A pat down for freedom

<div class="section1"><div class="Normal">I survived the infamous "pat down" at Philadelphia International Airport recently. And no, I wasn''t asked to remove my shirt in public. But I did have to remove virtually everything else - jacket, shoes, accessories. And stand with arms outstretched, palms facing up, legs apart, while a tough policewoman thoroughly patted me down with her gloved hands.Not fun. Earlier, I''d been finger-printed and photographed, which had made me feel like an Alcatraz escapee. Did I mind any of this? To be honest, not really. This is a vital part of the stepped-up security procedures in America, and anybody who has a problem with these measures is free not to come to the Land of the Brave and Free. This is the drill - take it or leave it.<br /><br />The irony of it all is that after such an elaborate ritual, when it came to issuing a boarding card, I discovered mine had been handed over to me after pulling the wrong ticket. That is, a check-in clerk had removed my Frankfurt-Mumbai sector, instead of the Philadelphia-New York one. Technically, I''d travelled ticketless within America! So much for watertight systems. Arriving in Frankfurt on a cold, wet and windy morning, worse was in store. No connecting air corridors available. Imagine waiting on a freezing tarmac for a shuttle. That too, after a long flight with inedible food and brisk but impersonal service, hardly any English language publications on board and a largely no-frills journey. That''s when I began to feel guilty about my frequent criticism of our national carrier, Air India, or even the domestic one, Indian Airlines. Which makes me believe, a lot of us professional cribbers need to do a major re-think. We do not have to be so damn defensive about ourselves and our so-called shortcomings.<br /><br /></div> </div><div class="section2"><div class="Normal">Ten days of meeting some of the best <span style="" font-style:="" italic="">desi</span> brains in the US and I came away with my heart bursting with pride. If there was one reservation I had, it was to do with our China-obsession. Nearly every speaker at the Wharton Economic Forum made some reference to our Chinese neighbours, and I seriously felt like intervening to say, "Why talk compulsively about China when there is so much that can be said about India?" I continued to wear my Indian heart on my sleeve while providing soundbytes for a new TV channel appropriately called American Desi. Never mind that the crew was a mixed bag of nationalities. The same sentiment continued at the Macy''s Thanksgiving Day Parade, which featured a live act from Bombay Dreams. ''Shakalaka Baby'', sang a non-Indian looking actress, while an energetic dance troupe (mainly non-Indian) gyrated away, in the best Bollywood tradition. Their number got the crowds screaming in appreciation.<br /><br />My taxi-driver, however, was Bangladeshi and a dead-ringer for Osama. As we conversed in Bengali during the ride into Manhattan, he spoke passionately about his years in New Jersey and his special relationship with a seven-year-old American boy called Mike, who he dropped to school daily. "That kid is crazy. He keeps saying he wants to grow up and make a bomb to blow up the world." Not crazy, I told him. Just brainwashed by the media. He shook his head in disbelief. "What good are bombs? The world needs love." Yeah, right, baby! Given his appearance and traditional attire, I was surprised he hadn''t been compelled to change both, post 9/11. He smiled, "That is the greatness of this country. I was plying my taxi as usual just one day after the Twin Towers came down. Nobody stopped me. And nobody asked me to cut my beard or wear jeans. This is a true democracy. I have my rights like everybody else." Yup. That is absolutely correct. Even an Osama look-alike has the right to dream the American Dream without the slightest fear or self-consciousness. Can''t think of a better endorsement than that for Uncle Sam.</div> </div>