Six months in dreary and cold Brussels – and no headway with her handsome colleague Luc – has convinced systems analyst Seetha, brought up in ‘steamy’ Madras, that she must move on. The British Government’s immigration laws allow writers and artists to be granted a visa even if they have no job, so Seetha decides that she is a writer – and her first creative assignment is her visa application form. Harish, escaping the slums of India, has slogged hard in Belgium for the last fourteen years, and finally has saved enough to fulfil a lifelong dream: watch a cricket match at Lords in London. Amit seems to have everything – except his strict father’s approval, which he may win if he finds a way to launder the $2 million his father moved out of India ‘during the restrictive years of Nehruvian socialism’. To Ratnesh, who hates the Indian caste system, and as a Dalit, plans to seek asylum in the UK, all’s fair in love, war, and getting a visa. Even using the naïve Harish for his own ends. And across the desk from them all, holding their fate in his hands, is British visa officer Doug Evans… who himself does not know what is going to happen at the end of the two days in which these characters' lives, dreams – and visa applications – cross paths.
Release date:
March 12, 2012
Publisher:
Hachette India
Print pages:
228
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Today was the day. Today was the day she was going to be telling a deliberate, carefully planned lie to a figure of authority.
With unknown consequences. Gooseflesh early in the morning.
Seetha sat up in bed with her legs drawn up, quilt up to her chin, held her knees in her hands and revisited her plans.
Small inner voice still grumbling. But what to do? No option but to lie. Basically the immigration laws were unfair. Hence
it may be a lie but is it a lie to fudge a few statements to work around injustice? But why am I once again trawling this
moral minefield now? I’ve been through this before – often and in detail. Weighed the pros and cons. Used moral scales, legal
scales, self-interest scales. Now having decided to lie I must simply go ahead and lie convincingly. On the way to the embassy
I must rehearse my lines again.
God, it’s cold.
Seetha drew the quilt tighter around herself. She was never going to get used to the Brussels cold. Just nine months back
in Madras, in the sweltering heat of a late June afternoon, she had been told that she had been selected to be the lead on-site
systems analyst for the new software application that their company, Datasophy India Pvt. Ltd., had been commissioned to develop
for the Expobel group headquartered in Brussels. At that time, along with the thrill of being selected to lead the on-site
team and the equal thrill of travelling and working overseas – this was the first time she was travelling outside India –
she had also been looking forward to experiencing a real winter, not the 28-degree Celsius heat that passed for winter in
Chennai, nee Madras. Now, she felt that this was one experience she could gladly have done without. The heating was inefficient
in the rundown apartment block where she had rented a studio – all she could afford on the meagre living allowance granted
by her company– and she shivered.
7am. Five more minutes in bed allowed. Then must get up. Five minutes of diversionary pleasant thinking.
Who better to think of than Luc?
Seetha sighed.
Luc Dubois was Expobel’s Finance Officer and one of the persons she needed to work closely with to understand Expobel’s business
processes and capture the requirements for the financial system she was designing. Finalizing the design specifications anyway
required them to spend a large amount of time together at work, but in addition, over the last month Seetha thought she had
noticed Luc strolling over to her work station often and ‘shooting the bull’, to use the American phrase Luc had recently
picked up. She did not mind at all. Most of the other Expobel staff had been coldly formal and some even hostile. The company’s
decision to bypass their own IT group and award the application design work to an Indian software house had done nothing to
make her feel welcome. Luc was coming to occupy an inordinate amount of her thoughts and she did not think that that was necessarily
undesirable.
Luc, Luc. He looks cute. He’s big and has a big smile. Why does he speak so slowly, so deliberately? Not just him. Most whites
do. I guess it’s only us Indians who speak so fast. Tongues always running ahead of minds, as Appa says. I miss Appa and I
miss the morning half hour: the cool Chennai morning – not this hellish cold – but hell’s hot, isn’t it – never mind – the
cool Chennai morning with filter coffee, the Indian Express and Appa’s comments on every headline.
