A friend of mine recently had one of the nicest experiences at an immigration counter. This occurred at the international airport in Bombay, while he was waiting for an officer to stamp his passport and allow him through the gates. The officer in question was being served a cutting of chai, that quintessential shot of sugar, tea and milk that has long been offered at street corners across the city. He accepted his tiny cup, then insisted that my friend have one too. There they were, on opposite sides of a glass partition, raising their cups and smiling. The story made me smile too.

I haven’t always had the most pleasant experiences at immigration counters. A majority of officers are polite, professional and kind, but there have also been a few who have struggled with bad days, who have taken it out on the visitors they are tasked with processing. I don’t mind when that happens because we are all human, but I do mind when an airport stops being a place of welcome and starts to become a symbol of what isn’t right with a place.