#33 Caging the birds

On 4 Febuary, a plane carrying 100 Indians accused of entering the US illegally landed in Amritsar, Punjab. Two more will land on 15 and 16 Feb, after President Trump began his onslaught on immigrants

Welcome to the third edition of All Things Indian, where I unpack the complexities of contemporary India. Each post is a short piece of fiction based on real people I have seen, heard of and met during my decades of reporting. Each story will give you a short insight into the state of affairs in India today.

Surinder Singh Sandhu always strode into his office with a small cup of milky tea, with a dash of cream floating on its surface. “An office with a view, eh Ballu?” he joked every single day with his colleague Balwinder, as he slurped his sweet beverage. The joke was as stale as dead fish on a sandy beach. But, Ballu laughed heartily just as he would whenever he saw a 90s comedy film on TV. Surinder - Sandy to Ballu - joined in.

Today, though, Surinder sauntered through and slouched upon the chair that gave him the view of the long runway with carefully painted yellow borders and adorned with red square lights that glow in the dark, offering directions to the pilot.

Balwinder was already in a chair beside him. They nodded at each other.

Surinder picked up the receiver of a black phone to his left, waited a beat and asked “AI 4328?”

After hearing the response, he said “okay, noted” before hanging up.

“So?” asked Ballu.

“Bas yaar, prep for its clearance,” he said in a meek voice.

The previous evening, Ballu and Sandy had received a memo.

A plane full of peasants, construction workers, engineers, linesmen, tailors, barbers, plumbers, painters, gardeners, sons, daughters, parents, husbands and wives were being sent back to India. They would all collectively be called “Indian deportees” by the media. Many of them had not even reached their dreamland, Amrika.

Ballu and Sandy were to ensure the plane got priority landing. Two ministers from Delhi were to meet the deportees on the runway. Two senior bureaucrats were to enter the plane, once it had landed to take stock of the deportees. Many journalists had requested access of the runway, so Sandy and Ballu had to work with the airport staff to facilitate the requests.

“Boys, Modi sahab is in the US. So, this time, we have got to be extra vigilant about the deportees,” their boss Mehta sahab had told them. “The whole world’s media will be focused on runway number 2 of Amritsar.” Mehta sahab was not more than a couple of years older than Ballu and Sandy but he insisted on calling them “boys” and on them calling him “sahab”. Sir.

About ten days ago, when a plane full of deportees landed on runway number 2 of Amritsar, Sandy had expected to see relieved faces. After being strung along in war zones, across deserts, dense forests and punishing rivers for months without food or water, his countrymen were returning to their families, to the satisfaction of putting hot rotis into their mouths in the safety of their homes. Such a relief!

What he saw instead shocked him.

Surinder always dreamt of becoming a pilot. “Why?” his grandfather had asked one nippy morning. “Because I hate to be shackled,” he had said. “I want to fly in the open skies where there are no limits or boundaries.” Years later, on a similar nippy morning, he ran excitedly to his grandfather who was slouched on a cane chair in the balcony. Surinder had secured a job in Air Traffic Control. His grandfather had laughed at him. “You decided that if you couldn’t fly around in the skies without being bound by rules and regulations, you will ensure no one does?” he asked between chuckles, while placing his arm on Sandy’s head to offer his blessing.

“Yes,” the 25-year-old Sandy had responded. “Cities have boundaries, states have boundaries and countries have boundaries, daarji,” he had laughed along. “Without them there will be chaos. I will bring order, enforce rules” he had beamed.

“Careful, Surinder. The powerful always make rules and the powerless always break them,” his grandfather had said.

Sitting in the Air Traffic Control Room, Sandy braced himself for AI 4328. To see what he had witnessed ten days ago when another plane spit out people called deportees. The pain of failure on their faces is so sharp it can cut across the chilly winds and pierce the glass in Sandy’s office. All of them had undertaken the arduous journey to make something of themselves. All of them had failed.

It is tough to weigh shame against the hopelessness as the passengers de-board. Some feel like covering their faces from the cameras so that no one notices the extra layer of crimson shame on their faces. Others hide their faces so that no one notices that their faces are jaundiced with hopelessness. They have perhaps returned to taunts and sneers. Others have returned to tears and disappointment. Every time they put hot rotis in their mouths, they will be reminded that their families had saved to send them far away.

Sandy thought about the millions of hard earned rupees they would have spent on their journeys, with the expectation of earning more in dollars. Is anyone in debt? Who will repay those? Mothers? Fathers? Sisters? Brothers? Friends?

In trying to enforce rules, Sandy had come face to face with the cruel nature of boundaries. Anyone who tries to breach them is given firm raps on the knuckles like
Singh Master used to in class 7.

The men and women onboard AI 4328 would get one of those raps today, pushing their desperate lives into further desperation.

“Permission to land granted, AI 4328” Sandy spoke into the system.

He would soon hear the swoosh of the plane tilting down towards the ground. Its metallic wheels crashing the hard surface of runway number 2 of Amritsar - just like the dreams of the hundreds of those inside the aircraft.