Week 27 (2010): A Week in the Life of Igor Sutyagin

Just outside the Automobile Ring road of Moscow, on its east side, is a prison called Lefortovo. Built in 1881, it has isolation wards for interrogation by the KGB. The walls of Lefortovo have accommodated well-known Russians like Alexander Solzhenitsyn, the Noble laureate; the August 1991 putschists; or more recently Alexander Litvinenko, who after leaving Lefortovo fled to London, was granted asylum by the UK, but was soon poisoned to death there. 

At the beginning of this week, on 5 July, Igor Sutyagin was transferred to Lefortovo. Like it does to newcomers, Lefortovo didn’t intimidate Igor. He had spent two of his worst years, from 2002 to 2004, facing the interrogators in the isolation wards here. Possibly they wished to question him again. But there was nothing new he could say any more. For the past eleven years, he had been in maximum security prisons. Since he was convicted in 2004 for treason, he was sent to Arkhangelsk – 1000 km away from his family. Russia, the largest country in the world, has vast spaces for hard labour colonies, Arkhangelsk has many such. Until yesterday, Igor was in its penal colony number 12, serving his sentence as prescribed. In that colony, his energetic youth had transformed into a fatigued middle age. He would leave the prison as an old man, he thought. In 2007, Putin had refused to pardon Igor, despite the Russian scientist community and international organisations pleading for his release.  As recently as in March this year, the Arkhangelsk court had reconfirmed – Igor will not be released before his term ends.

Psychologically, Lefortovo was better. It was closer to his family. They may allow a weekly meeting. Oksana and Nastya had grown without their father around them. Three years ago, he had managed to talk to them over a mobile phone. The joy was short-lived. When they found a phone in his possession, Igor had to spend the next three months in solitary confinement – in a dark, freezing, small cell.  

“You’ll have a meeting now.” A uniformed man said to Igor. Igor’s heart leaped. It could be Irina, or more likely Dmitry. But how did they know? Who could have told them? He was brought in here only a few minutes ago.

“Is it a man or a woman?” He asked the guard.

“Woman?” the guard laughed. “No. Men. All men.”

The guard unlocked the cell, and asked Igor to follow him. In the small room at the end of the corridor, Igor saw four men waiting for him.

“Dobrii den” said the hefty elderly man and shook Igor’s hand. Over the years, Igor had seen so many members of the competent organs that he liked to guess who was who. They never introduced themselves. Igor looked at the other three men in the room. He sensed something was wrong. May be he was away from Moscow for too long. The three men were tall and white, but they didn’t look Russian.

“Hello Mr Sutyagin” one of them said. All three shook hands with Igor. The pleasant handshakes didn’t surprise Igor. The KGBs are trained to greet the victim politely before beginning the grilling. The presence of three Americans was bizarre. Not even CNN is allowed inside Lefortovo. Judging by his bearing, the Russian man was probably a general – a general from the foreign intelligence service. During his trial he had come across a few people from SVR.

“Please sit down, Igor Vycheslavovich,” said the general. All four men sat in the simple chairs. Igor once again looked at the three Americans.

“I’ve good news for you.” The general gave an awkward smile. “You’ll be released soon.”

“Soon? Meaning how soon?” Igor asked. Bureaucracy has a different sense of time.

“Very soon.” The SVR man looked at the Americans. They nodded. “This week if everything goes as planned.”

Igor’s heartbeat suddenly rose. He imagined himself hugging Irina, in his flat. He saw himself sat at a table with his parents. His father was already a cripple. After being imprisoned, Igor had seen only his photo. He would meet his friends in Obninsk. They were such a moral support all these years. He should call them over for lunch. Family and friends. And walks in the woods. It must be great weather now – a little hot. But does that matter, if you are free? He can now gather mushrooms. He should take Irina, Nastya and Oksana on a holiday – somewhere quiet. Igor didn’t know if the govt offers any money when you get out of prison. But they can go somewhere close. It was good his release coincided with the girls’ vacations.

“Yeah, I would like to congratulate you.” Said the American, the same one who had spoken earlier.

Igor watched the American’s lips as he spoke. For the past eleven years, Igor had not heard anyone speak in English. He wished to ask the Americans – why are you here, but he didn’t. In Lefortovo, someone else does the job of asking. Anyway, the foreigners didn’t look like journalists. They looked the diplomat type.

“Thank you”. Igor gathered courage to respond.

“We’ll need to complete certain formalities.” Said the general, in Russian. “After signing the necessary documents, you will be flown from Moscow.”

“Flown?” Igor asked. “But I live close to Moscow. In Obninsk. I’m sure you know that. My family lives there. My brother, my parents – everyone lives there.”

The general exchanged glances with the American diplomats.

