Much Ado About Nothing!

Genesis…

“Much ado about nothing”

God’s honest truth, I never really understood these simple yet profound words of Shakespeare until now. Forty eight hours after I emerged unscathed following the definitively singular gut-wrenching nerve wracking experience of my life possessing immense potential to snowball into career threatening, life altering existential crises. Or, as is otherwise called in my playbook, the H1-B Visa Stamping.

“Much ado about nothing?” Most assuredly, yes. Considering it’s the same shebang all over. Same visa. Same consulate. Same paperwork and procedure. Same for the third #$%^in’ time for crying out loud!

Like any red blooded desi on both sides of the Mississippi who hasn’t been awarded the “Green Card” yet, yours truly too survives on that thick green one page document, affectionately called the “H1-B Visa”. Which apart from assuring me of a job (or other way around) and a few basic civil rights does pretty much nothing else. Uncle Sam has decreed “we” pay higher taxes for benefits that mostly aren’t eligible to us and more importantly present our weather-beaten faces to a Visa Officer every so often so he/she can cross examine us (again!) and deem us legitimate through a seal in our passport. A seal more dearly called, the “H1-B Stamping”.

If you’re returning to the “Land of Milk and Honey” after soaking up countries like for example… Costa Rica, Panama, Peru (insert shameless self-promotion) and want to do so by not jumping fences (or crawling through tunnels) but through crowded airports, you need one of these babies for sure.

This year I wanted to go home and figured I needed a new visa.

(Pauses 30 seconds)

I love my dad, all right? His energy, passion among plenty of other things. But I’d rather be hurtling down a ravine with jagged edges in a bundle of porcupine needles than face him when he’s metamorphosized into a full blown CIA-type interrogator armed with his document checklist and all. Two basket cases growling at each other before the interview, my mom would go crazy.

So onto Plan B. For a $475 round trip (including hotel) Vancouver put her hand up, smiled demurely and whispered, “Why… not me?”

“A known devil is always better than an unknown angel” Eyes locked, I smiled back and the date was on…

The Arrival…

My welcome couldn’t have been more brutal. 40 degree weather, incessant drizzle, darker and gloomier than usual skies, that’s not what I cursed myself for. Every living soul except me was walking around wearing a jacket or carrying an umbrella. I didn’t have neither. Not even a plastic sheet. Half drenched and almost slipping on the sidewalk I found an idling Toyota Hybrid and jumped in.

“Can we go to 401 E Hastings St, please?”

No response as car and driver stood still. “Ummm….” He started to say something.

“Oh! Budget Inn Patricia” I loudly remembered the name. That did the trick.

“Oye! Puthreeshia Otel” he repeated with severe emphasis and set off. For the next few minutes I tried to keep pace with his Hindi and Punjabi using my stock “Haan ji… Bahuth sach hai” (Yes sir, most definitely true) but gave up after we got onto the freeway. I either laughed after his every sentence or pretended to have a very spirited conversation with my voicemail.

“Hey! Is the elev…”

“Oh! It’s broken. Don’t know how long it’ll be out” and swiftly went back to his open chat windows. Great!

Cursing the pony tailed clerk, myself and random others that came to mind, I huffed and puffed my way up five floors over steps that each seemed a foot high. With my heart about to give up I managed to land in front of Room 526, my official residence for the next few days in Vancouver.

What the #$%^ What the #$%^ I cursed twice in frustration looking at the room that even a rabbit would’ve termed too small for its liking. The only discernible object was a huge bed forcing me to navigate inside by scraping my behind to the wall. Heater was an assortment of pipes that hissed louder the closer I went. Obviously in a room so steeped back in time, wireless internet is a miracle and fifteen minutes after fiddling with my laptop I realized today wasn’t my day. Frustrated, I turned around and kicked the double door and let out a huge sigh. At least we have a bathroom of our own! I don’t hold a high regard for TVs that are smaller than my monitor so I didn’t even bother switching the micro version on the table.

