The Foreign Service Journal, July-August 2010

J U LY- A U G U S T 2 0 1 0 / F O R E I G N S E R V I C E J O U R N A L 27 dramatically ripped it into four seg- ments. “You can’t deport me,” he cried tri- umphantly. “I have no passport. I am stateless! I have no place to go!” Indian officials pressed pieces of the torn book into his hands and pushed him toward a U.S.-bound plane waiting on the tarmac. The Pan Am pilot, however, decided this man was clearly deranged and a danger to other passengers. In ad- dition, he had an invalid travel document. He was denied entry onto the plane. In the eyes of Indian authorities, Mr. Smith had officially left the country. He could not be permitted to “return to India,” but must instead remain in the transit lounge until things were sorted out. Pan Am agreed to provide sustenance while their erst- while passenger was detained. Every day, on the airline’s round-the-world return schedule, a representative deliv- ered vegetarian meals to the American who lived in the New Delhi transit lounge. Smith set up housekeeping, washing his Indian kurta and pajama pants in the restroom, then sitting on the floor in his underwear while they dried. (At night, the proce- dure was reversed: underwear washed and drying as he stretched out on the floor to sleep.) He prayed, in the evening and at sunrise, in the curtained cubicle where In- dian security, lacking metal detectors, physically patted down departing passengers. I visited my fellow citizen every week and found him in generally good spirits. Smith looked at the situation prag- matically: he was still nearer his guru than if he’d been forced to return to Pasadena. At one point, the Pan Am manager suggested the air- line might be able to transport this hotheaded and danger- ous fellow, if the embassy could provide them with a straitjacket. (Did he know that we actually had several in various sizes, all issued by the U.S. government, in the con- sular closet?) I said I didn’t think it was possible. One day, however, I found Smith in a foul mood, visibly upset. There had been a chicken bone in his lunch. He was, he said, no longer able to trust Pan Am to follow his vegetarian regimen. He was going on a hunger strike. This bizarre state of affairs caught the attention of New Delhi’s American press corps; feature stories about Smith appeared in several U.S. publications. His celebrity status caused travelers, noting the tall Ameri- can in the transit lounge, to call out, “Right on, Eric!” They gave him money for food; a guard brought in a charcoal brazier so he could cook. Finally, the Indians came up with a court-approved deportation order that authorized escorts to travel with Smith to New York, and to subdue him by force if need be. The State Department advised that, under the circum- stances, I could glue his old passport together. After seven weeks, I was at the airport on Eric Cameron Smith’s behalf for the last time. Authorities introduced me to the pair of men selected by the Indian government to travel with, as they said, “the mad American.” One was a frail, elderly doctor who carried a large hy- podermic needle and tranquilizers in his physician’s black bag. The other was a burly Indian immigration officer who told me he had a sibling in New York. He was all but danc- ing around the room as he described the glad surprise with which his brother would greet him on arrival. I doubted that either of these two fellows —one fragile and hesitant, the other enormously distracted—was going to be of much help if Smith resisted, once again, being forced onto a plane. “Today’s the day, isn’t it?” he asked morosely when I was admitted into the transit lounge. I told him that it was. “What are you going to do?” I asked. “Don’t know.” He looked sideways at me, his expression mournful. “In the movie of my life, will I be played by Jack Palance?” “No,” I rejoined. “Probably Fred MacMurray.” We both smiled at the thought of gentle Fred cast as the “American tiger resisting deportation” described in the press. With his last few rupees, the American bought me a cup of tea. Then he left peaceably — no sedatives, no strait- jacket. I saw pictures of my former consular client in the International Herald Tribune , waving to TV cameras on his arrival in New York. A year later, Eric Cameron Smith walked into my office in New Delhi wearing a coat and tie. His hairline had re- ceded even further, but he was the same quiet, whimsical F O C U S With his last few rupees, the American bought me a cup of tea.