“You see, Igor Vycheslavovich. We are not the ones who are releasing you.  These people are. So you go to their country.”

“Which country?”

“Well, these gentlemen are from the United States of America. I suppose that’s where you will go.”

Igor looked at the SVR general. And then at the Americans. His mouth was slightly open, but no words came out of it.

“I appreciate that you are confused. Let me explain.” The American diplomat once again took charge. “It’s like this. In the USA, ten Russian agents were arrested. They pleaded guilty in a New York court this week. The American and the Russian governments have agreed, at the highest possible level mind you, to swap – you know exchange. We send the Russian spies back home, and in exchange we demand that Russia frees... er... people languishing in Russian prisons, charged with espionage.”

The general rapidly translated everything the American had said. He was instructed to ensure there was no misunderstanding whatsoever.

“I don’t understand.” Said Igor. “I don’t understand anything.”

“Look. We, the American government, have a high regard for you as a disarmament researcher and scientist. Amnesty International and other human rights organisations have been very vocal about your case. And our government decided...” he looked at the fellow Americans... “Let me say it. President Obama himself approved the list. Your name is at the top. You are one of the four people who will be exchanged for the ten Russian agents.”

“If I am free, why can’t I go home? To my family?”

“Igor, look at this list. And this one. Do you know them?”

Igor took the first list. It had ten names. Mostly American names with Russian names in the brackets.

“Who are these people? I don’t know any of them.”

“No, you wouldn’t. We understand that. What about the second list?”

The second list had only four names. The first name was Igor Sutyagin.

“I think the name Skripal is familiar. But I don’t know the other two names.”

“You see, all four of you were charged by the Russian government of espionage and treason.”

“But I have always denied it. I am innocent.”

The American diplomat looked at the general.

“It doesn’t matter now. Our American friends want to free you. The Russian spies come back to Russia, and the... how should I put it... those convicted of helping the west will go to the west.” The general said.

“But I’m not a spy.” Said Igor. “I am a researcher. Whatever documents I shared in England were freely available to public. I had no access to classified information. And I have not denied offering consultations to foreigners. My case is well documented. I love Russia. I will never do something against her interests.”

“Mr Sutyagin, we are here to help you. To secure your quick release. We know you as an academic. As a nuclear scientist. You worked with the institute for US and Canadian studies. And we have high regard for your knowledge and abilities. There is one more good news.” He grinned. “Though the US government is releasing you, you have a choice of going to the UK. You have been there before, and...er... you were charged with helping the Brits.”

“But I didn’t help anyone. I am innocent.” Repeated Igor. “I offered my reports as per the contract, and they contained information that can be found in the internet. I am not a spy.”

The general intervened.

“Igor Vycheslavovich, the choice is yours. You either fly to the UK or fly back to Arkhangelsk. For me, the choice is clear. You must appreciate this is an exchange of spies... exchange of those charged with espionage. The Russian spies come back home, and you settle in the country that has got you in exchange.”

“But I am a Russian citizen.”

“Yes. In fact, we will have to make an urgent passport for you. They will take your picture, and by tomorrow, you will get a passport. You can travel to the UK on that passport.”

“What about my family?”

“This is about you. We will fly you. Things are moving fast. Honestly, I have no idea about what happens in the future. My immediate job is for you to sign this document. That will enable President Medvedev to sign a pardon for you. Then you fly to Austria.”

“Austria?”

“Sorry, if I’m confusing you...” the general said. “Your plane will fly via Austria. But you will be out in the UK. I suggest you keep all this confidential. Or else the media people will come after you like vultures.”

“And when can I come back to Russia?”

“Come back? Honestly, Igor Vycheslavovich, I don’t know. I don’t even know if the Russian laws allow that. In the old days, our agents who defected to the west were given a new identity. For their own safety.” The general looked at the Americans. He didn’t know how much Russian they understood. “But I suppose now... things might not come to that. This... this is the document you’ll need to sign.”

Igor started reading the document. This was a rare instance of a prisoner in Lefortovo being asked to sign a document without torture.

“Here.... here it says... I accept my guilt.” Igor pointed. “I don’t. As a matter of fact, over the past eleven years, I have always refused. That’s one reason why I am still here. I am innocent.”

“Dear Igor Vycheslavovich, president Medvedev can’t sign a pardon letter unless you accept your guilt.”

“But I am not guilty.”

The American diplomat came forward.

“I need to explain something, Mr Sutyagin. The American government has offered this deal on ‘all or nothing’ basis. And you are a critical element of the equation. You refuse and you go back to your hard labour. But also the ten Russians in the USA go back to American jails. Trust me, our jails may look better than this one, but the people there are as nasty as yours. Also the other three from your side will continue to be jailed. You see thirteen people’s lives depend on your signing this document.”

