Sonia Faleiro

Last Saturday I spent several hours on Jet Airways trying to book two return flights from Bombay to Goa, for an upcoming India trip. The site repeatedly rejected my credit cards, and so throwing my hands up in despair, I decided to acquire them through an agent instead.

Later that day when I logged into my bank account I realised that the airline had debited over $700. I wasn't pleased, but I wasn't upset either. I assumed that once they realised their mistake, that is, within a few hours, the money would be put back. Of course that never happened, and so I called their helpline. I had barely finished describing my concern, when I was told to send them an email. I wondered why the gentleman on the end of the line was in such a hurry to get rid of me (was lunch waiting? was mummy waiting with lunch?). I assumed I would have better luck if I spoke with someone else. I called again, and received the same treatment. (Lunch was waiting and mummyji's aloo parathas were in danger of getting cold).

I sent an email to info@jetairways.com. with every necessary detail. Shortly after, I received a response in which I was asked for my credit card number. The email was unsigned, and therefore virtually anonymous, and the request was made over an unsecured server. I had to wonder at the quality of people Jet was hiring. Either they were stupid, or they hoped I was. (Or there was a sale on at Westside and they didn't care).

I refused, of course, and sent an email to several other absolutely random people at the organisation. They wrote back with a request for my credit card number.

Realizing that further interactions with Jet would lose me more money, if anything, I called my bank here in the States. Just as I was explaining what Jet was, I was interrupted, 'oh we know them very well,' the lady on the other end of the line said to me. 'You're not the first person they've taken money from.' In her experience, she continued, 'Jet would try and hold on to the money' and that, at the earliest, it would take over 10 days for them to even acknowledge what they had done.

It didn't take her even ten minutes to put the amount back into my account, thus allowing me to ignore the emails that I continue to receive from Jet asking for my credit card number.

Jet's lack of accountability and their poorly trained customer service department is an embarrassment. And it's particularly embarrassing, I would imagine, that banks even outside India are familiar with their ways. Such incompetence is hardly true of other providers I interact with back home, most prominently, HDFC Bank, whose customer service over email is exceptional. (They're also the first ones to tell you that should you receive an email from them asking for your account or credit card number, ignore it.)

Suffice to say, I shan't be buying a ticket from Jet anytime soon.

If you're in the market for an anthology, you might consider these, both of which I have made a contribution to. For "Sarpanch Sahib: Changing the Face of India", I travelled to Assam to profile Maloti Gowalla, a sarpanch who owns a sweet shop, rides a bike, and wants to bring computer education to the children of her village. And in "Indian Shining, India Changing: Contemporary Stories" you can read a brief excerpt from a (shockingly) early draft of my forthcoming book on bar dancers. The section deals with one of my favourite Bombay people, the hijra Masti Muskaan. I'm still in San Francisco, and haven't seen either of these books. Since the finished product is never of interest to me in any case, it's unlikely I will. But if you do go ahead and read either or both of them, I would love to hear your thoughts. And in fact, I just realised something: This year, I published a story about a sarpanch, and a hijra and her chelas. Next year you may hear about my writings on the kids in Dharavi and the bar dancers of Bombay. Tell me, will you read any of these stories? Do lives such as these interest you? I think I would write of them nevertheless, simply because I see nothing else and nothing else interests me. But I do wonder sometimes--who looks out for stories such these, reads them, and wonders about it all ...

My essay in Outlook's Independence Day issue will strike a familiar tone to those who read the post below.

Exciting news for me and those of you who have been following my work on the bar dancers of Bombay, and the book about them due next year.

One of my main concerns about moving to San Francisco, was taking Zoey with me. There was no question of it, obviously, she would be coming along. But I was worried about the flights, which together totalled 18.5 hours not including the layover. The longest Zoey had flown previously was 2.5 hours. I thought about the jarring sound, the stuffiness, the fact that Zoey is so well behaved she never pees or poops anywhere inside. (Later, she would refuse to 'go' even in the airport, and finally relented when we were outside our new apartment, over 24 hours later).

