Stepping out of a rickety Toyota taxi, I collected my luggage from its smelly boot. The luggage comprised two medium-sized blue suitcases and a backpack. Rickety Toyota taxis were the norm in Yangon – a beautiful city living in a time warp. My colleague, who was seeing me off, paid the taxidriver and off went the WWII contraption, belching black smoke. We were dropped outside the ‘Departure’ gate of Yangon International Airport, whose terminal bore an interesting façade, resembling that of one of the many pagodas dotting the cityscape. Fetching a trolley, I loaded my bags onto it and after a warm handshake from my colleague, wheeled the three-wheeler into the building.
I had first arrived at Yangon on 18th November, 2002; on a posting as the Resident Manager of a multinational engaged in the trading of beans, pulses and spices; and now, a little over five months later, was on my way back home, via Kolkata. Ostensibly and technically, this visit was for exiting the country and returning with a fresh business visa as my existing one was on the verge of expiring; but to me it simply afforded the pleasure of reuniting with my family back at Nashik. My reaching home on my wife’s birthday was to provide the icing on the cake!
So there I was, easily brushing past the immigration and security of Myanmar and awaiting impatiently the departure of flight IC 316 to Kolkata. My check-in baggage having been got rid off, I only had the backpack to contend with, but as it contained my passport and cash, I guarded it zealously.
The flight was on time and once the aircraft reached cruising altitude and attained the requisite velocity, I relaxed. Flying at almost 27000 ft. and sipping Heineken, I couldn’t help being in high spirits! As I was flying Indian Airlines, the white, fluffy and fresh clouds outside the plane’s window made for far better viewing than the dark, plump and greying airhostesses adorning its insides. At 17=30 IST, the aircraft made a graceful touchdown at Netaji Subhash Airport and I had plenty of time – four hours and a half – to go through the rigmarole of immigration, baggage claim and customs, before hiring a pre-paid taxi and reaching Howrah station – 19 kms. away - during the peak hours. Or so I thought!
The first hurdle of Immigration was quickly cleared. An unexpected one in the form of a small medical check-up was thrown in my path! These were the days of SARS which had its origins in Hong Kong and the nasty disease had travelled to India via Thailand. I should have anticipated something in the form of a check-up, as my flight from Yangon to Kolkata had halted at Bangkok en route. Anyway, the second hurdle was also overcome, as SARS had not managed to find its way to Yangon, thankfully!
I strode confidently to the conveyor belt and collecting a trolley, wheeled it as close to the belt as permitted by indisciplined passengers (all Indians), for the mandatory wait. After what seemed like the longest five minutes of my life, the belt started moving, signifying the fact that luggage from the aircraft’s belly was being offloaded onto the belt, to be claimed by its eager and rightful owners. For the next ten minutes or so, my eyes were glued to the conveyor and the sharpness with which I watched every piece of luggage roll out would have made the Quality Control Manager of a luggage manufacturer proud! Many bags, baskets, cartons and pieces that passed off for bags; of various shapes, sizes and colours; came and went slowly in a neat ‘U’. Many of them returned, with new companions. After what seemed an eternity, I happily spotted one of my suitcases – the larger of the two – and wasted no time in grabbing it, like a child grabbing a toy. Bag no. 1 was safely on my trolley, waiting to be joined by bag no. 2. You wouldn’t blame me for thinking that it would arrive within minutes; and after that; customs and security would be a mere formality; as I had neither narcotics nor contraband in any of my bags; would you? The total value of goods that I was ‘importing’ – mainly chocolates, biscuits, other food stuff, a few folding umbrellas and a couple of odds and ends – was well within the permissible, duty-free limits.