But Luc… I don’t know anything about his life. He’s not married. I saw that on his bio on the company website. Relationships?
Given his smile and his salary, he must have had lots. Steady ones? Probably. Is he in a relationship now? Don’t know. How
to ask? When to ask? Later. Why am I so interested? Just curiosity. He is the only one who talks to me. Asks about my life.
Naturally I’m curious in turn. And God, he’s handsome. Film-star looks – Hollywood, not Bollywood. He has big, safe hands.
I noticed yesterday when he was pointing out cost elements on the costing spreadsheet. My hand will fit completely into his.
Don’t know why I turned down his invitation for lunch last Friday. Wonder where he’d have taken me. I guess I didn’t want
to appear too easy but God, it was just lunch.
Easy – what a stupid word to use. As morally stupid as Appa’s ‘decent’. Every day it was ‘Behave decently’, ‘He is a decent
person’, ‘Have some decency.’ Eesh.
I’m bad at on-the-spot decision making. One should only be asked out via email. That gives one time to consider and reply.
Next time Luc asks me out I am definitely going to accept. Or can I be bold and ask him out this Friday?
Snap out of this childish reverie, Seetha, girl! Start thinking about the visa application. And what to wear today. Has to
be a sari. Which sari? I have just two here and both are silk. The violet Banaras silk will be better than the red Kanjeevaram.
The Kanjeevaram has too much gold zari and would attract attention even in Chennai. Does it have to be a sari? Yes. Will tell
the visa officer that I am a timid Indian, reluctant to change in any way, one who would never dream of immigrating to the
West. Downside is, on the way to the embassy I’m going to stand out like a peacock in the crowd of dull winter shades of black
and brown on this grey winter morning. Everybody will look with slightly raised eyebrows at ‘that Indian girl in a bright
sari’. God, I hate standing out. I’m going to wear my long, black overcoat on top of my sari. That way very little of my sari
will be seen on the way to the embassy.
I hate the way they make you feel uncomfortable. They can be patronizing with just a raised eyebrow, a pursed lip or a blank
look. You’re imagining things. They are not patronizing. It’s just that they are clear about their place in the world. They
don’t have existential doubts – at least they didn’t. Now maybe they are beginning to. We, though, have been unsure of ourselves
for the last one thousand years. Ever since Ghazni – or was it Ghori?
They are just shooting an interested, quick glance at someone different. Don’t we stare at whites in India? But the way we
stare is different. It is an open-mouthed, wide-eyed, deferential stare. We don’t raise eyebrows, purse lips or put on a blank,
erasing look when we see a white. Deep down inside we still think they are superior – somehow better put together by God or
the Devil or Darwin. Better looking too, we think. Pathetic.
Look at me today. Thinking of what they will think while deciding what to wear. I’m sure none of them ever spends time agonizing about what the Moroccans, the Senegalese and the Congolese
clogging the sidewalks of the Chausee d’lxelles will think of their choice of clothes. Even when they come to India – our
country – the white karma-dharma tourists don’t care what we think of their garish glass beads and ill-fitting sweat pants
slung low over visible, dirty G-strings. Eesh. It’s we who are trying to do the right thing all the time.
Serves you right. Should have stayed in India. Who asked you to come here – and who is now asking you to wheedle a work permit
and visa out of the British to stay even longer in the West?
Anyway, up. Time to rise and shine.
Seetha swung out of bed, wrapped a thick woollen housecoat over her pyjamas and began getting ready for the day ahead.
She struggled to tie her sari, standing in the confined space between the bed and the wall. Her flat was small – tiny actually.
Her room had a bed, a small sofa, a kitchen counter along one wall and a combination work and dining table built into another
wall. Sitting in her bed, which was almost in the middle of the room, she could reach out and touch all the four walls of
the room. The real estate agent who’d showed her the flat had described it as ‘very cosy.’
