Visa Power- the Road to 'Go Get It'

A rainy day was a bad omen. I didn’t want to be standing wet and vulnerable in front of the Visa Officer at the US Consulate. In retrospect, the whole saga is funny and how.

Arriving half an hour before my scheduled time, I thought I might be laughed at. Instead, what greeted me was a sombre looking line that threatened to make me back pedal at least half a kilometer. Parents and wards, husbands and wives and all genetic combinations possible had arrived with rain gear and mortal fear, hours in advance. Nobody spoke, just tentative glances, shuffling of feet and then tentative glances again, this time in the direction of the gates to the Consulate. Mumbaikars are an optimistic lot; else why would one of the gentlemen preceding me in queue not carry an umbrella, in spite of it having poured that morning. His feeble attempts at accommodating himself in the rear part of his neighbour’s umbrella ended with a feeble smile from him and a condescending stare from his counterpart. Interestingly, that was when a bearded rag picker came along vending two umbrellas (no I have not strayed into another post by mistake, this one IS about the US visa :-)) and sold one of them to this gentleman for a cool two hundred bucks. I could bet my passport that that umbrella wouldn’t last two hundred hours.
A while later we were herded like refugees into a canopy just outside the consulate gates. I could see faces tighten, breathing get heavier and eyes lighting up at the slightest movement. Episode 2 was just about to unfold. A well dressed gentleman, wearing a suit actually, had carried a suitcase too many. You just can’t carry anything into the Consulate, except probably yourself. He used native Gujarati and to good effect. An unsuspecting father who was accompanying his daughter to the visa interview agreed to tow his luggage. After exchanging pleasantries and his suitcase, he was a relieved man, in more ways than one. That poor uncle (girl’s father) now resembled a Gujju luggage rack, two suitcases, a ladies' hand bag and a pink umbrella. The umbrella was short lived, it gave way as soon as the good(s) Samaritan stepped out into the rain, must’ve been a cheap Chinese import.
People kept falling off the line for various reasons, none related to ineligibility of course. I wouldn’t blame terrorists for driving a jeep in here. Looked like there was no other way to get in. The third episode comprised a hyper gentleman who was asked to reveal the innards of his err….umbrella, by the insecure security guards. The soaked thing opened in a jiffy and with a bang, showering monsoon arbitrarily in four different directions. The guards were wet and angry. I came off the security check with a bad expression on your face and a wooden token in hand
The scene within the interviewing centre DID resemble a refugee camp. Looked like there were terrorists within who were polishing off hostages by the hour. Anxious faces tried to read expressions of those who emerged from the visa interviews, looking for cues which might see them through. The atmosphere was very similar to one outside ICUs in hospitals, just that all who waited for their turn also looked to be in a serious condition.
The announcement system summoned people to interview booths had the vagaries of the Consul Officers voice. So some came in genuine American accents which led to everyone cocking the ears but no one quite fathoming what was said. Some others came in Desi American accents which were even worse.
I finished my interview and on my way out witnessed many more ‘incidents’ in the queue which had swelled by now, much like the rain water outside. All in all getting the Visa wasn’t half as entertaining as the journey to getting there.