the fateful pill

mumbai.  our bags arrived before us at mumbai international airport, a situation that, according to continental airlines, simply should not happen.  and simply did.  a charmingly bland representative from swiss international trotted us around from customs station to station, down dank airport alleyways (who knew airports have alleyways?) and, eventually, into the clutches of one mr. kumar, a potbellied customs rogue with an oily smile and, apparently, some heavy debts to pay.  he called tom first -- there were four of us, waiting for our bags to clear -- and insisted he come alone.  twenty minutes later, we other three were permitted to join them.  mr. kumar had a gallon-size plastic baggie all dolled up on his formica examining table like a shrine to the great god of pillxi, all colorful blues and oranges and pale beige, and he wanted to know what every single pill was, and why tom needed it.  "well," says tom, "this one is a multivitamin.  this one is advil, like for pain and fever."  [yes, yes, nodding from kumar.]  "this one is b-vitamin," tom continues.  i smile at mr. kumar.  "we don't want to get sick, is all," i say.  "why so many pills?"  he wants to know.  "we're traveling for a long time" is the eminently reasonable answer, "but if you don't think these vitamins are allowed, just go ahead and take them."  kumar flaps down another customs officer to look at the suspect vitamins.  he massages them a bit, smells them, says they're fine.  "i'm not going to take these from you," kumar smirks, steepling his fingers.  ok, then, can we go?  i keep standing up.  kumar suggests, each time, at least five times, that i sit down.  he flaps at another man, this time a police officer.  he insists that everyone but tom leave the room.  banished outside with the swiss international representative, i look into her wide, shuttered eyes.  "is this normal around here?"  i ask.  those emerald cat-eyes are contact lenses, a closed door to the soul, and they tell me nothing.  "it is quite rare," says her mouth, but it still all feels so smooth, so oily-sticky, like a nasty street slick, it must be a well-practiced groove.  tom emerges, with vitamins intact, significantly lighter in american dollars, and we dive into mumbai's midnight streets.  kumar, you have a karmic debt to pay.  i hope it was worth it.