The Great Khan was very fascinated by the telephone, the airport and travel. Not in any particular order, but if he was traveling by air, and he was in an airport, and had to wait around, he HAD to speak on the telephone. Actually, he was more fascinated by one another thing. He loved to hear others speak on the telephone at airports. Their conversation fascinated him.
Nowadays the cellphone is everywhere and it made Great Khan enjoy his fascination at airports much more easier. Earlier with payphones, it was more difficult to eavesdrop. Now, all he had to do was to sit near someone speaking loudly into the cellphone, and he could have his "timepass".
What the Great Khan did not realise was that travelers speaking intensely and earnestly on their cellphones at airports would get totally rattled if they caught sight of the the huge pathan watching them. The Great Khan's stare could destroy even the most tough of border army sergeants, so how could a hassled air traveler not get nervous.
Once at the New Delhi airport, early morning, the Great Khan arrived from Kabul, having traveled with great difficulty from his village that was high up in the secret mountains somewhere. Nobody usually bothered with his passport, for did all of them not look the same and did not all of them have the same surname? Someone was to meet the Great Khan at the New Delhi airport at the early hours of 5 am and take him to the old city area near Chandni Chowk. But, the person had not shown up and the Great Khan was getting impatient, and he had no telephone to call from.
There was a middle-aged businessman looking type person, most probably one of those millions of businessmen Indians from the plains. Of course, anything south of the Ganges in India was the "plains"... not like his good old Himalayas. You knew the good people were from the mountains and all other shifty-buggers were from the plains. This India was indeed a strange place. Anyway, this middle-aged businessman was talking into a payphone and asking someone to come and fetch him from the airport.
The businessman seemed to be dialing several times, and each time, speaking to someone on the other side. The Great Khan came closer to the businessman and tried to catch the conversation. And kept coming closer and closer, until suddenly the businessman, conservative guy from Mumbai, got aware that there was this huge pathan-like guy, looking totally like a very violent terrorist from Hindi movies about violent terrorists from the Himalayan nations, was standing very near, and hearing all his conversation. Terrified, the businessman kept the phone down, picked up his briefcase and tried to get away.
It was not possible. The Great Khan had some questions. He blocked the businessman’s exit path and asked in pahari pushtoon-laced Hindi that he knew from the Hindi movie, Zanjeer, “Oye Saheb, whom did you call now? Did you ask someone to meet you and take you to the city?”
The businessman, already terrified, got more terrified, about 10 times more, and it is indeed possible, if you are faced with such a question, early in the morning. He kept nodding, and saying, in English, “Yes. Yes. Yes. Call. Yes. Sorry. Telephone. Yes. Meet. Go. Go. I go. To city. Ok. Thank you. Thank you. Please. Good morning.”
For the Great Khan, this pitter-patter English was the only extent to which he knew the language, and so he was quite comfortable with it. Ok. This was a language that he could also speak with, and therefore, replied, in his bass loud voice, from deep inside his chest, proud that he had an opportunity to speak in English, at an international airport, “Go? You go? How? City? Where city Delhi? Where? Yes. Yes. Speak. Tell. How? Taxi?”
The businessman was getting scared and terrified, terrified and scared, started sweating profusely, and was wondering in his mind, if he had now got caught in some very intricate international terrorist plot or network. Who was this guy? Why did he want to know about my travel to New Delhi town? Why did he want to know about who was coming to pick me? Must be some great supari network or must be from some D- or E- or P- company or whatever. Better to be careful and cautious. He replied, “OK. Yes. Taxi. To pick up from city. I am going to other airport terminal. Not to city. No Delhi. No Delhi. Return to Mumbai. Another airport.”
The Great Khan was tremendously happy. This silly plains-man from south of the Ganges and south of the Indus was able to understand the Great Khan’s English. Nobody had understood his English before. This was an amazing nation, this India. These Indians were probably were very good at English. The villagers in his village in the secret mountains and the buffoon army sergeants in the army camp below did not ever understand his English that he had picked up from his grandson watching the English movie TV programmes from the Dish Cable set that he had forced the Cable guys to install in his secret village.
The Great Khan asked, again in English, “Taxi. From City. On Telephone? You call? He come? To airport. One more airport. Mumbai airport? in Delhi? OK. How much? Money? Dollars? Rupees? You understand? Me say, how much money? Dollars? Rupees?”
The businessman had gone beyond all levels of fear by now. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew that he had been suffering from blood pressure, ocular pressure, hyperventilation and many other situations, but they used to come and go, and he had not bothered to worry about them. But this, this terrorist-type guy, this large and tall and big and strong sort of pathan, seemed to be really determined and dangerous. The businessman was thinking, ‘He wants my name? My name? That was terrible. And how did he know that I had dollars here at Delhi airport? Someone must have told him. Must be that office superintendent at his office in Mumbai. He knew that I was carrying dollars to Delhi for the payment.’
In reply to the Great Khan, the businessman from Mumbai replied, in growing panic and fear, “No. Yes. No. Yes. Dollars. Yes. Name? My name? Sudhir. Sudhir. Sudhir. Yes. Sudhir. Yes. Dollars. Taxi come. To another airport. Not to city. Payment in other airport. Dollars to foreigner. Going to Mumbai. To foreign.”
The Great Khan settled down in pleasure at this continuing conversation with this very pleasant man from Mumbai. This man was very helpful, he thought. He spoke so nicely to the Great Khan and seemed to always speak in short, brief and very precise sentences, and, always to the point. Not like that old fat fool in his village, the idiot who made his morning tea, Chota Lota-Khan. That man could keep talking for more than 20-30 sentences with a cup of tea in his hand before he would give it over to a customer. The villagers had named him and his father as “Lota-Khan”, for very obvious reasons, because they had reasoned that they probably argued or discussed with themselves before they used the “Lota” (= Small pot-like container) for the purposes it was meant to be used when going out in nature.
