One up on her Majesty’s rule book

Can’t help myself from doing it again – leapfrogging from Assam all the way to Dubai.  This time to 1993.  By that year, having relocated to Dubai a couple of years earlier, my pipe (‘tunnel’ being way too expansive a description of the perspective one develops on an estate) vision which a planter acquires naturally, had been replaced by a very wide-angle view of the world beyond Tea.  The existence of which ‘real’ world, a planter plonked in the back of beyond is just simply not even aware of.

Post relocation, the job I landed up in entailed more than a fair bit of travelling so that in the three years that I had been there, I would be flying in and out of Dubai at least once if not more often, every single month.  In those days an extended multi-entry visa to countries in the west being unheard of, every single time I had to travel out to any country, the trip would be preceded by my having to go to the respective embassy or consulate to apply for and obtain a visa for the particular trip.  Visits to that country having been rather frequent, during those three years my passport had been stamped with any number of UK single entry permits.

A visit to the UK consulate in Dubai simply did not fall into the category of ‘a pleasant way to spend one’s day’.  With the consulate visa section working on a ‘first come first served’ basis, one would try and get to the consulate at the crack of dawn only to find that I has been beaten in the race by hoards of UK bound folk, each one with the same mindset.  The upshot being that by the time the gate would be opened at 0800 Hrs I would find myself hemmed in about two thirds of the way down a long queue snaking down along the wall of the consulate exposed to that burning sun, being constantly pushed and jostled.  Regardless of the stifling heat and humidity, it being de rigueur that one be ‘properly’ togged up for the ‘interview’ by the visa approving officer, one would have rivulets of sweat running down one’s neck, squeezing its way under the tightly buttoned up collar on account of the tie which, by the time one finally managed to reach the gate, felt about as comfortable as a hangman’s noose. 

The first deterrent one faced in what was literally an obstacle race was that gate manned by a Pathan security guard who had likely been tutored to believe that in the hierarchy it was he who was next in line to the British Prime Minister’s post.  Unable to find a more appropriate word to describe the gentleman’s demeanor, I’ll stick to using the simple ‘rude’.  With the guardian of the Queen’s realm throwing his ample weight around and in the bargain being harassed to the point where one would invariably lose one’s cool, the applicants were allowed to squeeze in one at a time past the glaring Pathan who would ensure that entry past his domain was a tightly controlled trickle.  The moment one got across that first hurdle, there would be a mad scramble, with those having been allowed in sprinting across the 100 yards to the porto-cabin which served as the visa office, at the entry of which one was handed a token number.  The cabin was equipped with an apology of an air conditioner which had obviously seen better days and would be wheezing and sputtering in a brave attempt to cool down the frayed tempers of all of us sweaty folk.  Each applicant, barring the few VERY birds who had managed to get in ahead of sun-up to get the worm, would be forced to literally cool their heels waiting for their token number to be called out following which one could approach the pompous swollen headed individual peering at the hopeful aspirants through a tiny and closely barred window which had likely been purloined from some high security prison to be placed in front of that gentleman.  The usual wait for one to be called up was never anything less than three hours so that when one finally walked across to the ‘prison visitation cell’ with the sheaf of papers that were required as proof that one was not going to jump ship to strike root in the Queen’s realm, the neatly ironed white shirt which one had started up with in the morning would be a sodden and crumbled mess.  In a nutshell, by the time one breasted the tape, any self respecting person just had to be pissed off and literally ‘hot under the collar’.

So now there is me finally walking up to the window at a little past 1100 Hrs, 100% certain that it would be just a formality handing in my passport and papers which, by experience, I knew were all in order.  Sitting behind the bars in his ‘visitation parlour’ was this podgy Indian whom I had dealt with umpteen times before but one who, whenever I paid a visit to the consulate and greeted with a bright smile and a breezy ‘Hi’, in response would sneer and turn his nose up as though I was a worm he had located among the greens in his salad bowl.  Handing over the ream of papers through the tiny gap in that already very tiny window, I waited for Fatty to flip through each sheet making unintelligible sounds and scribbling some gibberish with each flip.  Having satisfied himself that post the two days I was wanting to spend in England, I would get on to the aircraft for my flight back to Dubai, he turned his attention to my passport.  Flipping through the pages to the last he finally let out a very satisfied and smug ‘aha’, gave me what his mother had probably drummed into his head was a smile but was actually a smirk and followed this up with pushing my huge wad back through the hole with a curt ‘sorry, you can’t be issued a visa’!

• “But why”
• “Your documents are not in order”
• “But these are exactly the same documents I bring every single time”
• “Maybe so, but your passport expires in 5 month and 28 days,  The requirement is for a minimum six month validity”
• “Boss, my air ticket is with you.  As you can see I am leaving for London on tonight’s late night flight and am back in Dubai in exactly two days”
• “Not possible”

During the exchange my voice having gone up a couple of decibels, I saw that an English gentleman (obviously the boss) had ambled across to Fatty’s work station to enquire what all the unnecessary back & forth was all about.  Fattso having explained the situation to Mr British Civil Servant, the gentleman peered at me through the bars with an irritatingly pompous look which almost naturally conveyed just how red tape can be thrust down one’s throat and how, on the back of that inexplainable bureaucratic web, he and his ilk had ruled and tried to ‘civilize’ us poor heathens for more than a century. 

