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North of Delhi, East of Heaven (Excerpt) by Joyce Sparling

 

          Alex looked over at the other line and realized all the Indians were staring at him. 

 

It must have been some kind of national pastime - they stared boldly, shamelessly, 

 

openly. They stared at his face, his hair, his clothes, and all his assorted body parts. He 

 

shuddered. He felt the Indians undressing him, tearing off his clothes, cutting through  

 

the layers of his skin, and burrowing down to his soul. And what did they see? Did they 

 

see laziness? Cynicism? Prejudice? Did they see him as a materialistic, greedy 

 

American fool? He resisted the urge to cover his body with his hands. 

 

          Fortunately, after ten minutes he reached the luggage station, where a short, 

 

very dark man quietly snatched Alex’s twenty. Huge signs in English and Hindi 

 

announced that nothing was allowed to leave the country - no radios, cameras, tape 

 

recorders, clothing, food, books, medicine, or currency. 

 

          The headmaster negotiated his way past a round-faced jolly fellow who patted 

 

his bag, signaling it on. He handed out dimes to a few beggars who followed him, then, 

 

turning back to Alex, he nodded good-bye. 

 

          Alex felt a little sick to his stomach. This fleeting contact with another human 

 

being who spoke English was already over, and he realized the enormity of the task he 

 

was undertaking. He was totally alone. He took a deep breath and heaved his duffel bag 

 

onto the customs inspection table. 

 

          The jolly round-faced man grinned broadly. Alex smiled back - they were buddies. 

 

The man patted Alex’s bag. In a cheery, high-pitched, singsong voice he asked, “Pah 

 

namtoo?” 

 

          Alex stopped smiling. “Pardon me?” 

 

          “Pah namtoo?” 

 

          Alex’s stomach began to churn. What about English? These people were all 

 

supposed to speak English. “I’m sorry, but I don’t understand…” 

 

          “Pah namtoo?” The man frowned and then slapped the duffel bag. “Pah 

 

namtoo?” 

 

          Alex finally understood. He reached into his pocket, pulled out his wallet, and 

 

extended another twenty dollar bill. 

 

          The Indian spit on the ground and shook his head in disgust. “Pah namtoo,” he 

 

growled, “PAH NAMTOO.” Immediately Alex was surrounded by soldiers. Apparently 

 

payoffs were routine, lubricating the flow of international travel, but he’d forgotten to 

 

keep the money undercover. He’d been in the country less than an hour and was about 

 

to be arrested for bribery.  A soldier grabbed his arm, and all he could think of was the 

 

New Delhi jail. There’d be rats and roaches, and he’d die a slow, lingering death from 

 

some exotic disease like cholera or yellow fever. 

 

          He looked around for some way out, someone to help. A small crowd was staring 

 

and the now not-so-jolly man was becoming belligerent. Alex pleaded with the solider, 

 

“There’s been a mistake - I don’t understand what he wants.” 

 

          The soldier released his grasp on Alex’s arm and spoke in perfect Oxford 

 

English. “He’s simply asking you for your flight number. Pah namtoo. Did you or did you 

 

not arrive on Pan Am Two?” 

 

          Alex nodded. “I did.” 

 

          And it was over. The soldiers left, the man slid the duffel bag down the ramp, and 

 

Alex was free.