I have my own little Oklahoma bombing story to tell. A day after that ghastly incident, I was almost arrested by the New York police. They thought I was an Arab terrorist involved in the blast. It was the spring of 1995. I was in New York on my first visit to the US when the building in Oklahoma was blown up. There was mass hysteria even in New York, which is far from Oklahoma. The victims had nothing to do with politics of any kind. Innocent babies at a day care centre, old women and men... And no one knew who could have done it. The day after the incident, I had a lot of things to do. I dressed in a black salwar-kameez and set off bright and early from my friend's home in the suburbs. I was to meet a lady writer in Harlem. The meeting had been fixed by the United States Information Service, which was partially sponsoring my trip. I had her address written down in my dairy. I also had a scrap of paper in my purse on which I had scribbled down her name and the street she lived on. On the train to New York Central, I looked at the headlines in the papers my fellow commuters were reading. The prime suspects for the moment were Arab terrorists. I took another train from Grand Central and reached Harlem well in time for my appointment. Now all I had to do was find the apartment. Easier said than done. I put my hand into my shoulder bag. Help! My diary was missing. Must have left it at home in my scramble to get to the station on time. And now all I had to guide me was my little scrap of paper. But I was a veteran journalist, wasn't I? Shouldn't be tough. I couldn't have been more wrong. Veteran journalist indeed! I hadn't even written down the address properly! I was on the right street and I had an apartment number, but not the building. And no phone number. Rows of apartment blocks towered dauntingly on either side of me. But people on the same street would know each other, wouldn't they? And the lady I was to visit was a famous writer... No way. The first person I showed my scrap of paper just shook his head. It was about 10 am. There were not too many people on the street. I decided to try entering the apartment buildings one by one to see if my writer's name was listed there. A long and laborious process, but I couldn't think of anything else. I had finished about three apartments when two men in an open red car who had cruised by a couple of times stopped. "Can I help you?" one of them called out. I didn't respond. He looked suspicious and I knew I had to be careful in Harlem. I could be mugged or robbed. I glanced around nervously. There was no one about. I hurried down towards the next building. He jumped out. I ran into the nearest building. The main door was closed and I stood outside trying to read the names of the occupants. I glanced nervously over my shoulder. Suppose he attacked me? What should I do? There was no one in sight. But thankfully, he had not followed me. I peeped out. The car was parked some way up the road. A police car went by, lights flashing, sirens screaming. The street was empty. I looked desperately at my paper. Should I just give up and go back home? A black couple walked by. When I tried to stop them, they moved off briskly as if they had not heard me. Suddenly, the car was reversing. Before I knew it, the two guys were standing on either side, flashing ID cards. "New York City Police," one of them said. "Can I see your ID ma'am? Are you from New York?" Police? But these men were in plain clothes, driving an ordinary car. What if they were thugs? What if they took away my passport? But I was in no position to argue. I quietly pulled out my passport and showed it to them. "India," the taller one said. "Okay." He gave it back to me. "But I would be careful today if I were you. We thought you might be from the Middle East." I was relieved. And annoyed. I almost got arrested just because I looked the way I looked. "Why are you walking up and down here ma'am?" the other guy asked. "Do you speak English?' I suddenly realised I hadn't uttered a single word. I nodded. "Journalist," I said. I showed him my scrap. "I need to find this woman." He looked at it and shrugged. "The address is incomplete." They walked off, advising me to go home and try another day. I was still trembling when I tried the next building. As luck would have it, my lady writer lived there. But that's another story.... Gita Aravamudan, as her last article also proved, is a genius at being in the right place at the wrong time. Tell us what you think of this diary Be part of an exciting venture! Write a Diary!
HOME | NEWS | CRICKET | MONEY | SPORTS | MOVIES | CHAT | BROADBAND | TRAVEL ASTROLOGY | NEWSLINKS | BOOK SHOP | MUSIC SHOP | GIFT SHOP | HOTEL BOOKINGS AIR/RAIL | WEDDING | ROMANCE | WEATHER | WOMEN | E-CARDS | SEARCH HOMEPAGES | FREE MESSENGER | FREE EMAIL | CONTESTS | FEEDBACK