Igor knew nobody from the lists shown to him earlier. But he knew what it was to lose freedom for over a decade. He took the pen offered by the general and signed.

“But, please, please understand. My signing this does not mean I am confessing. I have not committed any crime.”

“Thank you.” The general said. “You will get an opportunity to meet your family members, once, before you fly. And I’ll arrange for your photo to be taken. You will get your passport tomorrow.”

“I wish you the best in life.” The American diplomat said. Everybody shook hands.

***

On the way out, the general talked to his man.  

“Arrange that photo. He looks bad and unshaven. Don’t take his photo in the prisoner clothes. We need it for the passport. Give him some shirt to wear... and tie. But no razor. Absolutely not.” He turned to his American colleague and said, “He is in a bad state. I want the operation to happen smoothly. Don’t want to take any chances.”

***

 On July 6, Igor Sutyagin was given a Russian passport – for international travel. In his photo, he looked gaunt and unshaven.

On July 7, in the jail, he met his family – mother, brother, and wife. The meeting was allowed for less than an hour.

On July 8, president Medvedev signed an executive order granting pardon to the four Russians who would be swapped for the ten Russians. The order mentioned that all four convicted persons had admitted their guilt. In deciding to pardon, Mr Medvedev took into account the fact that they had already served substantial lengths of time.

On July 9, a chartered jet of Vision Airlines arrived in Vienna from New York carrying the ten Russian spies. Within seconds, a Russian govt plane landed next to it. After 90 minutes, the Russian jet left first carrying ten agents this time. The American plane made a brief stopover at RAF Brize Norton in Oxfordshire, England before flying to Washington.

Yesterday, on July 10, Igor managed to call his wife over the phone. He said he was in some English town, but didn’t know which. He must be brief because he had no money to buy a phone card. Since his Russian passport didn’t have a UK visa, he was not keen to go out of his hotel. The person who had brought him to the hotel said something would be done about it on Monday. They don’t work on the weekend.

Today, on July 11, Igor continues to be in that unknown English town, waiting for tomorrow so that someone can make his existence in the UK legal. And hoping someone may offer some money – so that he could call his home in Russia and speak to his daughters.

Ravi

P.S. 

 This entire story is based on newspaper and internet reports. Imagination is used only to connect the factual dots. 

The web-o-graphy:  (If desperate to read the Russian websites, you could take them through Google translate)

1. http://www.sutyagin.org/: Support Igor Sutyagin – a page by human rights organisation. 
2. http://www.sutyagin.ru/: (in Russian) Excellent website run by his family since the time he was arrested eleven years ago.
3. http://eng.kremlin.ru/news/597 : President Medvedev’s executive order granting pardon to Igor Sutyagin and others.
4. http://www.bfm.ru/articles/2010/07/07/rossija-idet-na-bolshoj-shpionskij-obmen.html : (In Russian) the journalist talks to his family about their meeting him before he was flown off.
5. http://www.gazeta.ru/politics/2010/07/09_a_3396439.shtml?incut1 (In Russian) Another article offering resume of Sutyagin.
6. http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/world/us_and_canada/10580301.stm : BBC news about the spy swap.
7. http://www.ntv.ru/novosti/198358/ (In Russian): Excellent NTV coverage. Click on all the links on the right to see the TV coverage and transcripts.
8. http://lenta.ru/lib/14183335/ (In Russian) A detailed entry on Igor Sutyagin in Lentapedia.

R.

Week 26 (2010) Ciao Ciao: Part Two

On 29 April, we landed in Venice. But landed may be a wrong word for Venice. We came out of the airport simply in order to catch the vaporetto. The water-bus took us to our hotel.

***

The same evening, I was standing outside a supermarket close to our hotel. The supermarket was located on a river-bank. I watched the Venetians, young and old, carrying colourful two-feet high trolley bags that they wheeled in and out of the store. A plump lady came out carrying three huge cloth-bags. Her young son followed her. She somehow dragged the bags ahead, and stood at the bank, facing the Adriatic Sea. Her shopping bags had no wheels. And her son was too young. How were they going to carry those bags home?

For a while, both she and her son did nothing but to look at the water. She then looked at her watch, and said something to her son. Her son, probably ten years old, threw his hands in air and shook his head.  She adjusted her bags, and both continued to look at the sea. Suddenly, from the right, a small boat appeared. It manoeuvred its way adroitly, and stopped in front of them. The tall Italian man driving the boat smiled, took the bags, then his wife and son in. The family boat sped away. 