Walking briskly along Avenue Louise, Seetha rehearsed her lines. She was a software professional. She had come to Belgium
on a six-month business trip. Now, towards the end of this assignment, she wanted to return to her first love – writing. She
had written earlier – a taut little thriller with a supernatural twist – and had been published, even if it was only in a
short story anthology but there was no need to mention all that. Now she was starting on her first novel, a novel whose 16th-century subject spanned two continents. Needed to work in England – at the British museum – to refer to books and documents
on 16th-century England. A period philosophical novel needed to be grounded in fact and she could not possibly write authentically
about the 16th century English court sitting far away in steamy Madras. No, she was not planning to look for a software development job
in the UK. She might look for a part-time job to meet her living expenses and her publisher may be paying her an advance.
No, she had no intention of overstaying her visa. No, she did not have any immediate family in the UK. Yes, an open work permit
and work visa were what she was looking for.
As she walked, she kept an eye on the street signs. She had to find Rue de la Concorde. She was wary of the bizarre language
rules in Brussels which insisted that all street signs needed to be in French and Flemish. The names in the two languages
were never the same, always being translations, never transliterations. She took out and consulted a large street map of Brussels
even though she knew it made her ‘the Indian tourist in a sari who seemed to have lost her way’. Just as well she did though,
because it turned out that the Rue de la Concorde was the Eendracht Straat in Flemish. Now she had a choice of two street
names to look out for.
At each junction she patiently waited for the lights to turn green before crossing the street, even though she could see many
others look quickly right and then left and cross through red lights. She had tried that once, soon after coming to Belgium,
and unfortunately for her, had failed to see an approaching car. The car had had to brake rather sharply. It had seemed to
her then that a hundred Belgian eyes had looked at her censoriously – she could almost hear an onlooker say, ‘Look at that
stupid foreign girl. I don’t think they have many cars where she comes from, or even streets perhaps.’ And today, she was
in a sari. It was best to play it by the book.
Turning into the Rue de la Concorde she looked for Number 65. Odd numbers on the left of the street, even numbers on the right.
She was about to cross when she saw a group of young men and women on the left side of the road, most with shaved heads, some
with brightly coloured hair, all grungily dressed. She swerved and kept to her side of the road.
Best not to take any chances. God knows who they are. Maybe just harmless kids or perhaps punks but they could also be skinheads.
Don’t really know how to tell the difference. Must ask Luc. If they are racist skinheads my sari could be like a red rag.
How old are they? Can’t tell. Do they age? How do they age? Probably gracelessly.
Luc may not know much about skinheads or their attitude towards foreigners. There are some issues he is oblivious about. He’s not the most perceptive person in the world. But his heart is in the right place and if he saw a skinhead bothering
me in any way I’m sure he would rush to protect me.
She kept to the right of the road and hurried past the skinheads/punks – who ignored her completely.
At Door Number 57 she crossed the road. 59, 61, 63 and there it was – Number 65, with the Lion and the Unicorn crest on the
carved door. She smoothed her hair, adjusted her sari and was about to ring the doorbell when she saw a small sign which read,
‘Visa section, please use the rear entrance on Rue du President’.
She snorted and walked towards the rear of the building.
Look at the cheek. Front door only for British citizens. Let all the dirty foreigners trying to get into Britain use the rear
entrance. Very appropriate. And look at me. Desperate to get in, never mind the entrance. Truly pathetic.
Don’t be dramatic. All embassies are the same. They all have a consular section and a visa section. Remember the long queues
every working day outside the Indian Embassy on Rue de Vleurgat of ardent Indophiles – the ‘we loath the material West, we
love your ancient wisdom and gentle ways’ nirvana tourists. The Indian Embassy puts them through so many hoops. Makes them
wait for hours. Makes them fill out a sheaf of forms. Often makes them queue on the sidewalk. Wonder why in spite of all this,
these misguided souls take the trouble to travel to a country which they mistake for a sylvan paradise peopled exclusively
by philosophers, while all it is a seething, heaving, frenetic slice of hell.
