With every seat occupied, people were sitting on the floor, each one of them carrying more than just the customary two pieces of luggage. Well oiled hair, wailing children with neatly done plaits and a red ribbon, people sitting in customary groups defining family space, adults with slightly bulging abdomens - an obesity level defining prosperity, dull colored shirts tucked in trousers with slippers below, and youngsters in cheap gawdy jeans, t-shirt with big watches or bracelets. A typical Indian setting one would guess, in fact I was so sure that if the strong air conditioner inside the airport was not working, I would be able to infuse the typical Indian odor formed from an admixture of oils, perfumes and sweat. Half drowsy waiting for my midnight flight, I tiptoed between slumbering people and could find an empty seat in some corner. I was trying to catch my forty winks when I woke up, startled by a mobile ringing to the tune of "Jab dil na lage dildaar, hamari gali aa jaana!". And so started my trip to Guyana, a country more famous as a part of West Indies cricket team in India than anything else.
The plane journey was largely uneventful, except for my cussing at the sadistic TV screen at my seat, which suddenly had a brain of its own and stopped playing anything, although I could browse through the menu and see all the movies and serials I could have watched. I can vouch that TV screen was an 'Ichchadhari Nagin' and had taken this form for revenge, I could hear her laughing and saying, "Pichle janam mein tumne mujhe bahut sataya tha, ab meri baari hai!". Passing through the immigration and customs was a breeze and soon I was sitting in a taxi speeding towards the capital city of Georgetown. Within minutes of the start of the journey, the driver started fiddling with his ipod while driving with one hand on the steering and scant regard for the twists and turns of the road coming up ahead or people trying to cross the road- ah, I felt so at home- I was so missing that reckless driving!!! I really pity all those road raged Indian drivers who have the horrible experience of driving in USA, who have to control the urge to skip lights and bottle up their day's frustration than take it out on the crossing pedestrian.
After some Caribbean songs, I heard an obscure Hindi song playing in the car stereo, I was impressed that the driver could recognise my nationality and hand a song to play for me, although obscure. It was followed by another song that I could never heard but seemed from that 'forgettable' era of late 80s and early 90s. The mystery behind the obscurity of these songs was broken from the third song, when a popular 70s song was being sung in the same voice as the two previous ones albeit a little squeaky voice and added beats - truly reminding of those cheap remix albums that you can hear blaring in buses and auto-rickshaws across India. Excited I asked him in Hindi, but seeing his befuddled look, I had to repeat myself in English, " So people speak Hindi here?", making my careful deduction question irrelevant.
Just as we entered the city, I could see a deity being carried by procession of people, effectively blocking the traffic. The frenchman, who was also on an official WHO visit and accompanying me from the airport, was piqued with interest and asked the driver about the procession. I immediately had a hunch that it was Lord Ganesha and that perhaps it might be 'Ganesha Chaturthi', I was raring to blurt it out but remembering my old medical college friends I exercised some restraint and allowed the driver to speak, who did not have to much to offer except that is some Hindu God. Later I did found that it was infact Ganesha Chaturthi, and I could only cruse my well-meaning friends who taught me the word 'restraint' especially when I did not know about things!
If there were still some doubts left about the Indianess of the place, the blaring Shammi Kapoor in his black and white twist dances on the TV in the hotel reception area, laid to rest all of them. The cable itself had songs and the K serials playing all over them and the bazaar was laden with shops selling Indian dresses and having Indian names; infact the president's name itself 'Bharat Jagdeo' has an India in it. However, none of the above could have prepared me for what I was going to witness the following morning- my first day at the WHO office in Guyana. By the end of the first hour of the day I had met nearly all of the staff, when I ran into an Indian guy and we started talking. After exchanging pleasantries and detailing my origin (Kanpur), he informed me that he hailed from Gujarat. I remarked off-handedly that I did my MBBS from Baroda, to which he responded, " Which year?" I was befuddled at his question as it didn't make sense to me, if he had not got my city he should have asked which place, if he got the city then why was he asking anything, was he asking about my 'ear' cause he could not see it hidden under my turban? Like a mind reader he fathomed my inner turmoil from my blank face, and also from the long two minute pause after his question, and he added, 'I am an alumnus from Baroda Medical College- I passed in 2000.' What followed was a long discussion of what has and has not been going in the college, but meeting a guy from my own 'Baroda Medical College' out in the middle of nowhere (or so I presumed till that time), was a spooky experience.
I can confirm that the first song that I heard enroute to Guyana was not an accidental aural stimulation- it was meant for me- it was India away from India.
"Jab dil na lage dildaar, hamari gali aa jaanaa...."