***

Venice allows no cars. Or any other vehicles with wheels- not even rollerblades. You can only travel on water, or if on land a piedi. Venice is a maze of 117 islands, surrounded by 177 canals, and the land mass is connected by 455 bridges. You may be a great walker, but you also need to be a great step-climber. A walk of few meters is invariably followed by a bridge. Come to Venice only if you know how to travel light. Your suitcase may have wheels, but at every bridge you have to stop, climb the steps with the suitcase and carry it down on the other side. I saw young mothers trying to go across a bridge with prams. That’s a circus act. To make sure the child doesn’t fall out, the mother must hold the pram parallel to the ground on the steps. This requires muscular strength, a sense of balance and immense patience. (The bridges could be one reason why Venice’s population declines, while the rest of Italy’s grows. The historic old city of Venice has shrunk from 120,000 people in 1980 to only 60,000 today.)

***

When I say Venice is a maze, I use the word technically. The city is made of thousands of narrow lanes – so narrow that sometimes a maximum of two people can pass together. Bridges are more or less standardised. While aesthetically speaking, all this was great; for a geographic moron like me finding my way back to the hotel became a daily pastime. I tried a few maps. Venice is akin to the cardiovascular system in human body – with innumerable veins, arteries and capillaries. So the maps are cluttered and use the smallest available print. On the streets, the names are seldom visible. And when they do exist, they are somewhere up – often painted on building walls. (Because in winters, Venice gets flooded). The streets are full of people frustratingly studying maps and trying to make sense out of them. The city is divided into six districts, and houses have four digit numbers. The address often has the house number, followed by the district, but no street! Now go to the district, and try looking for a particular number. For a whole week, I tried to figure out the logic behind the numbers, and gave up. I remembered George Mikes (how to become an alien fame) mentioning in some book the way houses were numbered in a German town – chronologically! Every time a house was built anywhere in the town, it was given the next available number. Venice may not be that bad, but is very close to it. 

***

For a middle-aged man like me, using Venice maps was a struggle. I should have carried a compass as well.

To add to the mess, a street has hundred odd synonyms. While everywhere else in Italy a street is called a via, here it is called a calle. I had learnt that a square in Italian is piazza, but in Venice it is called campo. Canale is Italian for canals, but here they are rio. A street beside a canal is a fondamenta. A smaller street is ruga or rughetta, and the oldest streets are salizzada. Ramo is a tiny side lane, and corte denotes a dead-end street. As if this wasn’t enough, a street passing under a building is sotoportego.

To find my way through the tourist foe-ly mapping, I often used the Indian system. In India, only foreigners use maps, Indians ask the address to strangers. With my limited knowledge of Italian, (in the four months that I studied the language, I had managed to learn only the past and present tenses, no future. Whenever I spoke to Italians, I tried to divert the conversation to my past), I would ask directions.

That was when I first understood how Venetians were a different race. In other places, you ask for directions, and if the person knows them he tells you. Here, everyone I asked started moving their hands wildly, talking in rapid Italian and then walking the talk. Where the address was close-by they walked with me all the way. Despite their having to go in the opposite direction. It’s possibly because they understand how difficult it is to find an address in Venice. But also because they are Italians, warm-hearted, talkative and helpful.

*** 

How many languages does Italy have? I warn you it’s a trick question.

The answer is two. Italian and.... body language. You may have heard the joke about an Italian walking on the street carrying two giant watermelons under his arms. Someone stops him, and asks for an address.

“Could you please hold the watermelons?” The Italian asks the person asking for the address. That person obliges.

Released of the watermelons, the Italian throws his hands in the air and says, “I don’t know.”

Italians speak with their hands. The gestures are excessive. On a street, simply by observing the hands, you can tell who is an Italian and who is not. (Just like in the Soviet Union, one could tell from the dress who was a Russian and who was a foreigner).

This civilisation has toiled for centuries to create a whole new dictionary of hand gestures. You can learn some of them in those two short video clips. Also note in the second clip the different ways in which one can express “you are crazy.”

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M0n4Vw6twKo

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_MqrW3adT6E&feature=channel

But in the clips, you see the gestures in slow motion. In reality, the movements are rapid and dramatic. This nation is a theatre.

*** 

Italians are warm-hearted. And it is an open nation. They dry their washed linen in public. Not as easy to do as it looks. In the picture where you see the jeans on top, the person living on the left side has to keep cordial relations with the neighbour living across him (in the building on the right). They have to agree on who is drying which clothes, how to bring some symmetry into it, and with clever pulling and pushing, to transfer all clothes on the rope. Venice has many such courtyards. And Naples has lanes after lanes full of hanging clothes.

*** 

 The Italian sense of humour is mischievous. Child-like. In Naples, they manufacture t-shirts with a seat belt design over the front. The drivers wear them while driving and never get caught.

Andrea (from Roma) was a friend of mine. We worked together at a voluntary camp in Austria – way back in 1987. He visited me in Bombay as well as Moscow. The letters I received from him were unique – well, not the letters themselves but the stamps posted on them. Andrea drew well. He would take a used postage stamp, turn it on its blank white side, and draw a picture on the stamp. He claimed that the post offices didn’t recognise his forgery. I can confirm that I did receive letters with stamps drawn by Andrea affixed on them.

