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CRANK'S CORNER

        There are any num-ber of advisories that are avowedly issued for the benefit of travellers and tourists. You are forever warned against littering in Singapore as perhaps they will otherwise package it to be sold at the inevitable shopping festival. You are also told not to carry to England umbrellas, probably because they anyway call them brollies. US-bound Indians are sometimes asked not to take along sweets and savouries as they may be gobbled up by hungry immigration men. You don't need a Visa to China as you can still manage with your Mastercard itself.

        But nobody has ever talked of whom you should travel with. I too also not go into that. But I can speak with authority about whom not to take as companion on an overseas trip. Never ever set out with the one who is very fond of mother's cooking and mother tongue: You will end up being his official translator and his partner in the never-ending foray for that homely food.

        When I went to Sri Lanka a couple of weeks back, my companion was one who began to feel homesick right at the airport itself. If technically possible, he would have taken a flight from Chennai to Chennai. But alas, the aviation industry is not well evolved, so he set out with us to Sri Lanka so that he could come back to Chennai. Coming back was certainly his chief motive in going out.

        Now, he was a clumsy tourist prone to thinking on the lines as to why planes don't have any numbers on them even though every one of them is referred to with a damn number. Such people are forever asking questions to which no wikipedia or encyclopaedia can provide satisfying answers. They will wonder at the height of Swiss Alps as to why they don't speak Tamil there or wonder why they don't get luscious pongal in Arkansas. My companion was a fully paid-up member of this cult.

        Upon touching down at Colombo, his first query was where do LTTE men usually strike. The guide, who otherwise seemed to be a cheery chap, was halted in his tracks as if he was about to step on a minefield. All through the trip the words LTTE and bombs kept ringing in the air more than at any Norwegian negotiator's table. By the time it all ended, I myself felt that I had all along been with a spiritual clone of Anton Balasingham. But my companion felt more than bombed when, to his dismay, he found no 'south Indian' item on the menu anywhere.

        Most Indians, whenever they travel abroad, have a problem with what is politely referred to as their 'bowel movements'. Either they are forever nailed to the WC (not finding a suitable 'mug' there is another event, which has spoiled many a promising tour) or waiting impatiently for an urge to visit the WC. The bowels are either in fast forward mode on the commode or stuck in 'pause' position. The normal 'play' feature is never found. This maybe because they don't get to find the food they are used to at home. But when you travel to a far off land and still want to eat the same thing that you have day in and day out, then it becomes an exercise in silly travesty. My friend was decidedly an expert in this. On every arrival at the buffet table, he will venture forth with the hope of laying his hand on dosai or poori, and obviously not finding any, he will drown his misery in huge helpings of local cuisine without bothering what he was gobbling up. On one occasion, he was so frustratedly famished that he drank the entire contents of the finger bowl kept for me, and almost asked for a second helping.

        My companion, like most Indians, had an amplifier for a voice. So when he asked something in Colombo, those in distant Kandy felt obliged to answer. In a country, when your Tamilness could land you in trouble, his booming voice and his unmistakable chaste Tamil carried more problems than any sortie from the LTTE could. But having been pushed into being the unofficial translator for him, I was at the receiving end more than once.

        By the time we rounded off the tour, I was, more than him, happy to comeback, and almost kissed the doormat in uncontained glee.

        But surely there should be somebody worse than a pain-in-the-wrong-place travel companion. Perhaps, it must be the silent sufferer who will comeback and the tell the story to the rest of the world in his column.