The White Sheet - 2

We discussed this several times during the week before Sanchari arrived. Anuradha had the same last words on our way to the airport – “Not such a big hassle as you make it out to be, Raag. Even I will have some company. Otherwise, in this god forsaken country, I hardly get to even talk to any other soul.”

I knew it was a lost cause and changed the track - “God forsaken country, indeed! Does someone remember saying – Jaanu, this is such a lovely place… just like Kerala – God’s own country?”

“Ha ha ha, very funny. Ok, I said that, but not the way you say it with a drool,” replied Anuradha, staring me from the corner of her eyes. “And three years is a long time to spend in the back waters, don’t you think?”

“Ammu, you will forever remain Ammu Tammu, huh! Do you realize that you live in one of the most beautiful cities on this continent, and not in some obscure jungle of Africa?”

“Mr. Raag Sanyal, will you stop calling me Ammu Tammu, please? How about Anu, or better still, Anuradha, for a change?” said Anuradha. “By the way, I am warning you, at least in front of that girl, you better treat me respectfully.”

“Ok, baba, it will be Mrs. Anuradha Sanyal. Promise. Happy now?”

A smile wanted to flicker on her face, but Anuradha was determined not to give in. She continued to put up a mock appearance of her anger.

Sanchari’s assessment of Ivory Coast wasn’t very different from our own when we had first arrived. It was easy for any visitor to be seduced by this country. More so, if the visitor came in a packed Ethiopian Airlines flight from Bombay, sitting next to a fellow Indian, Keralite to be precise, who narrated to her the horrors of living in Africa – Never venture out in the city after dark. Never keep your car windows open at a crossing. Ask your company not to send you out of city on work without proper security. We use helicopters to travel between towns because carjacking are so common here.

“He did tell me, though, that Ivory Coast is a lot like Kerala – full of back waters,” said Sanchari.

“And beaches too,” added Anuradha.

“I see, Mrs. Anuradha Sanyal, then, that you don’t quite dislike this god forsaken place as must as you tell me you do,” I said with a chuckle.

“Ah, Raag, stop teasing me now. So, Sanchari, you didn’t expect to step out of the airport and find such a beautiful city, did you?”

“Not at all. In fact, I thought it would probably be like going to one of those obscure towns in India. And I step out of the airport, and what’s the first thing I see – big cars, well lit roads, and automated car parking. Come to think of it, I took our good old Ambassador on my way to the Bombay airport.”

“Indeed, what misconceptions people back home have about this place. Take this flyover – I wonder if they have constructed any such in India yet,” I responded.

We were driving down to the other side of the bay, passing by the Novotel Abidjan. We were flowing through in a smooth Saturday evening traffic. If it was the sight of the orange glow of street lights that glimmered in the lagoon in front, or just the summer breeze, I do not know; but we all remained quiet for sometime.

Finally, Anuradha muttered, “Reminds me of the Marine Drive in Bombay.”

I knew she missed India; perhaps even more than I did.