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

Week 23 (2010): Bogdan’s Fear of Flying

Bogdan was my colleague when I worked in Poland.

He was not tall. But when you looked at his bald head and hefty physique, you could easily think of him as a bodyguard, or a character from a James Bond film. During conferences, whenever he made presentations wearing his tinted glasses, we thought we were watching Bruce Willis in action.

Bogdan could be outspoken. Unlike many Polish managers, he was a businessman by nature.  His views and actions would have been the same were he the owner of the company, rather than an employee. And these views he often expressed fearlessly, in open forums. I was his boss, but often became a target of his anger or displeasure when our viewpoints didn’t match. Nonetheless, I liked him. He was a rational person. He represented strength and solidity.

“I’m nominating you for the ‘Account Management’ meeting in London next month.” I told him once.

“No, I can’t go. I’m very busy.” He said.

“It’s only for a day – on a Friday. If you don’t wish to take a weekend in London, you can fly in the morning there and fly back the same evening.” Bogdan’s family lived in the South of Poland. He rented for himself a small apartment in Warsaw. On Friday evenings, he drove at unlawful speeds to reach his town. The big jobs were in Warsaw – the capital.

“These one-day meetings are a waste of time,” Bogdan said. “I can be far more productive here.”

“Look, I think this one will be useful. They want one person from each European market. You’ll represent Poland.” With those words I thought I had closed the discussion.

“What’s the date?” Bogdan asked.

I told him the date of the meeting in London.

“Sorry, I’ve to take an off that day. There is an important family function to attend.”

Bogdan took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. That was his way of avoiding meeting mine. I stared at him without saying anything. When the awkward silence filled the room, Bogdan looked at me and grinned, his expression similar to that of a thief caught in the act of robbing.  

“Ok, I’ll be honest. I can’t. I can’t go because…because I’m scared of flying.”

“What?”

“I’m scared to death at the thought of flying.”

“You’ve never flown?”

“Not since the time I can avoid it.”

“But… you went for that Amsterdam conference…”

“Yes, I drove there. You remember I had taken a day off before…” Bogdan took out a handkerchief and wiped the front of his bald head. “If I must go to London, I can drive all the way and then take a ferry or something. You must allow me a couple of days.”

“This is ridiculous, Bogdan. No, no, I don’t want you to drive…. You’ll drive for four days to attend a meeting lasting four hours.”

“Thanks, Ravi.” He said. “For your understanding.”

“Well, I’m not withdrawing your name. I want you to fly to London. Shut your eyes on the flight. Listen to music. If you become sick, the planes have paper bags. Once you start flying….”

“No. I’ll become sick before and won’t be able to fly. Why don’t you send someone else?”

“Bogdan, but you are the “National Key Account Manager”. Why should I send someone else, when you are the person who’s required there?”

“Look Ravi, I’ll go when the conference is in Germany. I’ve driven to Germany often. And there are no speed limits on the autobahn. I can drive very fast.”

“You know Bogdan, the way you drive… that’s far more dangerous than flying.”

Bogdan didn’t go to London. I lost the argument that day. Well, there was nothing to argue about. Bogdan was not as rational a person as I thought he was. I learnt later that others in the company knew about Bogdan’s phobia, and laughed at it.

In British American Tobacco, every competent manager was classified into ‘Lister’ (meaning someone with the potential to progress further in career) and ‘Asset’ (meaning someone good for their current level but unlikely to progress higher).  The company invested considerable efforts in training and development of listers. Bogdan was a lister.

“I may have some good news for you.” I told Bogdan. This was at least a year after Bogdan had refused to go to London. “I’m talking to you informally at this stage.”

Bogdan’s face brightened.

“The company is considering sending you abroad for six months. To get exposed to the trade marketing practises at Souza Cruz.” Souza Cruz was the Latin American arm of BAT. The Latinos were the most advanced in sales and distribution.

“But Souza Cruz is in South America.” Bogdan said.

