Aftermath…
This story is from around last October and pieced together from various e-mails and fragments of ethanol-resistant memory.
My company, which was in a much better financial position then, wanted me to make a two-month-short trip to California-for training, they said. Instant messaging technology and insiders at the parent company apprised me that in reality I would be a cheap replacement for two women who would be going on leave-for recreational and procreational purposes. Since it is a documented fact that one woman does the work of two men (at least in my household), I was dreading the prospect of doing the work of three (discounting the project manager, who doesn’t do anything), at the same time feeling thrilled about getting to see old friends and new places.
Selective percolation of the news prompted Oolan and KVK to make plans for a trip spanning multiple time zones to meet up, and even do a Las Vegas run, à la Feynman. The Mentor expressed a desire to do likewise, besides booking two tickets to see The Boss in concert at Atlanta, hoping I’d fly there and take a sneak peek at his un-exoteric lifestyle and fabulous home theater system (the Mentor’s, not the Boss’s).
Then there was the whiskey sampling and leisure de Maine I could indulge in, courtesy the standing invitation from Eve_L. It was Mountain View, CA, that I was headed to, and I was hoping I could go meet this lady at the SETI Institute. I even had a dream in which I met a few of my LJ friends and got to ride in the legendary TimMobile™-only that it was on the NH-47 at Attingal and we stopped to give a lift to some coconut climbers who started arguing with us about hauling their load of palm leaves along. (It’s amazing what random brain-stem firings and a pinch of dopamine can do.) And then there was the discerning sightseeing to do, not to mention the even-more-discerning relatives seeing.
With such an elaborate program planned, I postponed my half-hearted Middle East immigration process and got started on procedures to obtain a visit visa to the U.S., downloaded forms and fixed an appointment via the Web. To avoid potential difficulties during the visa interview, I thought long and hard on these questions in the mandatory DS-156 form:- Do you seek to enter the United States to engage in export control violations, subversive or terrorist activities, or any other unlawful purpose?
- Are you a member or representative of a terrorist organization as currently designated by the U.S. Secretary of State?
- Have you ever participated in persecutions directed by the Nazi government of Germany; or have you ever participated in genocide?
And answered in the negative. Clever, aren’t I?
My boss, a not-so-frequent-flier to the West (his in-laws are British) assured me that getting a B1 visa was as simple as taking a baby from Candy, and honestly, I didn’t think it was such a big deal; a visit visa for three months-surely no biggie.
The nearest American Consulate is at Madras, so I entrained with my best bud (who works there and was in hometown for holidays and a wedding-Hi, Syam!) and stayed at his place, preparing for the big day with rum and chicken that cost three times as much than back home. The next day dawned, and after being sheared at the Consulate gate by a shady guy who does a growling business of safekeeping belongings of prospective travelers in a battered icebox with a wire lock, a sweltering wait, and striking petty acquaintanceships with fellow queuers, I reached the bulletproof counter of the Grant Panjandrum-the maker/breaker of travel agent fortunes.
To stretch a short story long, I was rejected a visa, even though I was pretty confident I’d answered every single question (three) by the Inquisitor to his and my satisfaction. I was surprised at the abruptness of it all. And the reason I was given? “Based on your situation, we are unable to determine that you will definitely depart the United States after a temporary stay.”
Everybody sympathized, except for my wife who was glad I would be joining her soon. I rationalized the rejection as due to my erratic employment history, which was asked for in one of the forms. A few of my friends suggested it could have been due to my Muslim name. While it’s true that my middle name is the Prophet’s (oh, the irony!), it would be too ridiculous a reason to keep me out of the Land of the Brave, right? Now, if they had said something about the maniac with the crazed eyes sporting a suspicious goatee in the passport photograph, I would’ve given the hypothesis a little more weight, but they didn’t.
I let the matter rest and headed straight to Bangalore where I drowned my disappointment in carefully crafted cuisine, congenial conversation, conspicuous consumption, a cozy Café Coffee Day closure, and a close finish at the coming away corner (all that would make sense to just two people on the planet, but anyways). The Madman accommodated me, showed me how to make the perfect omelet, and I overstuffed myself with exotic obscure-named Thai food he dished out. I got independent confirmation from an expert on authentic Thai cookery-he really can cook.
Two days later, another guy from the office (sort of a backup) applied for a visa citing the exact same reasons and similar documents and got it stamped without any difficulty at all. His last name? An old-time favorite with Indian movie stars-Kumar, which set me thinking, does the Muslim-name hypothesis really merit consideration?
My boss took the rejection as an affront to the integrity and reputation of the company and wanted me to apply again, this time with tons of additional supporting documentation. So I fortified my second application with affidavits stating I had plenty of property, a wife and kid and an aging mother to return to; bonds declaring I would pay the company enormous amounts of money should I fail to return; copies of certificates-birth, marriage, daughter’s birth; letters, faxes, minutes from the board of directors’ meeting mentioning how much they wanted me there; company profile and registration info; photographs of me in various stages of undress, er… strike that, etcetera, etc. There’s no way the Consulate could deny me a visa this time, assured my boss.