But I was without a doubt most worried about the paperwork required to release Zoey from India, and allow her entrance to the US.

One of the great advantages of moving to the US with a dog, however, is the fact that unlike most of Europe (excluding Finland), the US doesn't require quarantine, because it isn't rabies free. Countries like the UK will not permit even a rabies free dog, if it is from a country like India, residence, without a mandatory quarantine of six months. That's a heart wrenching period of time, and while some dogs may adapt, others, I've been told, never fully recover from the separation.

For entrance into the US, I required only two pieces of paperwork as it turned out--a health certificate from Zoey's vet dated five days prior to our departure and a vaccination certificate stating that she had been vaccinated against rabies. She had also to be micro chipped, which is a quick and painless procedure. All good vets keep microchips, so no prior legwork was required. I have a great vet for Zoey and he was helpful and obliging.

To be released from India, I was told, Zoey would require an export certificate from the Animal Quarantine and Certification Service (WR), Department of Animal Husbandry, Dairying and Fisheries, Ministry of Agriculture, Government of India, situated in Kopar Khairane, Navi Mumbai. The vet warned me to take every piece of paperwork I possessed, because government officials he said 'were temperamental.' Why they should be temperamental in the course of doing their duty I didn't understand.

When I called the department, I was asked to bring Zoey's health certificate, vaccination papers and three photos of her--side, full body, colour. Keeping in mind what the vet has said I took several sets of photographs. In one, Zoey is staring intently at a ball, in another, her tail is tucked between her legs as she's cajoled into giving me a side shot. Because the paperwork was in my husband's name I even took our marriage certificate along to prove that Zoey was indeed my dog.

The Quarantine Officer, Dr SD Bhosale, also asked me to bring Zoey along.

I drove down to Navi Mumbai, a journey of over two hours, and when I found the department and entered the gate, I was told by the guard that Zoey would have to remain the in the car, because 'animals aren't allowed inside.' Inside, the Department of Animal Husbandry ... An unassuming middle aged man who had been chatting with the guard when I arrived then walked up to me and said, 'I've been waiting for you. Now that I've seen your dog you may come up.' I thought he was both ridiculous and disingenuous. Had he really asked me to bring Zoey over so he could check that she existed? I also doubted that he had been waiting at the gate for me. Such integrity isn't the norm in my experience.

The Department functioned as you imagine these things do--in organised chaos. I was sent from 'Room A' to 'Room B' and from C to D in rotation; I filled in paperwork and quaked slightly when Zoey's photos were inspected closely. (Oh no, the tip of her tail isn't in her photograph!). As I waited my turn with Dr Bhosale, I got talking with the only other person there for a certificate, a young American woman headed to New York with her cat. 'I'm terrified,' she whispered to me. 'Dr Bhosale said my kitten's bottom wasn't in the photo.' I have a digital camera, I told her. Take another one. She shook her head, 'He said he may be able to do something.'

Just outside Dr Bhosale's door a man sidled up to me. 'They will ask for something.' What do you mean, I replied. He ran his thumb against his middle and forefingers, the universal sign for money. 'Him?' I asked, of Dr Bhosale. He was the head of the department for God's sake. 'Not him,' the man replied. 'But everyone else.' He gestured towards the paperwork I had already received from the department. It said 'government' and 'service.' 'Service,' the man pointed. 'The government takes bribes to do its service.'

I paid no heed to the man. I hadn't been asked for a bribe every before, and Dr Bhosale seemed perfectly decent if dour. Inside his office, as he signed my paperwork for the final time, he made polite conversation, even attempting to elicit a laugh from me by saying, 'I hope you drank the tea I sent you? Otherwise I may have to charge you a fine!' He spoke of migration and animals and how he understood the psychology of dogs because it was his life's work. I was impressed and about to thank him for his help when he handed over my paperwork, and with a smile but no change in his voice or demeanour, both of which were casual and calm, said to me, 'on your way out pay the guard five hundred rupees.'

