Flying while migrant

DHAKA Airport boasts at being one of the very few airports charging people when going inside to bid farewell to their loved ones. And now, there is a cage at the outer periphery adding another layer of insulation against unwanted elements wanting to spend a few more precious moments with their loved ones flying off on one way tickets. Or perhaps the reason, as per the rule makers, is to ease the burden on free air conditioning and Wi-Fi that individuals from villages, hundreds of miles away, have surely come to avail. Or, maybe it is to de-clutter the peripheral visions of business class passengers, especially those from other countries, about to finalise their impressions of Bangladesh.
For the scary eyed migrant worker, the ordeal has just begun. Dry words at the check-in counter and the immigration desk, barks to stay clear of the Foreign Passport line, intimidating boarding card to be filled out and then, another layer of security check at the gate. And if there is a hartal or oborodh, don't forget the extra few days of camping out in the parking lot.
The boarding announcement is made. All to board in perfect hierarchical order -- first class, business class, platinum club, gold club, silver club, passengers with children and finally the proletariats flying on coach starting from the back of the aircraft.
Is there something wrong with the PA system, because we all seem to hear: "This is the last flight out of Dhaka." A stampede ensues. I manage to head to my favourite second last row seat only to discover that I'm the Pied Piper with a small army that has followed me all the way to the end of the aircraft.
The frazzled flight attendants start redirecting the exodus to their assigned seats. This will take ages. So, I sign up as a volunteer in helping passengers find their seats, stow their neatly packed bags (far better than the backpacks carried by passengers like myself, where we forget that we are hitting everybody behind us) in the overhead compartments, buckle up…I become a local hero. The feeling is priceless.
I smile and commence my power nap. When I'm up, the plane has started its final descent. I am energised and start filling out the heaps of arrival cards of my neighbours. Gladly so -- my few opportunities at penmanship, becoming otherwise extinct, thanks to the laptop and smart phone.
Profuse thank you's. Poor souls. Everything thus far is a picnic compared to the Ahlan Wa Sahlan that awaits them. How about our embassies distribute free copies of A Day Without a Mexican to the authorities of the host nations for going easy on them?
Meantime, let's at least welcome the migrant workers with open arms when they finally return to Bangladesh. How about a group CIP status? How about a simple "Welcome home!" that doesn't cost a dime, unlike for their loved ones, who have to pay once again to get into the arrival lounge to welcome the bread earners home.
But the state has one reception party awaiting without fail. The migrant workers going past customs officials is a scene from the Discovery Channel where the bears stand in the middle of a river scooping for fresh salmon. Smuggling in gold? Oh please. It's a toy plane for the son he hasn't seen since birth. Relax! No need for cavity searches, all gold interceptions are from tip offs anyway.
Oh well, we continue to kiss those taking dollars out of the country and diss those bringing the dollar in without fail and with consistency, even amidst all the political unrests. Till we say a collective thank you, I am happy that I have done my share to upgrade them from cargo to economy.

The writer is an engineer & CEO turned comedian (by choice), a motivational speaker and the host of NTV's The Naveed Mahbub Show.
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