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Journalism of Courage
Every time I hear from dancer, Astad Deboo, I’m deeply envious. Because each message is from a different destination Laos or Luxembourg, Uzbekistan or Kazhakastan (well, almost!). But when he returns fleetingly to Mumbai next week, I have a question to ask of him: How does he manage it? Oh yes, I know how vital travel is to any artist. How it expands your horizons, stimulates your creative juices. From Henry James to Gauguin, from Byron to Uday Shankar, they’ve all benefited immensely from their adventures around the globe. But I’m convinced that humble poets, such as I, are meant only for astral travel. The pyramids, Machu Pichu, the Alhambra, the splendours of Istanbul – none of that will be possible except astrally or on those proverbial wings of poesy. Think of the advantages. No expense, no packing, no currency hitches, and above all, no visas! Which brings me to the point of this month’s column. Visas. Those nightmarish encounters with the high priests of esoterica, the bureaucratic officials behindconsulate counters.
Kafkaesque interactions that can make you forget everything you thought you’d known since age five – your date of birth, your nationality, even your name. That can make you look furtive and guilt-ridden, and make you believe you’re a particularly inept Polish spy masquerading as an Indian national! At the end of the ordeal, you’re tempted to break down and admit to subterfuge like a penitent impostor, "Forgive me, for I have sinned."
Sounds farfetched? Well, think about it. Think back on the morning alarm at 4 a.m. The serpentine queue in the sweltering heat outside the consulates.
Being chivvied around by hectoring security guards. The interminable wait (the US Consulate, of course, taking the cake as the most ignominious of the lot). By the time you reach the High Priestess of Esoterica in her air-conditioned chamber you’re a perspiring unprepossessing sight, your self-esteem at its lowest ebb. You’re almost tempted to gasp, "Skip the visa, can I have a chilled Heineken instead?" My own track record has always seemed to me to be particularly fraught. Last year I was so cheesed off by the time I reached the counter for a British visa, that a request to ‘come again tomorrow with your income-tax returns’ sounded to me like a naked display of imperialism.
I must add that I enjoyed seeing the man’s confounded face when I replied that we could forget the visa altogether, because I had no intention of coming back. And when he frostily informed me that he couldn’t return the visa money, I loved the air of reverse noblesse oblige in my dismissive murmur, "Oh, keep it if you need it…" Childish? Well, perhaps. But I can tell you my sense of gleeful triumph outweighed any regret I might have nursed at abandoning my travel plans. Never again, I decided. No more trips to the West, unless I’m beseeched by the overlords themselves. Well, this year, it so happened that I was invited to the Festival of Poetry in Rome, sponsored by the Italian Ministry of Foreign Affairs.
It promised to be an uncomplicated procedure at the Consulate. After all, I was going as a bona fide official visitor. But sure enough a week before my departure, the fine print started emerging. Something about my passport not being valid for six months, as required. Something about an invitation letter to be faxed directly to the Consulate. And of course, the humiliating queue outside, clutching one’s documents with clammy hands – and to top it all, an ochre-robed Italian ‘sadhu’ being permitted to sit on a chair while the rest of us hopped from one foot to the other! Third World karma, I thought bitterly, as I was turfed out of a chair by a security guard.
I mean, all consulates are probably partisan to their own citizens, but must the discrimination be so glaringly unsubtle? Here’s this Italian pilgrim wearing the apparel of another spiritual universe, and reaping the simultaneous benefits of Italian citizenship. And we can’t enter his country – even when invited by his own government without being made to feel like desperate alms-gatherers, our faces pressed in supplication against unyielding glass windows. However, I was taken aback later when the sadhu came and apologised to me for what I had been through. "But don’t think it’s easy for me either," he added. "I’ve been coming here for weeks to sort out my passport problems, and there’s no end in sight." Well, maybe he’s right.
Maybe we’re all united against a common transcontinental enemy. Bureaucracy. The great leveller. After a particularly rewarding Italian sojourn, I’m in a more forgiving mood. I’m willing to forget about cultural politics. Forgive arrogant security guards. Even ochre-robed Italians. But I’m not sure I can forgive those official jagirdars who sit snugly ensconced in their seats of petty power. Not until my questions are answered, at any rate. What is it about people behind counters? How do they get that way? Are counters peculiar cultural artefacts that do strange things to people who sit behind them? Until I figure those out, Machu Pichu will have to wait!
