White. Indian. Perplexed expressions

Airport officials the world over must have told my story a couple times. I’m white. I have an Indian passport.

Yeah, go ahead. Read it again. White. Indian.

I’ve had some pretty interesting – and thoroughly frustrating – incidents at airports in and outside of India, often having to explain the whole story of why I have an Indian passport and even once been asked to show additional documents to prove my passport wasn’t a phony.

Seriously?

The last time I flew to Colombo from Chennai the lady behind the immigration counter took one look at my passport and burst out laughing, then waved to another lady standing behind an empty counter and called her over. After showing her my passport they both had a laugh. Now I don’t speak Tamil but I know when the joke’s on me.

Anyway, this time when I get to the immigration counter in Bangalore there is not much of a line to stand in and I approach the moustached man behind the counter, extending my passport, ticket and immigration form with a smile. He looks at the ticket first, then the immigration form. I love this part.

He takes it, raises an eyebrow over the Republic of India printed on the navy blue cover, flips it open, and …

“Sir, this says Indian citizenship on it.”

”Yes sir, long story.”

“You are Indian?”

I nod.

“Where you stay?”

“In Bangalore, for the last three years.”

“Kannada gothilla?”

“No sir, I don’t speak Kannada. Just Hindi.”

He looks up at me and then back to the passport and repeats the process.

“But how?”

“Well my father is Indian, I was born here, grew up here.”

“Anglo-Indian?”

“No, no. It’s complicated.” I flash a polite smile.

He scans the passport one last time, eyes lingering on the picture and the details.

“Hmm, very interesting. Not seen like this before! Okay, enjoy!”

And I’m through.

* * *

I see a group of boys in black slacks and blue and white collared tee-shirts, standing around the Grab & Fly canteen looking bored. Printed on the front of their T-shirts are the words Aus-Sri Lanka Cricket Academy and on the back their respective names and "Tour of Bangalore 2009". They’re on the same flight as me, because there are others in blue sitting at gate 15.

The group resembles most touring sports teams I’ve seen, minus the bling and excess baggage and oodles of attitude that come with fame and a few overseas tours. They’re aware of their attire and responsibilities as ambassadors for their country and don’t speak loudly, like they probably would the second they get home or when leaving practice back in Sri Lanka. They speak politely to their coach and to two elderly ladies in sarees. One of them reads a book; another one gazes out at the tarmac; two more inspect their squeakily polished shoes. There are no ipods or laptops.

I ask two of them at the counter where they played cricket while in Bangalore. Immediately they back away as if I have just sprouted green antlers. Clearly they’ve been told not to talk to strangers. I try to explain that I’m a cricket journalist and that I’m going to Sri Lanka for the last half of the New Zealand series and then the tri-series, but by this time they nervously look at each other and then smile and join the rest of the touring party.

* * *

In Colombo, the first thing I notice once I get a taxi out of the airport is the fewer army personnel manning civilian areas and the number of road checks. Last summer I was stopped twice within the first 20 minutes of leaving the airport and once more on entering Colombo. This time I wasn’t stopped once. Understandably much of this has to do with the fact that the Sri Lankan military defeated the LTTE in May this year. The driver says it has got much easier and that checks are not as frequent as before. The lady at the hotel reception says I don’t need to carry my passport with me when I step out. It’s rather unlike in 2008 when I was here. Note to self: speak to local journalists about whether things have really changed.

* * *

I dump my suitcase in my hotel room, dash off to our local office, pick up my series accreditation, local SIM card and 3G dongle, chat briefly with the nice folks there, get asked about the Indian sweets I should have brought. Then it’s straight to the SSC, where Sri Lanka’s practice has already begun. After routing fielding drills and a game of football the players move to the nets. I’m the only journalist there. This is in stark contrast to a practice session in India where the media is omnipresent and tons of security guards look on idly, even as hangers-on hustle to catch a glimpse of their heroes.

Kumar Sangakkara is having a bat. Nuwan Zoysa, the former Sri Lankan fast bowler, is looking in top shape and beats the bat twice before drawing a leading edge from the captain. Banter is shared all around. Adjacent to where Sangakkara is batting Dilhara Fernando is bowling to Tharanga Paranavitana. Fernando just jogs in from a few paces. Rangana Herath gets a couple deliveries to really grip and turn. Paul Farbrace, Sri Lanka’s assistant coach, asks one of the support staff if he has any net bowlers who can swing the ball away from left-handers. Quickly two muscular bowlers step forward. Farbrace and Tommy Simsek, the physio, hoot and cheer when Fernando bangs in a short ball to Paranavitana. The net bowlers chat freely with the international bowlers.

Suddenly at 3.25 a shower forces the Sri Lankans to the indoor nets. I try to follow them inside but I’m stopped. I flash my series pass and say I just want to watch but the guards have nothing of it. Walk around the ground freely and make my way to the media manager's office. He's not in but I meet another member of the media contingent and we chat for a while, recalling India's tour last summer.

The rain stops but the Sri Lankans have called it quits. Off they go in the team bus. Off I go to the hotel, and then to search for my first meal of the day. From tomorrow, its full time cricket.