chapter 2

The Travel Bug Bites‘Go abroad? No way!’ protested my husband, Vijaya Kumar, who will henceforth be called VK. ‘Why, we don’t even have passports, and I have asthma.’ These were the stock excuses he offered for his decision to stick to Thiruvananthapuram like chewing gum on footwear.The very idea of travelling abroad, or travelling anywhere, in fact, is anathema to him.And if misguided friends or relatives persisted in trying to make him change his mind, he would come up with the clincher, ‘Going out of Thiruvananthapuram is like going abroad.’That is exactly how he feels too. VK’s attachment to the city is legion. He is, among other things, a great armchair traveller who is probably better informed about most countries than their natives; who believes that the best way to see exciting new countries is through the eyes of books. As for me, the prospect of travel doesn’t exactly fire me up. I like visiting new places, but I hate the idea of packing and travelling. How wonderful if I could reach a destination at the press of a button. Since that is too much to expect even in a technologically hyper-advanced world, I’m fine with digging my feet in and staying put.After facing such unexpected opposition, people would generally leave us alone—tight-fisted scrooges, they must have concluded in private. Old stick-in-the-muds, or, is it sticks-in-the-mud? But a daughter-in-law is a different ball game, much harder to deter than other beings. Arpitha, our daughter-in-law, who was pursuing her MS in Syracuse University, called one day to say that she and Amar, my son, wanted us to attend her graduation. ‘Please, Aunty, you must come!’ She calls us ‘Aunty’ and ‘Uncle’, by the way, for that was how she used to address us before her marriage and felt more comfortable continuing with those familiar appellations. We were pleased, and secretly relieved; we found the new roles of in-laws a little daunting.‘I’d be delighted,’ I responded, my face breaking into a broad grin. Wasted, for she couldn’t see me. ‘But there’s someone else to be reckoned with. The one who can tilt the scales.’ Then, I have to confess, we plotted a bit. ‘Ask Uncle. And keep asking,’ I advised.But, as it turned out, such persistence wasn’t necessary. The next evening, she called him, and, without any lead up, announced, ‘Uncle, my graduation ceremony is on May 12.’I was hovering about, eavesdropping shamelessly. ‘Amazing!’ VK responded, all smiles. He was oblivious to our wiles. ‘Brilliant!’ he continued, with boyish enthusiasm. He would have clapped his hands if his left hadn’t been holding the phone. He added a couple more adjectives, and was preparing to unleash the rest, probably in alphabetical order, but Arpitha must have interrupted him, for he stopped talking and started listening.Next, I heard him say, ‘Let me see.’ Did I hear that right? I shook my head in disbelief. Amar, our son, had long been urging us to visit him while he was working on site in the U.S. He invited us when he was in Boston, and he’s been inviting us after moving to Wisconsin. But all those invitations fell on deaf ears—VK ’s, not mine.And now, after five years, VK was actually considering going. Oh, the irresistible charms of a daughter-in-law! He hadn’t even demurred, and we capitalised on that. Arpitha is a smart, sensible girl with a no-nonsense approach to life. Persistence is her middle name. She had been prepared for a long battle and was delighted when she elicited this response from him. Amar was thrilled too. Now that the resistance had been dismantled, it was just a question of finalising the details.This paved the way for the next part of the plan. VK began to be bombarded with calls from the U.S. Amar and Arpitha (A&A) took turns to call daily. ‘Have you applied for a passport yet?’ ‘What’s happening?’ ‘No time to waste.’ ‘The visa process takes a long while.’ ‘Don’t forget, my graduation is on May 12.’ ‘Please hurry.’Poor VK’s non-committal, ‘Let me see’, had been interpreted as ‘Yes’, and there was no going back.The wheels to travel to the U.S. were set into motion. The first hurdle to be crossed was that of getting our passports. To our delighted surprise, it turned out to be no hurdle at all. And to think we had been using that as an excuse for not venturing abroad when the whole process was ridiculously easy and hassle-free. But how on earth were we to know? No one had ever disputed our excuse, but that could have been because they had all got their passports a long time back, when securing one had been fraught with adventure, suspense, chewed fingernails and inordinate delays caused by morale-sapping encounters with the bureaucracy.Our experience was painless. VK has always been a thorough investigator and I wasn’t surprised to find him huddled over the computer, doing an intensive search on the internet—where else?