Vis-a-Vis with Visa
It was the summer of '93, in Chennai - a town where everything was late and lazy. A enlightening instance would be when I'd wake up to the heat of the noon and would hold my abdomen in a certain position and with certain grip - a grip of determination in not letting my emotions of watching TV hinder with my first calls of nature to the loo. I'd remain seated in that cushiony old couch an hour atleast, before I'd finally attend the call. Thats how late and lazy, the city was.
Anyways, my point of such a thrilling start on one such day saw me shout, spit and despise....myself standing on the other side of the mirror, patiently bearing the insult. Everything seemed hazy, maybe because I was both brushing and doing the spitting and despising on myself on the other side all at the same time. It was too much to handle. And so, I finally decided to clean the mirror and let go of myself for one last time.
There was a pivotal reason hanging in the air for why I did all that. It was because my visa interview was just an hour later. It was not unreasonable to be angry with myself. I expected some kind of reasonable discipline from myself. I mean, who would sleep at 5 in the morning on the day of one's visa interview, after say, 4 attempts (or was it 5?) at the interview and as a result not being able to confirm the air ticket.
My second reason for limping, was that I had claws (nails) on my toes, the first reason being I tried to kick the table in a futile attempt to show frustration for my iron box not having that gift of heating up quickly. The iron box was now fuming, and I was fretting on the other side. It was as if both of us were going to grapple each other's neck and wrestle until one of us would feel the satisfaction of tom getting jerry. Before anything, I took down the iron box by its handle and pressed him hard against my Rs. 450/-, sparkling white, full-sleeves, unlucky shirt. The steam released, upon polarizing with the water-laden sleeve. I maintained my pressure and strictness in movement of the iron, until it finally gave up with all the steam gone and the light switching off due to the thermostat. My shirt was crisp on the crease, and I felt victorious. I had championed the fight that had been ensuing through time.
Rajalakshmi, a 26-year old female, had given birth to the man who'd always follow up on his only child, right from his brushing of teeth to tying shoelaces after a mirror-shine polish. Anyways, she was now standing all wrinkled beside me, watching my battle with the iron. After the win, I turned and beamed at her. She was trying to hand me something. It was a glass of milk. My beaming reduced to a frown in under 1 second. She turned slowly about, and proceeded to make the coffee.
With things proceeding smoothly, I ran quick thoughts on my head, as to how to roll my Rs and make a good I'll-fit-in-there-perfectly impression. I had my coffee, took my grandma's blessings, and went out.
Out was hot. Out was not where I wanted to be. In under 45 minutes, I'd be going face-to-face with some visa officer whose main job was to relish to see you standing there nervous, answering and tossing a coin in his mind on whether he/she wanted to let you through or not. The thought of them getting paid for their sadistic expertise and the sweltering sun beating its rays of glory on me, made me feel both frustrated and uncomfortable. Uncomfortable because the girls sitting on the bus, were giggling and whispering trivialities of how the shape of undergarments made a Nostradamus-like revelation of the shape of my butt. I immediately also noticed the famous circular patch of my ever-scentful sweat on my armpit area. Their giggles didn't stop for no reason.
It struck me that my battle with my iron box was a colossal waste of time and effort. Had I known that two fat men would have that ironing effect on my shirt in the standing area, I would have worked on holding my creases. The bearded man with his childbearing potbelly - the cushion-board, was working in conjunction with the massive, bald man on the other side - the iron showing his massivity with his back pressed against my ribs. One was providing heat with his open mouth, and the other...well, with his back. Odor was the word of the day. Before I was gassed out in the holocaust, my stop came by and saved me. I struggled myself out of the caravan of heat producing exhausts and breathed fresh air after years of choking; I felt so.
The sight of the visa office, now made some connection with my bowel movement. It brought me the unsavory memories of how I missed out on the interviews as I overslept. Now I said to myself, "Well, Vivek, now all that matters is that you're here. So go ahead and step up your accent!"
