Mianji’s adventure at Heathrow
By Baljit Kang

I HAD occasion to visit a sister abroad recently. Once the obligatory panjiris and achars, the staple of the visitor from India, had been neatly bundled and packaged, a ritual send-off-party was assembled to bid the ‘departing’ relative god-speed. Simul-taneously, excitable relatives at the other end were alerted to the arrival of the novice traveller. But between the two distance, and the formidable wall of legalese of three now fully independent nations, and determined to impress this fact on all comers. Nevertheless, the journey went off without a hitch until the final post — A stony immigration official determined to extract immediate confession of the sinister purpose behind the by now decidedly nervous passenger’s entry to the forbidding land (suggested by the man’s frosty demeanour) that lay outside.

And this was merely a sampler before the big one, customs.

"Mr K... did you pack these bags yourself," the warning explicit. This before the drug-buster had even touched the bags.

Had I? Every little bit. What about the stern quarantine warning on foodstuffs? Did I even want him to open the bags after his Bogart-like opening line. Take my punishment like a man. Finally, deciding that in this case cowardice was the better part of valour, what with the now openly intrigued immigration official cutting me off from the only other line of retreat, I nodded glumly.

It was the signal. Both bags were set upon and thrown open to private eyes, achaar and panjiri liberally set out on the wide counter. Then he saw the dark packet, tucked away at the very bottom, as if denying its very existence.

"And what is this".

This was in fact an unglamorous 2 kg pack of home-made sukkur, now sulking darkly before the White man’s scrutiny. The closest English equivalent for sukkur I could think of just then was ‘brown sugar’, a name made infamous by a generation of Black Americans. But I was damned if I was going to sign my own death-warrant through such perfidious admission of wrongdoing. So I launched off instead into a complicated explanation of sugarcane field of Punjab and fire, a sister and huge cooking pans, sweaters knitted with love and crude refining processes. Not quite so crude thought that my precious sukkur slip through into Australia’s huge quarantine list, which I had just minutes ago signed in the negative.

And all the while the custom official let me continue, still unenlightened but too polite to cut short my ever more improbable cookery yarn. By this time the other travellers had happily fled, leaving other custom officials free to look in at the increasingly flustered Indian fakir, whose only salvation at this point seemed to lie in performing the fabled rope trick to India. Or a fellow sub-continental, in this case a female custom official of Pakistani origin who had also walked over, recognised the suspect product and, to her White companions wonderment opened and sampled it. And declared it excellent.

Minutes and several newly-made friends later, I was outside, grateful to the brave souls who shouldered the brown man’s burden abroad. It also made me feel a new bond of kinship with the simpleton Mianji, the short-lived Haji Mastan of Heathrow, whose unusual and (by now) highly garnished tale is the high-point of many expatriate get-togethers.

Not that Mianji had any great role to play in his exaltation. Indeed, ever since he had come from the Indian Punjab over a quarter century earlier, he had been content to work the little patch of land allotted him, ply his bullock cart for hire in his adoptive village near Sukkur, now in northern Sindh, and nurture his three daughters. He would probably have died that way too, unknown, unsung. But Mian was destined for greater things.

For, almost a decade earlier, in a simpler age when immigration was not quite the obstacle course it is now, his son Javed had gone to labour in the textile mills of Birmingham. He had been dutiful enough to begin with, sending home £ 50 each month to put together a dowry for his sisters. But as the charm of his glamorous new home took hold on the barely literate and impressionable youth, the money-orders stopped.

Some months later, his correspondence too dried up. Until the only token of his continued existence was a glossy colour photograph in Bibi’s baithak, or in the way Mian’s eyes lit up whenever a neighbour relayed the wonders of Vilayat as narrated by Shakeelya of Langian’s, and seconded by old subedar sahib, who, it seemed, had soldiered everywhere other than in the army itself.

Until Javed himself come crashing into their lives with all the urgency of a much stamped and redirected aerogram. And the cheerful pronouncement that even while they waited in desh, he had waltzed far ahead in life. Was in fact the proud owner of a car, a new house, even a bright new mem named Jill. The only rind in their little slice of paradise was munna, the baby who had come into their lives quite unanticipated, and who now kept Jill from her job long after her maternity leave had expired.