I could not help but admire the fact that while gently sticking his finger up my posterior, Mr Civil Servant was oh so polite and as sugary sweet as dripping honey:

• ”What appears to be the problem SIR”?
• “The gentleman tells me that I cannot be issued a visa”
• “That’s absolutely correct Sir.  Your passport does not have the required validity”
• “But it’s just 2 days past the six month validity.  You have my ticket to prove that I am there for only two days.  Besides which your records would show that I have never overstayed and always return in a couple of days.  After all it’s not the first time I’m going to England”
• “Sorry Sir, rules are rules”
• Me in exasperation “I have an important meeting in London which it has taken me months to set up and so am requesting that can’t you be just a little understanding”
• Mr CS in his most snobbish tone “Sir, are you by any chance suggesting that Her Majesty’s government be flexible”
• “I guess you could say that”
• “I take it that you’re joking.  Please understand that you’re simply wasting your time here because rules cannot be bent.  You should know that.  In fact, have you ever experienced your Indian government being even remotely flexible”?

Having made his point and having stuck it all the way up, Mr CS turned his back on me while fatty in his irritatingly smug tone pushed my papers out further through the hole in the bars and looking over my shoulder dismissively shouted “Next please”.

At 1115 Hrs Seething with anger and with that pile of paper in my hand, I stormed past the Pathan venting a little bit of my anger at frustration on him and in return being glared at by the ‘wrestler’ who was shooting poisoned darts at me from his blood shot red eyes.

Getting in to my car and having turned on the air conditioning and cooling down my temper, I decided that instead of heading straight back to Jebel Ali to my office I’d go across to the Indian consulate which was just around the corner from Her Majesty’s stuck-up establishment, for an informal gassing session with Mr Prabhu Dayal.  Prabhu was at that time the Indian Counsel General whom I had struck up a friendship with after we discovered that the two of us, though in different colleges, had crossed paths many times in the past over inter-college debating competitions.  Walking into the Consulate, Prabhu’s PA greeting me with a bright ‘good morning’ waving me into this boss’s office. 

Having exchanged pleasantries and having been handed over a cup of tea, Prabhu remarked “you’re looking very pissed off with life”.  Which was all the cue I needed to vent out my frustration to him.  Having listened patiently to my tirade, with a slight smile he casually asked me to show him my passport.  Having pushed my booklet to him across his table, the CG with no further ado picked up his intercom to request his PA to come in.  Handing over my PP to the gentleman he tells the fellow “Please get Mr Khanna a form and get his signature”.  Having handed over my filled in form, a photograph and some cash to the gentleman, the PA ambled off to walk in 15 minutes later with a slim passport booklet in which the lamination was still warm as a result of which the top cover of the booklet had not flattened out and was still curved from the heat of the laminator.  I couldn’t believe that in my hand I now had a thin booklet temporary passport with a one year validity (image below).  To say that I was gob smacked would be an understatement.

This being just past noon and aware that the UK visa section accepted documents only till 1230, pushing aside my half finished cup of tea and hastily shaking Prabhu’s hand I excused myself, rushed back to my car and in next to no time was at the gate of the UK consulate to be told by the belligerent Pathan in his thick guttural tone Urdu that I should piss off.  Following the habitual argument with the guy and having rather reluctantly been let in past his domain by him, I rushed across to the porta-cabin to find that the morning crowd having already been dealt and dispensed with, there was no one standing in front of Fatty’s window.

A tap on the window sill had Billy Bunter peering at me to say “Sir, why are you back to waste our time?  I already told you that there is no way your papers could be processed”.  My suggestion that he please recheck my passport followed by his goggle eyed look which struck me as being akin to a goldfish peering out of its little glass bowl, was to me like the sun peering out from behind the clouds after a thunderstorm.

Fatty having requested Mr CS to step into this major breach in his supposedly impregnable fortifications, his second line defence waded in certain that he could easily repulse this unexpected assault by the enemy, in an uninterested tone echoing his defeated underlings words with “We already told you…..”.  Without a word exchanged between them and rather sheepishly, Fatty handed over my still warm to the touch PP to his boss who, after one quick flip through all the clean and unstamped pages, on reaching the data page could not avoid his jaw dropping.  I actually saw that happen. 

Totally flummoxed an incredulous and literally gasping for breath, Mr CS could only stammer out a:

• “HOW”?
• “It’s the Indian government SIR.  Always VERY flexible”!

That afternoon I had my passport back with the visa duly stamped on and that evening I was on flight to London.