I'm no Shahrukh Khan!

My fifth visit to the United States started rather eventfully. At Netaji Subhash Chandra Bose International Airport in Kolkata, I was subjected to a rather prolonged security check—the security personnel mistook my USB flash drive as a … hold your breath … lighter.

“I don’t even smoke,” I complained. The security guys looked nonchalant. I was starting to get impatient as one of the guys rummaged through my handbag. Fortunately, better sense prevailed and I realized the guy was just doing his job—for our safety and security.

At times, when life gets challenging, I remind myself that life is somewhat like a coin—you gotta flip it and see the other side. I was looking at the tail end of life when the guy started rummaging my bag, but at the end of it I was able to flip the coin and be thankful for what he did.

How does it matter anyway? Why am I rambling about this? I’m no Shahrukh Khan. Neither can I use that fancy word called “racism”—I was frisked in my own country goddamnit—and never ever frisked in a foreign country before.