Shimla airport, cops, and sarees

Over 25 years have passed since my first substantial television assignment. The country was preparing to celebrate 50 years of Independence and assorted eyes from all over the world were upon us. Various television channels were descending on India and a couple of them had dug me out of the woodwork. Not unexpectedly, one was to speak on colonialism, of a faded empire and the smattering of a legacy that lay sprinkled as fast-melting salt over a mixed salad of races, continents and varied histories. It was at about this time of year, on a bright and sunny April morning in the hills, that I started doing my homework. In the distance, the snow shone brightly and the magnificent red rhododendrons were setting the forests ablaze.

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Shimla’s airport fumbled even more than it fumbles now, as I went off in a borrowed car to pick up the documentary’s director, who was flying in from England. Morning turned to noon and there was still no sign of the plane. Then, all of a sudden, a head stuck out from a door and shouted, “Flight cancelled”, and with a loud slam, both head and voice vanished. We folded our newspapers or stopped staring at the others in the waiting lounge and prepared to return to town.

Two uniformed policemen started moving towards me. “Are you going to Shimla?” asked the taller one. “Yes,” I replied, not sure if I should begin quaking now, or if one could leave that for a later moment.

“We will come in your car,” announced the shorter one.

“Yes, thank you, it will be an honour,” I thought, but did not say.

Within minutes, we were chatting away as if we had known each other all our lives. We stopped at a dhaba, and the taller policeman pushed everyone aside and paid for the tea. And over ‘adrak ki chai’, the first story of the day unfolded.

“Do you know why that man at the airport called out and then locked himself?” he asked. “No,” I answered.

“The plane, as you know, turns around at the Shimla airport and returns to Delhi. A few days back, like today, the flight was cancelled. A passenger, who after several hours of waiting, could no longer connect to an international flight, lost his temper and beat up the airlines’ employee. Now, if the flight is cancelled, this man just yells and then locks himself in the office.”

Later in the day, the documentary director arrived by road with the crew. I was on my best behaviour. All the nuns and school masters, through whose hands we had passed as children, would have approved. However, the politer I was, the more demanding and obnoxious the director behaved. Evening came and the burly cameraman, one of the two brothers who were more famous for their excellent documentaries on wildlife, took me aside. In Punjabi, he said, “Kaka, gal sun” (Listen, young man. And he went on, “If you go on with your ‘yes ma’am, no ma’am’), by the time she is done with you, even your bones won’t be worth chewing. Be firm, be polite, but be professional.” That he phrased the last sentence somewhat differently in Punjabi is another matter.

I took the advice and suddenly, everything became smoother and easier for all concerned. Points that arose about the supposed blessings of the empire and how India could not have done without being colonised by Britain, were all politely and firmly handled, explained and set aside.

A couple of days later, with the filming done, the director and I were now on fairly cordial terms. She asked, “I want to buy some sarees to take back to England.” This was quite a jump from hard history and my expression must have said it all.

“When I am not working on TV, I am an interior designer for many grand homes in Britain,” she said. “My unique style comes from not using wallpaper or paint. In place of these or other fabrics, I use Indian sarees pasted on the walls.”

Both the cameraperson and I looked at each other and exchanged a quiet smile.