—for information on getting a passport. If only we could do a Google search for misplaced keys, glasses, bank passbooks and phones on silent mode.After an hour of peering into the screen and opening a row of new tabs, he looked up and declared, ‘We must go to the passport office.’ I was about to say, ‘Really? I thought we’d need to go to the ration shop’, when he added, ‘but it’s wiser to consult an authorised travel agent first.’ Hmm, that made sense.In three days flat, the passports arrived by speed post—we went, we applied and we succeeded.A quick word on the efficiency of the passport office. The Passport Seva Kendra is maintained by the Tata Consultancy Services, under the eagle eyes of an official appointed by the central government. TCS was given this responsibility in 2008, as part of the Government of India policy to facilitate and speed up the passport issuance system. It has worked wonders.But don’t be fooled into thinking this is a welcome glimpse of new India. All you need to do is visit a ‘village office’, the city corporation office, or any number of other government agencies meant to ‘serve’ the public, to understand that the old India is not only doing well, but is flourishing.The travel agency also had a significant role to play in helping us get our passports. This encouraged us to go to another established travel agency for the visa process. These agencies are a boon to clueless people like us, and once we had provided all the documents required—an invitation letter from Arpitha for the graduation, another one from Amar (‘Dear parents, I’d be deeply obliged if you grace my apartment in the U.S. with a visit …’), his rent receipts, bank statements and so on—in no time, we were choosing dates for the consulate visit in Chennai.We had to pick the time too, for the interview days were divided into several 15-minute slots. After some deliberation, we decided on 1 p.m. on 14 March for our biometrics and 9 a.m. on 15 March for the interview at the consulate. The travel agent got us our appointment letters for the confirmed dates and also gave us a file each with all the documents placed in neat order. Most importantly, he gave us invaluable briefing on how to talk or how not to talk at the interview. ‘Don’t answer any questions they don’t ask.’ ‘Don’t volunteer any information not required.’ In other words, don’t be chatty—fitting advice for college teachers.In three weeks, we were in Chennai for our interview, staying at the apartment of VK’s cousin, Prithvi. On the day scheduled for our biometrics, Prithvi dropped us off at 12.25 p.m. for a 1 p.m. appointment; we had never been this early for any appointment before this. Since nothing except our persons and our files were allowed in, we gave Prithvi our phones, bags and all our earthly belongings. ‘I’ll wait somewhere ahead,’ he pointed vaguely at the sky, and drove away.Imagine our surprise when not only were we allowed in early—a welcome breach—everything was over by 12.45. We couldn’t believe our luck and jauntily bounded out, only to realise we had rejoiced too soon. Prithvi and his car were nowhere in sight. We went up and down the street, and looked into side lanes and alleys too. I even looked up at the sky, remembering his sign off before he drove away. That we didn’t know the number of the car made the search futile. Finally, good sense prevailed, and we decided to wait where he had dropped us.Sweat was pouring down our faces as we took position at our designated spot. A woman selling tender coconuts, detecting thirsty throats and potential business, asked if we wanted coconuts. We wanted a phone, we said. Her husband immediately delved into his underwear, under his lungi, and brought out a small phone. But alas, Prithvi’s number was saved in our phones’ memory, not ours, and both phones were in his possession. We made calls to the only numbers we knew by heart—our own—but the honourable Prithviraj who didn’t believe in intruding on people’s privacy, refused to take them. We gave up and since the other honourable man, the coconut seller’s husband, wouldn’t accept money for the calls that hadn’t gone through, we did the next best thing—bought tender coconuts from his wife. At 1.15, Prithvi