• 
  
  Elevator doesn’t work. Check
• 
  
  Room’s cold and the size of my closet. Check
• 
  
  Room’s got no wireless internet. Check

Oh well! If ever I had come to Vancouver to kill myself, there couldn’t have been a more perfect setting than this. No one was complementing nobody now. The rest of the Tuesday was spent in catching up on my emails and keeping my manager off my back. Things were uneventful save for those apocalypse thoughts that kept popping in my head reminding me that it was back to the Devil’s Doldrums if my visa was rejected the next day. This might be the last time you send an email to the team! This might be the last time you restart the servers! You’ve already had your last coffee at work! Oh please! At 9.30pm I couldn’t take it no more and finally decided to have that cigarette that I’d been putting off since morning. I scurried across the street to a small convenience store run by a Punjabi woman and her daughter, who immediately figured out that I was here for my H1-B visa. That obvious huh! As I was collecting my change she flippantly remarked, “Hope you get my passport back next day” “Why do you say that?” I innocently asked. “Last week there was a guy who’s been forced to stay one year in Vancouver until his visa is approved” I almost dropped my change and cigarettes. And no, I didn’t want to know who he was. One #$%^in’ year! One day in this city and I was ready to tear my nails out. What the heck was I going to do for a year here? There we go. Out with the demons and devils please… Inside the Lion’s Den… D-Day dawned gloomy and rainy as usual. Given that I was wired more than a semiconductor chip, 20 minutes to get ready seemed too long. I looked at myself in the mirror and couldn’t stop grinning. Go get ‘em tiger! Never pick a cab where the driver’s arguing with his wife over the phone and listening to talk radio and growing madder by the minute. I counted at least three jumped red lights, two glares from other cabbies and one gloriously raised middle finger from a homeless man. At least he kept to himself and didn’t freak me out with more doomsday stories. Ten minutes and a thrill ride later I was deposited in front of the 1075 W Pender St, the US Consulate. Contrary to what many might think the Consulate isn’t a fortress surrounded by wrought iron gates and an overflowing police presence. Instead it occupies just a few floors of a tall skyscraper and manned by the same three surly security guards I’d seen before. “It’s all coming back together now…” I smiled to myself as I walked up the steps and parked myself in a corner. As is the wont I found at least a few being brusquely turned away by the guards thanks to their mobiles, backpacks, coffee mugs and what not. A couple of them tried to argue/snap back but these had “No #$%^in’ chance” written all over it. Pfft! Some things never change. I mean, the Consulate could take a front page ad in the paper tomorrow listing the things they regarded dangerous in their premises but people still wouldn’t know or bother. Forty minutes of waiting in line with nothing to do can drive a man crazy. Especially when you’ve sworn never to indulge in any conversation with your neighbors (like me), simply because you don’t want to hear any more cockamamie stories of how people were turned away because they didn’t bring a certain scrap of paper. I mean, c’mon on! I’ve heard my share of ridiculous ones each involving a “friend” or “friend’s friend” (who most certainly never exist) and as much as I’d like to call their bluff realized that “mum’s the word”. Finally! The same old guard from before beckoned me inside and I thought I detected a glint of recognition. Christ man! Haven’t you got your Green Card already? The Vietnamese guard next to him ensured no part of my physique was left untouched or unsearched. Thankfully I wasn’t required to drop my pants. Satisfied, both guards stared at me for a few seconds and then waved me off upstairs. Fingerprinting was relatively easy. I hadn’t been busted for carrying marijuana, passing counterfeit checks (or things to that effect) so I was fairly certain my prints wouldn’t cause a nation wide alarm. It didn’t! Oh! The inexorable wait! My number was “A082”, which meant I had the next forty five minutes to twiddle my thumbs and wallow in my maelstrom of emotions. My policy of zero interaction was still in effect and I quickly scanned the huge room to see if I knew anyone from before. Out in the left corner was a pretty young thing who appeared outwardly calm reading a book. Some of us are sitting here shaking like a leaf and you’re reading a book? Wow! “Aishwarya Rai could serenade naked in front of you and kiss you on the lips and you can’t get a boner!” I laughed loudly to myself. Dedicated to my cause, what else can I say? Time to check my documents (again) and I slowly pulled out my impressive array of labeled folders announcing every imaginable piece of paper about me, a. Essential - (I-797, pay slips, tax returns, employment letter) b. Completely