Getting a Visa to India - Part 1

Recently, my dad told me he was planning on traveling to New Delhi, India for a conference with the International Association of Historians of Asia. Since that is relatively close to Dubai and hadn’t seen my father in nearly a year I decided to join him for the weekend (although my sisters will say I went just so that I could add another country to my passport).

Getting a tourist visa for India only took me 3 days. The first day I got lost on the way to the consulate office. The second day I found the building that the Indian government’s website said would be the consulate but it wasn’t. The third day after interviewing several Indians I was able to reach the Indian consulate office.

The unmarked sand parking lot next to the Indian consulate is also shared by the consulates of Pakistan, Lebanon, Syria and Jordan – countries that are not noted for having particularly low road fatality rates or rigorous drivers license exams. While waiting in the chaotic battle for a parking spot, my car died. I wiped the sweat pouring off my face after attempting to restart it for the forth time. Being a little frustrated at that moment I left it there with company of the blaring horns, shaking fists and shouted curses.

The security guard at the Indian Consulate compound didn’t appear the least bit bothered that I made all of the alarms go off as I passed through his metal detector. Once inside I went to a room upstairs that said ‘Visas.’ I got in "line" and was informed that I needed a copy of my UAE visa and one more passport photo. Downstairs now, I muscled my way through a mosh pit of bodies and scent of weekly baths to get the copies.

I passed through a maze of different rooms getting signature after signature and stamp after stamp. In one room I was asked, “First time to India?” I almost said no that I had eaten dinner one night in this Indian neighborhood in Dubai but instead I waggled my head yes. Thinking that my head waggle could have offended her I started giving her additional un-needed information.

“I’m going to meet my father there.” …an uncomfortable pause…“He’s in a conference.”…”I’m going to meet him there.”

Busted! She said, “you have ticked the box for tourist visa but you say you are you going to a conference? That is against the rules of the country. If you are going to a conference you have to apply for a conference visa.”

The next 10 minutes were spent hearing a lecture about how it is against the rules of the country to go on the wrong type of visa and what would happen to me if I were caught at a conference.

Finally, I arrived in a room emitting a strong scent of impatience. There were benches filled with people were glaring at a digital electric counter on the wall with a blinking red number 1103; those standing were angrily furrowing their brows at those with seats. My number was 1279.

Once it was finally my turn, I leaned down to asked the customs official through the hole in the plexi-glass if my request for a multiple entry tourist visa was granted. “No,” she said with a powerful smirk, I could go back to the first room request a change. Noticing at how long my nails had grown, I politely declined her suggestion.