The rear entrance was closed and a sign said that the visa section would be open from 9am to 3pm. Another ten minutes to wait.
There were already a few people outside. Seetha scanned and quickly slotted them. She loved slotting people. In some way it
put her in charge. Two black men in suits talking loudly – must be Nigerian businessmen. There was a short person who Seetha
could tell was from somewhere in the Indian subcontinent – probably was a Bihari, Bengali or a Bangladeshi. Too timid to be
from anywhere west of the Yamuna. There was a white family – father, mother and two small girls, twins probably. The parents
were rummaging in an old travel bag and trying to get their documents all in place and ready. Had to be East Europeans not yet in the EU.
Seetha moved away from this small knot of people and walked over to a small newspaper kiosk across the road. She always did
this, almost reflexively and most often unconsciously – moving away from others from the Third world. Moving away from Thirdness.
The perpetually tentative look. The cloying desire to win approval – even a smile would do. The unseemly eagerness to be corrected.
Look at that Bangladeshi/Bihari in the queue. Look at the look on his face. He’s saying to the Visa officer and to every white
person who crosses his path, ‘I know you may think I’m an intruder but really, I’m a nice person. I even have a history and
a culture. Though if you ask me to, I’m quite prepared to forget them. Please let me stay and please treat me nice. I’m useful
too. For loose change, I will do anything from cleaning your windows to working your computers. I’ve learnt to use a Western
toilet and I’ve stopped picking my nose in public. You may hesitate to ask but let me assure you, I don’t wear a suicide belt
(if at all I do, it will only be once!).’
Seetha didn’t like Thirdness. Wasn’t she a professional who was at least as good as her Western colleagues? She was in the
West on business; she was proud of being Indian and she had no intentions of settling down in the West. She had to confess
that she was a little unsure on that last point, but that did not take away anything from her dislike of Thirdness and her
unwillingness to be associated with the millions who were desperate to crawl into any crevice in the Western world and only
asked to be allowed to remain there undisturbed.
A short man from the subcontinent with an uncertain smile was walking towards Seetha and she was immediately on guard.
Harish had not slept at all. He normally went to bed at six in the morning after closing the shop below. But today, since he
needed to be at the British Embassy by 9am, he decided to stay awake and do the shop accounts instead till it was time to
shower and dress and walk a kilometre to catch the number 23 tram to the Place Stephanie. From there it should be a short
walk to the embassy.
Harish and his partner Zulfikar owned the Taj Magazin de Nuit or Night Shop, one of the many that Brussels is peppered with.
The Taj stayed open all night and most of the day besides and stocked basic groceries, cigarettes and wine. Night Shops were
mostly owned and run by either Indians or Pakistanis. Local Belgians, cosseted by an indulgent welfare state, would not even
begin to consider working at night. But they did want to be able to buy liquor and cigarettes at any hour.
The Taj was rather unusual in that it was owned by an Indian and a Pakistani in partnership. The name – Taj – had been chosen
carefully. Had to be a name which smelt of the subcontinent but mustn’t be too specifically either Indian or Pakistani, Hindu
or Muslim. They finally settled on the Taj. Location – Agra, India. Builder – Shah Jahan, Muslim.
Harish and Zulfikar shared the rooms above the shop. There were three rooms. Harish got one and since Zulfikar was married
and had a little boy, he got two. They all shared a bathroom and a kitchen. You would have thought that the shared kitchen
would be a problem what with the Zulfikars needing to eat red meat (usually beef) every day and poor Harish being a strict
vegetarian for whom beef was taboo. But it all worked out nicely. The first shelf in the fridge and the right hand kitchen
counter were strictly reserved for vegetarian food. Jemima – Zulfikar’s wife – kept a green and white Melmoware set for Harish’s
food and no one else was allowed to use those dishes or plates. Jemima cooked a lipsmacking vegetarian meal too.
