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‘But, sir,' the man blubbers. ‘Only
a three-month visa I am wanting. Please sir, show some heart. My
brother in New York is very sick and is desperately needing me.'

The American fixes him a cold, hard gaze.
‘Everyday at least ten of you fellas have a brother in New York
who is sick,' he says. He looks away. ‘Next,' he
calls impatiently.

A few more people and then it's my turn to
face the immigration officer. All the folks in line ahead of me have
been lower middle-class, the kind of men more likely to work at
menial jobs in Dubai or Kuwait than to go to America for graduate
school. Their English is not great, they have oily, badly cut hair
and their polyester pants are ill-fitting and worn. They are nervous
and this makes them look shifty; they do not exude the understated
confidence of upper-class professionals. Instead, they cower before
this young S.O.B.; it is obvious that they have never been in the
company of a white man before.

I feel a rush of emotions—disgust at the
servility of my compatriots; red-hot anger at the arrogance of the
American.

In that moment, I do not care if I don't get
to go to America, do not care if this blond weasel blocks my path on
the road that I have been carefully laying for almost a year. I will
not be treated with the dismissive contempt with which he is treating
the people ahead of me.

We have already stood in line for almost four
hours. Every morning, the line for a visa begins to form on the
streets outside the embassy gates at Breach Candy. The crowds begin
to gather at six a.m., hours before the metal gates swing open, so
that by the time we are let in, we are ready to collapse in pools of
sweat and anxiety, baked by the mid-morning sun. As if the indignity
of waiting on the street is not enough, the local sentries at the
embassy have taken on the prejudices of their American masters, so
that they talk to the visa applicants in the same disdainful, abrupt
manner as the latter.

I have not waited in line as long as some of the
others. Dad had sent Kishan, one of the workers from the factory, to
stand in as proxy for me at six a.m. Dad, Roshan, and I arrived two
hours later and I relieved Kishan while dad and Roshan went back to
the car to wait. There was some half-hearted grumbling by those who
had been standing in line since dawn but I could tell their heart
wasn't in it. After all, they were used to a system where
middle-class people like myself always managed to bend the rules
enough to suit our purpose. And for all my sensitivity about
middle-class privilege, I was not above asserting it when I needed
to.

But although my late arrival has spared me many of
the indignities that those in line with me had already been subjected
to, I am still seething by the time we reach the inner sanctum of the
embassy. The whole experience is clearly designed to be demeaning and
humiliating, as if the simple act of applying for an American visa is
a hazing ritual.

I stare at the young officer, boring holes into
him with my eyes. He looks directly at me once, as if he can feel the
heat from my eyes but I immediately look away. I shift impatiently
from foot to foot, tired of the long wait. To hell with him, and to
hell with America and to hell with Ohio State University. If this is
how they treat Indians in our own country, imagine what we must face
after we get there.

I manage to convince myself that I really don't
care if I never reach American shores. At the same time, I am
determined not to leave the embassy until I give this man a taste of
his own medicine and show him that not all of us are in awe of his
pink skin. I feel my face tighten in anger.

The blond man has rejected five visa applications
in a row.

After dismissing the last applicant, he tilts back
in his chair and stretches with his hands behind his head. The
middle-aged man ahead of me takes a few steps forward toward the
window. Seeing this, the blond man snaps to attention.

‘See that blue line?' he barks,
pointing to a line painted on the floor. ‘You're not to
step past it until it's your turn, understand? And I haven't
called for you yet.'

The middle-aged man—who is surely a bank
clerk and the father of three kids who will all graduate with a
commerce degree from a mediocre college—looks chastized and
miserable. He smiles weakly to hide his confusion and embarrassment.
‘Ah, yes, sir, yes. Right you are. Sorry, so sorry.'

I feel my body go rigid with embarrassment.

The visa officer glares at him for a full second.
Then he pushes against his desk, rises from his chair and disappears.

The middle-aged transgressor looks around
uncertainly, trying to catch someone's eye. We all wait in a
state of suspense. Finally, the officer returns, holding a mug of
steaming coffee.

His face is blank. There is no explanation or
apology for his absence. ‘Next,' he calls.

The man's application is rejected. That's
six in a row. ‘Please, sir, let me just explain,' he
pleads. ‘All my papers are here, sir, everything that you
need.'

‘You can try again in a few weeks.'

While they argue, I make up my mind. I'm not
leaving here without a visa. But I'm doing it on my own terms.
I'm going to teach this bastard a thing or two about manners.

‘Next.'

Again, that look of surprise. Then he smiles, a
pencil-thin smile. ‘Right.'

He looks over the various forms I hand him,
grunting to himself at times. He is quiet as he flips through the
papers, his silence a hole that I try to fill in. ‘Boy, it's
busy here today,' I say conversationally. ‘Is it always
this bad?'

I have broken his concentration. ‘Yeah,'
he says. ‘It's a zoo in here.'

‘Yeah, it's pretty bad outside, too,'
I say. ‘Standing in that hot sun for hours. You fellows should
really consider letting these folks wait indoors, where it's a
little cooler.' My tone is casual, easy, as if I'm a
disinterested but genial well-wisher giving him some friendly advice.

He raises his eyebrows a bit. ‘Yeah, well.
The logistics of that…Anyway, I'm just a lowly officer.
Not really my call.'

‘Oh, well,' I shrug. ‘Just a
thought.'

He turns back to my papers. ‘So your dad's
a businessman, huh? What kind of business?'

I tell him. He asks a few more questions. I answer
them in a casual, off-hand manner that he's unsure of whether
to be offended or charmed by.

‘So how'd you pick Ohio State?'
he asks.