Unnecessary - NIIT degree, Xth and XIIth standard mark sheets, ASU course transcripts, conduct certificates… “Paranoia” is my middle name, so excuse me when my mantra is “More is Less” when it comes to visa interviews. I spent a good two minutes glossing over document as if they were going to be snatched from me forever and spent another long time rearranging them back in the same order. #$%^ me. Twenty more minutes to go! “A080, A081, A082, A083, A084, A085 to the 20th floor please” The first really good looking girl I’d seen at the consulate thus far. I would’ve gladly walked the stairs for that smile. Thanks to the second broken elevator I’d seen that day I did just that. We were forced to go up through the outer entrance past a bustling Starbucks. Same guard. Same emotions. For reasons I can’t fathom our searches were more thorough than before with the emphasis this time around centered on food and drink. Oh c’mon! What was I going to do? Sneak a muffin and latte on my way up? Their demolition job took me a good five minutes to try to get things back to order and I finally went in. Ah! The Final Frontier. This was a cramped room with service counters where them visa officers with computers lorded over our careers. My mind was calmer and clearer than it had ever been before. No apocalypse or Devil’s Doldrums, just a strange inner peace as I silently sat there waiting my fate… “Now serving A082 at window no. 3” The voice jerked me back to attention. I stood up, cleared my throat and looked around to see if anyone was wishing me luck. No one gave a #$%^. “This is it” I steeled myself, “Good morning Officer. How are you?” I started off with all the cheer I could muster. “I’m fine. So you’re Kaarrrthik Jayaaraa…?” “Karthik Jayaraman, yes that’s right” I helped him complete it and just like that the inquisition was under way. The first few questions are always easy. More easy when you’ve been working for the same company the past three years and have been trying to be nothing except Mr. Joe Citizen. That we both established and I let out a tiny sigh. “So are you going for an arranged or love marriage?” Honest to God, that’s the first time I’ve heard that question in any interview and I swear it blindsided me, straight out of left field. Well… What should it be if I should get my visa? “Ummm… I’m not sure. The heart wants what the heart wants” I replied laughing weakly afterward. #$%^ me and my stupid one-liners. I’m going home and getting married to the girl of my Dad’s choice. Now can I get my darn visa please? Apparently option (c) – undecided was the right choice since I heard the magic words right away. “Your visa has been approved. Come back on Friday to pick up your passport” I almost let out a “Whopeeeeee” but reminded myself “This is your third time here and this is an extension. No great shakes. Now go away”. I quickly thanked the officer and briskly walked away. Dampener? I had to hang around in the city till Friday. Get the hell back home… Obviously the most easiest part considering you’ve passed the acid test. Watching a basketball game and guzzling beer I texted my dad, “How’s my favorite dad doing today? Your son just got his Visa approved!” My dad, the wily old fox he is, called me back pronto and over international roaming and skyrocketing rates I reassured him that my visa was really approved, yes I was drunk and no I wasn’t going to drive. For reasons best known to him he always assumes that I’m going to navigate a space shuttle or something when I’m off the rocker. My only accomplishment (or lack thereof) on Thursday was that I managed to somehow get through United Airlines customer service and convince them to reschedule my flight to Friday. My elder sister’s having a baby in Los Angeles and I really need to be there Friday night? Can you please waive the service fees? We’ll need to see birth certificate and other family documents first. #$%^ I blamed it on the bad economy since I was pretty confident that I could’ve pulled off that stunt when all was well. $150 be damned, I wanted to get back to Los Angeles before the weekend and that I did after collecting my passport without getting grilled any further. Goodbye… Continuing with the tradition I promptly texted my dad the moment I landed, “Your first born just landed in Los Angeles with his new visa!” “My first born is in Houston (referring to my younger brother). Who the #$%^ are you?” Dad was kidding, of course. I involuntarily laughed out loud startling a few folks around me and wondered where that humor was coming from. Oh my God! Where was my passport? I stopped dead in my tracks bang in the middle of the walkway and frantically patted myself. There she is! Passport and my 1-797 were bundled together squeezed tight in my jeans back pocket. I swiftly took it out and smiled at it, “Baby! You know I just spent $650 to bring you back home, right?” and kept staring at it as if expecting a response. But they why would there be one? “Much ado about nothing?” After all even the visa knows that.