If only Bibi were here to help out he rued. But an unlettered Bibi who had never stepped outside the village since her marriage to Mianji all of three decades ago and, moreover, had a by now growing Munni and Nimmi and Rehna to look after, not to mention Bhuri and Neeli majh (buffaloes), could hardly be expected to abandon her post.

Perhaps Mianji ..... a suddenly solicitous Javed implored. After all it would only be for a few months, until munna was old enough to be accepted by Jill’s office creche. A gushing Javed promised to take care of all the arrangements, even send the ticket.

Mianji was reluctant to wander so far afield in his twilight years, far away from Bibi and the girls. But a deep-rooted sense of parental responsibility took precedence, as from distant Vilayat little munna, so tiny and vulnerable in his single photograph, tugged at Mianji and Bibi’s heartstrings.

The bullocks were sold, the rehra given to a friend for safe-keeping, and the services of subedar sought for completing documentation for the journey. Subedar also became the principal adviser for Mianji’s shopping bag of gifts for his new bahu and grandson and for the effects that he might himself require for his long sojourn in the White man’s country. As Mianji, a simple peasant, had little by way of serviceable clothes for the famed English winter, subedar loaned him his ‘chester’. Bibi pitched in with a fine new Khesi she had kept aside for Munni’s would-be groom, two hand-knit sweaters, warm socks, a monkey-cap, even his first pair of shoes with laces. And this part of Mianji’s preparation was complete.

Now throw in the usual personal effects, a supply of datun for his teeth, some gur and medicinal churan for the occasional bout of indigestion that was to be expected in subsisting largely on the firangi’s diet. And some not-so-usual personal effects.

For the otherwise puritan Mianji would lovingly confess to his one vice, his hookah, a companion from his days in Sirhind. Indeed, as Mianji had fondly narrated on more than one occasion, it may even have helped save the lives of their refugee party in the dangerous partition days when a group of raiders trailing them were warned of by its brass snout protruding menacingly from beneath Mian’s lohi.

Though assembling and packing the hookah presented no real difficulty, its ingredients presented a more formidable problem.

"Not the firangi tambakhu Mianji subedar said". "Not fit for our khotas". It burns your throat. And the smell, like horse manure". To prove his point beyond contention he produced a weathered pack of Drumms tobacco from inside a wooden trunk and passed it to Mianji who politely wrinkled his nose in just the right measure as to show disapproval though not outright disdain.

So when subedar, himself a hookah lover, suggested that he was going into Lahore in a day or two and would get Mianji the finest Hindustani tambakhu, spiced with zarda, and the fragrance of ittar, that part too was taken care of. And true to his word, subedar delivered. Then just two days before the journey he came panting in to Bibi’s baithak.

Mianji?

"At the masjid. He will be returning any minute. There he is now".

"Anything wrong, Mianji said as he came closer, worried by his friend’s expression.

Mianji, we forgot the most important part. Opla’s (cinders that keep the hookah going between puffs.)

"But", Mianji said puzzled, "I can’t take pathis. Even if I had space. Surely they must have something there".

"No, no. They have nothing. And what good is a hookah if it can’t be lit?"

"What will we do?" Mianji said (not a little petulantly), the excitement he had built up for the journey dissipating at the thought of being deprived of this singular crutch in the distant land. "Don’t worry, I will think of something", Subedar said reassuringly. "We got around the tobacco didn’t we?" And he did. So well in fact that even the normally implacable Bibi was forced to comment on his ingenuity.

With that last problem resolved a beaming Mianji was escorted to distant Karachi on the following day, and herded on to the shiny new BOAC plane to London. Inside the bright young air-hostesses were only too happy to put at ease the rustic Santa Claus in the bright if unstylishly wrapped turban and fine tilleywali juti, the pride of Sukkur. And although Mianji refused their almost continual plying of wine and apertifs, (this last because a fellow passenger had warned him that all firangi food was non-halal) he did gesture in thanks. He even began to quite enjoy their almost filial affections. Perhaps the firangi land might not be as unfriendly as he had feared.

