/Europe, was not the capacity of planes, but a lack of passengers.  A lot has changed since then, one could fly from Colombo to Europe, and then to Bryan-College Station without delays. 

The Boy who left Jaffna in 1980

Since it was my first air travel, I thought of collecting the boarding passes as souvenirs.  It did not take long to give up on that hobby.  During my days in the US, I traveled very cheaply by air.  A ticket from Houston to New Orleans cost me 27 dollars, and another from Houston to New York cost me about 50 dollars.  I had figured out that if I take late night fights, I could save money on air travel and hotels.

In 1987, when I migrated to Australia, I had to go from Sydney to Griffith, a sleepy Australian country-town, an hour away by air.  A friend dropped me at Sydney airport, I checked in my baggage, identified the boarding gate, and there were no one.  A few passengers gathered later, and the crew of two came along.  They told us to board the plane, probably a twenty seater, did a head count and took-off.  They were the days without security scares.

Griffith:  My Home from 1987-1996

In the 1990s, I had to travel from Canberra to Griffith in a four-seater plane, and my flight was to depart around 6:30 pm.  I was at the airport by 5 pm, and went to a coffee bar before departure.  As I sipped my coffee, I noticed two young men walking to me, both in their twenties, wearing flight jackets.  I looked up, and one of them asked if I was Prathapar.  I was dazed that someone in Canberra knew me by name.  I said, yes, and was waiting, not knowing what more to say.  One of them then said, 'Sir, when you finish your coffee, we can take off'.  I just fell off the chair, well almost.  I had two pilots waiting to fly me home, and willing to wait till I finish my coffee.  I felt VERY important, but did not want to keep the young men waiting.  So, gulped the coffee in a blink, and marched to the plane with my private pilots!

Griffith:  The land of fruits & wine

A few years later, I had to catch a 5:30 am flight from Griffith to Melbourne in a seven-seater plane.  My wife drove me to the airport around 5 am; we were expected to check in 20 minutes before departure.  As we approached the airport, the airport was dark, and we thought we were too early.  Then I saw a young woman rushing to our car, asking me if I was Prathapar, and I said yes.  She then ran to a public phone and called someone and within a few minutes, a plane landed for me to travel.  The plane had just taken-off from Griffith without me.  The departure time was changed, but I was not informed.  These were the days before smart phones.  I had a smug on my face relishing that a plane returned to pick me up, but I did notice the angst on my fellow passengers face.  

Flying into Central Asia and Caucuses had always been memorable to me.  I think it is largely because of the differences in bureaucratic processes from their Soviet era, and due to the difficulties in communication.  They hardly speak English, and I do not speak Russian. 

In 1999, I had to attend a meeting on a Monday in Tashkent, and the agency hosted me sent an invitation letter in Russian with the date corresponding to the Monday.  I submitted it to their Embassy in Islamabad to obtain my visa, and landed in Tashkent a day earlier, the Sunday, around noon.  In the visa, the Embassy has recorded the date of the meeting, and I have arrived 12 hours earlier before my visa could come into effect.  Despite the difficulties in communication, I conveyed to them my predicament, and they agreed to inform my host agency.  However, rules are rules, and I can’t be permitted to enter Tashkent without a visa for the day I have landed.  Consequently, I was DETAINED.

Samarkand:  The Home of Indian Mughal's Ancestors

A young soldier with a Kalashnikov escorted me in a full size 50-60 seater bus, to the detention center within the airport premises, probably a km away from the arrival lounge.  It was a very modern building, and one of the rooms was the detention center.  There were only two of us – my guard and me.  As we waited, I heard music coming from another room which doors were closed.  I asked the guard, what it was, and he smiled and said it’s a bar.  I tried to persuade him to go to the bar, he did not agree, but I started to walk.  He had no choice but to follow me.  The bar man opened the door; another man and a young girl were dancing to the music.  I sat on a very comfortable lounge, ordered vodka, and watched West-Indies playing Pakistan for 1999 Cricket World Cup on a very large plasma TV.  It was a pity that I was detained only for two hours or so, by when my host managed to come and rescue me. 

Mirzo Ulugbek:  A 15th Century Astronomer & Mathematician 

Again in 1999, I had to attend a meeting at Tbilisi, Georgia.  When I landed, I heard someone calling me by name within the Business Class.  My organizers have sent a Guide to take me from the plane to the hotel.  He spoke in very good English, and said he was a University Lecturer.  He collected my passport, and as we came down the stairwell (there were no air-bridge then), there was a Volvo Limousine on the tarmac for me and I was driven to the hotel.  My luggage and the passport were delivered later.  Very nice!

But the best of all was when I was a member of a University delegation led by the Vice Chancellor.  A fellow member of the delegation was from the Royal Family.  During the entire travel in Europe, I was reminded of a Tamil adage, which loosely translates into, “when rice is irrigated, the weed too gets water”.  Yes, the Royal Family member was the rice receiving the protocol she was entitled to, and I was one of the weeds, benefiting from the hospitality wherever we went.  We always flew First Class in Emirates, which offered a suite with a full-size bed, private mini bar and on-demand menu full of exquisite food and wine.  When we landed in Dubai, we were taken from the plane through its emergency exit by a limousine to a very private lounge- just for our delegation.  It was better than the first class lounge, I bet.  I do not think, I will ever enjoy a flight like that.

Sultan Qaboos University of Oman

Emirates Airbus 380 - The First Class is pure luxury

Because of airplanes and air travels, I was able to visit at least forty countries around the world.  I haven’t been to Southern America yet.  May be one day I will go there.  Having said so, nowadays, I am a bit averse to flying.  Fortunately in my current job, my flights are short duration ones, a maximum of two hours.  I do not have to catch flights in the middle of the night and do not have to land in unusual places at awkward times.