Lahore International Airport. The year possibly 2004. I am at the immigration counter, outwardly calm, inwardly fretting – an Indian national seeking entry into Pakistan.
I keep shifting my weight from one foot to the other. It's taking them a while. I had handed my passport and relevant documents to the officer some time ago. He had asked me about some 'C' Form. I didn't know what that was. He had frowned and disappeared.
It could have been minutes, it could have been hours before the man returned with a lady officer. This didn't look good. She ushered me to a small anteroom, empty except for a lone bench.
“You have to wait,” she said, handing me back my passport and documents. “Without a 'C' Form you cannot enter the country.”
“But I have a valid visa stamped on my passport. What is this other form that you are talking about?”
She didn't address my confusion. “Unless the superintendent decides otherwise, the rule is that you will be sent back to Delhi on the return flight,” she told me. And with that ominous pronouncement, she left me to battle my mounting panic.
It's amazing how the mind runs past a thousand possibilities of escape when cornered. Within minutes, I had a plan. I rifled through my documents in the shoulder bag and grabbed the particular piece of paper that I was looking for. I slipped it between the pages of my passport and waited.
The superintendent officer arrived. I was called in. He was a handsome young man exuding non-enemy vibes.
Hope fluttered.
I handed him my passport. Ruffling through the pages, he paused, like I had wanted him to. He pulled out the paper that I had planted there.
“How do you happen to be in possession of this xerox of Mr Shoaib Hashmi's national ID card?” he quizzed.
I launched straight into the solo act that I had prepared. Shoaib had performed my nikkah at his home in Model Town etc, etc.
My mono act had its desired outcome. Soon the young man was sharing stories about his charismatic teacher Shoaib Hashmi.
It is said of Shoaib that there's not a single high-ranking officer in the civil services in Lahore who hasn't been taught or mentored by him.
After chai-shai and essential takalluf, the young superintendent courteously held open his office door for me. I was free to collect my baggage and exit the airport. Intrepid, I walked into enemy territory. Secure in my handbag were several copies of Shoaib Hashmi's national ID card – my functional passport to Pakistan.
I keep shifting my weight from one foot to the other. It's taking them a while. I had handed my passport and relevant documents to the officer some time ago. He had asked me about some 'C' Form. I didn't know what that was. He had frowned and disappeared.
It could have been minutes, it could have been hours before the man returned with a lady officer. This didn't look good. She ushered me to a small anteroom, empty except for a lone bench.
“How do you happen to be in possession of this xerox of Mr Shoaib Hashmi's national ID card?” he quizzed. I launched straight into the solo act that I had prepared
“You have to wait,” she said, handing me back my passport and documents. “Without a 'C' Form you cannot enter the country.”“But I have a valid visa stamped on my passport. What is this other form that you are talking about?”
She didn't address my confusion. “Unless the superintendent decides otherwise, the rule is that you will be sent back to Delhi on the return flight,” she told me. And with that ominous pronouncement, she left me to battle my mounting panic.
It's amazing how the mind runs past a thousand possibilities of escape when cornered. Within minutes, I had a plan. I rifled through my documents in the shoulder bag and grabbed the particular piece of paper that I was looking for. I slipped it between the pages of my passport and waited.
The superintendent officer arrived. I was called in. He was a handsome young man exuding non-enemy vibes.
Hope fluttered.
I handed him my passport. Ruffling through the pages, he paused, like I had wanted him to. He pulled out the paper that I had planted there.
“How do you happen to be in possession of this xerox of Mr Shoaib Hashmi's national ID card?” he quizzed.
I launched straight into the solo act that I had prepared. Shoaib had performed my nikkah at his home in Model Town etc, etc.
My mono act had its desired outcome. Soon the young man was sharing stories about his charismatic teacher Shoaib Hashmi.
It is said of Shoaib that there's not a single high-ranking officer in the civil services in Lahore who hasn't been taught or mentored by him.
After chai-shai and essential takalluf, the young superintendent courteously held open his office door for me. I was free to collect my baggage and exit the airport. Intrepid, I walked into enemy territory. Secure in my handbag were several copies of Shoaib Hashmi's national ID card – my functional passport to Pakistan.