Registering as Foreign Residents

I don't know how long ago now but I remember reading about how foreigners living in the US no longer wanted to be considered US aliens. They didn't like the connotation of the word "alien." At the time, I remember thinking they had a valid argument but if I were to be considered an Indian "alien," I think I might welcome the title because sometimes it does feel like I might as well come from (or be on) Mars.

As part of our Visa requirements, we were to register as foreign residents within 14 days of our arrival in India. Luckily, IBM uses a service to help international assignees with their Visas, so getting the Visas was surprisingly hassle free. Surprisingly, so was registering as foreign residents. However, while it was relatively hassle free the whole event was full of an air of corruption. (There are many points in this story where things could have gone drastically wrong so I thought I'd just come clean in the beginning - nothing went drastically wrong. Also evidence of this - the fact that we have not yet been deported.)

In order to get our Visas, we had to submit all our personal documents, including our passports, copies of our marriage license, addresses, etc. So Friday morning, when we went to the Police Commissioners Office for our FRO (Foreign Registration Office meeting), we had copies of all this information in addition to extra passport photos and of course, our actual passports.

Thursday night, George got a text message from an unknown number saying, "I need your father's name for tomorrow's FRO meeting." We've gotten used to so many people needing so much random information from us, without thinking twice, he replied. For example, I have not yet included the various hassles we have had trying to get our cell phones set up in addition to various calls from random people about the apartment. What I have deduced from all this is either: A - nothing is really centralized or terribly efficient, or B - we have grossly underestimated our ability to communicate, or C - Both A and B are correct.)

George had been told to not to bother arriving at the Commissioners Office until after 10 because they don't get moving much before then. So we arrive shortly after 10 and pull into what looks like a little neighborhood. We pull down a small road with about 8 buildings on either side all well labeled, but still impossible to figure out exactly what goes on in each building - labels like "Photos, " "Single Window," and "Amusement." There was also a food stand and a coffee stand at the end of the road as well as unmarked buildings which may or may not have been a part of the Commissioners compound. Chandan dropped us by the coffee stand but did not really point us is any direction. We got out of the car, looked around, shrugged our shoulders and walked away from the food stands. We passed a guard dressed up with his white pants, ankle guards, fancy plaid hat - like the guards we saw at the hotel - only these guards had rifles.

Out of the shadows, appeared an ordinary looking Indian man - drab clothes, mustache, dark hair - approached us and said, "George?" He carried a black backpack and had a stack of papers held together by a small binder clip. He did not look like a business man, did not show us any sort of ID. (Note: this would be the first point when things could have gone drastically wrong.) He directed us to a lobby with another small room beyond it. In the lobby area, to the left, was a counter where he placed our papers and asked for our passport-sized photos. He then began gluing George's picture on my documents before George pointed this out. Looking annoyed at George for calling his attention to it, he flipped through his small book of papers and found one with George's name on it. He glued each of our pictures on the top and bottom of about 4 of the papers. Then he asked me to sign what felt like 25 pages - copies of my passport info., our address, my reason for being in India, etc. Then George had to sign everything. Then, he took our passports. Still in the lobby we turned around to face two men behind a desk - one who was clearly in charge.

People continued to meander in and out of both the lobby and the room beyond the lobby with no rhyme nor reason. A man came in, sat in one of the chairs in the larger room for about 5 minutes and then just got up and left. No one said anything to him nor did he say anything to anyone. Meanwhile, our new mustached friend takes our paperwork, all properly signed and with color photos attached, and hands it to the man in charge. George and I are standing about three feet behind just listening to them talk and occasionally point to something on the paper. The guy behind the desk, who has begun belching regularly with no shame or explanation, then hands our friend our passports. Our friend then just smiles and leaves the building with our passports. George had deduced they copied his old visa (from his trip here last fall). I couldn't help but think he was going to get a price check on American passports in the black market.

Everything to this point (but mostly the burping) is too much - it fills me with the giggles. George gives me the, "stop it," nudge but that just makes me want to laugh more. I tell him I can't help it and he says, "do you want to get us deported?" Everyone is very serious in this building and they don't seem the types to look kindly on giggling, blond Americans. I do my best to think of sad thoughts and turn my attention to the chipping paint, artificial fluorescent light and dirty walls of this building that looks like it once was probably quite impressive.