So despite the 12-hour journey and that he had to make do with a dinner of oranges, Mianji enjoyed, even exulted in the novelty of flight. His experience with immigration was equally gratifying as the polite young officer at the counter filled in his disembarkation card and whisked him through.

Then customs and all hell broke loose. It was the early 80s and Europe was awash with drugs. Heroin, hashish, cocaine and other imaginative concoctions just beginning to earn notoriety were descending on European ports with unparalleled ferocity. And Pakistan, at the edge of the golden crescent, was a key point of supply. Predictably then, passengers from that country were given the full treatment, dog squads and all. And Mianji’s exotically scented baggage had dogs and officials alike in a lather.

Though initially puzzled by the incongruity between the passenger and the baggage, custom officials selected and trained on the premise of spotting the worst in human nature, quashed their qualms and, with startled passengers looking helplessly on, marched Mianji off to their office. Here, away from prying eyes they opened fire.

‘What is this?’ Though Mianji’ understood not a word of English the tone of the question was explanation enough.

Tambakhu Janaab Mianji said meekly. "For the hookah see. "He tried inexpertly to put the hookah together so that the officer might understand.

The officer smelt the sticky brown mess. Despite the strong overlying flavour the smell of tobacco was clear enough and he could discern the leaves.

"And this," the senior of the two officials said pointing to another package full of tightly packed golden brown balls.

Opla ji, pathian, baalun vaaste. Subedar kehnda si vilayat vich oplah nahin milde ji, Mianji, said apologetically.

The official opened the package and smelled the contents. It smelled like nothing he knew of. The weight too was deceptive. But the colour and consistency gave some indication of the contents. Besides smugglers were coming up with new variants of opiates and marijuana every week.

Though he would have liked to concur with his seniors or consult the only official from the subcontinent on the staff the lateness of the hour decided the issue for the young official. He would have to hold the old man. At least until he had a lab report on the contents. That decided, a bewildered Mianji was marched back out and to the Heathrow detention centre. Outside, reports of the old Pakistani with a suitcase full of hashish had already percolated down to Javed. Though disinclined to believe this Javed, nevertheless, knew only too well of Mianji’s romance with the hookah. Perhaps the old man had begun to use sulfa in it instead of tobacco. Or perhaps there was some mistake. But Javed, himself barely come to terms with the foreign country, was wary of playing too active an advocate lest he too be somehow roped in. He waited the night at the airport anxiously trying to get at the truth. The next morning, unable to meet Mianji but reassured by an official that the old man had been detained for suspect baggage rather than drugs, he returned to Birmingham. And embarrassing questions from Jill.

Two days later the lab results were out and it was the turn of the detaining official to be in the line of fire.

Haven’t you ever lived in the country?" the superintendent asked frostily.

"Yes sir," the young official coloured.

"How did you fail to recognise animal dung?"

I thought nobody carries dry dung,... besides it’s much too heavy."

"Because its packed with wood charcoal. You could have broken a ball before you decided to detain the old man. Or went and told others about it. Now we have become laughing stock for seizing 5 kg of dung and ash. And we are still left with the problem of getting the old man home. Bring him here. And take officer Singh with you."

A few minutes later Mianji was brought out, hungry, dishevelled and, despite officer Singh’s guarded explanation, more confused than ever.

The tough superintendent looked at the unshaven and wan Mianji, still trying bravely to justify his oplas to the non-smoker Singh, and was moved by the spectacle.

"Ask him where he has to go?"

"Birmingham"

"Does he know anybody in London?"

"No, his son was supposed to pick him up. He must have gone back by now".

Does he have a phone number?"

"No. Only an address." Singh handed an envelope over to the superintendent.

The superintendent was thoughtful for a moment. Then, transferring his gaze to the young officer who had begun it all he said, ‘very well sergeant, you are taking the day off. There is a train to Birmingham at 9.30. If you hurry you can make the bus. Otherwise the cab...’ But the young customs official was already pushing Mianji precious baggage towards the exit. A flustered Mianji, his smooth leather juti slipping on the polished floor, shuffled after him as fast as he could while Singh shouted apology and explanation after him.