JOIN USEven in my wildest dreams, I hadn’t imagined I would go on a junket to London. But I did once, courtesy a business promotional hard sell by British Airways. The airline wanted to dispel the fear of flying after the Gulf war that kept most tourists rooted to terra firma. This contest, held worldwide, offered free tickets to London and back for 160 applicants, drawn from the hat. My scream of delight when I found my name among the winners would have assailed the ears of even the wax models in London’s Madame Tussauds.
My daughter Priya told her friends, “Dad is going there to prevent the London Bridge from falling. You know he is in constructions.” Even this old block couldn’t have spun a yarn like that chip.
On day number one, armed with the ‘do’s and don’ts’ diktats from my host, I stepped out of his upscale Chiswick flat, my palms thrust deep into the raincoat pockets, a muffler around the neck and a deer-stalker’s cap. A swarm of butterflies fluttering in my belly tagged along.
As I stood at the intersection, the traffic confusingly keeping right, a purring limousine pulled up near me. “Excuse me,” asked the silver-haired gentleman at the wheel, “Where is Hammersmith Bridge?” Amazed, I managed to mumble, “Search me, I reached London only this morning.” “Blimey?” he said laughing, “But expats know more about the geography of London than locals,” and drove on. An Englishman asking me for directions. I walked with a spring in my step, the perturbation of moving in an uncharted domain lifting up like a fog.
Hardly after a 100 metres or so, a frail, benign lady, who could have been Aunt Dahlia, Wooster’s aunt (not the grumpy Aunt Agatha), asked me, “Excuse me, could you please direct me to the church here?” That one was easy. “Over there,” I pointed out, “You can see the steeple!” She beamed at me.
London had one more such incident in store for me. As I was waiting in an underground station late in the night, a young lady asked me which train to take to Paddington. “This network is really confusing,”and, dropping her voice to a whisper, said, “Scary.” I told her to board the one I would take because I was also Paddington-bound. Seated side-by-side in the almost- vacant compartment, we got talking. “Really, are you one of the winners of BA contest!” she was wonderstruck, and added, “I am a contest buff. Who knows, one day I may hit the jackpot and become rich. By the way, I teach English. Did you know that many Britishers have not heard of Shakespeare? Or visited Stratford-upon-Avon? The apathy of the local man and all that.”
“But I went there last Sunday. I could hear the Bard’s one-liners coming from the ether. “To be, or not to be; all that glitters is not gold; a horse, a horse, my kingdom for a horse, and such. A strange thing... I saw a cat, may be lovelorn, near the Bard’s house. I do not know whether my ears were playing a trick, but the cat’s call sounded like ‘Ro-meow, Ro-meow. Wherefore art though Ro-meow!’” “That’s crazy!” she laughed. “Bye-bye. We will meet again one day. Wish you win more contests and hearts.”