‘Where are you going?’ The Policeman asked, his eyebrows raised in suspicion.
‘Hyderabad’. I said.
‘Ooookay!’ To him that seems like a solid evidence to confirm my identity as a terrorist. His eyes scanned me.
A short beard! (Apparently, all terrorists have that!) No mustache. Short and well built. A potbelly. (From eating too much Biryani and Kebab, probably.) An unnecessary sarcastic smile. (That can be interpreted as a disdain towards authority/government, which is genuine, I should confess!)
His face expressions confirmed my biggest fear; that I’m officially a terrorist now.
Trivandrum International Airport. I was getting done with my security check when the guards found a pocket knife in my bag. It had always been a part of my luggage as I travel to a lot of places. It resembles the knife that John Rambo uses, though not as vicious-looking. Also, it has not been used for harming any human; only apples and bananas. But, that is something I can’t tell the policeman. The knife also has multiple features like a mini torch and a bottle opener. I’m pretty sure John Rambo’s knife didn’t have any of that.
The policeman went to another one sitting on a chair, eyeing the scanner machine that luggage went through. They discussed something. The policeman in the chair leaned and looked at me. I smiled. He didn’t smile back. A policewoman, lean and good-looking, joined their private conversation. She also leaned sideways to take a look at me. I smiled. She didn’t fall for it. My bag was lifted up mercilessly to the roller and scanned again. It came through the machine but was mechanically rolled back immediately to scan again. Their eyes narrowed and all three of them looked at me at the same time. I didn’t smile. The policeman who was seated on the chair, stood up and stretched. His right hand carelessly caressed the butt of the pistol on his hip. He walked slowly towards me and stood, his hands folded across his chest.
‘You have a knife… I should say… a hunting knife, in your bag.’
‘Yes.’ I agreed, having nothing else to say.
‘On a second check, we found out that you have another weapon carefully concealed in a kit inside your bag.’
‘What is it?’ I asked. I was beginning to think that there must be something else at play here.
‘Please… open your bag.’ He said, grumpily, sliding my bag onto the table. I opened it.
‘Please take out that kit and produce the weapon.’ The police officer said.
I opened my shaving kit and produced my 45 Rupee Scissors and placed it carefully on the table, fearing it’d explode. The police officer looked at me.
‘Don’t you know that trying to get weapons inside an airport is a criminal offense?’
‘I know. I use that weapon twice a week to shave my face.’ I said.
‘What about that hunting knife? Do you use that too on your face?’ He was sarcastic.
‘No. That’s not for MY face.’
‘Um… sorry. That’s not for anyone’s face. It is just that I did not know it was there. You can take it if you want. It is just a cheap knife despite its looks.’
The Police officer eyed the knife and then looked at me.
‘Okay. Leave your knife and your scissors here. You can go.’
I breathed hard and took my bag.
When I was crossing into the waiting area, I looked back. The Police officer was trying to open the knife. The spring was getting a little rusty and I hope it didn’t cut off any of his fingers.
P.S: In case I was arrested and put in a jail for trying to hijack a domestic flight, I was planning to write my story from there and having it made into a film. If that’s the case, as I was telling Erica, I was planning to get Morgan Freeman to narrate my story. Do you think that’s a good idea?