In Moscow, when he stayed at my house, he started collecting the five kopeck coins.

“What will you do with so many?” I asked when I saw his rucksack full of five-kopeck coins.

“This is my hobby.” Andrea said. “I measure the coins from different countries. Many of them are similar, if not identical, in size. Then you can try to use them in automats. Use the coins from a cheap country in an expensive one. Now, these Russian coins I will use in German metros. The beauty is that you drop a Russian coin, and the automat will give change in Deutsch marks. This hobby can be quite profitable.”

Another Andrea story typifies Italian humour.

Andrea would pick up the telephone directory and select a number at random. He would call that number up.

“Is Roberto at home?” He asked.

“Sorry, there is no Roberto here. Wrong number.”

“Please tell Roberto,” Andrea would continue, undeterred, “that his grandmother died this morning.”

After another two weeks, Andrea would call that number again.

“May I speak to Roberto please?”

“No Roberto lives here. You’ve got...”

“I have a message for Roberto. Please tell him that he should come to Milan on the 15^th. His school classmates will be waiting for him.”

And these calls would continue, week after week, for a few months. After that Andrea would call the same number again. When the phone was picked up, Andrea would say,

“Hello, this is Roberto speaking. Do you have any messages for me?”

Ravi

Week 25 (2010) Ciao Ciao: Part One

 “Life is not complete without a visit to Italy.”

***

The canals, bridges, a maze of narrow lanes and zero vehicles convinced me that Venice was a singular city. Could anything be more exotic or romantic? From Venice, we moved to Florence. The Duomo and the riverbank, the historic centre and Michelangelo’s 15-feet David convinced me that Florence truly represented Renaissance. Could any city be more touristy or ancient? After travelling to Rome, we forgot about Venice and Florence. Rome was an open air museum. I have visited quite a number of cities in Europe, but I don’t know of another where you can stand on any street, look in any direction and find something that is aesthetically magnificent and connects you to history. In the heart of Rome, even today, you become part of the Roman Empire. If you can visit only one city in Italy, you must visit Rome. (Though I had made similar statements when I was in Venice and Florence).

The first part of my narrative, unfortunately, is devoted to the mundane – mundane always comes before the exotic. Beast before beauty. For an Indian, visa before the travel. Italy is beautiful only after you enter it. 

***

My past diaries include stories about my getting the US visa (Cult Devotee in Looney land, week 21, 2003) and about my parents’ not getting it (US visa: keep fingers crossed, week 27, 2006). Every time I go to a consulate, I feel I must have exhausted all the visa stories. Nothing new can happen that is interesting for me to write or for you to read. But it appears that the number of visa stories, like chess moves, is infinite.

A friend of mine recently visited the USA for four days for a stage performance. She had a 10-year tourist visa, but because she was performing she had to go to the US consulate and take something called a P-3 visa. This is normal by the US standards, and I can understand this. US have more visa types than letters in the alphabet. Now, after coming back from that four-day trip, she was required to visit the consulate again. To prove that she has come back to India. The consulate officer asked her a few questions to ensure it’s the same person, and then stamped her visa with a stamp bearing huge letters: “Cancelled without prejudice.” By the wording, I presume there is another stamp that says the opposite. (Consulates don’t seem to have pride any more, only prejudice).

Or take the case of another friend of mine, who had planned to travel with his family to Italy in May this year. He heads a bank and has hundreds of stamps in his passport. The Italian consulate refused a visa to him because – because his passport is valid for 20 years. Apparently, as per the new regulations, no Schengen visa can be issued from 1 May 2010 if the passport has a validity of more than ten years.

Well, Mena’s and my passport were for ten years and Devyani’s for five years. And we were not travelling to the USA to perform. Little to worry about.

***

In the past, Indians had to go personally to most embassies and face the foreign staff there. Embassies and consulates were flooded with tons of paper and queues of natives. It didn’t take the foreign embassies long to understand that even 0.1% of billion is one million. They did what management books prescribe – delegate. They outsourced the operation to a company called “VFS global.” No more contamination of the consulates.

In Bombay, Indians now submit documents to this company – VFS global. It’s a middleman, and naturally you pay more to cover the expenses of the middleman. VFS is staffed by Indians, and there is no imminent fear of rejection. They check your documents, collect the non-refundable fees, and let you go. You can track the result on the web by typing in the receipt number. Once the website says passport arrived, you go to the same VFS office and collect your passports with visas. (There are exceptions. E.g. the US consulate wants every applicant to appear for an interview. The French consulate wants to fingerprint you if you haven’t travelled to France in the past two years – supposedly fingerprints change every two years. And curiously enough, you can go to Italy without giving fingerprints and freely travel to France. In short, Indians are a security risk if you travel directly to France, but not if you go there via another European country). 

