Of clothes shopping and terrorists Part 2

Monte Carlo, Monaco, November, 2006

Atulya was a proud young man. A sworn formula 1 fan since childhood, he stood at Casino square ogling at the most famous spot of real estate in the sport. Also at the expensive cars. Uh, and then also at the hot women (okay, you got me there).

On his way to Gare de Monaco-Monte Carlo (to non-Francophiles, that’s the railway station) after a walk along the Monaco Grand Prix circuit, our hero decides to take a walk up to Grimaldi palace which had the best view of Monaco. He didn’t think much of the 2 cops suspiciously tailing him. Only while crossing the road, did a cop catch Atulya’s attention with some elaborate gestures coupled with some very rapid French. Our protagonist believed the cop was either engaged in an elaborate Monagesque mating ritual or was telling him not to jaywalk. Choosing not to antagonize him, Atulya responded with a non-committal “Bonsoir. Merci beaucoop. Au revoir” before setting off. Apparently, the cops weren’t done. Atulya was puzzled. That combination of French phrases usually got him what he wanted. Even in Germany! Why the hell wouldn’t this Monagesque cop get away, he thought with mild irritation as he turned around.

Somewhere around this time, Atulya realized the cop meant business. He wasn’t sure what exactly tipped him off, but it was probably the firearm the cop had aimed at his head. Once he put the proverbial “life flashing by his bespectacled eyes” away, Atulya sought to exonerate himself from whatever this Monagesque cop thought he had done (Isn’t Monagesque a cool word. I shall make it a point to use it several times in this story. In fact, I think I shall adopt citizenship of Monaco, so that I can refer to myself as “Monagesque”. Anyways, back to the story, which will henceforth be presented in dialogue format).

Monagesque cop: (With gun still aimed earnestly at Atulya’s head) Quelle nationalité êtes-vous?
Atulya (somewhat stunned): Je suis Indienne.
MC (looking a little relieved): Vouz passeport, s’il vouz plait?
A: (Somewhat relieved) D’accord (Then rummages in backpack)
MC: (Screaming) NON, non, non, non, non, Attendez.
A halts in his tracks, petrified. The cold November night air didn’t help either.
MC: Some very rapid French
A: (Somewhat confused) Pardon? Je ne comprendres pas
MC: (In a horrible French accent which reminded A of the Pink Panther) Aye veel tache you passeporret meyeselff (Then bends down, never taking his eye, or gun off A at any time, and very slowly grabs A’s passport out of the bag)
MC: (leafs through the passport for more than 5 minutes as if it were the latest Superman comic before finally saying) Monsieur, C’est Anglais.
A (huh?): huh?
MC: N’est pas comprendrez *
A(repeats like an idiot): N’est pas comprendrez
MC and A stare at each other for a minute before A decides to break the ice.
A: Parlez vous Anglais?
MC (Hesitatingly): Oui, en peu. (Then continues like Pink Panther). Aye donnt onderstained you passeporrt. All its in Anglais. What ees you nayme, you day off birrth, and oll deetayls of you passeport. And vot ees you doing in Frronce ?
A: I can help translate. Then reading off the passport- Ici mon nom, ici mon pere nom, C'est mon jour de naissance, c'est mon lieu de naissance. And I am an exchange student in Brest, Bretagne.
MC is very decidedly noting all this in a little notebook, never taking the gun off A’s head. And after a deliberately practiced double-take): Why Brest ? Is that even a real place?
A is very relieved since he thinks the ordeal is over, but MC relentlessly holds on to A’s passport. A sophisticated looking walkie-talkie surfaces from MC’s pocket who then flags down a passing patrol car and he whispers something to them. Now there are 3 MC’s. 3 guns and a very very petrified A.
MC (clears his throat as if about to make a dramatic announcement, and then speaks to walkie talkie): Rapid French, rapid French Interpol rapid French rapid French Al-Qaeda, rapid French more rapid French.

Whatever colour was remaining in A’s face drained at the import of the words he heard. Even his bench mates in engineering college, with their weird look-alikes and death jokes, could not have suggested a more ridiculous scenario than the one the Monagesque (see, here I go again) cop just did. MC then goes on to give the man at the other end of the walkie-talkie all details of A’s life which he could glean from A’s passport- which owing to A’s limited French, and MC’s even more limited English, wasn’t too much.
Interpol man: Rapid French, rapid French. Rapid French, rapid French
MC: Oui, oui, oui, oui, oui, oui
Interpol man: Rapid French, rapid French. Rapid French, rapid French
MC: Non, non, non, non, non, non

This pattern continued for some 10 more minutes. With the 4 guns still trained against A’s head, it felt more like 10 years. Mind you, this whole incident takes place right next to what would have been the starting grid of the Monaco GP. Normally this would cause multiple orgasms for most F1 enthusiasts, but these scenes are best enjoyed without 4 guns aimed at your head. By now, A had had enough time to invoke the names of most of the 330 million strong Hindu pantheon, at least the ones whose names he could remember.

While A continued his lamentations and MC finally concluded his recriminations over the walkie-talkie, and an apologetic looking MC (with his even more apologetic looking walkie-talkie) gravely walks up to A: Aye am sourry. Eet seems you are not the terrowreest vee wear luking four.
A: Hello? Excuse me. You thought I was a terrorist? From what angle do I look like a terrorist to you? I object to this gross misrepresentation of your powers as a Monegasque cop to question unsuspecting tourists of their inalienable rights to roam this country as they please.

Of course, A didn’t really say the last dialogue. In fact, he was running as fast as his legs would take him to Gare de Monaco-Monte Carlo to the first train that would take him back to the (relative) safety of his friend Mukka’s place in Nice.

Post script: A politely told the shop assistant that he wouldn’t actually “grow any taller”, who was rather amused. A was amused too. He was more amused in Shillong when his very kind host asked if he was older than his sister or not (he is in fact 7 years younger), but what the hell, between being mistaken for a terrorist, and a growing schoolboy, he’d take the latter.

PS: All characters in the story are most certainly real, but the events may be (for lack of a better word) "somewhat exaggerated".
*- Please pardon spelling mistakes in French. My French is apparently good enough for small talk with Monagesque cops, but not good enough to spell correctly.