And so the wait began, while stories poured in from friends recounting visa denial due to racial profiling post 9/11, which happened to their friends and friends-of-friends. Still not convinced, I dismissed them as exaggerated hearsay and instances of counting only the misses and not the hits. One-and-a-half months of agonizing waiting later, during which a lot of things were postponed or not done because my passport was held up at the Consulate-including having my 3½-year-old daughter fly all alone to her mother with total strangers (a bittersweet story for a later date)-the whole bundle returned, slightly heavier, with the same old rejection slip citing the same old reason.
Oh, well.
Kiron’s wife helped me coin a term for myself-“profilactically challenged” (which in its wordplay kind of way is a little too much information, so let’s not go there), and I reconciled myself with the fact that yes, there is such a thing as being too paranoid, for whatever reasons.
It was heartening to note that my friends were outraged, indignant and ready to respond on my behalf-to a much greater extent than I could ever hope to be. One urged me to sue, another pressed me to send a mail to Congress (Dubya’s, not Sonia’s), and another, who’s with Reuters, wanted to do a story with me and Azim Premji, but most people jokingly suggested I just change my name. Too much bother, especially the last one, so I let them all pass.
I first read about the Iranian director being denied a visa on Kieran's journal, and on searching further, I found this letter on the Web:Abbas Kiarostami’s Letter to Richard Pena, Program Director of the New York Film Festival.
September 18, 2002
Dear Richard,
Thank you for inviting me and my film to your festival. The enclosed letter will explain the reason why I shall not be attending.
As you see, I was refused an entry visa to the United States of America, despite the exceptional circumstances and your kind attention as well as the protection and help of many friends.
I certainly do not deserve an entry visa any more than the aged mother hoping to visit her children in the US, perhaps for the last time in her life, or myriads of other urgent cases.
I feel deeply about this unfortunate situation. I am not just sorry because I was not granted a visa or can not attend your celebrations, but as a privileged person with access to the means of public expression and media, I feel profoundly responsible for the tragic state of the world, for the betterment of which we the public people have not done enough to ensure.
For my part, I feel this decision is somehow what I deserve.
Abbas Kiarostami
Which, in a way, is what I feel, but since I am no Kiarostami and nowhere near as articulate, I’ll just say, “Gee, this sure sucks!”
“What’s in a name?” asked the Bard (which was most likely rhetorical, judging by the lines that followed) in his famed teen tragedy, but let me tell you this: Bill, if you were around today and your last name were Sheikhspeare, let’s just say you’d have a tough time collecting that best screenwriter award at the Golden Globes in person.
My company, which was in a much better financial position then, wanted me to make a two-month-short trip to California-for training, they said. Instant messaging technology and insiders at the parent company apprised me that in reality I would be a cheap replacement for two women who would be going on leave-for recreational and procreational purposes. Since it is a documented fact that one woman does the work of two men (at least in my household), I was dreading the prospect of doing the work of three (discounting the project manager, who doesn’t do anything), at the same time feeling thrilled about getting to see old friends and new places.
Selective percolation of the news prompted Oolan and KVK to make plans for a trip spanning multiple time zones to meet up, and even do a Las Vegas run, à la Feynman. The Mentor expressed a desire to do likewise, besides booking two tickets to see The Boss in concert at Atlanta, hoping I’d fly there and take a sneak peek at his un-exoteric lifestyle and fabulous home theater system (the Mentor’s, not the Boss’s).
Then there was the whiskey sampling and leisure de Maine I could indulge in, courtesy the standing invitation from Eve_L. It was Mountain View, CA, that I was headed to, and I was hoping I could go meet this lady at the SETI Institute. I even had a dream in which I met a few of my LJ friends and got to ride in the legendary TimMobile™-only that it was on the NH-47 at Attingal and we stopped to give a lift to some coconut climbers who started arguing with us about hauling their load of palm leaves along. (It’s amazing what random brain-stem firings and a pinch of dopamine can do.) And then there was the discerning sightseeing to do, not to mention the even-more-discerning relatives seeing.
With such an elaborate program planned, I postponed my half-hearted Middle East immigration process and got started on procedures to obtain a visit visa to the U.S., downloaded forms and fixed an appointment via the Web. To avoid potential difficulties during the visa interview, I thought long and hard on these questions in the mandatory DS-156 form:- Do you seek to enter the United States to engage in export control violations, subversive or terrorist activities, or any other unlawful purpose?
- Are you a member or representative of a terrorist organization as currently designated by the U.S. Secretary of State?
- Have you ever participated in persecutions directed by the Nazi government of Germany; or have you ever participated in genocide?
And answered in the negative. Clever, aren’t I?
My boss, a not-so-frequent-flier to the West (his in-laws are British) assured me that getting a B1 visa was as simple as taking a baby from Candy, and honestly, I didn’t think it was such a big deal; a visit visa for three months-surely no biggie.
