The “Alien” with the wrong name

In case you’re wondering, this isn’t something out of Star Wars. An “alien” is what you become when you go to the US of A (or, for that matter, any foreign country), and you don’t have a resident status. That’s what I became when I reached America, with the words “I’m in the land of opportunity” ringing in my head. But then, maybe that’s how it always is for the first time. I’d been wishin’, and hopin’, and prayin’ for this very day for the past 3 years, so you can imagine.

I remember the first few moments were blissful, to say the least. We missed our connecting flight at Chicago. For me, it was just more fun, more time to spend looking around the airport. After all, you don’t get to see such huge airports back in India. It took me more than half an hour to walk from end-to-end, what with all the moving walkways (or whatever they call them). Then, another short flight later, we reached the neat little town of Grand Rapids. I had finally made it. This was to be my home for the next several months, and I was feeling great.

And then it happened. A week later, I was at the Social Security office to apply for my SSN card. After carefully examining my documents for what seemed like ages, the lady at the counter finally declared that she can’t take my application. Excuse me? “Well, you see, the name on your I-94 doesn’t match with your passport and VISA”, she said casually. “What does that mean?” I asked. “Nothing to be worried about. I’ll give you a letter about your problem and a number that you need to call. All you have to do is call that number, spell your name correctly for them, and they’ll fix it. I’m so very sorry for the inconvenience.” She was indeed very sweet. That’s not much of a deal, just a phone call. Little did I know what was in store.

Next day, I promptly called up the number. The lady on the other side was very polite. When I told her my problem, however, her reply was something I wasn’t really prepared for. “We don’t do that over the phone, sir. You’ve got to go over to one of the USCIS field offices and get it corrected. We’re sorry.” OK, so where is this field office? “The closest one to where you are located, sir, is in Detroit. You need to take a prior appointment before you go there.” My heart was beating faster now. I had just landed just days ago, and now I have to go to Detroit? Damn! Frankly, I didn’t believe her. I called up a couple of hours later to confirm. Same response, but I was adamant. “How can you say that? The lady at the Social Security office said this could be done over the phone”, I argued. My call was transferred. The next voice I heard was firm. “Sir, I’m sorry, but we don’t have access to the system. The field office does, so you just have to go there to get it corrected.” End of story. OK, so my American adventure starts now. Fine.

I tried to look at the brighter side of things. One of my friends lived near Detroit, so this would be a good chance to meet up. I called him up and made the plan. I leave for Detroit on Sunday, spend my day at my friend’s, book my appointment on Monday morning and return the same afternoon. The office isn’t open on weekends, so there goes one of my paid leaves. Never mind, my trip was well-planned. And sure enough, everything went like clockwork. At least, until the moment my friend dropped me off at the Detroit field office on his way to work on Monday morning.

I was early. While waiting for my time, I was feeling somewhat good about the whole thing. I had my first Greyhound ride, got to meet up with my friend after a long time, and got a glimpse of Detroit city. In a few moments, things will be sorted out and I’ll be catching the next bus back home. Sweet.

The lady at the counter was as astonished as I was. “Why were you told to come here? We can’t do anything. We don’t even have access to the system. As far as my knowledge goes, the Social Security office has access to the system, and someone there could have helped you with this.” I was trying hard to control my frustration. “What should I do now, do you think?” I said, in the most polite voice I could muster. “I have an idea. Why don’t you try at the Tunnel to Canada? I’m sure the officers there would be able to help you. It isn’t very far from here, just a few blocks down East Jefferson. I’m so sorry I couldn’t be of any help.” So much for politeness. Thank you very much.

Still optimistic, I decided to walk. It’s nice walking down the streets of an American city. Very different from walking on the streets of an Indian city. But that’s very obvious. Very clean, and amazingly well-planned. Almost too well-planned, I must say. Even the smallest by-lanes had an electronic signal telling you when to walk. After half an hour of taking in the sights of the city, I was still walking. Finally, after an hour of walking, I finally reached the Port of Entry. All I was hoping was this would be my final destination.

I was wrong. After handing over my papers to the officer nearest to me, I saw him glance at his friend. It was a oh-he’s-one-of-those-cases look. “Please go to the Immigrations office at the Detroit airport. They’ll fix it.” That was it? Oh Gawd, was there no end to this? I couldn’t help but believe him. Now, I was ready for anything. I had decided I would get to the end of this, even if it took me all day.

