Visa Madness continues
Today was the day when I went back to the consulate to get my visa. Whatever entropic fog was hanging over me last week when I went to apply was still hanging over me today, and my surreal adventures continued.
It started innocently enough. I got on the subway and had a nice ride, I walked down the lovely Toronto day to the consulate. I took 7 numbers from the guy at the door and discarded them down to the lowest. I sat for two hours in the sweltering heat and the humidity so thick that at one point the air started to condense into dew on my canvas backpack. All was right with the world, because all was going according to plan. This is what it is to get an Indian visa, and I was reassured because it meant the world was in order and everything would go through without a problem, I would be able to go to India next week (7 days, 2 hours as of this moment).
But no, life doesn't ever actually work that way. I don't know where I get this idea that the world is a rational, orderly place. It isn't. It is a bizarre series of random incidents strung together by a mad and irrational demiurge whose job is to constantly remind me that nothing is more real than the surreal.
My number comes up on the board, I go to the window without even having to shove my way through anyone to get there. The lady behind the counter takes my receipt, looks at it, looks at her computer screen, purses her lips and looks up at me with narrow eyes. "You" she says, with her finger pointing in the imperious gesture of a Mughal begum speaking to the barbarian whose people were beating each other to death with clubs while her people were building the grandest palaces that the world has ever seen, "you must go wait over there."
The "there" that she is pointing to is a waiting area guarded by two Sikh guards next to an ominous sign written in blood red Hindi letters. I don't know enough Hindi to actually read the sign, but I know just enough to start to mouth out the sounds of it as I cross the floor with my bladder in my left foot. I just know, at this point, that something has gone wrong with my job as a rodeo clown and now they won't let me into the country.
So I sit and twitch for about fifteen minutes when the most obviously rajput man I've ever seen (outside of a picture) comes out of an unmarked mystery door in the back and walks straight over to me. He's got that hard, angular face that speaks of desert warriors who die before dishonor and he's wearing a thousand dollar silk suit that makes everyone else in the room look like they were dressed by monkeys. And not good Hanuman monkeys, but crazy fashion-challenged monkeys that Stacey and Clinton of TLC's "What Not to Wear," would beat with sticks.
Said man walks right up to me, asks if I am "Mr. Robins, the author" and then shakes my hand hard. He then says the following to me, as close as I can recall:
"We wanted to apologize to you for the confusion the other day. The government of India is always happy to have authors visit our country. You are a welcome guest, and we hope that your travels in our nation inspire you to write about us. Here is your passport and visa, and I hope you have a blessed trip and enjoy your stay."
With that he gives me my passport, complete with visa, shakes my hand again, and goes back through the mystery door and out of my life forever. I feel the poorer for his absence. He was just that kind of guy.
So, on the way out, I check my visa and everything seems to be in order. Then I notice my friend from the last trip up, who has just gotten her visa and her daughters visa as well. She looks at mine and lets me look at hers, and she points to a line and says, "I've never seen this before." There, where she is pointing, is a series of hindi letters in a line marked "special permissions." I ask a Canadian who is leaving the office with us if I can see his, and he doesn't have the mark either.
Mo and her mom think that the mark means I'm special, and that because I'm a writer they don't want me to have more hassles.
I think it means "strip search this man at every possible opportunity."
We'll see in 1 week, 1 hour, 15 minutes.
It started innocently enough. I got on the subway and had a nice ride, I walked down the lovely Toronto day to the consulate. I took 7 numbers from the guy at the door and discarded them down to the lowest. I sat for two hours in the sweltering heat and the humidity so thick that at one point the air started to condense into dew on my canvas backpack. All was right with the world, because all was going according to plan. This is what it is to get an Indian visa, and I was reassured because it meant the world was in order and everything would go through without a problem, I would be able to go to India next week (7 days, 2 hours as of this moment).
