Try, try again

Foreigners staying in India for more than 180 days must register their visas within 14 days of arrival. As a dutiful bureaucracy adherent (ha!), I went last Tuesday to the office waaaaaaaay downtown to register my visa. I carted with me a tome’s worth of paper. Copies of everything, including a copy of the vice president’s passport--don’t ask me why, but another American was turned away a few months ago for not having it, so I followed like a dutiful sheet (baa!)—a stack of headshots, and all the documentation I have. Sometimes, just having a lot of papers makes one seem more legitimate.

I got to the building shortly after 9am and was told to wait outside because the office opened at 9:30 and I couldn’t sign in before then. At 9:30am, I went back into the building and found a line of foreigners waiting. So I stood in line. After signing into a very large glorified guest book, I forwent the cramped, old elevator and hoofed it up some very steep stairs to the 3rd floor. I waited in line to sign in at another very large glorified guest book. By then, all eight of the chairs were occupied so I stood. The room filled up. And filled up. And filled up. The oscillating fans were helpless against this crush of humanity, which I equated to a mosh pit in a closet.

No one really seemed to know what was going on, so we waited. The room was so full that the line blended with the people waiting. Someone was called forward, so I took their seat. Sweat was pouring down by spine, but I was actually feeling rather calm and patient. “Welcome to India,” everyone tells me. An official (well, she had a uniform) came over and asked me why I was there. I was told to go through line again, which I did my best to do given that “line” was more like “blob of standing people”. When I got to the front, another official (all of them were wearing masks to guard against swine flu) asked for my paperwork. I handed it over, proud of my impressive pile.

She opened my passport, took one look at the visa page, and told me I could not register in Mumbai. Say what? It said Hyderabad, where the company is headquartered. I could go there to register or I could get a letter from the Indian consulate in San Francisco that had processed my visa saying that it was okay to register it in Mumbai. Say what? What in the world will that consulate know that this office isn’t privy to?? I had it all there in my pile, which now didn’t seem nearly so impressive. So I left.

In the meantime, I contacted the consulate to no avail. One of the honchos at work suggested I get a letter from work saying “We are headquartered in Hyderabad but she works in Mumbai, so she should register there”. He also mentioned what I myself had sensed—that whether or not something flies has an awful lot to do with who you are (un)lucky enough to talk to. I drafted the letter, tried to make it seem as official as possible, printed it on company letterhead, used our official stamp, and had the VP whose passport copy I had sign it. I went down there this morning by train, facing another crush of humanity—this one hurtling down some rickety train tracks—to try my luck.

I was geared up to argue my case, not only that I should register here but also that I should not have to pay the fee for being here over 14 days without registering. I arrived at 9:35am and didn’t see a line. I thought, the gods are with me! I went to sign my name in the very big glorified guest book, feeling like a real expert for knowing the drill. Only I was turned away. The guardian of the book pointed to a guard across the way who said, “Office closed today, ma’am, public holiday.” My mouth dropped open and I blurted out, “Are you kidding me?” He didn’t get it. “Office closed, ma’am, public holiday, come back tomorrow.” Easy for him to say!

The ride back to the northern suburbs was going fine until the train didn’t stop at my station. It shot straight past and just kept on going. It didn’t stop at the next ones either. Of course, I got off when it finally did stop and hopped on one going the opposite direction. Only that one shot past my station, too! When I finally got off that one, three stations down in the opposite direction, I asked several times to make sure I was getting on one that would stop at my station, Malad.

Once I got to Malad, I had to approach a half dozen auto rickshaw drivers before finding one who would take me to the office. This is really common here. They say no. No. No. No. The only thing I can figure is that they think the fare will be too low because the distance isn’t far. But I’ve tried walking it before after similar such rejections and gotten lost because the side alleys zig and zag and never seem to come to a proper avenue. The strangest part is that these “no” guys will take off empty looking for a better fare; doesn’t seem like a smart business strategy.

We’ll see what happens tomorrow when I head down to the visa registrar to try, try again.