V for Vangibath
So, funny story.

One of my friends - let's call him V, since this is all very hush-hush, and heck, I always wanted to write one of those stories with characters that go by alphabets.

Be that as it may.

So our friend V went home to India, in December. He flew the Atlantic route, and one of the places he flew over was DC. V decides to get all touristy and pulls out his trusty digicam to take photos from the sky, so he can show off to the folks at home. He clicks away like a disapproving schoolteacher (hurrah for arbit analogies), and all seems well and good. However, when he reaches India, he finds that his bags aren't there. Since he's busy stuffing his face with masala dosas, he doesn't lose too much sleep over this and sure enough, the bags turn up a couple of days later.

V enjoys his trip, he has fun in Madras (which in itself is an amazing feat, but let me not dwell on snide observations such as this), and also travels to Coimbatore for a couple of days. A month later, he finds himself sitting sadly in a plane back to the US. When he reaches, he's distressed by the fact that once again, his bags haven't reached - however, he curses the airline, and leaves it at that. Again, the bags turn up a couple of days late.

But here's where it gets interesting.

V's at the supermarket one Sunday morning, doing some grocery shopping (actually, I think at the time, he was on all fours, groping around at the back of a freezer for a can of plain yogurt - since eating strawberry curd rice isn't very appealing - and generally being rather cutely desi about the whole thing). Whilst he goes about his un-fruitful yogurt pursuit with steely resolve, his phone rings. He picks it up, and a grim voice on the other end says Hi, I'm calling from the FBI.

I should mention, I think, that our confused friend V has just started his job search process. Even so, his immediate thought process is rather hilarious:

This is odd, V thinks. I don't remember applying to the FBI for a job.

Over the next couple of minutes, the good folks at the FBI tell him that they're not doing a phone interview, but rather, they've received reports that he was clicking photos over the capital city, and they're very sorry, but he's going to have to submit to a thorough investigation. They're coming to his house, they inform him.

At this point, V's wondering whether this is all some strange plot hatched by evil friends, since it would not be entirely out of character. However, a couple of sinister looking FBI agents do, in fact, turn up at his apartment shortly thereafter (guns peeping out from inside jackets and all). What follows is a tale of intrigue that boggles the mind.

Apparently, after receiving their tip-off (which, I suppose, was courtesy a paranoid co-passenger who couldn't tell an unshaven Tamilian from your friendly neighbourhood Islamic fundamentalist), they sprung into action and delayed his baggage in order to search it thoroughly. Since his luggage probably consisted of tons of Ferrero Rocher and a pile of dirty laundry for mom to do, I suppose they deduced that their culprit was a sloppy chocaholic (or choppy shopaholic, take your pick). Armed with this information, they followed his every move in Madras (let me tell you, it's a lot more fun to imagine this with the Pink Panther theme playing in the background). They knew where he lived, they knew what he was up to - and they even knew where he stayed at Coimbatore and what he did there.

In the meantime, they'd called the ECE Dept at the UA, they'd grilled the graduate advisor, V's professors, and his on-campus employer - who, I imagine, were all wondering what the hell this otherwise quiet Tam-Brahm was up to. On the way back, they delayed his luggage again, and this time, I expect they must have been rather intrigued by the pickles and packets of MTR masalas, not to mention V's strange transformation from hobo to clean-clothed, vangibath eating grad student. They staked our apartment complex for a couple of days, before deciding that the desi grad student was, in fact, a rather docile breed, and that it was safe to go in.

Anyway, after finishing their hour long interrogation, and declining the ever-thoughtful V's offer of pedas and kodubele, the FBI men burnt a CD with all the photos, took down the names of the other occupants of the house, made everyone sit in a circle and then proceeded to use that funky memory-erasing device from MIB on the lot. Then, they happily trotted off, making witty impromptu banter.

So there you have it.

Seriously, though - I'm actually rather surprised by the sheer detail of the information they have on V, and the pains they went through to keep an eye on him in India. Apparently, one of the agents commented that it was lucky V was from India - any middle-eastern country, and things could have gotten sticky. I'd figured that people in this country were generally paranoid, but it still is a little surprising to see the government follow even these little things up. I wonder if across the country, agents from the Dept of Homeland Security are following up reports like this - there must be a ton.

I'm not sure whether to be impressed by their thoroughness, feel secure that someone's watching out for the country, or sorry that people have to live in a world of such mind-numbing paranoia.