The Inheritance of Loss - Kiran Desai [138]
There was an unruly crowd around the luggage conveyer belts because several planes were in at the same time and even more varieties of Indians than the ones showcased on Gulf Air were on display, back in the common soup after deliberate evolution into available niches abroad. There was the yuppie who had taken lessons on wine, those who were still maintaining their culture and going to the temple in Bern, or wherever. The funky Bhangra boy with earring and baggy pants. The hippie who had hit on the fact that you could escape from being a drab immigrant and have a fantastic time as an Indian among the tie-dyed, spout all kinds of Hindu-mantra-Tantra-Mother-Earth-native-peoples-single-energy—organic-Shakti-ganja-crystal-shaman-intuition stuff. There were computer boys who’d made a million. Taxi drivers, toilet cleaners, and young straight-laced businessmen who tried to be cool by having friends over for “Some really hot curry, man, how spicy can you take it?”
Indians who lived abroad, Indians who traveled abroad, richest and poorest, the back-and-forth ones maintaining green cards. The Indian student bringing back a bright blonde, pretending it was nothing, trying to be easy, but every molecule tense and self-conscious: “Come on, yaar, love has no color….” He had just happened to stumble into the stereotype; he was the genuine thing that just happened to be the cliché….
Behind him a pair of Indian girls made vomity faces.
“Must have got off the plane and run for an American dame so he could get his green card and didn’t care if she looked like a horse or no. Which she does!!!!”
“Our ladies are the most beautiful in the world,” said one man earnestly to the Indian girls, perhaps worried they would feel hurt, but it sounded as if he were trying to console himself.
“Yes, our women are the best in the world,” said another woman, and our men are the absolute worst gadhas in the whole wide world.”
“Dadi Amma!” everyone shouting. “Dadi Amma!” A granny, sari hitched high for action, showing limp, flesh-colored socks and hairy legs, was racing about with the luggage trolley, whacking into ankles, clambering over the luggage belt.
Two men with disdain on their faces, off the Air France flight, had sought each other out, “Where are you from, man?” hanging aloof.
“Ohio.”
“Columbus?”
“No, a little outside.”
“Where?”
“Small town, you wouldn’t know.”
“?”
“Paris, Ohio.” He said this a little defensively. “You?”
“South Dakota.”
He brightened. “Just look at this,” he said, gesturing outward, relieving them both of pressure, “each time you come back you think something must have changed, but it’s always the same.”
“That’s right,” said the other man. “You don’t like to say it, but you have to. Some countries don’t get ahead for a reason….”
They were waiting for their suitcases, but they didn’t arrive.
Many bags didn’t arrive and Biju overheard a fight at the Air France counter where the passengers had to fill out lost-luggage forms:
“They are only giving compensation to nonresident Indians and foreigners, not to Indian nationals, WHY?” All the Indian nationals were screaming, “Unfair unfair UNFAIR UNFAIR!”
“This is Air France airline policy sir,” said the official, trying to calm them, “Foreigners need money for hotel/toothbrush—”
“So, our family is in Jalpaiguri, we are traveling on” said one woman, “and now we have to stay overnight and wait for our suitcases…. What kind of argument are you giving us? We are paying as much as the other fellow. Foreigners get more and Indians get less. Treating people from a rich country well and people from a poor country badly. It’s a disgrace. Why this lopsided policy against your own people??”
“It IS Air France policy, madam,” he repeated. As if throwing out the words Paris or Europe