If looks could kill

In hindsight, I feel it was a story scripted with ingredients celluloid flicks are made of. Only this one was not the flight of fancy of s...

In hindsight, I feel it was a story scripted with ingredients celluloid flicks are made of. Only this one was not the flight of fancy of some seasoned writer. Little did I imagine when a friend and I embarked upon a fortnight’s trip to Sri Lanka that we would be an unwitting party to the smoke of suspicion that clouds the Emerald Country. The seeds of the story were sown at Thiruvananthapuram airport itself where an emigration officer confronted us with an expression that betrayed his cynicism misplaced though it was. "So you’re going to Colombo?" he said, his voice dripping with suspicion. But a few routine queries later, he let me pass through to the passengers’ lounge. My pal wasn’t so lucky. The officer threw such rapidfire questions at him that it would have had a seasoned quiz master nodding in admiration.

As we cooled our heels waiting for the delayed Air Lanka flight, we could seen an action replay of what we had been through. We began to understand and appreciate the securitymen’s anxiety. After all, we were to step on to the Buddha’s cradle, now rocked by militancy. On boarding the flight, we put the unsavoury episode behind us and settled down to watch the nimble-footed, beautifully attired air hostesses. Within minutes we took off and even as we gorged on the sumptuous Lankan cuisine, we began to draw mental pictures of the small island. Our ecstatic stupor was cut short as the plane hit ground and, lo, we had descended on Lankan territory.

Fifteen minutes later we were facing a Lankan immigration officer who seemed tough to the boot. This time Pappu was cleared and I was at the receiving end. My chum later told me the trick. "I am a journalist," he had told the officer. His imposing figure hovering over me, the officer shot off some probing questions at me. One of the questions should have been a give-away, but my journalistic instinct failed me. "Which part of India do you belong to?"

Our ordeal had just begun yet. The penetrative looks chased us during the long drive from Jayewardene airport to the National Youth Centre in downtown Colombo. We sought to smother our unnerving experiences by chatting the taxi driver. "You are from India, saar, India is our big brother. I am a fan of Madhuri Dixit," he gushed. This was only a short-lived diversion. At the youth centre, we were looked through as if we were Martians. Later, as our taxi zeroed in on a waterfront hotel, we saw some armymen checking vehicles. "That’s the usual practice, just show them your passports," the cabbie advised us. Ordering us out of the taxi, the armymen frisked us rather rudely and unscrambled our baggages. But the we-are-journalists line worked.At the hotel, however, we were treated royally, the surprise package being a Pakistani roomboy Shabbir, who made us feel we were his next of kin. We basked in the twilight, watching swirling waves splash close to us. The trains trundled along the coast majestically. It was a breathtaking sight we acknowledged with long sighs. Our visits to gem city Ratnapura, Pillyandala, Hambantata, Narwaraelya and Kurnnagla were rewarding and we wondered why we hadn’t been here before.

Kandy, the Buddha’s place, however, unfolded a diametrically different face of the island. Forget lesser mortals like us, even the Buddha was engulfed by security. The temple resembled an army cantonment. Reason: a blast triggered by "extremists" defiled it two years back. Here too, we were looked at suspiciously. This was getting too much. An old couple promised to tell us the reason, but only on the day of our return. The promise was not broken. The nickel dropped and dropped so resonantly. I was told on my departure: "You look like a Tamil and your friend a Muslim!" And all we could do was to sport an apologetic smile.