Queuing at the Delhi Counter Part II - A Legal Alien in New Delhi

The visa process is painful. The expat forums are full of queries and no-one knows what the processes are or what the different types of visa mean. As volunteers we sort out our own visas and must sit around for hours in strange government offices. It is a rite of passage one must go through to be allowed to stay in India. Here’s the rather strange story of my experience:

DAY ONE

10:07 Arrive at the Ministry of Home Affairs reception and use elbows to obtain a number. This is slightly different from buying Gouda at Sainsbury’s.

11:03 My number shows up on the LCD. Elbow way to front to hand in form and be given slip of paper that allows me inside visa facilitation centre.

11:05 Queue at visa centre reception. No one is at the desk. After ten minutes a group has gathered and a man rocks up. Elbow in, hand over form and sit down for the long wait.

12:41 Called for interview where there is much staring at paperwork from official. I’m told to come back at 16:30 to collect letter which must be handed in tomorrow, still sealed, at the Foreign Registry Office.

16:40 Return and wait for an hour and a half alongside irate European who seems to think that if you complain about the system it will immediately improve. Collect letter and leave having wasted a day of work.

DAY TWO

07:30 Arrive at Foreign Registry in auto. Realise I need to pay 80 rupees and have only 60. A passerby takes pity on me and gives me 20 rupees. The kindness of strangers. Resolve to hunt him down later and pay him back. Put name on list. I am number 10. This feels like a good number to be.

09:38 Return after breakfast at a nearby hotel to a long queue of pushing Afghani’s on the left and perturbed other where-esles on the right. Push way to front as I am number 10. As I wait two British men push their way into the queue behind me. The one at the front asks if I am British. We have a conversation about queues and what reason we are all here. They require exit stamps in their passports so they may return to India after they have been to Dubai. I tell my new companions that the Afghani queue is for refugees. European woman in front of me turns round and offers a pitying but withering look. She tells me they are not refugees but medical tourists as the doctors in Afghanistan are supposedly not as good as India. Feel slightly stupid and apologise. Get to front and I am told I am late. Get given number 20. Dammit.

10:01 Inside the building clasping our numbers we all queue again to see the man on reception. I chat away to my two new British friends. Number one is the slightly older of the two and is very jovial. We chat about India and the UK, about colonialism and the British influence here. Number two is thinner, slightly younger. He is probably in his late 40s/early 50s with lovely demeanour. Number one chats away with me. He tells me he has a franchise in automatic pizza making machines and he has been trying to sell them across India but this hasn’t worked well so far. Number two says that I shouldn’t believe anything number two says.

10:05 I have by now discussed why pizzas cannot be sold on university campuses yet in India as the food is all subsidised in canteens and delicious. I have also told them both all about VSO, my placement and when asked what I will do when it ends I joke that I may return to the UK, settle down, find a husband. I get a strange look from both of them. Remind self that some of my humour should be reserved for friends.

10:07 Still chatting I ask number one a question. He mishears and says, ‘Our names? I’m Nick and this is Gordon.’ We talk about the length of the queue again. They need to catch a flight to Dubai and have to leave in one hour. I call up my flatmate and get advice from the FRRO guru, Nikki-ji. She has been here many times. I tell her about the two men and tell her my number. She tells me it took her three hours but it all depends on what is in my envelope. I relay this to my companions. As they are here for a different reason there is a small possibility they can get out in time to get their flight.

10:09 OMG! It dawns on me that number two is Gordon Sumner aka international superstar and amazingly talented one: Sting. Realised I’ve been trying to give them insight on India and pizza machines. Cringe and try not to laugh. I can’t look up and fiddle with my paperwork for 30 seconds to regain composure. Breathe.

10:10 Tell number two, aka G/S, quietly that I have figured out who he is. Exchange knowing glances all round. Ask number one who he is as he looks as if he may be familiar too. I have a laugh with them both that he is not in fact a pizza making machine seller and is in fact a BBC journo or something. He tells me his name and tells me I probably won’t find him through Google.

10:12 Ask them why they don’t have a handler. Point to man just in front of us who hands over seven visa application forms causing us to wait another 10 minutes. We agree you probably have to come in person for a visa stamp.

10:13 Tell G and N they probably get asked this all the time but can they donate some money to VSO. Write down my Just Giving website address and my blog address. He reads out Jen Does Delhi. I tell him that it is a play on the title of the famous porn film of the 1970s entitled Debbie does Dallas although state that is definitely not what I am doing here, it's just that the title just makes me laugh.

10:15 Get to front of queue. Man dismisses me and says I do not need to renew my visa until April when it runs out so I should come back then. Tell him I am here to register with police as well. He doesn’t even look at me and waves me away. Say my goodbyes to G and N. N says he will hunt me down and marry me at the end of my placement. I tell him that it would be lovely thank you. G wishes me luck earnestly. Feel amazingly lucky and humbled. What a day and it is only 10:15! Who cares if FRRO have dismissed me?

10:18 Call FRRO Guru-ji. Realise in all the excitement of meeting G and N that I didn’t give the receptionist the unsealed letter I got from the MHA the day before. Tell her that I met Sting and she unknowingly gave him FRRO advice. Inform her that this takes her to new levels of FRRO guru-ji-ness.

10:20 Convince security guard that I need to go back in very quickly as I forgot something. He points back to the queue outside. Wave around letter frantically and look slightly maniacal. Plead. Beg. Get let in again. Phew.

10:22 Barge my way to front of inside queue and plead with man to open my letter. He points to queue and again. Plead again and stand still refusing to move. Thrust envelope into his face and put on my best feminine helplessness face. This never usually works.

10:23 It works! Wonder if famous lovely superstar, G, and future husband, N, are watching this pitiful performance. He opens the letter and tells me to go home. The police will visit my home to check I live there at some unnamed point in the next few weeks.

10:25 Look around to say goodbye to G and N. They’ve been swallowed up by the frantic medical tourists and frustrated Europeans. I head off hoping they get their stamps and enjoy their holiday when they return to fabulous India. Wonder if they’ll be any tickets in the post soon?

(pictures from - http://www.askmen.com/ and http://www.matteoandmathilde.com/2009/10/i-remember-during-my-times-at.html)