I was so take aback, all I did was nod and walk out. When Dr Bhosale called out, 'have a good trip' I had no response.

I needed a stamp over Dr Bhosale's signature and so I walked for the final time into the first room I had entered into, where two men were sitting. One of them stuttered. As he handed over my file, he said to me, 'gggive me something.' What do you mean, I replied. 'Gggive me something,' he replied. A bribe? I said. Are you asking me for a bribe?' I raised my voice. I was better prepared to respond now than I had been only minutes before. The man tut-tutted, as though I had been rude. 'There are three of us,' he said. 'Gggive me something.' The other man in the room stared up at the ceiling. I gathered my paperwork and putting it away in my bag said, 'People like you force people like me to leave India. I can't tell you how disgusted I am.'

I was so deeply disappointed and disgusted: People begging for a hand out to do their job. And no, how much they're paid is irrelevant.

As I walked down the stairs I wondered whether I should pay the guard. As I reached my car the question was answered for me. The gate was locked from inside, the guard stood against it, his arms crossed. I thought about this.

About how disgusted I was to be asked for a bribe, how the paperwork was in my hand, how I could make a fuss, say my piece like I had upstairs, and leave without paying up. But then I thought about all the other fights I had fought; of how many complaints I had filed against auto drivers and taxi drivers and companies that had taken my money but not given me the services promised to me. Of the times I had called the police home. And I felt that this wasn't worth the fight. I felt I had fought too many, I was fed up, and yes, I was leaving. I paid the guard, he nodded at me politely and unlocked the gate.

I was immediately filled with guilt. I should have refused, I thought. I should have forced my way out.

But what if they had somehow cancelled my paperwork; what if I was stopped at the airport?

I realised this is the inherent and painful conundrum of living in the type of society we do. We are expected to take responsibility not just for our integrity, but for the integrity of others. We are expected to apologise and learn not just from our mistakes, but to force apologies and instill lessons into those who make mistakes. In the particular society we live in citizens are responsible for themselves and for the government, when in fact the government should be responsible for its actions, if not for ours too. When we fail to do this duty we feel as guilty as if we had asked for the bribe. We say to ourselves, 'By submitting, we perpetuate.'

I recounted this incident to my family and friends, and I was relieved to see they were as shocked as I had been. Despite everything, despite our expectations of such behaviour, not one of us was so jaded as to shrug it off.

I am writing this now to ensure a public record of Dr Bhosale's misbehaviour, and the misbehaviour of his colleagues who work on behalf of the Government of Maharashtra.

If anyone reading this is planning to export a dog, I'd also like you to know that the paperwork I paid for was not requested of me at the airport. I had asked my travel agent to buy Zoey a ticket and he did, on Lufthansa, which we flew because it is one of two airlines including Delta which allows dogs under 8 kilos to fly in the cabin. The ticket was all that was asked of me at the Bombay airport, and in the US I was waved through without a second glance and no request for paperwork.

Zoey by the way is in great form, enjoying the city's dog parks, its hills and her new organic treats ...

I think everyone will remember who he is, don't you? And perhaps in death he will receive the sympathy and consideration denied to him in life.

'Nurses at the Guru Govind Singh Hospital stuck a label that read 'HIV Serum positive' on the forehead of an HIV positive women.'

Actor Shiney Ahuja has been detained for allegedly raping his maid, who may or may not be underage, and may have worked for him and his wife for a month or for a year, depending on which newspaper you've wasted your money buying.

Director Mahesh Bhatt, who has inside information on everything from Shiney's life to Section 377 to global warming to 26/11, says: 'Shiney told me it was consensual.'

Also offering support are his parents, who have fled their home for that of a relative, and Shiney's former college principal, who seemed instinctively to know that 'rape is just the maid's way of settling a score.'