Out on the street, I realized I didn’t know which way to go. Should’ve asked for directions from that officer. Didn’t feel like going back there. I asked the next guy on the street. “Excuse me, do you know which way the airport is?” Apparently, the look on his face told me it was a strange question. I had said it like it would just be another “few blocks away”. He said, “You have to take a cab. It’s pretty far from downtown.”

A $40 cab ride later, I was at the airport. The officer at immigrations told me to wait. Eventually, a lady officer turned up to take my documents. After a while, she was back with a smile. “We have fixed it, but it might take a couple of weeks to show up on the system. Please re-apply for your SSN card after a couple of weeks.” After all that I’d been through that day, it seemed too good to be true. “Are you sure this is fixed? I don’t want to come over to Detroit again for this.” “Sir, I’ve already told you we’ve done what was necessary. I can’t guarantee it, since we don’t update the system.” Huh? I felt like asking her if they didn’t have access to the “system”, who else did, but I let it pass. I was happy enough that the ordeal was finally over. Now I could relax and enjoy my bus ride back home.

So, that was my first experience of life in the US. None of this harassment would have happened if the Social Security office had just given me the right information, that these corrections are done where the error was made in the first place – the immigrations office at the airport. The surprising thing in this whole episode was, nobody knew the right answer, yet everybody seemed confident about what they knew. That’s how unsuspecting people, such as myself, get pulled into a endlessly frustrating hunt for the correct information. There was a time after this episode when I really felt like calling up that super-confident lady who had suggested me to go to Detroit. But then I thought, what the heck. Nothing I said would ever matter. If they wanted to fix this, they could have fixed this long ago. Meanwhile, if you’re reading this, I’ve already done my job of giving you the correct information. And I’m happy with that.

Baskar garu – you make us proud!

This is the first blog of my life, and I couldn’t help starting off on a very positive note. An incident which touched me and has changed my views about the “system”.

The other day I went to pay homage to God, or at least, one of his incarnations. He’s better known in AP as “VISA Balaji”. Well, if you’re wondering how come He has such an interesting name, your guess is as good as mine. The atheist Indian and his dollar dreams, and if you want your dreams of crossing “Kaala Paani” fulfilled, you gotta take a break from your mundane, frustrated life and go and meet someone who will finally give what you want, what you deserve. And no, that’s definitely not your project manager. No matter the amount of sweet-talk, the kilos of pure Mysore butter you massage on his head (strictly allegorically, of course!), there never is a “business case” to send you to Paradise. Among IT geeks such as myself, that’s better known as “onsite”. Yes, yes, that’s not even a word, spellcheck always puts a mean jagged red line under that. But you know what I mean.

All pun aside, the temple is where the faith is. And so, I went there as one of the many devotees. Not so much to ask for anything, but mostly out of gratitude. I have already had my share of blessings from the Lord (Yes, really!), so I was back to say thank you. And so, early that morning, I joined the throng of people going round and round the temple, walking at a frantic pace. Chants of ‘Govinda! Govinda!’ everywhere. The best thing I felt about this place was the fact that all these people, from all walks of life – rich and poor, teenagers and elderly, men and women – all unite in the same thought. The Lord Balaji. His divine beauty. His all-encompassing presence. His unlimited mercy.

I was lost in the crowd. And lost I was. A few seconds later came my moment of truth – my nirvana. “My mobile phone’s gone!” I proclaimed. My mother was frantic, my dad was restless. I was still in my trance. “Let me finish my pradakshinam and then we’ll do whatever” – was my reaction. After a few rounds, I realized my heart was not in it anymore. I was jerked back into harsh reality, but I was in denial. Finally, I felt I couldn’t go on. In other situations like this, I would have freaked out in some way, but that day, I was strangely calm. We decided to go to the police station.

This was my first time at police station. Or maybe not really the first. I went to the police once before back in college – to lodge an FIR to get a replacement library card. My old library card had gone through a wash-and-dry cycle, and had shriveled to half its size. But apparently, that was not a valid reason that would get you a replacement card. The easiest way was to pretend it was lost, get an FIR lodged and voila! You get your new card, no questions asked. College’s like that. That was fun. Not like you wanted the FIR to mean anything. But now, I really had come for help from the police.