I went to the watchman and stepped up my accent, rolled my Rs, swallowed syllables as much as possible and came up with, "I'm hezhe fozh the visa intezhview..." and was wondezhing, I mean wondering to myself about how I was the first person there to go through the queue. The watchman gathered what I was saying in like 3 seconds and succinctly summed it up with a "Sunday, Sir!"
Anyways, my point of such a thrilling start on one such day saw me shout, spit and despise....myself standing on the other side of the mirror, patiently bearing the insult. Everything seemed hazy, maybe because I was both brushing and doing the spitting and despising on myself on the other side all at the same time. It was too much to handle. And so, I finally decided to clean the mirror and let go of myself for one last time.
There was a pivotal reason hanging in the air for why I did all that. It was because my visa interview was just an hour later. It was not unreasonable to be angry with myself. I expected some kind of reasonable discipline from myself. I mean, who would sleep at 5 in the morning on the day of one's visa interview, after say, 4 attempts (or was it 5?) at the interview and as a result not being able to confirm the air ticket.
My second reason for limping, was that I had claws (nails) on my toes, the first reason being I tried to kick the table in a futile attempt to show frustration for my iron box not having that gift of heating up quickly. The iron box was now fuming, and I was fretting on the other side. It was as if both of us were going to grapple each other's neck and wrestle until one of us would feel the satisfaction of tom getting jerry. Before anything, I took down the iron box by its handle and pressed him hard against my Rs. 450/-, sparkling white, full-sleeves, unlucky shirt. The steam released, upon polarizing with the water-laden sleeve. I maintained my pressure and strictness in movement of the iron, until it finally gave up with all the steam gone and the light switching off due to the thermostat. My shirt was crisp on the crease, and I felt victorious. I had championed the fight that had been ensuing through time.
Rajalakshmi, a 26-year old female, had given birth to the man who'd always follow up on his only child, right from his brushing of teeth to tying shoelaces after a mirror-shine polish. Anyways, she was now standing all wrinkled beside me, watching my battle with the iron. After the win, I turned and beamed at her. She was trying to hand me something. It was a glass of milk. My beaming reduced to a frown in under 1 second. She turned slowly about, and proceeded to make the coffee.
With things proceeding smoothly, I ran quick thoughts on my head, as to how to roll my Rs and make a good I'll-fit-in-there-perfectly impression. I had my coffee, took my grandma's blessings, and went out.
Out was hot. Out was not where I wanted to be. In under 45 minutes, I'd be going face-to-face with some visa officer whose main job was to relish to see you standing there nervous, answering and tossing a coin in his mind on whether he/she wanted to let you through or not. The thought of them getting paid for their sadistic expertise and the sweltering sun beating its rays of glory on me, made me feel both frustrated and uncomfortable. Uncomfortable because the girls sitting on the bus, were giggling and whispering trivialities of how the shape of undergarments made a Nostradamus-like revelation of the shape of my butt. I immediately also noticed the famous circular patch of my ever-scentful sweat on my armpit area. Their giggles didn't stop for no reason.
It struck me that my battle with my iron box was a colossal waste of time and effort. Had I known that two fat men would have that ironing effect on my shirt in the standing area, I would have worked on holding my creases. The bearded man with his childbearing potbelly - the cushion-board, was working in conjunction with the massive, bald man on the other side - the iron showing his massivity with his back pressed against my ribs. One was providing heat with his open mouth, and the other...well, with his back. Odor was the word of the day. Before I was gassed out in the holocaust, my stop came by and saved me. I struggled myself out of the caravan of heat producing exhausts and breathed fresh air after years of choking; I felt so.
The sight of the visa office, now made some connection with my bowel movement. It brought me the unsavory memories of how I missed out on the interviews as I overslept. Now I said to myself, "Well, Vivek, now all that matters is that you're here. So go ahead and step up your accent!"
I went to the watchman and stepped up my accent, rolled my Rs, swallowed syllables as much as possible and came up with, "I'm hezhe fozh the visa intezhview..." and was wondezhing, I mean wondering to myself about how I was the first person there to go through the queue. The watchman gathered what I was saying in like 3 seconds and succinctly summed it up with a "Sunday, Sir!"
posted by Arun @ Friday, June 29, 2007
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