This man from the plains was not like Chota Lota-Khan. This man was very pleasant and helpful. He seemed keen to help the Great Khan. He was getting his taxi and he had called for it, and he seemed to be saying that the Great Khan had to go to another airport to go to Mumbai. From Mumbai, he could get a taxi to go to the old city and reach Chandni Chowk. That was quite simple. Phew.
The Great Khan spoke to the businessman from Mumbai named Sudhir, “Oye Sudheer Pasha, Taxi? Good. Call Taxi? Mumbai? Airport? How much money? Dollars? Rupees? Pakistani Rupees? Indian Rupees? How much? I come. With you. Taxi. Give Dollars? Give Rupees? Go to Mumbai? Chandni Chowk?”
[My note = I am actually running out of words to describe Mr. Sudhir’s escalating terror and fear. But, please bear with me. This is early early morning at Delhi airport, and we have a businessman from Mumbai, Mr. Sudhir, making telephone calls to call for a taxi, and being trapped by a 6.5 feet tall Pushtuni-looking Pathan, asking him for dollars and rupees and taxi and wanting to go to Mumbai while wanting to actually go to Chandni Chowk in old Delhi. Confused? Imagine Sudhir’s plight.]
Sudhir was spiralling inside a vortex of panic. He had thought that he could get out of the situation by pretending to want to go to another airport terminal in New Delhi. If you were ever in New Delhi, just wanting to normally change airport terminals inbetween flights can get you into a panic situation, even one week before the actual travel. Now, this terrorist-type of huge guy wanted to come with him in the same taxi? And he wanted the payment of dollars in the taxi? And he also wanted payment in Rupees? Why did he want him to go back to Mumbai?
He replied to the Great Khan, “Taxi? You come? Dollars? Pakistani Rupees? No. No. No Pakistani Rupees. I, Indian, Mumbai. Mumbaiwala? You know, Mumbai? No Pakistani Rupees. I go. My Taxi. No. No. Mumbai not in Chandni Chowk. Chandni Chowk Delhi. Delhi Chandni Chowk. Mumbai different airport. Not Delhi. Ok. Bye. Ok Bye.”
The Great Khan was getting happier and happier with this nice man, Sudhir, who seemed to be a very good man. He did not seem to want any Pakistani Rupees as payment for the taxi to go to another airport in Delhi. And, he was saying “OK” to him, with respect. He was actually saying “OK Bhai”, and he could go free in his taxi. Maybe he could pay him some dollars as a small Thank you, for taking him to the flight to Mumbai. Delhi must be a very big city, if he had to take another flight to go to Chandni Chowk.
He said, “Oye Bhai, Good. Taxi. Come. Go to airport. Go to Mumbai. Go to Chandni Chowk. No Pakistani Rupees. Good. Ok, Bhai. Good. Come. Go. Taxi Go. Chandni Chowk. Mumbai. Airport. Delhi. Taxi Go. Dollars. Only Dollars. In suitcase. All Dollars in suitcase. In Taxi. In Airport. Mumbai Airport. Dollars. Give. Ok, Bhai. Dollars, give.”
Sudhir was wondering and searching for some clue as to how did he get to fit into this terrorist plot? Did someone in his office in Mumbai actually frame him, by sending him to Delhi with Dollars to be paid to their client who was traveling to Mumbai enroute to go abroad? He had thought it was a normal payment, for some services, and his office did it all the time. These foreigner types who worked as consultants in his office normally wanted to get paid in US Dollars, and his office had a foreign currency account and this is what they normally did. How did this violent looking and violent sounding and menacing pathan get to know that he was to courier US Dollars to someone going to Mumbai?
Sudhir decided that he had to now try and escape. There was no point in extending the conversation. After all, he was from Mumbai, and he was a brave man. This was an open public area, and he could just run away. What would this terrorist do? Would he shoot him down openly and cause attention to be focused upon him? He could just start walking and keep walking away. There were many taxi cabs at the entrance to the airport terminal. All greedy con men who would only be too happy to take him without any initial bargaining or negotiation that was the most essential tradition of getting a taxi at Terminal 1 at New Delhi. What would this terrorist do? Would he shoot him? He may not even have a gun.
Miracle of miracles, there seemed to be a wide-enough gap between the tall huge pathan and the payphone stand, and Sudhir decided to take it. He turned sideways, and walked out normally, as if in a very very normal situation, talking to himself, “stay cool, stay cool. Cool. I can get out of this. He cannot harm me. He cannot shoot me. Get away. Get away.” So saying, thinking to himself, Sudhir stepped out and started walking.
‘He was walking, he was walking, he was walking’, thought Sudhir. The tall pathan had not stopped him from getting away. ‘Do not look back. Do not convey any gesture. Somebody must have been watching. The police must have been watching. I must be marked by the police and intelligence bureau and CIA and FBI and all other interpol and police and everyone here. Do not look up. There are CC TV cameras everywhere.’
The crowd seemed to be parting on its own. God must be watching over me, thought Sudhir. The passengers were rushing out, and passengers were moving around. There was a CISF policeman at the gate, and he did seem to be watching him. Maybe he will stop me, maybe he will shoot me. No. No, thought Sudhir. Think good things only. Walk normally. The terrorist guy had not dared to stop him or shout at him or call him. So, he had guessed right, thought Sudhir. The terrorist guy had not got the courage to create an incident.
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