I rejoined the Inquiry queue. This time the lady was certain I was being unnecessarily tiresome. But she walked briskly over to the Customs Officer, looked at his file of papers and then picked up one from the floor and triumphantly waved to me. I went back to my queue.

Some time later I found myself facing the Customs official with my declaration form lying open in front of him.

‘Are you claiming exemption for transfer of residence ?’

‘Yes, I have been away for four years.’

‘Fill in this form and come back.’

I retired to a corner of the hall to fill in the form and then I was back at the tail end of my queue. Forty minutes later, I was again facing my Customs Officer with my form of exemption duly filled.

‘You cannot claim exemption. You came home for a fortnight in between’, he announced.

‘But, I protested, ‘that was not transfer of residence. I was sent on official duty. My wife and children stayed abroad.’

‘Sorry, the rule is clear. If you insist, see the Inspector.’ I found him surrounded by a throng. When my turn came I explained my position. He tore up the form I had filled and with an understanding smile said, ‘ust say you never came home. That’ll be all right.’

I filled in another form and came back to my queue. In twenty minutes I was up at the counter once more with the harassed official in an uneven temper.

‘Who asked you to fill in this form?’

I looked round the hall and pointed to the Inspector. He went over to the Inspector and an argument with much gesticulation followed. Apparently the Inspector triumphed. I was granted an exemption. But the declaration form had to be filled in again. So back I went to my corner to fill it and for the last time joined the queue. When I left the Customs Officer, the clock struck five.

Thereafter, there were other queues. The one where one paid the customs levy on new purchases and another where one paid the port trust charges. In half an hour one was through all that to face the ordeal of a customs inspection. With eleven packages consisting of crates, steel trunks and revelation cases packed to bursting, the prospect of a thorough examination was galling.

Then appeared my guardian angel in the form of an unkempt middle- aged man full of obsequiousness and grease. He had an umbrella tucked under his arm.

‘Arrey Bhai’, he whined. ‘What phor you bother so much. Give me ten rupees and it will be hokay and my children will bless you too.’

‘But I have an exemption. Diplomatic, you know?’

‘Arrey, Arrey , I know all that. But I have to eat and my children, too. Ten rupees is not big sum and you will have no trouble. What say you?” he gave me a friendly dig in the ribs and bared his betel stained teeth.

I saw my neighbour tucking in dirty socks and handkerchiefs in the corner of one of his many suitcases. That was enough. I put myself in the hands of the angel. My packages were marked without an inspection and I was richer for all the blessings my guardian angel heaped on me.

Then I faced the hordes of coolies who claimed to have carried my luggage till the relays of claimants exhausted my goodwill towards the working class. I battled and emerged victorious with my packages on a truck and myself on top of the packages. I had only a little change left in my wallet. We shot out of the pier as the clock struck six.

At a wayside restaurant I begged the driver to stop for a minute and join me for a drink. We raised our glasses to a ‘Jai Hind’.

It was iced lemonade, but strangely enough it tasted better than Australian Champagne.