I was a wee stripling in shorts, oversized glasses, and a pronounced bias towards food, and lots of it. I didn't tip the scales as much as inflicted grievous bodily harm on them.
The father figure decided to celebrate my "coming of age" - I turned 12 that year - by sending me as far away as it was possible in those days. His younger brother, aka my uncle, was planning a family trip to the east of the dear country. I was added as supernumerary, one.
The uncle was a larger than life figure for us striplings. He had a tremendous sense of humour, ran the largest dairy brand in the country, and had an appetite for life that to me was the next best thing after daal and rice. A trip with him and family, which included my aunt (naturally) and 2 siblings in a similar age bracket to mine, sounded about right to a lad whose longest trip had been to the other end of Jamnagar.
Most of the itinerary was a secret - hushed discussions between the adults, furtive glances at paper tickets, and so on - but it was made known that the first leg would cover Calcutta and North Bengal.
The flight from Bombay to Calcutta was cancelled - a rather ominous start to a holiday über alles! The replacement flight was delayed repeatedly, and we finally landed in Calcutta at midnight.
The flight had several firsts - my first airplane trip, my first glimpse of the departure side of an airport, my first wide-eyed stare at an airhostess, my first airline meal (I asked the airhostess if I could have a second one, setting the tone for many such negotiations in the future), and my first experience of air turbulence. Not something I recommend on a full stomach.
It was also the farthest east I had travelled - Santacruz East having been the most I had travelled eastwards till then.
After a week of decadent travel, food, and sightseeing across Calcutta, Siliguri, Kalimpong and Darjeeling, the uncle called for a Round Table. In grave tones, and a look to match, he announced that the morrow would bring forth an experience that would enrich our young, growing minds no end. We were going to a foreign country!
Being a geeky sort of lad, with an inordinate interest in collecting bits and pieces of random information (continues to this day), I knew that going to a foreign country required a passport! Which I didn't have. The fear of abandonment immediately raised its head - did the others have passports? Would I be left behind? Should I have made a will, leaving all I possessed (particularly my spectacles, of whom I was very fond) to charity? My aunt shushed me, and said "We don't need a passport where we are going". My natural and sometimes pesky curiosity egged me on to ask about our destination, and the uncle said "We are going to...Bhutan!"
The next day we drove from Siliguri to the border of India and Bhutan. A lump formed in my throat at this imminent departure from the country of my birth. Even if it was only for two days. Would I return a changed lad? Would I develop a worldview? And most importantly, would I develop an accent?
The "border" wasn't there.
We just continued driving without being stopped by fierce-looking soldiers bristling with weaponry. There was nothing but a goat chewing placidly on some old trousers. The only indication that we were in a different country was a milestone that read "Phuntsholing - 30 kms".
Bhutan. Exotic. Closed to the world for the longest time. Pristine. Untouched by tourists. But open to Indians. Without passports. Just come in. Tashi Delek!
My first foreign crossing felt more like crossing the road to go to my library than a Vasco da Gama-esque voyage across heaving seas, facing strong winds and unknown dangers.
I do not remember much of that trip but I do recall the hotel we stayed in was called "Tashi Delek", and that I had a stomach upset from a surfeit of lychees. Love the stuff!
I did not develop an accent. I did develop a respect for hill people, and a love for Calcutta that continues to this day.
I crossed many borders in later years, in "developed economies" (Europe) and "growth economies" (sub-Saharan Africa). All were road borders. But the contrast was as startling as night and day. Borders in Europe are nothing more than a truck-stop or a pretty hedge. Just miles and miles of roads, with no sign of any outpost or border control. The only true borders, where documentation is demanded and scrutinized with the zeal of the truly converted, are at airports.
Road borders in sub-Saharan Africa are a seething mass of humanity - vendors of curiously shaped food rubbing shoulders with soldiers brandishing full armories. Crossing one of these borders demanded presence of mind, several packets of cigarettes as facilitators, and the patience to negotiate passage without parting with several large denomination bills.
Over time, my view of border crossings changed.
At twelve the thought of a border crossing was hair-raisingly exciting.
In adulthood, it's just another man-made inconvenience.
I look forward to a time when crossing a border requires only a return ticket and a promise of good behaviour.
And perhaps a goat placidly chewing on some old trousers.
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