Yesterday I was across the road from the American consulate when a guard accosted me.



It was about nine in the morning. I was waiting for my uncle who was being interviewed for a Green Card. The pavements were crowded with wannabe Americans.



I found a convenient spot in the shade of a small tree, directly opposite the consulate gates, so that my uncle could spot me easily when he emerged.



There were a bunch of us waiting beneath that tree. We exchanged smiles and small talk. I opened my book. An invisible crow in the canopy read over my shoulder, making a sardonic comment now and then.



A shadow fell across the page. I looked up.



A guard from the consulate politely awaited my attention. He was a young man with the incurious vapidity of the tutored mercenary.



The interrogation



He asked my name, and what I was doing here. I began to worry about my uncle. But no, he knew nothing about my uncle.



"Why all these questions?" I asked.



"Routine," he answered, and with a tight smile, hurried away.



Impatient to return to the page, I spent no further thought on the encounter.



Looking up a few pages later, I noticed the guard conferring with a couple of policemen. The three of them seemed to be staring at me. I noticed, for the first time, that the mounted gun at the gate pointed in my direction, like a prop in an Absurdist play. Smiling at the conceit, I returned to my book.



Not for long.



This time a polite cough interrupted me. The guard was back, with a policeman, an Inspector by his uniform.



"What are you writing in that book?" the guard asked.



What was I writing? Nothing that could, possibly, interest him. I was taking notes, finding stories, as I have done all my life, whenever I’m captive in the human zoo.



"Why are you writing?" he persisted.



I turned to the policeman.



"What’s this about?" I asked in Marathi. "This man bothered me a while ago. Was that for the same reason?"



He nodded unhappily. "He wants to know what you’re writing. He says you’re looking at the consulate and writing."



"I don’t want to miss my uncle when he comes out."



"That’s what you say," the guard said. "Why are you writing here?"



"What’s that to you?"



"No need to get angry." He had the pleasant manner of practiced barbarity. He grabbed my notebook. "Confidential?"



"Why are you quiet?" I snapped at the policeman. "He has no right to take my book."



"Kai karun, Bai," he shrugged. "Not allowed."



Not allowed



I forced myself to confront the guard. By now I was trembling. The sight of his coarse fingers dabbling pages more intimate than lingerie was simply unbearable.



"Who is this?" He pointed to a caricature.



"Obviously, it’s not you."



"Yes, it’s not me, but why are you drawing him?"



"Why not?"



At this point another, bigger, more menacing, guard joined us.



The policeman stepped away.



My companions under the tree had hastily backed off to studiously examine the horizon.



The prop pointed in my direction suddenly became a gun.



This was no Absurdist drama.



This was happening to me.



The guards turned angrily at me.



The second guy had found one legible word in my notebook.



"Why you are writing about security?"



The word was scatter, but what was the point telling him that?



"You cannot write without our permission!" he growled.



"Your permission?" I lost it completely. "I need your permission to write? Who are you?" I was shouting by now. If I stayed a moment longer, I would slap him. I tore the book from his grasp and stalked off, seething.



The guards walked back heavily, potbellies juddering in their tight terylene shirts. The policeman had slunk off, distancing himself the moment I started shouting.



Ten minutes later, I walked back to the tree.



The crow greeted me philosophically, but I disdained the shade now. I wrote better full in the face of the sun. I sat down on the pavement in the sights of the two goons who had threatened me, and began to write.



They summoned two other policemen and pointed me out to them. The khakis shook their heads and strolled away.



The two guards dropped whatever else they were paid to do and stood there staring for the next hour as I wrote.



All around them a thousand or more mobile phones trilled and jingled frenetically, talking, texting, photographing, tweeting. None of this electronic reportage seemed even remotely suspicious to those guards.



Visa chic



Incidentally, my notes that morning were about visa chic. I had been detailing a rani pink and parrot green Anarkali when the guard caught me. He might have been startled by my sketch of a wispy girl sprouting out of black velvet stilettos with six inch heels, or by the family group in striped spandex cuddling their family of Louis Vuitton bags. Maybe he thought it was code.



But I realised quickly that the content had nothing to do with the guard’s suspicion. He had felt threatened by the sight of me writing.



His alarm is easily rationalised ‒ no great feat for an electorate that has rationalised genocide.



It is less easy to rationalise the reaction of the people around me. They did not feel my privacy was being violated when the guard grabbed my notebook. Their unsaid comment was the same as the guard’s: it’s suspicious that you should be writing in a book, writing here, writing now …



It is a consoling thought. If the mere act of putting pen to paper denotes defiance, there’s still some hope for humanity.



That armed posse, and that machine gun, weren’t quite enough to dismiss 40 kg of middle-aged womanhood driving a cheap ballpoint pen.



The ludicrous face-off lasted till my uncle emerged and I crossed the road to meet him.



The gun had become a prop again, but was the play ended?