***

I juggled my timetable to make a window for the visit to VFS for the Italian visa. With years of experience, I know how to make an application file. When I finally travelled in the morning with passports, supporting documents, photos, glue, stapler, perforator, and pens of three different colours, I had the satisfaction of doing a good job of it. If you go very early, you spend fewer hours in the queue.

I sat there, with a smiling face, for three hours holding a book that I couldn’t read. Anything to do with a visa, it’s good to practise a smiling face. I checked once again the supporting documents numbered from one to eighty six. The girl at the counter took my documents and messed up the order completely. I didn’t say anything. Anything to do with a visa, you just answer, you don’t ask.

“You are travelling with your daughter?” She asked, though she had to be a complete illiterate not to understand it from the documents.

“Yes.” I said.

“Where is your affidavit?”

“What affidavit?”

“For your daughter.” She said.

I took the printout from the Italian consulate website. It didn’t mention any affidavit. By now the manager appeared.

“You have to submit an affidavit.” He said.

“Oh, I suppose one does that for an unaccompanied child. My daughter is not. Both my wife and I are travelling with her.”

“That doesn’t make a difference. We still want you to submit that affidavit.”

“What should I say in the affidavit? Show me the wording.”

“We don’t have any format. You should guarantee you will bring her back and also take care of her when in Italy.”

I looked at him. My smile had disappeared.

“She is my daughter.” I said. “And my wife and I are travelling with her.”

“I heard you the first time. Without the affidavit, we can’t take your documents.”

“Why don’t you have this on your website?”

“Because this rule is applicable only in Bombay. In Delhi, such affidavit is not required. And the website is national, you see.”

“Can I write what you require on a piece of paper and submit?”

“No. It should be on a 100 Rs stamp paper, get it notarised in the high court... and yes...” he added as if the thought had suddenly occurred to him, “you need to go to the Home Department of the Government of Maharashtra and get it endorsed. That department is somewhere in Mantralaya.”

“Why don’t you take the other documents now? I won’t have to carry them again.”

“No, we can’t do that. Without the affidavit, the set has no meaning.”

“Are you saying I have to queue again the next time?”

“Yes sir, if you come with incomplete documents, it’s not our fault.”

***

My wife and I spent the next two days visiting a lawyer, the high court notary, and the home department (we both had to go, because both should sign in presence of the notary. Daughter is a joint responsibility). That meant arranging for someone to pick Devyani up from school and taking care of her. Not only the Italian consulate cares about our daughter.

Here is an extract from the final wording in the affidavit. If you wish to visit Italy with your minor children, you may copy-paste it. (Not necessary if you apply in Delhi).

We being a duly married couple....along with our minor daughter propose to visit Italy... we state that after the stay Mr Ravindra Abhyankar, the father, will travel to Finland. Mrs Mena Malgonkar, the mother, will return with Devyani, the daughter, to which Mr Ravindra Abhyankar, the father, hereby gives and records his consent...

We hereby jointly and severally agree and undertake during the said stay to take due care and responsibility of our daughter Devyani and bear, pay and discharge all and whatsoever her expenditure including travel, stay and food.

Signed by the parents, identified by the advocate, notarised by the high court, endorsed by the home department of the state of Maharashtra. (On a 100 Rs stamp paper).

***

I have learnt this. You should never judge a country by its consulate. Ronald Reagan once explained why politics was full of incompetent people by saying that business takes away the best and politics has to do with whoever remains. In Embassies and consulates worldwide, normally the worst, humourless people from the Foreign Service are allotted to the visa sections. The power of allotting or rejecting visas in American and European consulates is comparable to the terrorist who is on a killing spree. He becomes god and decides who should die and who shouldn’t. And here the victims themselves appear at the window begging to be shot down. (Anyway, all these consulates can have their fun for another one hundred years. After one hundred years, when there are only Indians and Chinese left on this planet, these consulates will disappear from Bombay.)

You may realise that my Italian visa story has not ended. I am simply rambling to let you know that there was a long time between my submission of documents and my getting any feedback. Before closing this rambling, to be fair, I must say that the British visa section is the best I have found so far. They are efficient, find it embarrassing to reject without justification, and have a toilet for the waiting applicants. Also, humour is appreciated, as seen from this story.

When in BAT, an Indian colleague of mine was based in London. His name was Rahul Prakash. He invited his father to London. The father went to the British embassy for the visa interview.

“You want to go to London to see your son?” The British visa officer asked.

“Yes.” Said Rahul’s father.

“You have asked a visa for six months.” The Brit looked at him and said. “That’s a little too long.”

Rahul’s father grinned.