Harish brushed his teeth and showered, soaping and scrubbing himself meticulously. As he showered, he softly sang to himself
the old Hindi song, ‘Thande thande pani se nahana chahiye’. For the last twenty years he had always sung that song as he showered.
Harish dressed and carefully put all his papers into a little plastic pouch which was a Procter and Gamble giveaway. He took
his passport – still Indian and still valid, his Belgian residence card and his Belgian Permit de Travail or work permit.
He knocked on Zulfikar’s bedroom door and without opening it, shouted, ‘I’m leaving for the British Embassy. I’m not sure
when I will be back but it can’t be later than five in the evening because whites don’t work beyond that and the embassy will
close.’ Through the closed door he heard a Jemima mumble, ‘He’s still sleeping or pretending to. I’ll tell him.’
Harish went downstairs, took off his shoes and stood in front of the framed photo of Lord Hanuman which hung at the bottom
of the landing leading into the shop. Harish could see the photograph from his stool near the till but it was hidden from
customers. He lit an incense stick and stuck it into a crack in the frame. He folded his hands and stood silently in front
of the photograph. The glass in the frame reflected the shelves of liquor across the aisle and hid much of the monkey god.
But Harish knew that He was there and that He was listening.
‘Bhagwan Hanuman, I need you to help me today. Once again I have to face officialdom. This time I need a visa from the British
Embassy. Make them give it to me, preferably quickly, perhaps today. I can’t stay away from the shop for long.’
Harish turned, sat on a stool and put on his shoes. Bending, he noticed that the vinyl flooring had frayed to a point where
the wooden floorboards were visible at many places.
He really should go to the flea market on Sunday and see if he could get some cheap flooring. He could also ask Zulfikar to
go over to the night shop on the Rue de Buyl which closed last week and see if he could pick up some flooring and a glass
door freezer on the cheap. There was so much that needed doing. Harish hoped the visa would not take too long. If it threatened to be too time-consuming he decided that he would simply postpone watching cricket at Lord’s for a couple of years.
The long period of anticipation would be enjoyable.
Harish opened the front door and stepped out. Shutting the door behind him, he tried the door to make sure the newly installed
double lock had clicked firmly. Only last week the shop had been burgled. The selective thief had stolen all the cigarettes
and most of the liquor in the store. He (or could it actually have been a she?) had left everything else untouched, including
the cash in the till.
Harish walked to the tram stop and waited for the tram. Catching sight of a new shop sign, ‘Famous Night Shop’ across the
street, he wondered whose it could be – he had heard that Faroukh, the ambitious Pakistani, might be opening another shop.
But no, his shops all bore very Islamic names. This must be some Bangladeshi’s. There were so many more of them in Brussels
now and they seemed to know how to work the erratic but increasingly restrictive Belgian system and get the required work
permits and licences.
Harish had been luckier. He had come to Belgium twelve years ago in the days when Europe had yet to become a guarded fortress.
Just eighteen then, he had worked for six years in one of Belgium’s last coal mines. That job had got him his permanent resident
card. It was at the mines that he had met Zulfikar and they had then put all their savings together, borrowed heavily from
friends and started the Taj. The first few years were a grim, monotonous grind. For weeks Harish never left the shop and house.
Now things were a little easier and Harish, normally very careful with his money, had decided that he could afford to indulge
a childhood dream – to watch a cricket match at Lord’s. He had chosen a county match in May. Always given to preparing in
advance, he was going to apply for his British visa today.
Waiting for the tram, quietly excited, Harish thought over all the practical details of getting to Lord’s and back. Harish’s
experience in Europe had been largely restricted to the Taj Magazin de Nuit. He had never travelled outside Belgium and rarely
ventured beyond Ixelles, his commune, except to meet suppliers or get his residence card extended. The visit to Lord’s would be an expedition and the journey would be as exciting as the destination. Most of all, when he returned, he
would have seen a cricket match at Lord’s.
The No. 23 arrived. Harish watched, fascinated as usua. . .
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