Update: Shiney's wife Anupam says, 'Even a woman can rape a man.'

P.S. Follow me on Twitter.

How I love Bombay's newspaper headlines. If anyone, anywhere in the world read them they'd cross the city, the whole country in fact, off their list forever.

Here are today's gems:

1. "Kandivali residents lynch thief; smash his head open."

2. "Watchmen ties two minors for ten hours for stealing."

3. "City's Cattle to be Shifted Out."

4. "3 Students Robbed, Beaten."

And my favourite "NCP Blogs its own Trumpet."

What might these be you wonder, scratching your head.

Lentils.

Cloves.

Pods. (!)

Seeds.

Get your clove garland for between $600 to $6,600.

Because I can do two things at one time (eat mango-key this in; kiss Zoey-key this in), I'm now on Twitter. Please join me at twitter.com/soniafaleiro

I'm glad the Congress won. But every time they do, it seems to me that regular kids take a hit.

What message does the Congress send to the children of India, when it offers more than two dozen ministerial berths to children of politicians?

Sure, they all won fair and square and so far not one of them has a criminal record. But the point isn't what you do when every door is opened to you, and opportunities heaped into your lap. Almost any half wit, as Varun Gandhi has proven, can make a go with that sort of support.

If you've never had to struggle for anything, or fight for what you need or believe in, if everything, from your education to your constituency was handed to you gift-wrapped; if you're handed a ticket no questions asked, and the fellow who warmed the constituency while he waited for you to turn 21 was your dad, what life experiences do you bring to the cabinet, particularly in this time of global economic and financial crisis'?

How will you learn to empathise with the struggles and fights of the people you claim you want to represent?

The Congress wants to reward its youth leaders and to reward also those among them who have kept their hands clean. But sometime soon they're also going to need to reward people who are young, and law abiding, and have a last name that doesn't recall a famous parent.

Given what we know of Australia, I've never figured why Indians choose to spend their money there. And as far as education is concerned, let's be frank, can you name one of their universities off the top of your head?

Considering what appears to be a widespread and fiendish attitude towards people of colour, and, in particular, towards Indians (sorry, we're smarter than you are, and take all your jobs. Suck it.) I recommend that Indians follow the advice of Baljinder Singh, the third Indian to be stabbed by Australians in Australia in less than a week. Let's take our money elsewhere.

According the Sydney Morning Herald, 'Education is Australia's third-largest export earner, and Indians in Australian contributed about $2 billion to the economy last financial year. ... Arun Bhutani, from AB Educational Avenues agency, which arranges for more than 1000 students a year to study in Australia, is bracing for a slump in demand. "No one wants to go for education if they don't think they will be safe," he said. ... Rupesh Duggal, from Cambridge Immigration and Education Services in Punjab, said: "There is a growing perception that people in Australia don't like students from India, and this is affecting our business." (You think?)

The world has evolved and learnt from its mistakes, and in civilised countries there has been a concerted effort on the part of Governments to ensure racist acts are treated as intolerable crimes. Australia, with its legacy of abuse of its Aborigines, clearly doesn't think this a necessary step.

Until they change, let's take our $2 billion (not including money from tourism and trade), and spend it among (civilised) people who do.

Of course, Shoaib Akhtar has genital warts. One look at the guy and you know he has not just warts, but STDs that have yet to cross from monkey to man. You also know that had he lived in a different time, he would be dying of syphilis.

What I can't understand is why the PCB can't keep this information to itself. Do they really need to inform the press that Akhtar is a specimen, that he should be bundled into a jar, and displayed at a medical facility so thousands can benefit from his mistakes? We already knew that!

Or, are they, in their ham handed manner, warning all the men, women and members of the third gender, who have been with Akhtar in the Biblical and Animal Kingdom sense, to get themselves checked for his idea of a super parting gift?