“You British...” he said in his broken English, “stayed in India for two hundred years... without a visa... and you ask me about six months?”

The British visa officer started laughing and quickly stamped a visa for six months.

***

More than two weeks passed and I didn’t get any news about my Italian visa. I had booked the hotels, had bought non-refundable air tickets (risked that for the first time) and had learnt the Italian language for four months. That week, at a function, I got my language certificate at the hands of the Consul-General, an Italian lady, but resisted the temptation to ask her as to what had happened to my visa application.

Finally a phone call came. From VFS global.

“You have applied for the Italian visa, sir?”

“Yes, it’s been quite some time. I was wondering. Have our passports come?” I asked.

“No sir, we’ve got a message from the consulate. They need an affidavit.”

“What affidavit?”

“To say that you will take care of your daughter and will bring her back to India.”

By this time, I recognised the voice of the VFS manager.

“But I submitted it, along with all the documents. If I’m not mistaken, it was you I spoke to when submitting the documents.”

“I remember sir, but they don’t have it.”

“How can they not have it? You saw it, you took it....”

“I understand sir, I remember. That’s why I’m calling you. I’m afraid they’ve...er...lost it. We had sent it. In the Italian consulate they lost it.”

“So now what? Should I sue them?” I asked. The first thing I thought was about the non-refundable air tickets.

“That won’t help, sir. It’s your word against theirs. And they insist they never received it. I tried to argue myself. They won’t issue visas.”

“What am I supposed to do now?”

“You’ll have to make a fresh affidavit. The same way as last time. Hopefully, they won’t lose it the second time.”

“Won’t a photocopy do?”

“Oh, you have a photocopy? Of the affidavit you had submitted?”

“Of course, I never give a single paper to a consulate without taking a photocopy first.”

That settled it. Two days later, based on the copy of the affidavit, we were given the visas. We were now permitted to visit Italy, with our daughter.

There is a reason why I’ve written about the Italian visa at such lengths. That reason will become clear in one of the future diaries about Italy.

Ravi

Week 24 (2010): The Last Post

     

From Bombay, you drive five hundred kilometres south to reach Belgaum. Then you reduce speed and drive through the forest area honking at the curves. Occasionally you stop to carefully bypass the cows that refuse to move from the middle of the road. Tall trees, blossoming bamboos and shades of thick green run along with you on both sides. After an hour of driving, you see a small stone plate on the ground: “Burbusa”. The name makes no sense in the languages you know; neither do you know what it stands for. If you didn’t know somebody lived here inside the jungle, your car would simply continue its journey. But if you knew, you would turn left at the stone plate. The road now on is made of clay and cobbles. The world of asphalt and concrete is behind. You keep going, and going, wondering if there is anything at the other end. After all, this is part of the forest. Then, like the establishing shot in Hitchcock’s Rebecca, a palatial house stuns your senses. The gates are open, the house is open and all its doors and windows are open. There are no locks and no guards.

Today the compound is filled with simply dressed villagers and fancy cars. On the right and in the background you can see the tasteful garden with yellow, maroon, red, white flowers; tamarind, mango trees; giant thorny jackfruits, tall coconuts. The drizzle since morning has made the garden look greener and younger. Considering it is only noon, the sky is dark. Monsoon has arrived.

If you enter the house through its main arch, where the stone sculptures are, you see a shield and swords on the wall. The ceilings are too tall for the time we live in. On the left is the living room, filled with Persian carpets, a hearth and wall paintings. If not for the satellite television, this could have been a hall in some museum. The grand veranda behind faces the central part of the garden. Sat here, you wouldn’t know which country you are in.

But without turning left, if you take the narrow corridor on the right you reach the simplest room in the house, with a single bed – on which uncle is lying now. The position of the bed makes sure that its occupant can see the portrait on the wall as well as the garden through the window. From across, a standing Ganesh statue, probably a gift, is staring at the bed. On uncle’s left side is a giant two-in-one, on which he used to listen to classical music and the BBC news. World Space was his constant companion, which with a sense of foreboding stopped its operations this year.  The side table has several clocks, mostly antique but functioning well. On uncle’s right is a wooden walking stick, one that he reluctantly used in his nineties. On the corner table, a single candle is standing but not burning. The cane chairs in the room are all taken up by elderly visitors today. The servants are moving around.  

A servant calls me out of the room and takes me to a bespectacled gentleman.

“You will give shoulder, won’t you? Since you are the relatives, you and Raja should be where the head is. I’m telling you in advance so as to avoid confusion later. And those two...” he points out... “will lift from the other side. See you first walk in that direction, then turn it the other way... you must carry it for the first few steps, then you can pass it on. And yes, who’s doing the seven rounds around the pyre?  Sorry we need to decide all these matters now, to avoid confusion later. Two months ago, when...” He suddenly stops talking to me, turns around and gives different orders to two or three people. This gentleman is a self-appointed funeral director. Today, his resume will vastly improve by having uncle’s name listed amongst the clients he has serviced.

