Homebody meets a Dementor

Have you ever met a dementor? I met a real live one when I went for my visa interview at the American Consulate. She didn’t fly around in a black cloak but she did try to suck out my soul. She sidled up and sat down in front of me.

‘Are you applying for a U.S visa?’ she turned and asked in an adenoidal voice that most women use when they have screamed at people for the vast majority of their lives. After I said I was, she proceeded to ask me what type of passport I had.

‘Um. I’m not really sure.’

‘What if they ask you what type of passport you have? What will you do?’

‘Um. I don’t know.’

‘You should really have done your homework. These Americans will look at the slightest excuse to deny you the visa.’

At this point my eye had started to twitch.  It starts to twitch whenever I begin to panic. The twitching usually transfers, with increased stress, to my upper lip to do an Elvis Presley before it travels down to my arms and legs. I was beginning to panic. My heart beat faster. I tried to read whether there was a ‘type’ section written somewhere but found that everything was becoming blurry. I took a look at the stern-looking American officer who was currently rejecting entry to a very sweet old man who was assuring her that he was a ‘stable persons’. I looked back at the woman in front of me, her sharp eyes registering my panic with a satisfied expression.

‘Don’t worry. They probably won’t ask you. I, on the other hand, have a D-type passport. They don’t bother us,’ she said smugly.

I gave her an admiring look that congratulated her on the excellent sense of possessing a D-type passport, whatever that was. The woman next to me, who had been relaxed before this conversation started, also tensed. If you were to see us, you’d see one long-haired woman with slightly burnt-looking skin straining to look back at two wide-eyed, shaking and twitching women.

‘Where are you going to go?’ the dementor asked the woman next to me.

‘I want to visit my uncle in Texas,’ she replied.

‘Oh. Texas has terrible weather.’

‘Oh.’

‘Yes. I live in Florida. That’s where Disney World is. The entire world comes where I live. Which is why they give the visa so easily to us. Koi problem nahi hoti. Texas main tau usually people go to disappear. There’s a huge Pakistani community there to sponsor you over there. So Visa officers are a bit wary.’

‘Oh.’

Both of us victims exchanged scared looks. I began to wonder where Pakistanis disappeared in Arizona and New York? Or Arkansas? Perhaps if I said I wanted to visit Alaska, my chances would increase.

‘Yes. By the way,’ she was looking at me again, ‘what time was your interview supposed to be?’

‘At seven forty five.’

‘Oh ho. It’s eight fifteen now.’

‘Yes. It is.’

‘Your time has passed. Perhaps they’ve skipped you.’

The room began to whirl around. I could barely sit up.

‘My time was nine, so they will interview me then. Perhaps you should ask them when your interview is going to be. Perhaps they will reschedule you?’

I frantically considered my options. If I got up I’d be told to sit down by the security guard with the fearsome curled-up moustache. If I kept sitting perhaps they would skip me over. I just looked down and tried to still my quivering fingers. I was so nervous that my behind started twitching as well. That had never happened. It was a most unpleasant sensation.

Suddenly, a voice boomed. ‘Token number 67!’

I was token number 67! I got up and dropped all my papers and heard the dementor say, ‘Don’t show you’re nervous, they’ll think you’ll have something to hide! ’

Too late! I thought as I warily approached the visa officer. I handed in my passport. I knew the dementor was taking a keen interest in my proceedings. I could feel her eyes boring through the back of my head.

The visa officer asked about my marital status. I said I was divorced. Since there was no privacy in the hall, the entire hall heard this. I heard the dementor say, ‘Tsk, tsk, so young. Looks a bit headstrong if you ask me.”

The visa officer took a look at my pale face and then at my photograph. She typed something on her computer. Behind me, I could hear the dementor say, ‘Did you know they’ve rejected three people before her?’

I tried to stem my twitching by concentrating long and hard on the diamond ring that the visa officer was wearing. It moved with her typing fingers. After a few moments, she looked up and said, ‘Well, Ma’am, congratulations. I don’t think there’s any problem with your application. Please wait for a call from American Express to receive your passport with the stamped visa!”

I blinked thrice and then said a shocked ‘Thank You’. I walked down the hall, crossing the dementor who was now working her magic on a young medical student who, it seemed, had forgotten to breathe.

As I came out in the fresh air, I felt the black-hole effect of the woman die down. As I drove home, I wondered what made people like her tick? What joy did she get in making the entire room so nervous, so terrified, so panicked that the fear and despair were almost palpable? What twisted place did dementors come from? Does Azkaban exist? Is it a metaphor of evil – the kind that is so malicious that it will rejoice at the sight of you lying curled up on the boulevard of broken dreams?

Perhaps it does. The only thing to be done with such people is to not let them play on your fears and insecurities. To believe that your fears are false illusions – that the universe is basically gentle and that such people, who play on your fears, are actually the most scared of all. They must be in a lot of pain to give so much pain to other people, no?

Oh well. I’ve left this particular dementor far behind. And I’s gots the Visa! Chalo Chalo Alaska Chalo!