Careless officer meets a long name

When unfurled to its full length, my name comes in at a princely 2 words, 16 letters and 7 syllables and can be an eyeful or a mouthful depending on what you were attempting to do with it. And that is only my last name. Throw in my first name with another 9 letters and 4 syllables and it begins to dawn that most Indians, with a few notable exceptions (Oh, Hi West Bengal!), have tongues as lithe as Nadia Comaneci and sport names that set them aflutter.

So yes, I do have a long name which makes for interesting conversations mainly at immigration desks and bank counters across the world. Do I like my name? Mostly yes. Have I run into issues because of its length? More times that I can count on my fingers. Often times, it gets truncated because forms and text boxes aren’t designed with my name in mind. Most likely by someone with at least a 10-character-long last name working from within the confines of an Infosys/CTS/TCS facility somewhere in xyz-halli in Bangalore. The irony.

My professor, when I was preparing to graduate, even recommended trimming my name so as to not put off a potential recruiter only because he was stumped by the train of alphabets at the start of what was an otherwise decent résumé. There are more than a few options for me to distill shorter names that are subsets of my full name. Yet when it comes to official documents, I’m forced to unfold my moniker fully. And face the consequences.

“That’s a long name”, observed the immigration officer at the counter after taking one look at my passport that barely managed to hold my name within its width.

I was entering the United States at San Francisco after what felt like an eternity being packed in an economy class seat with a grumpy lady to the left (fought 6 wars with me for elbow space and won on 4 occasions and drew the remaining two.) and a smug professional that just wouldn’t stop working on his spreadsheets right from take off to touchdown to the right for company. After touch down, I ensured that I made up for the 63E seat by walking fast on the travellator and beating most of the slow walkers to the “Foreign Passports” side of the immigration lines. I was the fourth person on the line after selecting the counter carefully.

Now, selecting the right immigration officer/counter at an airport is an art that I have, dare I say, perfected over the years. By the time I weave through the passengers and their pull bags, my brain, despite the state it is in, after much computations and analysis, has picked out the right line for me. The right choice could easily make up for the difference between a 32C seat vs. a 55F; or between speeding home 15 minutes after touchdown vs. convincing the officer that you are indeed Mallikarjuna and your father is Pottamsetty Surapaneni and Madanapalli is your village and not your mother. The key, it be told, is to not rush to any counter. No sir, you don’t. I start scanning them just as soon as they come into sight. As a rule of thumb, I avoid ladies. Go ahead, call me a sexist, an MCP or any other name. But I do avoid ladies. It is because they are slow. And they are slow because they are cautious and scrutinize more. They don’t want to be the ones that waved in Osama Bin Laden who then went on to blow up buildings. (Notice how I recovered from the ‘ladies are slow’ comment?) I wouldn’t choose lines with families with kids for the simple reason that a stack of passports take longer than a single one. Lines with men in turbans, long beards, skull caps and green colored passports are out, again for obvious reasons. I avoid the younger officers too. They are the ones that go back and forth a few times between the picture on your passport and your face. The photograph, shot at Manikandan studio ages ago when you were wrapping up college studies and felt that a passport wasn’t a bad idea, doesn’t bear the slightest resemblance to the puffy, groggy, scrawny you that is across the counter from him now. He is new on the job and won’t let any opportunity to shine pass him by. They always have a question or two and perhaps a smart(ass) comment too. Whereas the lady officers don’t want Osama bin Laden in their lines, the new hires eagerly expect him to show up at their counter. And neither approach ensures a quick clearance for you. I also steer clear of elderly officers, I mean old school ones that go through your hastily scribbled form like it was the final draft of their will that has been prepared and they were making sure that the favorite nephew was given his due before they signed on the dotted line. Old school is out. That leaves me with the middle aged, seasoned, heaven-may-care men. If, to revert to my favorite example once more, Osama B. L. showed up in front of them, they would have no concerns waving him in as long as he placed the right thumb first on the finger print scanner, then the left thumb and he looked into the camera after removing his glasses without having to be instructed thrice. They are the Usain Bolts of the immigration world. I love them. And you should too.

That day, Officer Chang (not real name) was the chosen one. Dressed in a fancy uniform with a firearm, a baton, a radio, a scowl and an attitude, he was letting in travelers with all the ease of a seasoned bouncer at a club on a Saturday night. He scanned my documents briefly, made the earlier comment as he keyed in my name into his system, stamped my visa and waved me in. I walked towards baggage claim with a smug look, casting a sideways glance at the grumpy lady and zealous professional who were at least a good 10 minutes behind now. Losers!!

A week after my entry, a couple of days before Christmas, as I lay passed out on the bed from a wicked cold and jet lag induced sleep laced with Nyquil, the phone rang at little past seven in the AM. I fiddled with the alarm clock for a full minute before I realized it was the phone that was ringing and picked it up groggily.

“Hello <(gingerly-pronounced-first-name)…(gingerly-pronounced-30%-of-last-name)?” said the voice at the other end. The “herro” gave away the identity of the caller: a lady of far eastern origin.

“Possibly yes” I said by way of an honest response. A dose of Nyquil, twice as strong as recommended, can cause funny reactions.