I notice several unknown faces chatting on the veranda. This house has never seen so many people on a single day, I don’t think. People make a far greater effort to meet a person once he is dead.

I go back to uncle’s room. A small, chubby man storms in. He is carrying a bunch of photocopies.

“See I wrote an article on him, see the date, a month ago. Take this, this is in Marathi... and this one in Kannada. Yes, please take both, both written by me.” He distributes the copies to everyone in the room. “You... you are from Bombay? Yes, it appeared in our Bombay edition on the 9^th of May.” Standing right at uncle’s feet he punches a number on his mobile.

“Yes. Yes. Mr Manohar Malgonkar passed away, in the night.” He turns to his right and asks “what time? Exactly what time?” Someone says 11.30. Somebody else corrects 11.15. “Yes. Write 11.15. Write: after a brief illness. A great novelist, international yes. We should give the news before Tarun Bharat. And tell them I gave the news. I am here, right here. Don’t forget to tell I was the source.” I look at uncle. I am glad he can’t listen any more.

The chubby man takes out his camera. I reflexively move between him and uncle.

“I want to take a few photos.”He says.

“No.” I say.

“Ok, just one or two for my collection.” He says.

“No.” I say and wave him out of the room.

The dead can’t defend themselves.

I suddenly realise Moti and Angel, the three-legged Angel, are not here. Whenever we come here, they bark with joy, jump on us, want to play with Devyani. Today so many strangers have entered the house, and I haven’t heard a single bark. In another room, I find Moti sat on a sofa looking vacantly ahead. His eyes are open, but they don’t seem to notice anyone in the room.

Two doctors are sat in that room.

“It’ll take longer.” One of them tells me. This is an elderly family doctor. “You see when the body has lots of flesh, it burns more easily. When there are only bones left...” I nod. Doctors are entitled to talk like that.

The self-appointed funeral director calls me back. “Who is doing the last rites?”

“Mena, I suppose” I say. “She is his niece, and uncle was fond of her.”

“No, she can’t. A man has to do it. Why don’t you take over that responsibility?”

“We are in the twenty-first century.” I try to say.

“Raja can do it. He is on his way from Pune.” I am told. Raja is a nephew, not as close to uncle, but he is a male.

Outside the house, villagers are making a wooden stretcher to carry uncle. It’s a bamboo ladder kept horizontal, now getting wrapped in a white cotton sheet. Close by are flowers, incense sticks, and auspicious colourful powders. Raja’s car arrives. It’s still raining. But the time has come to take uncle out of his room. Out of his house. Everything must happen before the sun sets.

Meanwhile, uncle’s son-in-law confirms uncle wanted Mena to do the last rites. Uncle’s word still has force in this house. We reach a last minute compromise whereby Mena and her male cousin would share the rituals.

Then we go inside. By now uncle is wearing a few sandalwood garlands. Villagers bring the bamboo stretcher inside. We shift uncle on it. As delicately as possible. Outside, I am one of the four men who carry that stretcher on the shoulders. As instructed, I am where the head is. We walk carefully. The ground is wet, and in places muddy.

It’s a short walk. Uncle wanted to be cremated at the same spot where aunt Cukoo was. At that spot, in front of the house, a bed of crisscrossed wooden logs is made ready. We deposit uncle on it. The thought of how uncomfortable this bed must be crosses my mind. Cans of butter are lying next to the pyre. Kerosene is brought in makeshift containers.

Uniformed army men now come forward. An army truck is standing on the lawn. Most of the people gathered today either can’t read English or, if they can, haven’t read uncle’s books.  The servants possibly judge his stature by the celebrities who visit the house; villagers by his photo in the news flash on television. For many villagers, he may simply be a landowner with the local grapevine talking about his hunting episodes; and for the army men he is Colonel Malgonkar.

Firecrackers go off. This is the army salute. We notice two uniformed men holding bugles in their hands. All the noises stop and create an all-enveloping moment of silence. The bugles begin the music. That music defines uncle’s stature. That music brings serenity to the atmosphere. That music reaches inside us and stabs our hearts. The raindrops falling on the cheeks mask the tears.

The music stops. The men from the infantry now move forward and lay down the wreaths at uncle’s feet. They bring their feet together and give a ceremonial salute. Villagers start putting additional logs on the pyre. So as to cover uncle completely. Mena lights the pyre up. More butter gets added, more fuel poured. The incenses burn. The final journey begins.  

We hear the phone ringing in the main hall. People are in a hurry to call today. Soon there will be nobody in this house to offer condolences to.

Ravi