But no, life doesn't ever actually work that way. I don't know where I get this idea that the world is a rational, orderly place. It isn't. It is a bizarre series of random incidents strung together by a mad and irrational demiurge whose job is to constantly remind me that nothing is more real than the surreal.
My number comes up on the board, I go to the window without even having to shove my way through anyone to get there. The lady behind the counter takes my receipt, looks at it, looks at her computer screen, purses her lips and looks up at me with narrow eyes. "You" she says, with her finger pointing in the imperious gesture of a Mughal begum speaking to the barbarian whose people were beating each other to death with clubs while her people were building the grandest palaces that the world has ever seen, "you must go wait over there."
The "there" that she is pointing to is a waiting area guarded by two Sikh guards next to an ominous sign written in blood red Hindi letters. I don't know enough Hindi to actually read the sign, but I know just enough to start to mouth out the sounds of it as I cross the floor with my bladder in my left foot. I just know, at this point, that something has gone wrong with my job as a rodeo clown and now they won't let me into the country.
So I sit and twitch for about fifteen minutes when the most obviously rajput man I've ever seen (outside of a picture) comes out of an unmarked mystery door in the back and walks straight over to me. He's got that hard, angular face that speaks of desert warriors who die before dishonor and he's wearing a thousand dollar silk suit that makes everyone else in the room look like they were dressed by monkeys. And not good Hanuman monkeys, but crazy fashion-challenged monkeys that Stacey and Clinton of TLC's "What Not to Wear," would beat with sticks.
Said man walks right up to me, asks if I am "Mr. Robins, the author" and then shakes my hand hard. He then says the following to me, as close as I can recall:
"We wanted to apologize to you for the confusion the other day. The government of India is always happy to have authors visit our country. You are a welcome guest, and we hope that your travels in our nation inspire you to write about us. Here is your passport and visa, and I hope you have a blessed trip and enjoy your stay."
With that he gives me my passport, complete with visa, shakes my hand again, and goes back through the mystery door and out of my life forever. I feel the poorer for his absence. He was just that kind of guy.
So, on the way out, I check my visa and everything seems to be in order. Then I notice my friend from the last trip up, who has just gotten her visa and her daughters visa as well. She looks at mine and lets me look at hers, and she points to a line and says, "I've never seen this before." There, where she is pointing, is a series of hindi letters in a line marked "special permissions." I ask a Canadian who is leaving the office with us if I can see his, and he doesn't have the mark either.
Mo and her mom think that the mark means I'm special, and that because I'm a writer they don't want me to have more hassles.
I think it means "strip search this man at every possible opportunity."
We'll see in 1 week, 1 hour, 15 minutes.
6 Comments:
The dangers of travelling to a country where literature still has value? Of course, if it was Russia, you might even have a chance to get shot!
(Okay okay, if it was Russia 60 years ago...)
It makes you wonder if you should have put 'Author' on your application instead of 'Writer'? Was there some semantic confusion?
I think it's actually the way they mark out those who are going to be the first up against the wall when the revolution comes. Which is unfortunate, since the revolution is scheduled for September 1. Carefully set up to coincide with my sister's birthday.
Live hard between now and then!
Thomas
When getting a visa for China, I put my profession down as "writer." The woman behind the counter looked at it, squinted, looked at me, and said "let's just changed this to "unemployed."
Now I put "game designer." Seems more harmless.
yrs--
--Ben
Ben,
Mo told me, at one point when we were still worried about it, that I should have put unemployed. Or "documentation for law firms" (as I do that too). When I responded that I made five figures last year she told me that was great, and I could be all proud of that or I could go to India.
Turns out I get to do both. ;)
Though from now on I will probably put "graphic artist" or "game designer" or some other title like that.
Hey Brand - looking forward to reading your adventures. I didn't get a chance to see or speak with you guys before you left. I got an e-mail from Mo at work wondering when I was back from vacation and now that I am back, it appears you have left!
Please keep in touch and let me know how the trip over went.
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