Sure enough, our mustached aide came back, passports in hand only to be turned away again by the belcher because the copies were "too dark." When he returns the second time from who knows where, we get the signature we need from the belcher (who, from here on out, will be referred to as "Person in Charge #1). With our newly signed documents, our mustached friend motions for us to follow him. He leaves this building, turns the corner and enters a second building through a large garage-sized door that has been opened. Now it feels like we are at the DMV (or passport agency for those of you who've had the pleasure). In the back, where we entered, there is one long table with chairs around it. Beyond the tables are about 4 more rows of chairs (sans tables) and beyond that, is an area separated by a counter with glass running to the ceiling - similar to when you see someone on TV going to visit a prisoner. In the partitioned area, there are more desks beyond the counter area set up like a regular office. There is also an open door connecting the "office" area to another building. On one side of the waiting area in back, there is an office guarded by a man whose outfit does not really distinguish him as a guard. He is wearing no badge, no label shirt, but he keeps turning people away and sending them to the chairs - a pseudo-guard. Nothing in this building in marked. There are no stickers on the window partition saying, "here is where you file a complaint." "here's where we steal your identity," "here's where we accept bribes." There are no signs on the wall telling you what you are waiting for or how long you might have to wait.

George and I are sitting in chairs at the table. We have now lost our mustached aide who is still carrying our passports and all our documents. Perhaps he is at some mysterious copier in some unknown area. We begin to wonder sympathetically if this is how immigrants in the United States feel when they have to do anything government related. Most of the seats are filled with people holding passports and papers, just waiting. However, there is also a steady stream of people getting up (and coming into the building) trying to get beyond the pseudo-guard. Our aide has reappeared and says something to the pseudo-guard. After waiting for about 10 minutes, our aide motions us to get up. He has not said more than 5 words to us all morning - George, passports, too dark - I think that's it. We follow him to the guarded office to see Person in Charge #2. This gentleman is sitting at a cluttered desk and there are pictures on the wall behind him. (I make note of this only because the rest of the entire decrepit building is stark.) There are about 10 chairs in two rows opposite his desk. We sit, anticipating we will be there a while but our aide puts our papers in front of him, he looks up to give us a half smile and signs. We are then motioned to get up and follow. We politely thank him as three more people are filing into the office. Every time we were motioned to move, we moved quickly which added to the feeling something very shady was taking place and we needed to get in and get out as fast as possible.

We go back to the first building only this time move into the larger waiting area. Again, there is a counter and glass partition. This area is smaller and feels more like being at the bank. There are 5 windows. The first 2 are marked "for office use only," the third window is for a gun license, the fourth one might be something for Indian residents and the fifth window is for foreign residents. From here, you can also see the door that led to the other "office" clearly marked, "do not enter," although no one seems to adhere to the sign. We keep thinking, imagine trying to navigate through this experience without an aide - like the man holding a Tanzanian passport we keep passing at every new waiting area. Our aide then muscled his way past two others to the front of the line for foreign residents, said something to the man behind the counter (Person in Charge #3) and slid our papers on the counter. We were then summoned to the counter to sign a paper stating we were residents. We signed the paper once with a carbon copy and then the same paper a second time but this time with no carbon copy. No questions asked on either our part or theirs. The man behind the counter takes our passports and our aide starts walking out. We ask him about our passports and he says, "I return them to you Monday." George makes sure he has our address and phone numbers and we blindly trust we have just fully complied with the law.

On our way back to the car, we passed one of the smaller buildings and inside were hanging colored lights like it was mid-December and what looked like some sort of card game taking place. But we did not linger to get a better look.

When we finally pulled out of the complex, we saw our aide crossing the road from the opposite side - like he had already left the compound and was coming back. Where he would've gone is as clear as the murky waters of the Ganges.

Throughout the entire morning, no one asked us any questions about where we work, where we live, if we have rabies, cooties, ties to the mafia - nothing. We have no idea why we were able to clearly "cut" many others who were in line before us and clearly waiting longer than us. We don't know why we needed the signatures of Persons in Charge #1, 2 or 3 and we are assuming our passports will be returned with the proper documentation today. What we do know is:
1. We would have been totally lost if we hadn't had someone us helping us through the process.
2. No one was in the "gun license" line which can't be bad.
3. In terms of what is socially acceptable for men, I think the rule is "anything goes."
4. We came home and promptly registered with the US Embassy in New Delhi.