appeared, a happy smile plastered on his face. ‘Ha! Out so soon? Miracle! I’d gone to meet friends,’ he said breezily. We gave him weak smiles and crawled into the car.The next morning found me quite on edge; it was the day of the all-important interview. I hadn’t felt so apprehensive even for my job interview. Keeping to our new-found enthusiasm for reaching destinations ahead of time, we arrived at the consulate at a healthy 8.30 a.m. only to find a long, undulating queue already formed and growing longer by the second. We hurried to the end, but unsure if we should join or enquire about the situation, our appointment being slated for 9 a.m., dithered. That hesitation cost us our place in the line. Four others joined while we scratched our heads.We discovered, to our consternation, that others ahead of us had appointments for 9.15 and 9.30. Now what? VK, patient as ever, said we should wait. But I was worried. What if we missed the appointment? We were so far away from the entrance, how would we even hear our slots being announced? At 8.45 I told VK that I’d go to the gate to enquire, while he held my place. I approached the entrance just in time to hear a man announce, ‘All 9 a.m. interviewees come to the right, 8.45 to the left and the others, please wait.’I managed to catch VK’s eye and waved to him to come forward. A few others gleefully came along too. We were relieved to be in the right queue. Looking around, I was surprised to see a guy who had earlier told me his appointment was at 9.30, waiting in the 8.45 queue. When those in that line were called in, he jumped to our queue. When it was our turn, the jumping jack leaped to the 9.15 line. I bet this human grasshopper would have managed to be the first in his legitimate 9.30 queue. Not that it would have given him any specific advantage, but he belongs to the breed that has an inbuilt compulsion to cut queues for that single minute’s advantage.Once in, we were sent from one section to another. Everything was moving with amazing efficiency. We were searched, our ids were checked, fingerprinting was done again and finally we were given the number of a counter for our interview. Hearts in our mouths, we hurried there to find an interview going on. Of course we listened, ears flapping, hoping to get a few on the spot tips on what to say and what to withhold. We found out what not to say all right.The elderly man who was being interviewed was the picture of uncertainty, hemming and hawing, while his wife stood silently by. We gathered that he had three sons in the U.S. but couldn’t tell the woman interviewing him in which part of the country they lived. Asked why he was visiting the U.S., he mumbled, ‘Religious reasons.’ Uh oh! The last thing he should have said. The interviewer pricked up her ears. ‘Religious?’ And he responded, ‘Yes, we’re going for our grandchild’s baptism.’ She asked him again where his sons lived, but he didn’t seem to know the states, leave alone the addresses. Poor man, his three sons should have tutored him better or he should have taken a short correspondence course from our travel agent. VK and I could chant Amar’s residential address backwards in our sleep.The woman wished him well and returned his passport. Our hearts sank when we saw that. We knew that a passport returned is a visa denied. In fact, I had been surreptitiously glancing at the people walking away after their interviews at various counters. Their faces and files told their story—happy faces had no passports in their files while sad-faced ones were obviously weighed down by their disappointment and their passports.Bewildered, the man offered it back. She said they’d inform him if he needed to hand it in. Now he realised something wasn’t right. He took out the passport-sized photographs of him and his wife from his shirt pocket as if to say, ‘If you don’t want the passports, then take the passport-sized photos. Take something, anything!’ The woman politely but firmly refused to accept them and he turned away, looking rather upset. It was clear his visa application had been rejected.Meanwhile, I was also watching the diverting scene at the next counter where a woman was being interviewed. She didn’t know English, only Tamil, so an American interpreter had been provided to assist her. It was clear she couldn’t make any sense of his heavily Americanised Tamil while he couldn’t understand her dialectal Tamil and they were talking at cross purposes:He: ‘Why are you going to the U.S.?’She: ‘I’m very happy to meet you, sir.’He: ‘How long do you want to stay in the U.S.?’She: ‘I’ve been married for five years and my husband drinks.’When we were called, I followed VK to the counter with a deep sense of regret that I couldn’t be a witness all the way. Stand-up comedians could have picked up a few hints. My guess is that the woman must have been given the visa, while VK believes she’d have been denied it. It remains a matter of speculation.We reached the counter, a little nervous, having just witnessed a visa application being turned down. Now we could see the interviewer clearly. She was a friendly American of Asian descent, probably Korean. I knew if she decided to reject our application, she’d convey the news with a cheerful smile, as if she were conferring an award on us.I stood behind my husband, like a good Indian wife, but a little to the side so that I was visible, and let him do all the talking. She asked him what subject he taught and repeated the question to me. I repeated the answer for we had both taught English. Very good Indian wife, she must have thought.Now came the big question. ‘Why are you going to the U.S.?’ When VK said it was for our daughter-in-law’s graduation, she nodded in appreciation. ‘That’s excellent. So won’t she be looking for a job now that she is graduating?’Had I been answering the question, I might have played right into her hands. The U.S. is wary of students from abroad sticking on there after graduation. ‘Of course!’ I’d have gushed. ‘Why, she’s already got a couple of interviews lined up.’But my smart husband, who can think on his feet, replied without batting an eyelid, ‘Maybe, but right now she’s very excited about her graduation,’ sounding pretty fired-up himself. Now I understood. What a neat side-tracking of that pertinent question.The excitement was catching, and the woman smiled broadly. ‘So, who’s paying for your tickets?’ VK drew himself up to his full height—all of 5 feet and a few inches—and declared, ‘My son wanted to finance the trip, but we said we’d buy our tickets.’ At this, she laughed outright. ‘Great. Then why don’t you buy mine too?’ What? Was she actually joking? I felt a huge sense of relief that the interview was going in the right direction. Good cheer and bonhomie all around. VK smiled. ‘I wouldn’t mind doing that at all.’Now she beamed. ‘Congratulations, your visa has been approved. Have a safe journey and best wishes to your daughter-in-law.’By 9.50 we were out. When Prithvi had dropped us at the consulate, he said he’d wait at the graveyard in the church close by. The U.S. consulate is actually built on land leased from the cathedral. A grim choice, but you couldn’t have asked for a more specific rendezvous. So much better than that vague, ‘I’ll be there somewhere’ of the previous day. Who can miss a graveyard, or be missed at one unless you are a ghost? I expected to find Prithvi perched on one of the graves when we reached there, leaning comfortably on a headstone, checking his phone.There was no Prithvi in sight. Instead, we were met by a host of British graves—some with ornate tombstones, others with simpler ones that only gave the names and broad details of the deceased. It was a solemn, cool and beautiful place. We walked about the graveyard that was a part of St George’s Cathedral and learnt it was one of the earliest Anglican churches in India, built in 1815. We added to our general knowledge, but after we went around it twice, peering at tombs and exclaiming over the artistry of the stonework that stood as testimony to long dead people, the morbidity of the surroundings got to me. What on earth were we doing pottering about these graves, impressive though they were?The atmosphere was ideal to inspire a script for a spooky movie or a melancholic poem on mortality, death and decay—the poet Thomas Gray would have revelled in it. But really! We had just got good news and wanted to celebrate. How do you dance a joyful jig among tombs? And where was Prithvi? At this point we noticed a couple in the distance. The man looked at me and what he held in his hand set my pulse racing. No, it wasn’t a red rose, but a mobile phone. We struck up a conversation with them, and he willingly loaned us his phone. This time we had grown wiser, and VK had Prithvi’s phone number and a few others written on a slip of paper, in his pocket. We called Prithvi who came soon after, saying he had been waiting for our call. Oh, Prithvi!We returned to Thiruvananthapuram and very soon, received our passports stamped with the visa valid for ten years. U.S.A., here we come!