“That’s a rong name.” Of course. Although, I couldn’t tell if she meant long or wrong.

“I hate to shatter your ego miss but this ain’t the first time I’ve had someone say that to me.” Doffing the hat to Quentin T and Samuel L. J.

“We can’t process your SSN application” Her weaknesses, unbeknownst to me, may be many, but beating around the bush wasn’t one of them.

“Well, good morning to you too!”

“Sorry Sir. Your name has been entered wrongly in the immigration records and won’t match with the one on your application with us…” Sympathy, even if not overflowing in copious quantities, was definitely discernible in her voice.

“What time is the next available flight to home?” I rose up to the situation despite the mists of sleep not having fully cleared.

“You’d have to go to the Homeland Security Office in downtown San Jose and get this rectified. Oh and till that time, since we can’t process your application, we shall be closing it for now.” Obviously, I was not on Santa Claus’ good boys list.

“Merry Christmas, Officer Chang!”

For purposes of clarity, italicized responses are imaginary.

While the conversation didn’t exactly pan out that way, I lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling for a long time. “Knock it off guys.” I told the grumpy lady and smug professional as they laughed down at me from the ceiling calling me a loser. Pay back is a bitch!

Apparently my immigration official selection algorithm needed a tweak or two.

Later that day, a colleague at work filled me in that without a SSN I couldn’t apply for my driver’s license or get my car registered or get paid at work, for the matter of that. I’d essentially be volunteering at my company. Assuming someone gave me a ride to work, that is. Later that day, as my manager was busy shoving stuff on to my already overflowing plate, I pulled him aside to bring him up to speed on my situation. He was accommodative. As someone who routinely spelled Nithin as Ninth, he held any Indian longer than 4 letters in great esteem and graciously granted me time off to sort out the mess that I found myself in.

The Homeland Security office in downtown San Jose, where I drove to on a cold, wet, grey wintery afternoon, has all the trappings of a typical US Government office. Obama and Biden smile down on you as you subject yourself to a security check that can be booked for sexual assault in many countries. The people gathered there are always an interesting, colorful mix, of all races, colors and cultures, giving the waiting hall an almost United Nations like feel, conversing in exotic tongues about how the security officer that patted them down at the entrance would be stoned in public back where they came from. There are US citizens (many white men with an Asian lady clutching some papers in tow. I’m not judging anybody here. Who am I to stop anyone from living out their fetishes?), permanent residents, resident evils, legal aliens, illegal citizens and the occasional pet, all requiring something or the other to be taken care of with the immigration authorities.

Tiiinnnngggggg tooonnggggggggg “Trajeta Now numero aah quatorze serving A 14 ventinallia at window tres number three” comes the message from the speaker. This prompts the assembled to check their slip, strain to catch the message, look at the others and scratch their heads. But we don’t have to worry as only two of the twenty counters are manned that day to serve the swelling sea of humanity. After many rounds of Anglo-Spanish announcements, I somehow picked out that it is my turn.

“What’s your problem?” offered the ancient man behind the window, with as much friendliness of a very hungry Great Dane recently denied a meal. The Creator had clearly been in a bad mood when he had this guy built.

“My name has been spelled wrong in your records.”

“Really?”

“No officer, I was just kidding. It was a slow day at work and I wanted to drive down here in heavy rains to see how you were doing. Hey, wanna catch that latest Matt Damon flick later today? My treat!”

“Hmmm…let me see….”

After peering intently at the monitor for a long time, during which time his blinking was the only sign that betrayed he was alive, the ancient officer, about a week or two away from completely turning into a fossil, turned to look at me.

“Your name is wrong.” Officer Old Monk wasn’t one to mince words.

“I didn’t personally choose this name. But I’ll definitely let my parents know. They really are the culprits, you know?” I neatly sidestepped any blame coming my way.

“I cannot correct it.” Decreed the ancient vulture from its perch.

“I don’t blame you. I know it is a long one. Now if you’ll hand me the keyboard, I can do it for you.”

“You go to San Francisco, Washington Street office for correction. OK?” he said, gathering my passport and forms and pushing them out through the counter opening.

“Happy New Year Officer Chang!” I winced at the prospect of repeating the entire procedure in a different city. In keeping with the holiday spirit that was doing the rounds, let the good times roll!

I couldn’t get an appointment for the next two weeks and I had meeting #2 with my manager to apprise him of the situation. He was justifiably suspicious of my tales but still let me take time off from work.

Armed with a borrowed GPS, I arrived at the impressive building on Washington Street in downtown ‘Frisco. The nearest parking lot was a couple of blocks away and charged an arm and a leg to take in the car for an hour. A smiling Prez and his Veeps, awkward security checks, a token and Anglo-Spanish announcements: I knew my routine now. But the SFO office was different. Only because it smelled like a bouquet of homeless people. Perhaps because there were, inside the office, in various shades of grey, a dozen homeless people milling around, none of whom was guilty of a shower in the recent past, trying to take care of some business, the nature of which I wasn’t too sure. Scattered in the hall were also people that had a home and had showered.