Fifteen minutes passed and there was still no sign of the second, smaller suitcase. For the first time since I had left Yangon, a frown creased my forehead. I started worrying. A few unpleasant thoughts started clouding my mind, concealed behind the creases. Lost baggage, police complaint, missing my train, staying overnight at Kolkata… thoughts that had never entered my mind now seemed distinct possibilities. Suddenly, the conveyor stopped and for a second, so did my heart! This could only mean that no more bags remained to be offloaded. Where was my bag? What had happened to it? Would I ever see it again? Questions chased one another in my troubled brain. For the next few minutes, I stood rooted to the spot, my forehead bathed in sweat in the airconditioned terminal building, trying to get my bearings and decide on the next course of action. The other passengers had left and that part of the terminal was almost deserted. I finally moved and as if on an impulse, went over to the other side of the conveyor. Lo! There, with a part of it touching the ground and its top resting against the side of the conveyor, forming an angle with the floor, stood my errant piece of luggage! To say I was overjoyed would be an understatement. Probably, the bag had been on the edge of the belt and had been nudged off it by a bigger and stronger piece of luggage. That explained why I had not seen it from the other side of the belt where I had been standing earlier; but how I had failed to spot it as it came on the conveyor, will remain a mystery. I wouldn’t make a Q.C. manager proud, after all! Anyway, I was never happier to see a bag in my life!
With renewed vigour I collected the precious piece of cargo, loaded it onto the trolley and wheeled the trolley quickly in the direction of the exit. I couldn’t spot any other passenger and it seemed as if I was the only one in the entire terminal. Just before the exit, I encountered the baggage check counter, complete with an X-ray machine and a stern, sharp-eyed, bespectacled, middle-aged gentleman manning it. He must have smacked his lips on seeing me, as a lonely passenger is easy prey. Expectedly, I was stopped by the stern, sharp-eyed, bespectacled, middle-aged gentleman and in a crisp voice, ordered to load one by one, all the three items of luggage onto the machine.
The beads of sweat that had dried, now returned and so did the creases on my forehead. Here I was, all eager for a quick exit after the ordeal of the bag; and to find a taxi to Howrah station; but I was stopped. Couldn’t these officers differentiate between a simple, honest, eager-to-reach-home passenger and a smuggler or a terrorist?
The backpack slid off my back and first faced the ignominy of the machine’s scanner. It emerged unscathed. Of course, the other two pieces of luggage would follow suit, for reasons mentioned earlier. Or so I thought!
Bag no. 2 – the larger of the two – came through successfully too.
Finally, bag no.3 – the smaller but more mischievous of the two suitcases; the errant, truant bag that had mentally disturbed me just a little while earlier – went under the scanner and just as I was expecting it to merrily roll out of the machine, the belt stopped! For the second time that evening, within a matter of minutes, a belt had stopped, followed by the momentary stoppage of a heart beat! I was on the verge of crying! Now, what was wrong?
The stern, sharp-eyed, bespectacled, middle-aged gentleman, who seemed a gentleman no more, looked up from his machine’s screen straight into my nervous eyes and with a deft motion of his left hand commanded me to go over to his side. This was accompanied by a “Come here!” in a crisp, curt tone. Overcome by a certain fear, I obeyed. There was of course, no choice but to have obeyed. When I joined him on his side of the screen, he pointed at the screen and in a voice that sounded like the shot fired from a sten gun, barked , “What is this?”
When my gaze followed the direction of his finger towards the screen, my heart sank! The ground beneath my feet started giving away and I felt the terminal building rotate! “Arrest!” “Lock-up!” “Court-case!” “Jail!” The most morbid ideas flashed through my mind, for, on the screen were images of the contents of my plagued bag and bang in the centre were guns!!!
Guns?? How the …What the… Where the…. Was this the reason for that ill-fated piece of luggage turning up late? Had someone tampered with it and loaded it with guns at Yangon airport? Or at Kolkata? Was this a frame-up? As a Bollywood buff, I couldn’t be blamed for having gathered such mortifying thoughts, could I?
Suddenly, it hit me in a flash! Trying to stammer out an answer, I blurted, “ They’re umbrellas!” It had occurred to me, possibly in the nick of time, that I had packed the folding umbrellas in that bag! On the screen, the folding umbrellas resembled the thin barrels of guns and other items of luggage had conspired with the umbrellas to so align themselves inside the naughty bag, that they resembled butts; and the ‘guns’ were complete!
With tons of relief and new found confidence I questioned the stern, sharp-eyed, bespectacled, middle-aged gentleman; who seemed stern no more but who was watching me intently, “Shall I open the bag and show you?” The gentleman must have been through many similar situations before and may have just been testing my presence of mind or may have been wanting to see whether I had packed the bag myself, for he simply said, with just the hint of a smile playing around his lips, “ No, you may go.”
Never have I heard sweeter words in my life!