The Inheritance of Loss - Kiran Desai [86]
Some would be chosen, others refused, and there was no question of fair or not. What would make the decision? It was a whim; it was not liking your face, forty-five degrees centigrade outside and impatience with all Indians, therefore; or perhaps merely the fact that you were in line after a yes, so you were likely to be the no. He trembled to think of what might make these people unsympathetic. Presumably, though, they would start off kind and relaxed, and then, faced with all the fools and annoying people, with their lies and crazy stories, and their desire to stay barely concealed under fervent promises to return, they would respond with an indiscriminate machine-gun-fire of NO!NO!NO!NO!NO!
On the other hand, it occurred to those who now stood in the front, that at the beginning, fresh and alert, they might be more inclined to check their papers more carefully and find gaps in their arguments…. Or perversely start out by refusing, as if for practice.
There was no way to fathom the minds and hearts of these great Americans, and Biju watched the windows carefully, trying to uncover a pattern he might learn from. Some officers seemed more amiable than others, some scornful, some thorough, some were certain misfortune, turning everyone away empty-handed.
He would have to approach his fate soon enough. He stood there telling himself, Look unafraid as if you have nothing to hide. Be clear and firm when answering questions and look straight into the eyes of the officer to show you are honest. But when you are on the verge of hysteria, so full of anxiety and pent-up violence, you could only appear honest and calm by being dishonest. So, whether honest or dishonest, dishonestly honest-looking, he would have to stand before the bulletproof glass, still rehearsing answers to the questions he knew were coming up, questions to which he had to have perfectly made-up replies.
“How much money do you have?”
“Can you prove to us you won’t stay?”
Biju watched as the words were put forward to others with complete bluntness, with a fixed and unembarrassed eye—odd when asking such rude questions. Standing there, feeling the enormous measure of just how despised he was, he would have to reply in a smart yet humble manner. If he bumbled, tried too hard, seemed too cocky, became confused, if they didn’t get what they wanted quickly and easily, he would be out. In this room it was a fact accepted by all that Indians were willing to undergo any kind of humiliation to get into the States. You could heap rubbish on their heads and yet they would be begging to come crawling in….
______
“And what is the purpose of your visit?”
“What should we say, what should we say?” they discussed in the line. “We’ll say a hubshi broke into the shop and killed our sister-in-law and now we have to go to the funeral.”
“Don’t say that.” An engineering student who was already studying at the University of North Carolina, here for the renewal of his visa, knew this would not sound right.
But he was shouted down. He was unpopular.
“Why not?”
“You are going too far. It’s a stereotype. They’ll suspect.”
But they insisted. It was a fact known to all mankind: “It’s black men who do all of this.”
“Yes, yes,” several others in the line agreed. “Yes, yes.” Black people, living like monkeys in the trees, not like us, so civilized….
They were, then, shocked to see the African-American lady behind the counter. (God, if the Americans accepted them, surely they would welcome Indians with open arms? Won’t they be happy to see us!)
But… already some ahead were being turned away. Biju’s worry grew as he saw a woman begin to shriek and throw herself about in an epilepsy of grief. “These people won’t let me go, my daughter has just had a baby, these people won’t let me go, I can’t even look at my own grandchild, these