I must say I was pretty jittery at first, not to say skeptic as well. But much to my surprise, the people I met there were very helpful, and polite. The constable had a constant smile on his face, and he helped us get the complaint registered. But was there any chance of getting my phone back? “Yes, of course. All you need to get is the IMEI number of your handset, and rest assured, we’ll track it down.” His positive spirit was contagious. Equally polite was the inspector, who had heard our case and had promptly left for the temple to investigate. Although I was quite impressed by these people, I kept telling myself – don’t get carried away, this might just be routine work they usually do when somebody lodges a complaint. The human mind is full of biases and prejudices, and is often quick to draw a conclusion. I did too. I came home feeling down. I had done what I had to. All that’s left is to give them the IMEI number.

Back home, I realized I didn’t have it. The IMEI number of an electronic item can be found on its box (which I no longer had) and on the product itself (ditto). I still had to find the IMEI number somehow. I found somewhere on the net that the number is stored by the service provider whenever someone makes a call from the handset. I decided to call up my mobile service provider. No luck there. The guys at customer care assured me that the IMEI was a private number, which they were not allowed to store. All they had was the PUK code of the SIM I was using. Damn.

I started asking everyone I know. All I got were depressing stories. “Yeah I know the IMEI number can be used to track a handset. But do you think the police would really track it down? Why would they care?”, “You know, yaar, how they are. Even if they find your handset, you’ll never get it back”, “One of my friends got his mobile back that way. But he had to bribe the police officer to get the handset back”. I was beginning to feel pretty peeved. Nevertheless, Mom was still hopeful. She said something told her that I’m gonna get it back. “Don’t you worry. You lost it at the temple. The Lord has taken it away, and He will give it back”. So much for faith, I thought.

Then, I had a better idea. I had bought this handset when I was in the US, and while I was there, I had to send the handset for servicing. In the US, quite unlike what i have seen in India, every request for servicing is recorded in a very meticulous manner. When you need to send a product for servicing out there, first you need to generate a RMA number from the product manufacturer’s website. Then, you pack your product in a box, write the RMA number on the box and send it to the service center by post. The service center repairs your product and sends it back to you. Something told me they would have the IMEI number. So I called up the US number of my handset manufacturer. Sure enough, within a matter of seconds, he used the RMA number to track down the IMEI number of my handset. Hooray! Level 1 achieved.

I decided to go back to the police station to give them the IMEI number. There, my dad and I met Mr. Baskar, the polite inspector I had mentioned earlier. He noted the IMEI number in his register. We couldn’t help asking the next obvious question – “What are the chances of us getting back the handset?” Mr. Baskar understood. He explained he had a list of IMEI numbers with him, along with mine, which he would be sending to all mobile service providers. Whenever someone puts a SIM in my handset and makes a call, his number, location, etc. would all be available and the police will be able to track the guy down. “Keep my mobile number. Give me a call in a month or so. I’m pretty sure you’ll get your handset back”, said he. I wanted to believe him, but a part of me kept telling me all this seemed too good to be true. I didn’t want to get my hopes too high. I had done what I could. The rest is destiny.

After a month, I had almost forgotten all about the incident. I had so little hope of getting my phone back that I didn’t even feel like calling the officer again. Finally one day, after a lot of coaxing from Mom, I finally made the call. Mr. Baskar said, “We have found a bunch of handsets. Why don’t you come down tomorrow and see if you find yours?” Dad went the next day, and sure enough, there was my mobile. All he had to do is bring it home – no bribe, nothing. Dad had even offered some “chai-paani“, but none was accepted. In a word, I was impressed.

This whole incident got me thinking – is corruption really as rampant in India as we think it is? Why do we not trust the police anymore? On hindsight, I feel it quite strange that I was even thinking that police would not track down my mobile. After all, that is their job, isn’t it? Are we drawing our own conclusions on how corrupted people can be? With my belief that the police would be inactive, I was pleasantly surprised when I found that the police had done their job exactly as they had promised. In record time too – exactly a month’s time. They are indeed as good as their word. No extra charges. It was indeed too good to be true, but it was true nevertheless. And I had to believe it. Today, I have learned that there are indeed nice people everywhere. Just because our trust has been broken numerous times before does not mean we should stop believing in people. Honesty still thrives. Integrity is still not extinct. Mr. Baskar, thank you for everything. More than anything else, I thank you for making me a believer again. Hats off to you!