Immigrashion...Indian Ishtyle

"Kya? ", demanded the mustachioed cop in response to my unsure survey of the vicinity of the arrival gate at the Indira Gandhi International Airport, New Delhi.

"Arrival, " I replied, upon which I was directed, with a supercilious air, towards a set of stairs leading to the Immigration kiosks. I realized, a tad too late, that I had missed a yellow board, which proclaimed "Arrivals" in bold black letters. Horrible colour scheme, I must say.

The damage with the cop was done. He probably perceived me as some spoiled 'phoren' brat, too lazy to even read the signs.

I got only halfway down before a sea of people blocked my way. This was the queue for Immigration, explained the man before me.

"Queue! What queue? Where, " I was flustered at my inability to divine any such formation in the multitude before me.

"Aage chalne se patha chalega. Do flight saath mein aa gaye bhai.", he explained. "These bloody airlines don't know how to schedule properly."

I nodded in acknowledgement of the wisdom latent in his outburst. Bloody airlines indeed.
Having nowhere else to go, I joined in behind him.

Time crawled. The line hardly did. Somehow the space created in front seemed to get eaten up by the time it reached us.

Suddenly, I had a sinking sensation at the pit of my stomach. "Is this the line for Indian nationals?", I asked my companion. Boredom had forged an easy bond between us.
" No. Nahin na. This is for non-Indian citizens. Your line is over there.", he replied pointing to his left.

Alarm clouded my eyes. Nahiiiiiiiiiiinnnn… I wanted to scream, Bollywood style but I restrained the urge. Not trusting myself to speak, I simply nodded to him and joined another mass of people to my left.

This line moved slower than the one I had just left. Perplexing. Shouldn't Indians have it easier in India?

Half an hour and 10 meters later, I saw another yellow board with bold black letters. This time it said "Indian Nationals". No faulting me this time for missing it. Signs like these belong on the roof, not on the bloody floor amidst all those feet.

Then the unthinkable happened (airport wise). The lights went out, though only for a couple of seconds: enough time for everyone to howl and chuckle and clap. When they came back on, I looked toward the non-Indians and detected a touch of condescending amusement. My new friend-in-front-of-the-line pointed out, in all solemnity, "You wait till summer. Then you will see."

A refrain from a spoof-rap song sprang to my mind, "Welcome to India where the cows eat hay and we ride on autorickshaws everyday."

Two men behind me were contemplating the price of Johnny Walker, "Black. Good Quality. Duty free hai bhai. 2500 rupees. 1.75 L. Very cheap."

"Welcome to India", I smiled to myself.

An hour later, I found myself before the immigration desk. "Flight no. nahin dala form mein.", he observed, bored. "Hoga vahan pe kahin", I retorted. Unthinkable, I wouldn't dare reply in a similar vein to a US official. Not unless I wanted myself handcuffed and labeled a terrorist.

We do love India, and hey bhagwan, we hope some things change. But some others-kabhi nahin, never.