The King And I

By Godfrey Pereira

New Jersey is a state across the tracks from New York City. They call it the Garden State. Don’t know why. Jersey is poor neighbour to The Big Apple. There are bright spots within the rubble though. There is Six Flags in Jackson, poor cousin to Disneyworld in Florida. Then there is Atlantic City, poor hooker to Las Vegas, and of course, Albert Einstein’s house and the famous college at Princeton, poor cousins to nobody.
And then, there is Newark Liberty International Airport where the big jet engines roar.
That is where it all went down.
That is where King Khan was made to feel like an unknown commoner without a denominator. A plaque now marks the exact spot where this happened. Unnamed sources from deep within the Pentagon, state that an eternal flame will be added, after America emerges from its recession.
Our President Obama has commanded that his daily briefing include “The Khan Incident” and it’s social and economic repercussions on the global outsourcing trade industry. The Glorious Democratic Nation of Kazakhstan and the Communist State of China are said to be watching the situation very closely.
Khan’s fans were furious. His friends shook their heads in dismay, and the whole of India let out an audible collective sigh of disgust. They wished they could spray blood red paan spittle all over Newark airport, and of course the Americans. And yes, many Indian politicians, weighed in on the issue. Of course.
Shahrukh Khan, India’s Brad Pitt, was hopping a flight to Chicago and was detained at Newark because his last name “KHAN’ popped up on a computer security search. A “secondary inspection” was conducted and King Khan flew into Chicago. End of story. Not!
His fans at home and anti-American ideologues began frothing at the mouth making rabid statements about U.S. policy. Denouncing American Idol and calling our Brad Pitt an “Inglorious Basterd.” They also swore that they were going to wear black arm bands, shouting Death to America, when they ate at Mac Donald’s or stood in long lines for American tourist visas.
A blitzkrieg followed. The Press went into overdrive. Baying for American blood. Protesters burnt effigies of Coco- Cola and demonstrators chanted “Death to Playboy.”
It all seemed pretty senseless till…
The Indian Federal Information Minister, Ambika Soni, was quoted by The Associated Press as suggesting that India adopt a similar policy toward Americans traveling to India.

“An eye for an eye only ends up making the whole world blind.”
Wonder who said that?

I flew into the Chattrapathi Shivaji International Airport last week.
At Customs they asked. “What Nationality?”
“American, I guess,” I said.
The lady at the counter whose tri-colored blinking name tag read Friskin’ Mistry said, “You, yes you, go to Saffron Line, now.”
“Look, I was born here…”I said.
“You, please to be shut-upping. No talking, go…” she barked.
“Where are you going? Why are you here? Who do you know in Amchi Mumbai?
How long do you plan to stay? Swine….Do you have that pig disease in your carry on? Any pornography? How many dollars in your pocket? Does your underwear have stars and stripes, and holes? Is that a gun in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?”

After listening to my answers, contempt growing on her countenance she said. “Time for the frisking. Hands Up, Spread Legs!” After her wandering, probing fingers were satisfied that the contents of my large intestines did not carry any contraband she pointed to a side door. “You. Time for Secondary Inspection.”
Friskin’ Mistry followed me into an airless room fit for criminals doomed to solitary confinement. “Please assume position, please.”
I bent over.
“Sit down,” she shouted, “back straight, look me in eyes, No talk, please.” She pulled out a questionnaire and machine gunned the questions and answers.
“Straight or Gay?”
I looked at her breasts.
“Straight,” she said
“Married or divorced?”
I moved my eyes lower.
“Divorced,” she said.
“What did your last credit card report state?”
She looked at my designer torn jeans.
“Not Credit worthy,” she said.
“You sure that’s not a gun in your pocket?”
I looked at her heavy breasts again.
“Ahaa,” she said, that’s not a gun, you naughty, naughty boy, you.”
After six hours, Frisken Mistry was completely satisfied. “Welcome to India,” she said and smiled a smile so sweet that I nearly asked for her horoscope chart. Who knows, she could be the one.
I tried humor, just like Shahrukh Khan, saying her name, “Friskin’ Mistry” really fast, five times. She was not amused.
Try it. It gives you a natural High. Might help you get you off that Ganja dependence.