“Yes. We’re talking about Brazil. Yes, yes, I know… I know… you have to fly…” I saw Bogdan’s face flushing. “…but just two times. Once there and once back, after six months. That’s a small price to pay for such an opportunity.”

Bogdan smiled and shook his head.

“You know, Ravi, Brazil is much farther than London.”

“Listen Bogdan, the company thinks you have a potential for promotion.  They’re willing to invest in you. Six months in Brazil is no joke. Do you want to know the number of candidates from Europe who were keen to take up this assignment? We’ve managed to get this secondment for Poland after a fight.”

“You saw what happened on 11^th September, didn’t you?” (I think we were talking two or three months after the 11^th September.)

“Listen Bogdan, plane crashes appear terrifying because of the way television shows them, newspapers report them. If you look at the number of planes flying…” I started scribbling on the white board in my room. In places like Chicago and Frankfurt, flights land and leave every minute. I took that as a base, and started writing numbers rapidly. To show the astronomical number of flights that don’t crash. “You see, Bogdan,” I continued, “Statistically, flying is the safest. The probability of your flight crashing is negligible, almost zero. I can get you the official data. I fly three or four times every month. Look, here I am, after so many years of flying. You are now what, 39; you must get mature at some stage. This is part of your leadership competency, how to get rid of your irrational fears. You’re such a rational person otherwise. I don’t understand how you can ignore all the statistics. And 11^th September was a terrorist attack. The first of its kind. Hopefully, we won’t see anything like it again. Anyway, when you refused to go to London last year, 11^th September hadn’t happened. So that’s only your new excuse.”

“Please drop me from the list. Give any excuse you wish. I don’t want to go to Brazil.”

“But your fear is completely irrational, Bogdan. I’ve never seen a senior manager like you sacrificing his career because of such childish nonsense. This way, you won’t be able to move on in this company. Or any other company.  You may even risk your job. You’ll not go very far.”

Bogdan shrugged his shoulders. He shook his head again and left my office. I didn’t know what to do. The whole world was flying, and here right under my nose I couldn’t persuade a competent grown-up man to accept the opportunities offered on a platter. I thought I should recommend downgrading him from “lister” to “asset”, but what reasons should I mention? Writing Bogdan’s fear of flying as justification looked as absurd as that fear itself was. He should have treated himself with hypnotherapy or medication, or these days you have simulators that give you a flying experience. But I don’t think we discussed any of that. At work, I was his colleague and boss – not a psychiatrist.

In 2002, I left Poland and moved to England. Two years later, I received an email from Bogdan asking me to write a reference letter for him. He had left BAT, and after a year-long frustrating job with some distributor, was on the job market again. I wrote to his potential employer a well-worded letter pointing out Bogdan’s business acumen and rational decision-making. Bogdan sent me a thank-you mail. This was a Polish company, and Bogdan wouldn’t need to cross any seas, I thought.

Then I lost touch with him. Once you move countries, it becomes difficult to keep writing to your former friends and colleagues. That relationship and warmth get frozen in some corner of your heart. I checked for “Bogdan Grzegorczyk” on facebook, but didn’t find him. I was not surprised. He didn’t look the type who would waste his time on facebook.

I also had no idea if he overcame his flying phobia, whether it hampered his career – until I received an email from Zbigniew this week. Zbigniew had worked with Bogdan and me in Poland.

“Not sure if you heard this. Bogdan Grzegorzyk died in a plane crash last week.”

I kept staring at the computer screen for a long time. Bogdan had, after all, overcome his fear and agreed to fly. But, that fear of his was not irrational.  

Ravi

P.S: Until last month, Bogdan, now 48, worked as an “Export Sales Director” with “Kanlux”. On 31 May, he was part of a delegation flying to Germany in a private plane. The plane crashed killing all three passengers and the pilot.

http://www.kanlux.pl/en-UK/

(You can see Bogdan’s picture (center) at this link.)

A funeral mass will be held for Bogdan tomorrow, on Saturday, 12 June. 

Adieu Bogdan, how I wish now that you were loyal to your phobia.  

R.