When it was my turn, I stood facing an officer who was a dead ringer for a walrus. Yes. A bespectacled walrus in a grey shirt and a black tie, clearly exhausted from having dealt with a persistent homeless guy in a once-green hooded sweat shirt that was adamant that the homeland security office in general and Mr. Walrus, as its representative, in particular, were liable to provide him with enough money to get his pictures taken. That’s right. Just the kind of a pointless argument that would put the officer in a great mood to deal with my problem.

After I brought him up to speed on my situation, he asked for my passport and started punching away at the keyboard. His hard working, pudgy fingers managed to take him to some display on the monitor that caught his interest. He squinted his eyes, peered intently into the monitor, removed his glasses and went back and forth between passport and said monitor. After repeating the above steps, he put his glasses back on and looked at me.

“That’s a long name…” When it is time to christen my kids, they are so getting short names. I’m toying with the idea of embracing the Lexus method: LS 450 for the first one and GS 460 for the second. Try misspelling that! No. On second thoughts, don’t.

“We can correct your name but…” he let it hang there for effect while he was making up his mind about the next steps.

If this were the Tamil movie Sivaji (The boss), this would be the scene where Rajini loses it when Cochin Hanifa enquires about the total value of his project. For non-Tamil readers, I simply miss the problem-bribe-quick solution routine in India.

“…I must send you to the 11^th floor where a few things need to be verified before the correction can be made.” It was almost an anti-climatic finish, what with all that build up he had provided.

Considering what I’d been through to get to this stage, reaching floor no. 11 and presenting my credentials was a piece of cake. Even if he had asked me to climb the stairs on my hands and provide the required clarifications in a classical dialect of Swahili.

The 11^th floor office had a decent sized window that offered a view of a sliver of the bay, framed by dreary buildings on both sides. It was not the greatest of views that would make it to a SFO picture post card but something to keep the waiting folks amused, nonetheless. Since I didn’t have the time to appreciate the view, I approached the lone counter with a human presence as the other one was devoid of any life form. But this lady was carrying on a conversation using almost entirely nasal sounds.

“Ngyung yang ngyong gnya?”

“nanaong gnyomph ngaw….ooooooongh….ngyaou ngyung….”

Just listening to it left me breathless and gave rise to a growing sensation of wanting to clear my entire nasal tract. Thai. Or perhaps Vietnamese, I wasn’t sure. But definitely annoying, of which I’m more than sure. Not the language, but that she could carry on her conversation while someone was waiting for her attention. I must admit that I’m used to much worse humiliation at the counters of government offices in India. But hey, when in Rome…

From her body language, which included fiddling with the phone cable, toying with the stapler and doodling with her pen, it was clear that she wasn’t discussing a terror threat from an illegal immigrant or evaluating available methods to track down a notorious terror monger who had entered the US illegally, if that is what immigration officials do to earn their pho/kung pao. But if, on the other hand, she was indeed doing just that, then you might have to hand it to her that she was pretty composed under duress.

Imagine this conversation in Thai, or Vietnamese for that matter:

“Call the TV channels and flash their pictures. I want the border patrol chief here. Now. (twirling the telephone cord) Alert the Gov. and ask for troop supplements. (toying with the stapler) Call in the National Guard. I want all roads leading in and out of California secured. Gentlemen, we have a situation. (doodling a picture of a cat)”

After I started giving her the eye, more pleading than menacing, with much reluctance, she waved to a well nourished gentleman in an inside room, her colleague, who was busy talking to an equally well nourished cleaning lady and was in the middle of an animated conversation. He acknowledged the wave and in response, just continued with his conversation.

“That man help you.” She peeled herself away from the receiver just long enough to tell me this and quickly picked up her ngyu-ngyaying from where she had left off a moment earlier.

I waited for “that man” to get done with his conversation with the janitor and watched him shoe horn all of his portly self reluctantly into a woefully small chair that groaned and creaked to accommodate him.

“My name has been…” I sang the same song for a third time and offered him my passport. He had me confirm my name, date of birth and place of birth and seemed satisfied that I had no ulterior motives behind this request.

“That is a…” he started.

“Long name. Yes, it is.” I completed for him. I knew the routine well now.

He looked up at me and winked. Sweet. And remember, this is SFO. So, doubly sweet.

His pudgy fingers did a number on the keyboard and brought him to the menu appropriate. He looked at my name on the screen and the passport and his face took on the look of someone stuck for a fair bit on the sixth difference in a spot-the-six-differences puzzle. He cocked his head and tried looking at it from a different angle with no better results. He gave up trying to spot the differences and gestured to me to point out the typos. I realized that Officer Chang, as he speedily waved me in 3 weeks back at SFO, had allowed himself not one but two typos. With a surgeon’s precision, he made the corrections.

After nearly a month of driving around the bay area during work hours to various government offices and jumping through procedural hoops, it took all of 10 seconds for a portly man, who may or may not be homosexual, and who may or may not have made a pass at me to correct the mistakes and declare me a free man.

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Gasoline: $15

Parking fees: $12

Time wasted: 20 hours, less the 7 minutes saved at SFO

Enlightenment that US Govt. offices are merely air conditioned versions of Indian RTOs/Tahsildar offices: priceless.