On the contrary: THE WALL and the tyranny of the honorary white'

Some years ago, E.R.Braithwaite, the former social worker whose experiences in a British school resulted in the novel, ‘To Sir with Love”, was invited by the apartheid government of South Africa to come and check out whether “the natives were friendly.” In order to allow him to pass unhindered through what were euphemistically known as ‘restricted’ areas, the Verwoerd Government issued him with a special document proclaiming his status as “honorary white.” He was sufficiently annoyed by the experience of being a zebra, a black man with temporary white status in a racist regime, to write a book on the subject, scathingly entitled, “Honorary White.” 

Four decades later, the term could well be applied to Indian employees of foreign embassies who display what is best described as an attitude problem. For sheer obstructionism and bloody-mindedness, these wannabe firangs are hard to match.  Inevitably these sad sacks are bottom feeders, clinging desperately to the lowest rung of the consulate ladder as visa section in-charge (VIC) or some such obscure title. But the one who qualified for the Kayani Bakery Shrewsbury biscuit was a henna-haired old Parsi hen who worked for the French embassy in Mumbai. In a manner reminiscent of Marie Antoinette, she would sit aloof and detached in her air-conditioned cubicle, while she barked incomprehensible instructions to visa aspirants through a glass window. She had this endearing habit of breaking into French, especially when dealing with what she perceived to be “chokra fellows.” 

During one of my visits, she was making liberal use of her latest allotment from the stationery department, a magic marker, with which she mysteriously highlighted several columns of an application until both form and applicant bore a decidedly jaundiced look.  Any questions regarding procedure were met with a glare and a loud rebuke. The thought of any of us displaying the audacity to disturb an official of her magnificent stature or worse, invade her holy of holies was sufficient to drive her to apoplectic rage. This may seem familiar to those who frequent the RTO but at least the average citizen goes there knowing what to expect, while a female Caligula spouting Francaise is a bit much. Oddly enough, when approached by a person of colour, pun intended, this bully rapidly mutated into a bootlicker. “Mais oui, certainment, merci…”  

We silently swallow these indignities although I must admit I was sufficiently ‘Frenched’ to entertain myself with fantasies of bodily hurling Mamzelle Muttonhead from the 4th floor to Peddar Road where she would shatter into a million Shrewsbury crumbs. I thought of making her eat the huge French-English dictionary lying on her table, page by moth-eaten page. On sober reflection these seem inadequate punishment for her particular brand of malevolent puffery.
  I should have outsourced the problem to my uncle Kuttu who is, how shall I put it, a reverse racist? He worships whites and had he been issued a work permit, he would have single-handedly have built Trump’s wall. His hatred stems from his Mexperience which I had the luck to witness firsthand. 

Kuttu: I say, are you telling me I have to come to Delhi for a personal visa interview for Mexico?
VIC: Yes, I'm afraid that's our policy.
Kuttu: You'd better be afraid. Listen, I’m a businessman with a five-year multiple entry US visa. You think I’m an immigration risk? What, I'm going to start making tacos in Tijuana?  
VIC: That is our policy for ‘C’ countries.
Kuttu: What do you mean ‘C’? India is ‘C’? What are you, an Indian?
VIC:  Yes. And you still have to come for an interview.
Kuttu: I say, what do you think Mexico is…G-7? I don't believe this.  Look here, the Border Patrol is there only to keep the Mexicans out. I'm going to Mexico for a wedding.
VIC: Oh, why didn't you say so? If you're marrying a Mexican national, there is a different set of forms.
Kuttu: You a*#, I am not getting married. Look here, are you giving me the visa or not?
VIC: No personal interview, no visa.
Kuttu: In that case, to hell with you and Mexico. And you'd better start looking for a job, buddy, because I am going to complain.
   Kuttu happened to run into the Mexican ambassador at a reception in LA and was issued a ‘visa exceptional’ since the bridegroom was related to El Presidente.  One doesn't know what exactly transpired but perhaps there’s been some change since one never knows who will be pissed off enough to say, ‘Shall we tell the President?’ 
If only I could persuade him to take a trip to Paris…