Mary gave her dog a cuddle, settled herself aft the wheel, and set off. The passport office was scarcely four kilometres away—a distance any sensible city ought to surrender in ten minutes. Bengaluru, however, had long ago abandoned such notions of proportion. The roads were already thick with cars, scooters, buses and the occasional motorist ostensibly engaged in a private argument with every traffic signal. Forty-five minutes, possibly thirty if fortune exhibited an unexpected mercy, would be needed to cover a journey that measured little more than a few streets on a map.
There are, on the other hand, indignities that arrive dressed in the uniform of authority. They rarely introduce themselves as cruel. They bear an identification card, consult a register, adjust their spectacles, and invite you to sit down with the sobriety of a man about to perform a perfectly ordinary duty. It is only later that one discerns the uniform was not concealing authority at all, but solely giving bigotry a davenport, a stamp, and the qualification to make you abide. Mary encountered precisely such a specimen on a Tuesday morning.
She held an Indian passport, an Indian address, a British business, and a husband named Vishnu. BetweenLondon and Bengaluru, their lives divided themselves nearly neatly: six months beneath English skies, six beneath the harsher brilliance of Karnataka.
Her passport was expiring, and so she did what subjects are instructed to do. She completed the online application, supplied the requisite particulars, uploaded the requisitioned documents, paid the prescribed fee, and left the remainder to the gear of the government. A message showed up on her registered telephone a few days later. Her appointment had been confirmed. She breathed deeply – nought about this untold adventure. As prophesied, the passport office cured her of that illusion.
The building was overflowing with applicants, clerks, security personnel, anxious parents, elderly couples, impatient husbands, bewildered foreigners and the peculiar human congestion created whenever government and red tape occupy the same square footage.
Mary waited as the names were being called. People disappeared through doors and emerged toting expressions ranging from relief to despair.
Ultimately:
“Mary.”
She rose.
The room into which she was directed contained a writing table, a computer, various files and a man whose demeanour suggested that civilisation had personally disappointed him.
He took her passport. Then he examined her face. Back to the photograph. Back to her. Again.
He nodded. “Your name?”
She answered.
“Address?”
She answered that too.
Then came the question. “Your husband?”
Mary paused. “Vishnu.”
“Vishnu what?”
She gave his full name.
The officer titled back. “You are Christian?”
“Yes.”
“He is Brahmin?”
“Yes.”
There was a small silence. The sort of silence in which a civil servant decides whether he is about to enact his responsibility or indulge his inquisitiveness.
“Why did you marry a Brahmin?”
Mary scrutinised him. For one magnificent moment she considered informing him exactly where he might position his dubiety. Unfortunately, she also fathomed the geography of influence. Her passport was in his hands. Her future travel depended upon it. Her husband was in London. Her industry mandated movement ’tween two countries. He had a desk. She had a deadline. Therefore, she half-grinned. Not amiably. “Is there anything else required for the renewal?”
The officer studied her with the satisfaction of a man who had discovered that the door could be locked from his side. “Yes.”
“What?”
“Proof of marriage.”
Mary frowned. “Our marriage certificate?”
“No.” He waved a hand. “Photograph.”
“What kind of photograph?”
“Both of you together.”
“We have photographs.”
“Date stamped.”
She stared. “Excuse me?”
“Date stamped photograph. Both standing together. Like the old photographs.” He gave a wicked mini beam. “The date must be…” He checked his calendar with exaggerated circumspection. “Next week.”
Mary comprehended. The request was absurd. More importantly, she realised something else. He knew it was absurd. That was why he had made it. There are people who unearth power and immediately begin searching for a place to press their thumb. This man had found hers. Mary gathered her binder. “Where should I submit it?”
He sneered without thoughtfulness. “Bring it next time.”
Outside, the hall seemed unbearably bright. She walked through the crowd with her jaw clenched. Her blood was no longer merely warm. It was furious. She imagined posting his name on social media. She imagined describing the encounter. She imagined the photograph of his countenance beside the announcement: This is the man who thinks my marriage necessitates his approval. Then practicality alighted, as it generally does when indignation has exhausted itself. What proof did she possess? None. No recording. No written substantiation. No witness willing to enter the contraption of complaint. Only her recollection. And recollection, she knew, is a poor weapon against a guaranteed dossier.
Vishnu was in London. She telephoned him. He gave an ear. For several seconds he uttered nothing.
“What am I supposed to do?” Mary coerced.
“I don’t know.”
Neither did she. That was the obscenity of it. They were married. They had built a life. They had conducted trade across continents. Yet some stranger behind a government department had managed, in less than ten minutes, to make their marriage feel as though it warranted certification from a man who had neither earned nor merited the right to judge it.
Eventually Vishnu gasped, “Send me one of our photographs on WhatsApp.” Mary did. He contacted a graphic designer he knew. The photograph was altered. The background was manipulated. A date stamp was inserted in the corner. The result struck one as sufficiently old-fashioned to satisfy a bureaucrat who apparently believed authenticity resided in pixels. When Mary gazed at it, she felt something colder than anger. Shame. Not because the photograph was false. Because the lie had become necessary. That was the true prurience. The state had solicited for evidence. The state had made fabrication the easiest route to compliance. Truth had become inconvenient. Appearance had become acceptance.
She returned to the office on the assigned day. The same corridor. The same queues. The same fluorescent lights humming overhead like trapped insects. The same bureau. The same man.
He took the photograph. Looked at it. Looked again. A smile surfaced. Not surprising. Recognition. “You know this is edited,” he remarked.
Mary said zilch.
He tapped the photograph with one finger. “Background changed.”
There was defiant stillness in the air.
“Date added,” he hissed.
She betrayed no emotion; her visible vocabulary stayed an impenetrable ledger beyond his reach. He leaned backwards. “Approved,” he exclaimed. Then, to Mary’s astonishment, he stamped the forms.
She gawked at him. “You knew?”
“Of course.”
“Then why—”
He raised a hand. The gesture was almost paternal. Almost. “Listen to me!”
Mary deliberated.
“You should tell your family something.”
Her stomach tightened.
“Tell them not to encourage these things.”
“What things?”
“Christian girl marrying Hindu boy.”
There it was. The system stripped apart. No procedure. No symbol. No regulation. No passport. Only discrimination sitting abaft a government agency. The man pushed the sheets towards her. “You are lucky I am allowing this.” Mary glimpsed at the approval. Then at him. A passport was supposed to prove who she was. Instead, for one miserable morning, it had become a slip of endorsement granted by an unknown who alleged her marriage was a social offence. She took the papers. “Thank you,” she enunciated.
The words tasted foul. She turned towards the door. Rearward her came the final sentence. “And don’t let another Christian in your family marry like this.” Mary stopped. She did not turn around.
Outside, hundreds of people moved through the building carrying certificates, photographs, birth records, affidavits and the fragile belief that official institutions existed to serve them. Mary understood something that morning. A passport does not only establish identity. It represents permission to propel through the world without asking every petty gatekeeper whether you deserve to belong in it. And when that permission is put in the hands of a prejudiced fool, citizenship itself can be made to feel conditional.
She sauntered into the sunlight. The photograph remained inside the folder. A counterfeit image accepted by a man who knew it was counterfeit. Perhaps that was the most factual validation produced in the building that day.
