In the last week of June, when a young Naga woman in New Delhi was denied entry into the pretentiously titled club called Urban Pind, the talk of the town became all about racial profiling. The issue was still raging fire when animal rights activist Ambika Shukla scribbled an obnoxious canine caper in some newspaper about what she derisively thought about Nagas and “other Northeasterners” relishing dog meat. And all this after the Times of India, in March, apologised for carrying a piece underlined by a reprehensibly racist remark about women from the Northeast in an article on spas. For some reason, perhaps for all good reason, all the incidents were related to the Northeast. Now, that’s one kind of racial profiling that will always leave you seething in anger. Yet, there are other kinds (i.e profiling of people from other parts of the country) that amuse you as well. Irritate you too. Like that of Bengalis like me.

I was feeling slightly restless – what, with having landed up like those incorrigible Virgos way ahead of time. My first official day as a journalist. I didn’t want to be late. I sat on that uncomfortable so-called sofa in the crammed lobby of the Press Trust of India (PTI) regional office in Calcutta that rainy October morning of 1991. It didn’t quite dampen my spirits – whatever significant I do, it always seems to rain that day. So, as it kept drizzling outside, my restlessness grew. Why the blazes am I the only one here to join as a trainee journalist? I was contemplating whether I should step outside for a smoke, when two young men appeared on the doorway. Laurel and Hardy, I said to myself. They were almost so. One was lean, the other thickset. Well, almost. They were here as trainee journalists too, they told the receptionist, and were promptly directed towards me and asked to wait.

I am a brand loyalist – I loathe changing brands. I smoked Gold Flake Kings for eight years till I switched over to India Kings because I discovered a discrepancy both in the tobacco quality and the filter itself between the packs of 10s and 20s. I have puffed on the India Kings brand for the last 10 years. I stick to Old Monk when drinking rum and Black Label when guzzling beer. Unless the bar offers no other choice. I have worn Lees and Levis since I-don’t-remember-when. Latter-day brands have not been able to wrap me over. Brand strategists could well look at me as an extreme case study, for all I care. But then I wonder why I am such a brand loyalist? It works, firstly, for me if the brand keeps me satisfied. Secondly, I might have no other choice which would be a better alternative. Lastly, it might be a question of compulsion. It is rarely a combination of all three.

I had been restlessly waiting for my credit card to be delivered. I always become a bit uneasy when the expiry date of a card draws near and the new one is yet to find itself in my hands. So I was. I mean, my being uneasy. When the doorbell rang the other scorching afternoon and I peered over the parapet to see a man who could only be a courier deliveryman, I was more than relieved. Phew! There comes my Standard Chartered Bank card. But it didn’t. Not that noon at least. With an air of superciliousness, the smartly-dressed man from Blue Dart asked for an identification. That was fine by me, for some protocol has to be followed when it comes to delivery of credit cards. I fished out an identification card that did not go down well with him. It does not have an employee number, he pointed out in sheer disgust. Ok, so what do I do? You don’t have anything like a driver’s licence? Oh yes, I do.