I gaze at him assessingly, wondering whether to
tell him the truth or feed him some bullshit line about OSU's
great journalism programme. I decide to level with him. So I tell him
about the evening in my living room when I was trying to decide which
three American universities to apply to. I had ticked off my first
two choices—Columbia University because I knew of its
journalism programme and another college in California because—well,
because it was California. I had no idea what my third choice ought
to be. I scanned the list of journalism programmes in front of me. A
Joan Baez record was playing on the stereo. One track ended, another
began. Now, Joan was singing, ‘Banks of the Ohio.' Just
then, my eyes fell on Ohio State University. I looked up to the
heavens. It was a sign. I checked off Ohio State as my third choice.

The visa officer lets out an appreciative chuckle.
But he is not done with me yet. Finally, he cuts to the chase.
‘Look,' he says. ‘You're young, obviously
bright and well-educated. You speak fluent English. You want to be a
journalist. What guarantee do I have that if you get a visa you'll
ever return to India?'

This is my moment and I'm up to the
challenge. I act slightly nonplussed. ‘Are you telling me that
people are still settling permanently in America in this day and
age?' I say, incredulity dripping from my voice. ‘I mean,
my God, in my profession there are so many opportunities in India
now. There are new magazines getting started almost daily here.'

His face flushes. ‘Young lady, you'd
be surprised how many people still want to settle in the US,'
he says quietly.

‘Not me,' I say merrily. ‘My
whole family's here.'

He stares at me, his blue eyes searching my face
like a beam of light. ‘Okay,' he says finally. ‘You're
in. Congratulations.'

I feel a thrill so intense, I feel my heart will
burst out of my skin like buttons popping off a shirt. But I force my
face to reflect none of this. ‘That's great. Thanks,'
I say casually.

He looks almost crestfallen, as if he had expected
a greater demonstration of thanks. But then he recovers.

‘Okay,' he says. ‘Enjoy the US
of A.' I imagine a twinge of—what? homesickness? pride?
sadness?—in his voice.

‘I will. Bye, now.' I gather my papers
and walk past the long line of applicants, all of them dwelling in
their own burrows of dreams and hopes. A few of them reach out and
touch me as I walk past, mumbling their congratulations. I do not
make eye contact with any of them, fearful of the desperate hope,
envy or despair I may see in their faces. I feel my walk get jauntier
with each step I take away from the visa official. I clench my papers
tightly in my hand. I am going to America, to get a degree in
journalism at Ohio State University. Thank you, God, I whisper, thank
you, thank you.

I walk out of the dark, cavernous room and step
into blinding mid-morning light. The sun falls on me in a warm
embrace.

Today, it shines only for me. I feel golden.

Dad and Roshan are waiting for me in his car. As
they see me approach, dad leaves the car and hurries over to me, with
Roshan right at his heels. ‘Yes?' he says.

I look serious for a half-second but then my smile
burns as bright as the sun. ‘I got it,' I say. ‘I
got the visa.'

The world stops spinning for a moment. The two of
them simply look at me, the three of us frozen in space on a busy
Bombay street, as cars whiz past us. None of us say a word.

They look at me as if they're seeing me for
the first time. As if they're seeing me for the last time.

Dad's face has a look I've never seen
before. Half of his face is pride, a heaving, chest-bursting pride.
The other half reflects the deepest, starkest sorrow I have ever
seen. His eyes fill with tears. ‘So it's happening,'
he whispers almost to himself. ‘You're really going to
America.'

He smiles and his smile is like the rest of his
face—selfless joy battles mightily with a cold loneliness that
is already settling in him like snow. His smile is kind, sad,
compassionate and stoic.

It dawns on me for the first time that despite his
heroic efforts to get me to this point, dad was secretly
expecting—hoping?—that this day would never really dawn.
From the moment I had told him about my hopes to study in America, he
has been my greatest ally—comforting and convincing Mehroo that
this was in my best interest; swallowing his wounded pride and
letting me apply to the Parsi Panchayat for scholarships; paying for
the foreign exchange I need to apply to various American
universities; helping me clear every last bureaucratic hurdle. Still,
he had not seen this final moment of triumph coming. Or, he had not
realized how dreadful this moment that he had wanted so badly for my
sake, would actually feel—that it would land like a blow to the
stomach, taking his breath away.

In that split second I see the future as he sees
it—no young spirit to lighten the gloom that so often descends
at home; no daughter to crack a joke and get him out of a bad mood;
no buddy with whom to spend an evening walking the sands of Chowpatty
Beach; nobody with whom he can impulsively go to Hotel President at
midnight to share a pizza.

The future rolls out before my dad's eyes
like a long, dark carpet. He is standing on that carpet all alone.

Then, he snaps out of it. ‘Congratulations,
sweetheart,' he says, folding me into a tight embrace. ‘The
second person in our family to go to the West. May God go with you on
this journey.'

I glance at Roshan. Her nose is red, a sure sign
of unshed tears. Her face looks small, as if the cold shot of grief
has shrunk it. But she, too, takes her cue from my father. ‘Best
of luck, Thrity,' she says, as if we're already at the
airport and I am leaving today.

Dad lets out a deep sigh. ‘Let's stop
at a public phone and call Mehroo,' he says. ‘They must
all be going crazy with worry.

Then we'll stop at the Taj and take a small
chocolate cake home.

It's not everyday that one of my
daughters,'—glancing at Roshan and me—‘goes
to America.'

My moment in the sun, my cheap triumph over the
immigration officer, already seems long past. There is a sharp pebble
of grief lodged like a blood clot near my heart. I ride in the front
seat of the old Ambassador, flanked by Roshan and dad and suddenly, I
want to give it all up—those hot, feverish nights of burning
ambition, those daydreams of starting afresh and anew, the desire to
transform myself, to shed old skin.