a day ago
Forgotten files: How a visa form sparked a journey into the past
I am an accidental retrophiliac, or a guardian of bygone eras. I was unaware of the kinds of relics I had amassed throughout my life's journey. In fact, I had pledged long ago that I would not trade nostalgia through my columns because it breeds negativity. But like they say, some things are never in our hands.
Digging roots is what exactly I did all my weekend as mandated by the Schengen visa application form. The last time I went through a similar exercise was when I applied for a permanent residency in Singapore.
Having said that, the best known paleophile in our family is my eldest sister who keeps a mental spreadsheet of all the birth and death anniversaries in the extended Pattali clan. So, when I filled in the Singapore PR form in 2001, she was just 53 and churned out all the dates and other data that I required like a supercomputer.
'Sis, in which year was Dad born?'
'A couple of years after World War I.'
She would come back a little later after checking Dad's imperial passport and his white blazers, still safe in a tin trunk under the wooden bed that had been a witness to many a birth and death in the family, and would say, 'In 1919, to be precise.'
So, when I called her over the weekend to ask for 'parents' dates of birth and places of residence' to fill in the Schengen visa form, she said she is no more as eidetic as in the past.
'Suresh, I'm not sure I too have the stamina to rummage through the colonial relics.' It was a straight no that launched me into the day-night search and rescue operation, Monday being the visa application interview day.
I remembered a copy of dad's passport that had several entries stamped at Dhanushkodi port, his usual exit point to Sri Lanka, or old Ceylon, in my age-old collections. It was a Herculean task to hunch around on a bed and turn every leaf of dozens of files that had been gathering dust in cupboards, chests of drawers, and old briefs and suitcases.
I was aghast at the kind of stuff the search churned out: From children's funny scrap books and personal diaries with critical observations about childhood, menarche and marriage to my first driving test file, warranty papers of the audio system, fridge, washing machine, first personal computer bought from Al Fahidi street in Bur Dubai, first remittance receipt in 1989, school autograph books filled with heartbreaking messages, London Tube and bus tickets, passbooks of Singapore's OCBC and Postbank accounts, dozens of certificates of excellence in sports and cultural events at school and college levels, best bayonet and sharpshooting medals from the Indian army, et al.
Going by the number of remittance receipts that were unearthed, I would have been a multi-millionaire sitting pretty on a stunning bank balance. I sat there and wondered where have all the monies disappeared. Amma's white paper, written on red-lined sheets and dispatched by snail mail, on my financial mismanagement and her budgetary requirements stared me in the eye.
Piles and piles of pay slips from my Bombay days to Dubai-Singapore-Dubai years, notifications of promotions, increments and bonuses, credit card payment delays, fines to etisalat and Dewa, delivery bills from Karachi Darbar, Ravi, Sindh Punjab and Woodlands restaurants, receipts of deposits at video rentals, boarding passes at DXB, counterfoils of Dubai Shopping Festival and Summer Surprises raffles and much more dropped out of suit cases shedding scales.
Dad's imperial passport and mum's school certificates were still missing after two days of search.
'They cannot go anywhere. I had lived with them in the three dozen houses we had lived in in our lifetime, so I will be the last to throw them away,' wifey argued.
Simultaneously, wifey's own search for her parental data drew a blank.
'You are talking about people from the black-and-white, pre-digital era. They lived before Aadhaar and PAN card came into existence so there's no way I can help you.' Her brother was curt in his reply.
But the biggest blast from the past was the original copy of an international wire, or telegram, I received in 1989 from my then and present employer, Galadari Printing and Publishing, intimating me about my visa and travel status for my first overseas job in the UAE. The yellowing piece of paper has more than singular significance. One, the pre-Internet communication service no more exists in India. Two, it opened up a whole new world for me, holding a mirror to a wider spectrum of culture and philosophy and societal values.
Eyes welled up in joy and gratitude as I read the content of the wire:
'YR VISA IS READY. PTA HAS BEEN ARRANGED. YR PTA NO. 0984020554832. PLS CONTACT AIR INDIA OFFICE AND INFORM US THE FLIGHT DETAILS OF YOUR ARRIVAL. TO ENABLE US TO PRODUCE THE VISA AT DUBAI AIRPORT. REGARDS
S.D DASTOOR
MGR (FINANCE AND ADMIN)
KHALEEJ TIMES, DUBAI.
While emotions choked me to silence, my thoughts were about who would take care of these treasures after my time. While sis and I safeguard our parents' legacy that smells of their sweat and blood, will the new-gen children ever bother to carry along the unwanted baggage from the past?
I recollect my conversations with my uncle who called Sri Lanka his home during my last visit before he passed.
'These are valuable books and my communications with the literati in India. I'm not sure if my children, brought up away from the Indian culture, will be interested in preserving them? Why don't you take them to India?'
I did not give a word as I thought it wasn't politically correct to do so without asking his family, spread across the globe. Today, facing the same dilemma, I am asking the same question myself. Relics, anyone?
