The Indian Immigration Office: A Symbol of the World?

So last week I had to figure out our Visa problem. Our company did not understand how to help us when we first got here to avoid having to get this “exit permit” to get back home. It came out to a total of 2 days, 8 hours in all, and $250. WHEW! That was awful. The US Embassy told me it should be something like $25 and a quick little errand. The Indian government works a little….different. I have no doubt someone made some money off that deal. I’ve been in India too long to have any sort of trust when it comes to money and Americans. I gave my receipt to our friend that works in the Vice Console’s office and he said he would check into it. Whatever….we can go home and I really don’t care.

As I was sitting in that office the second day without the kids, I had time to ponder for hours on end with a hundred other people from all over the world. After hours with each other, you start to get a glimpse of everyone’s story. One couple from France was very frustrated and near to tears because they’d spent more than 3 days trying to give the visa office what they wanted to get their papers in order. A group of Asian men had green laminated papers with the word refugee written in the title. I have no idea if they were with the man from Tibet that I met later on that day or not. One Asian old woman wore a sort of gray polyester thing that covered her head. She kept going up to the front of the line trying to figure out what to do. The visa guy just pointed to the number on her paper.

There were times during those 2 days when all of us immigrants waited behind empty counters because the men supposed to be sitting there hadn’t come to work yet or left for their hour lunch break. Heaven forbid they have rotating lunches. That would be much too complicated to figure out.

I thought of how the people immigrating to America on boats must have felt as they waited in long lines not understanding anything. Children crying, tired, and hungry. One time I left just to go get a drink and I never did understand what the guy was trying to tell me about his glass bottle of Limca (kinda like sprite). I just gave him way too much money and took the bottle back to the waiting room.

As we filled out papers together, shared pens, and tried to fight for our place in line against each other, we had a common bond…..we were stuck in this place resembling the DMV in Hell. One old woman from Pakistan looked so tired near the afternoon. A British couple (Indians who are now English citizens) had their newly adopted baby with them and just kept kissing her. A guy that looked like the protester monks in Myanmar with a big red dress thing was easy to spot all throughout the day. A group of 3 American women studying abroad talked to me once in awhile to see if we could help each other figure out the “next step.”

I did have a moment as I looked around that I thought….what must heaven be like when we are all there together just like this room of immigrants? We have all lived in different times and have been from all different cultures and languages. I think their clothing is crazy and I’m sure they think I am just as crazy. How funny.

I walked to the Hyatt behind these broken and shabby offices they call the Bureau of Immigration during the “lunch hour.” I knew I could eat something that would not make me die there. As I was walking out, a guy with a turban from the “group” started following me. He seemed to think I knew just what I was doing. I do tend to ask lots of questions and have become quite aggressive living here. I knew that the lady at counter number 3 would be back at 210pm and I really needed to go eat. I was a little worried about walking with this stranger in a turban for lunch but what can you do when he is just walking down the road striking up conversation?

This guy ended up going to the Hyatt with me and by the time I had finished eating my muffin, I knew he was a legit man who just wanted a muffin too. I had a nice conversation with him. It was fun to learn all about his wife and children and how they had lived in Michigan and then Germany as he worked with manufactures of automobiles. His son called on the phone and he spoke in German. His wife called him and he spoke in Hindi. Then he spoke to me in English. He was a fascinating man just trying to get through his visa issues same as me. He gave me a big thumbs up as I left the office that day. I felt bad for him that he was still waiting for his number to be called at counter number four. Maybe I’ll catch him on the other side too.

Wow, I’ve gone on way too long. It’s just that the more I think about that experience, the more I can’t believe what cool things I’ve experienced here EVEN in the Visa office.