The nearest American Consulate is at Madras, so I entrained with my best bud (who works there and was in hometown for holidays and a wedding-Hi, Syam!) and stayed at his place, preparing for the big day with rum and chicken that cost three times as much than back home. The next day dawned, and after being sheared at the Consulate gate by a shady guy who does a growling business of safekeeping belongings of prospective travelers in a battered icebox with a wire lock, a sweltering wait, and striking petty acquaintanceships with fellow queuers, I reached the bulletproof counter of the Grant Panjandrum-the maker/breaker of travel agent fortunes.
To stretch a short story long, I was rejected a visa, even though I was pretty confident I’d answered every single question (three) by the Inquisitor to his and my satisfaction. I was surprised at the abruptness of it all. And the reason I was given? “Based on your situation, we are unable to determine that you will definitely depart the United States after a temporary stay.”
Everybody sympathized, except for my wife who was glad I would be joining her soon. I rationalized the rejection as due to my erratic employment history, which was asked for in one of the forms. A few of my friends suggested it could have been due to my Muslim name. While it’s true that my middle name is the Prophet’s (oh, the irony!), it would be too ridiculous a reason to keep me out of the Land of the Brave, right? Now, if they had said something about the maniac with the crazed eyes sporting a suspicious goatee in the passport photograph, I would’ve given the hypothesis a little more weight, but they didn’t.
I let the matter rest and headed straight to Bangalore where I drowned my disappointment in carefully crafted cuisine, congenial conversation, conspicuous consumption, a cozy Café Coffee Day closure, and a close finish at the coming away corner (all that would make sense to just two people on the planet, but anyways). The Madman accommodated me, showed me how to make the perfect omelet, and I overstuffed myself with exotic obscure-named Thai food he dished out. I got independent confirmation from an expert on authentic Thai cookery-he really can cook.
Two days later, another guy from the office (sort of a backup) applied for a visa citing the exact same reasons and similar documents and got it stamped without any difficulty at all. His last name? An old-time favorite with Indian movie stars-Kumar, which set me thinking, does the Muslim-name hypothesis really merit consideration?
My boss took the rejection as an affront to the integrity and reputation of the company and wanted me to apply again, this time with tons of additional supporting documentation. So I fortified my second application with affidavits stating I had plenty of property, a wife and kid and an aging mother to return to; bonds declaring I would pay the company enormous amounts of money should I fail to return; copies of certificates-birth, marriage, daughter’s birth; letters, faxes, minutes from the board of directors’ meeting mentioning how much they wanted me there; company profile and registration info; photographs of me in various stages of undress, er… strike that, etcetera, etc. There’s no way the Consulate could deny me a visa this time, assured my boss.
And so the wait began, while stories poured in from friends recounting visa denial due to racial profiling post 9/11, which happened to their friends and friends-of-friends. Still not convinced, I dismissed them as exaggerated hearsay and instances of counting only the misses and not the hits. One-and-a-half months of agonizing waiting later, during which a lot of things were postponed or not done because my passport was held up at the Consulate-including having my 3½-year-old daughter fly all alone to her mother with total strangers (a bittersweet story for a later date)-the whole bundle returned, slightly heavier, with the same old rejection slip citing the same old reason.
Oh, well.
Kiron’s wife helped me coin a term for myself-“profilactically challenged” (which in its wordplay kind of way is a little too much information, so let’s not go there), and I reconciled myself with the fact that yes, there is such a thing as being too paranoid, for whatever reasons.
It was heartening to note that my friends were outraged, indignant and ready to respond on my behalf-to a much greater extent than I could ever hope to be. One urged me to sue, another pressed me to send a mail to Congress (Dubya’s, not Sonia’s), and another, who’s with Reuters, wanted to do a story with me and Azim Premji, but most people jokingly suggested I just change my name. Too much bother, especially the last one, so I let them all pass.
I first read about the Iranian director being denied a visa on Kieran's journal, and on searching further, I found this letter on the Web:Abbas Kiarostami’s Letter to Richard Pena, Program Director of the New York Film Festival.
September 18, 2002
Dear Richard,
Thank you for inviting me and my film to your festival. The enclosed letter will explain the reason why I shall not be attending.
As you see, I was refused an entry visa to the United States of America, despite the exceptional circumstances and your kind attention as well as the protection and help of many friends.
I certainly do not deserve an entry visa any more than the aged mother hoping to visit her children in the US, perhaps for the last time in her life, or myriads of other urgent cases.
I feel deeply about this unfortunate situation. I am not just sorry because I was not granted a visa or can not attend your celebrations, but as a privileged person with access to the means of public expression and media, I feel profoundly responsible for the tragic state of the world, for the betterment of which we the public people have not done enough to ensure.
For my part, I feel this decision is somehow what I deserve.
Abbas Kiarostami
Which, in a way, is what I feel, but since I am no Kiarostami and nowhere near as articulate, I’ll just say, “Gee, this sure sucks!”
“What’s in a name?” asked the Bard (which was most likely rhetorical, judging by the lines that followed) in his famed teen tragedy, but let me tell you this: Bill, if you were around today and your last name were Sheikhspeare, let’s just say you’d have a tough time collecting that best screenwriter award at the Golden Globes in person.