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I flew into Panama from Nicaragua, with a bottle of Flor de Cana for my host, former B-school classmate and casa-mate. Scoring seat 1A, I had presumed, would help me get out of the airport gates in no time. I was mistaken. I was the last of this flight’s passengers to leave the airport. Waiting over an hour before passport control brought me back my documents, I kept oscillating between the rare Indian passport, residencies in close succession across the world, and recent entries into Guatemala and Nicaragua to determine the red flags. L, my friend and host later told me how the culprit could be my Indian passport, rather the Indian passport often found on illegal migrants.

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