The return of the native

As the flight made a rocky landing on the uneven runway of Dhaka's Shahjalal airport, I felt a rush of excitement at the prospect of coming "home".  I eagerly stepped out of the plane and was immediately greeted by a giant mosquito that landed on my nose.

"Welcome to Bangladesh," it buzzed! Yes, here I was in the country of my birth, looking forward to the happy reunions with friends and family, the pleasant evenings of Rabindra sangeet, feisty debates on politics, cricket and culture, all made more interesting due to that essential element of spontaneity that one feels in one's familiar environment.

The line at the "Foreign Passport" desk was short. "This is going to be a quick exit," I thought to myself, placing my two passports on the counter. I had recently obtained a second passport because there were no more visa pages in the first. The officer saw the "No Visa Required" (NVR) stamp on the original, shook his head and pronounced, "You need a new visa." Stunned, I asked why. "Because your passport has expired." "But it hasn't," I explained rather agitatedly, "I got the second one only for additional pages." "Sorry, madam. You need a visa on the new one," came the terse response.I pleaded for five minutes trying to rationalise that all other visas in the old document were still valid so why not this one. But he was adamant. "Please get a temporary 'Visa on Arrival'," he said dismissively. And that was that.

I noticed disapproving eyes staring at me – the other passengers probably thought that I had done something grossly illegal. Cutting a sorry figure with my disheveled appearance and a mosquito bite on the tip of my nose, I headed toward the "Visa On Arrival " counter. Seeing the long, intimidating line, my euphoria of coming home dissipated into a strong sense of rejection. On an impulse, I walked to an officer standing next to the counter and explained my situation, asking him for help. Not usually good at faking emotions, I must have succeeded this time in looking like the "Khalamma (aunt) in distress". He took me aside, made me fill out an application, guided me to the cashier's desk for paying the fee and walked me back to the visa counter. He asked the man at the desk to process my visa while the line was waiting – thank God no one protested. I passed customs saying, "Nothing to declare", without a smile, and snapped at the guy who offered to help with my luggage trolley. In summary, it was hardly the ideal homecoming. But I had received my first lesson of re-orientation in Bangladesh– "don't try using logic to argue your case – just find a suitable shortcut and get the work done".

On my way home, I began reflecting on the frustrating experience and realised that I was angrier with myself than at the officer who had refused me entry. There were three things I had done that were uncharacteristic of me – things that are on my "never to do" list. I had argued with the immigration official who had interpreted the rules (that perhaps contained confusing shades of grey) the way he understood them. I had jumped the cue to expedite my visa and was unnecessarily rude to the man who was trying to help me with my bags hoping to earn a few honest takas. The point is, I would never have dared argue with the immigration in any other country. And in the US I patiently wait in line for 20 minutes just to pay for a $10 T-shirt. I also make a point of being nice and kind to the less fortunate. What, then, had triggered these negative reactions at the Dhaka airport? Was it a lack of faith in the system or the instinct for survival in a hierarchical structure where the meek are always left behind? If so, what right do I have to be critical of those who break traffic rules and find shortcuts through bribes and/or contacts to achieve their ends? Perhaps they are also victims of the same insecurities and doubts that I had suffered.

There may be yet another explanation for my erratic behavior. No matter what passport you carry, there is a certain sense of entitlement that you nurture for the country of your birth. A feeling that you will always have a place there and you have inviolable rights. My passport may define my nationality, but my identity will always be linked to my roots in Bangladesh. Standing helpless at the airport arrival lounge, I felt as if someone had snatched my identity away from me. And I needed to "steal" it back… like the fire that Prometheus stole from the gods in ancient Greek mythology. But in the process I may have burnt my fingers!

The writer is a Tagore exponent.