From the corner of my eye, I seen Friskin Mistry bite the head off an Italian tourist. The woman tried to be friendly with Friskin’ Mistry. She just said the wrong thing at the wrong time, in the wrong place and to the wrong person. “I like India,” said the Italian. “I mean your Prime Minister, Sonia Gandhi is Italian, from my home state.”
Friskin’ Mistry’s eyes burned with white hot flames, she breathed so deep I thought her ample bosom was going to spurt boiling milk at the Italian. “She is not our Prime Minister, maa-damn,” Friskin’ Mistry stated in her best dispassionate diplomatic voice. “The name of our Prime Minister is Manmohan Singh, maa-damn.”
Then the Italian tourist put the foot, that she had just stepped into cow dung with, right into her mouth. “Of course, I know that, silly,” she said, “I know your Prime Minister’s name, that fellow with the glasses and turban. What I mean is, Sonia Gandhi is the one who really pulls all the strings, the one behind the curtain, you know, the real power, you know. I know, that’s how things are done here in India. Everything, kinda under the table. Chai Pani here, pull a string there, tie a knot there…. I know. I understand your culture. It’s cool.”
Friskin Mistry turned the color of a six day old corpse. Someone must have jerked the string attached to her dormant kundalini. I moved away, so as not to attract any shrapnel and pieces of bloody flying human flesh. The last thing I heard was Friskin’ Mistry scream, “SECONDARY INSPECTION.”
I fled as pure funk took over. I could feel my bowels begin to move.
Outside my friends were waiting.
There were no hellos or good to see you. “Who do you people think you are?” said my Rakhee Sister, Sunman Das Gupta. “Insulting our Brad Pitt? You live in New Jersey, so you must shoulder some of the responsibility.” The statement was invalid on so many levels, I let it go. In the car they said that Shahrukh Khan was angry, and when Angelina Jolie came to Mumbai next to adopt a baby, he would like to frisk her really hard. So I said, “Good, then Our Brad Pitt can frisk Queen Gauri Chibba, King Khan’s wife.
And your Brad Pitt can watch.”

They threatened to throw me out of the car, these childhood friends of mine. They threatened to hurt me, in private soft tender places so that I would be incapable of having any future sexual pleasure. They threatened my reproductive organs with violence so ugly, I cannot write about it. They said that it was a good thing I lived in America. That poor broke country which owed billions of dollars to China. I checked my zipper, crossed my legs and maintained a wise silence.

On the way to Pali Hill, Bandra, Sena Supremo, Bal Thackeray was making a speech at Dharavi, the number one tourist spot in Bombay. We stopped the car to listen to the aging tiger. “Maharashtra he roared is for Maharashtrians. Let us throw all the Americans tourists out. Move the American Embassy to Bihar. They have insulted our King Khan. He may be a Muslim but that’s better than being American. I say to you, these Damn Yankees and especially that Ted Nugent should not be allowed on sacred Indian soil. We have to stand by our Muslim brothers; after all, in the end, we are all Indians, from the same mother.” The crowd was tuning in; it was beginning to look like a mob.
We left in a hurry.
In India, I heard angry anti-American talk everywhere. Talking to a crowd at a posh Gymkhana in Mumbai, I heard a universal cry.
Now, when Americans came visiting India they should all be frisked and frisked and frisked. Bill Clinton, Nancy Pelosi, Jay Leno, Brad Pitt, Megan Fox, The Obama Girl, Charles Manson, Son of Sam, Lil Wayne & Young Jeezy, Snoop Dog, Reverend Billy Graham and Rush Limbaugh, just to name a few.
India needs to show the Friskin’ Americans, what it Friskin’ feels like, to be Friskin’ Frisked.
I finally flew out of India, got back to my Newark Liberty International Airport.
“Where you comin’ from?” they asked.
“India,” I said.
“There is a message here for you from an Air India staffer. Someone’s waiting for you.
Air India, Room Ten, first on your left.
Bewildered, I walked into the room.
It was Friskin’, Mistry. There was naked lust in her eyes.
“SECONDARY INSPECTION, NOW,” she said in a throaty voice.

There was a muffled cough from the shadows of the room.

It was Shahrukh Khan. “I am going out there,” he whispered, “this security brouhaha was just great hangama, man. International publicity. Hope they arrest me this time. Hope they shoot me. Hope I don’t die. If I do, tell Angelina… no, no, no, tell my wife I love her. Don’t forget to see ‘My Name Is Khan.’

America, Is this a great country, or what!”

Khan looked at Friskin’ Mistry’s heaving breasts. Friskin’ Mistry looked down at Khan. “Yes, he said sheepishly, “That is a gun in my pocket, really it is. A big dangerous prop for added publicity. There is no business, like show business.”

I just broke down and died, laughing.