A guide to Not getting an American Visa

The American Embassy in Delhi is indeed one of the most interesting places I've had the fortune of being admitted into. For those of us who haven't been there, here is how to navigate.

At the entrance to the entrance, there stand some guards. Before they let you in, the conversation will go thus:

"Einterview laetar please."
"Here."
"HDFC Baink slip."
"Here."

The guard will peer into his list.

"Your name there. Go to laine 2."

After this you enter the first entrance, where a guard with a metal detector frisks you. He'll first run over your front, then your back, in between muttering, "Don't waste my time. At least carry something into the embassy so that I have something to do."

At this point you ask him, "Am I allowed to carry a watch inside?"
"Nice watch, where did you get it?"
"Sorry? May I wear it inside the embassy?"
"Today is Tuesday."
"Sorry?"
"Don't waste my time."

At this point, you get confused and walk on, ready to part with your watch should someone object. Other things not allowed inside are sealed envelopes, wallets, food, water, guns, missiles, bombs, digital diaries, burning effigies of George Bush and such like. This list, of course, is not finite.

You queue up in line 2, thankful that you are the only one in the line. This line says, "American Citizens' Services" but you stay in this line because the guard at the first gate said you should. You stay here for half an hour and no one pays attention to you. At this point you seek the attention of a bulky guard that you might have seen at the entrance of the swankiest discotheques and ask him what you're to do next. He looks at you, smiles almost insultingly, and tells you to queue up in line 3. You look at line 3, frown in disappointment, and plead, "But there are around 150 people in line 3."

"I know."
"But the guard there sent me to this line."
"Don't waste my time."

You go to line 3.

A while later, the line moves a few feet. From having the cactus at the back of the line trouble you, you approach the water dispenser. Mysteriously, you're thirsty. Even more mysteriously, everyone else is thirsty too. People push and pull to get to the dispenser. You fight to just stay in line. A while later, the line moves again. You now come within hearing distance of the speakers spewing out praise of America, through songs, presumably American evergreens. You listen, you gawk, you feel irritated and you sweat. All this while, the queue inches forward.

You finally approach a window. Someone sits there behind bullet proof glass.
"Documents?"
"Here."
"Passport?"
"Here."
"Bank Slip?"
"Here."
"Goy tuh gouy jug tuf."
"Sorry?"
"Don't waste my time."

That is your cue to queue up in front of the second entrance. One by one, more guards from behind more bullet proof glass will summon you. You walk in and you are frisked again. All this while you're straining to hear if this guard too wants you to carry something into the Embassy because otherwise his job becomes drab. You then put your passport and other papers through an x-ray machine, just in case you were smart enough to pass a pistol for your marksheets. Once the x-ray has confirmed that your papers are indeed papers and not weapons of mass destruction, you are allowed inside the embassy premises.

Once inside, you are stared at by a Punjabi woman in bathroom slippers. She accosts you, and in an accent excellent enough to make Condi Rice blush, she says, "Aye Sir, get in line...Sir."

You stand behind the person you see to be the last in the queue.

"Turn around Sir."

You panic, drop your papers, put your hands behind your head and turn around pleadingly. You then feel cheated by the accent and realise that she wasn't going to shoot.

"Pick up your papers, Sir, and face this way. And don't waste my time."

She gets you in the queue the way she wants you to. A little while later, you are fingerprinted. Then you make it to the main section of the embassy where the interviews happen. There is a convoluted queue, and a television. Mikka dances on the TV. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you recall a fuming Rakhi Savant and laugh to yourself. The Punjabi music puts you back in familiar territory and you relax.

"...Teri to, Teri Ta, hamesha Yaad Satave.."

You see the many Visa officers sitting in their bullet proof nests. They are all nice people, ready with their smiles, seemingly eager to help. All, except one. She is the Dreaded One that you might have heard of. She is also the one who calls you for your interview.

"Hi. What can I do for you?"
"Hello. I'm here for a F 1 Visa."
"Can I look at your documents?"
"I-20... Passort....admission letter."
"I see. Where are your GRE scores?"
"My university doesn't require me to take the GRE before I start the semester."
"What?"
"My university doesn't require me to take the GRE before I start the semester."
"No no no no, it does it does. I am an American citizen and when I had to write the GMAT which is a lot harder than the GRE, I don't see how they can exempt you."
"..."
"Where is your TOEFL score?"
"I am exempt from the TOEFL."
"No no no no, they don't exempt students from India from the TOEFL."
"Its there on the I-20. "
"Where? Ah here! See! This sentence states that students need English proficiency."
"Please read the line below that one. It says that the student has the required English proficiency."
"No no no no, what about the line I said?"
"..."
"Come back with your test scores and we can continue talking.."
"But Ma'am.."
"Don't waste my time."

This is your cue to leave without your Visa.

Good Luck!