This one time at the airport . . .
At the entrance, the security personnel looks at my ID and eyes me quizzically. The person in the ID is from another time, a babyfaced student. The person standing now is a corporate yeti with half a foot of beard.
I try to laugh it away, "Haan sir, hum hi hain!"
He doesn't return the smile, but ushers me in nonetheless. Airport security is no laughing matter, of course.
We collect our boarding passes and proceed.
At the next round of security checks, I drop my hand baggage in the conveyor belt and join the serpentine queue.
When it's finally my turn, the security personnel looks at my boarding pass and eyes me quizzically. I can see a cloud gathering . . .
— B Choudhury? Are you B Choudhury?
— Yes
He proceeds to scan me.
— Why is B not spelled out?
— This is an official trip. The tickets were booked by the company. I'm not sure why they did not spell it out.
His hand reaches out to stamp the boarding pass. He stops centimetres away and looks at me, lost in thought, his hands lost in the gathering clouds . . .
He scans me again intently, as if this time he really means it. Meanwhile, the people behind and around me are getting uneasy.
— Okay. What does B stand for?
The people are restless, yes, but also curious. All ears are on me. The revelation of my first name will probably break this mysterious impasse. Now B Choudhury is a puzzle. Nobody can put a finger on B Choudhury's geographic or ethnic identity.
— Bibhudutta, I say.
— Dutta! Dutta?! Choudhury, too?
— Yes
I can see the cloud of questions waiting to burst like a landfall. But the clouds dissipate mid-air. Some questions could prove to be inappropriate.
More furious scanning. I see the hand rise up and come down in reluctance, as if it were fighting a lost cause against gravity. My boarding pass is blessed, at last.
I walk past towards the conveyor belt to collect my bag, when I'm greeted by another security personnel.
— Is this your bag?
— Yes
The other security personnel has joined the scene now with that knowing look on his face.
— Scissors are not allowed on board.
— Sorry. I must have packed them inadvertently. I'm aware of the rules.
— What do you use these scissors for?
— For keeping my beard in order.
They take a look at the scissors. They are not your ordinary grooming scissors. They are surgical scissors from my dissection set from high school. They are precious for reasons that I cannot explain.
The security personnel tells me:
— But these are not trimming scissors.
I see a bucket of orphaned objects close by. I also see that it contains scissors of all kinds. I'm not the only absent-minded yeti in town. But how many scissors in this bucket had their identities questioned?
I'm asked to be careful next time. I board my flight without further ado.
Later on, after my story has spread, a colleague tells me:
— Thank God you had a moustache, eh?
