Daily Times

For the average Pakistani, the idea of applying for an Indian visa is rather overwhelming. The accounts of rejection far out-number those of success. This deters many an aspiring traveller. However, the time finally came when I resolved to stop making excuses and start making sincere effort to secure an Indian visa. I prepared also to fulfil the additional requirements for Pakistani visa applicants. (This includes providing one’s family history dating back a couple of generations.) I was also prepared to brave the restrictions on movement and the requirement for reporting to the police in every city I visited.

The visa I received allowed me to visit Delhi, Varanasi, Agra and Jaipur. I had also applied for a visa for Lucknow but that request was declined. Perhaps, the Indian authroities wanted to give me a reason to visit again.

What follows is an account of what I saw, heard, smelled and felt during the visit.

Forms to be filled

It was on a sweltering June day that I arrived at the Indira Gandhi International Airport in New Delhi. A sign in Hindi over the arrivals lounge said: Bharat mein aapka swagat hai (You are welcome in India). I hoped the immigration officers, too, would make me feel welcome.

As I handed over my Pakistani passport, the officer on the other side seemed rather unhappy for the extra work that had just landed on his desk. He got up without uttering a word and went from counter to counter looking for something in the drawers. He came back, bringing a pile of papers, settled in his chair and started to neatly arrange the white sheets alternating with carbon paper. He then handed the pile to me with the instruction to fill them out.

The information sought on the form were no different from what I had provided at the time of visa application. After I had filled the forms, my passport was stamped to my great relief. In no time I was allowed on Indian territory. I remember the thrill and a mild disbelief.

At the end of my trip, I went to the foreigners’ registration office in Delhi to register my departure, I was surprised to overhear two gentlemen in Sikh turbans conversing in Pashto. They were an uncle-and-nephew, hailing from Peshawar, who had come to India as asylum-seekers. The uncle had been living in India for the past 7 years. The nephew had arrived a year ago. He was there to register his departure. Faced with a long drawn out process of naturalization and the difficulties arising from an uncertain legal status, he had given up on making India his home

Driving from the airport to the hotel with a friend who had come to receive me, I was pleased to notice Urdu on the multilingual road signs, that also carried English, Hindi and Punjabi. The check-in at the hotel took rather long. The lady at the reception took my passport to her manager to make sure it was okay for the hotel to host a Pakistani guest. This would happen in every Indian city I visited. In Agra, a hotel cancelled the booking because they did not want the hassle of police registration for Pakistani guests.

The visiting neighbour registers himself

The visa I was granted required police reporting in every city. I, therfore, proceeded to the relevant office near the Ajmeri Gate in Old Delhi. There was a purpose-built office with a sign outside that read Pakistani Visitors Registration Office. This might indicate that the number of visitors from Pakistan is large enough to warrant a dedicated facility for their registration, but upon going in, I found out that that was not the case. There were only a couple of other people waiting to be registered.

I presented my papers and answered questions about the purpose of my visit and the address of my stay, nervously hoping that the papers I had brought with me would satisfy the officer. Everything seemed to be in order until the police officer asked for Form-C, that is supposed to be issued by the accommodation where one stays. Having done much homework about the documentation requirements, I had not come across any mention of this particular form. I went back to the hotel hoping that the people there would be aware of what this form was about and how to get it.

After an hour’s wait at the hotel, I got the Form-C, went back to the registration office and heaved a sigh of relief once the process was completed. My stay in India was now fully compliant. At least for the first few days.

I celebrated this achievement by going with my friend to a nearby roadside tea stall and downing a few cups of ‘cutting chai’ – the iconic karak chai served in characteristic glass tumblers instead of cups with handles and saucers that are more common in Pakistan. Over the following two weeks, the number of cups of chai I consumed would run into hundreds. It became my beverage of choice and a favourite activity.

Over the next fortnight, I visited the police registration offices 10 times in four cities to register my arrival and departure in each city. Luckily, I did not have to wait long at any of the police stations. Other than in Delhi, I did not find any other Pakistani visitors waiting to be registered. On the one hand it was a boon for me as there were no wait; on the other, it was a sad indication of the small number of Pakistani visitors.

At the foreigners’ registration office in each city, the officers did their job as a matter of routine, without appearing inquisitive or curious. They noted down my particulars in thick dusty notebooks retrieved from heaps of files and folders. The only hint of curiosity was shown by an officer in Jaipur. Seeing my place of birth, Dera Ismail Khan, on my passport, he asked in Hindi, “Is this place of birth of yours some sort of a dera?”

Towards the end of my India trip, when I went to the foreigners’ registration office in Delhi to register my departure, I was surprised to overhear two gentlemen in Sikh turbans conversing in Pashto. Excited at the sound of Pashto in Delhi, I went over to them and we exchanged pleasantries warmly. They were an uncle-and-nephew, hailing from Peshawar, who had come to India as asylum-seekers. The uncle had been living in India for the past 7 years. The nephew had arrived a year ago. He was there to register his departure. Faced with a long drawn out process of naturalization and the difficulties arising from an uncertain legal status, he had given up on making India his home.

The continuing stream of Pakistani Hindus and Sikhs migrating to India is a sorry reflection of their alienation from their home country. While departing, my Sikh compatriot invited me to his house in the neighbourhood of Lajpatnagar. With his palm on his chest, he said in Pashto, “Ka mung da para sa khidmat vi, nu hukam kawai” (If we can be of any service to you, please do let us know).

The writer is a chartered accountant currently based in London