Materializing Documents for Green Card

India Currents

December 2008

Everything has a price. The effort entailed in materializing supporting documents for a Green Card is no exception. The US Administration’s policy per se to include US citizens’ parents to be eligible for green card, sans the restrictive visa-quota, is simply matchless. Many countries do offer permanent-residence facilities covering spouse and children, but how many extend this privilege to parents as well? It is this deep commitment to the family-bond concept that makes the country head and shoulders above the rest.

It is equally sensitive to the nostalgia of such parents who have spent the best part of their lives in the country of their origin – the universal home sweet home, wherever that is. All that it expects therefore is to stay in US for six months in a 365-day time frame, and feel free to live in a country of one's choice for the same length of time. A fifty-fifty deal or, the best of both worlds, for the asking.

However, the uphill task of these sexagenarians or septuagenarians in compiling the requisite documents to establish their credentials can sometimes hold them back, if our own experience is anything to go by.

Birth certificate. In the days of yore, many births went unregistered. Of the few that got recorded most did not bear the name. It is reserved for the Nama Karanam ceremony. The pattern, inscribed on stone for our tribe, starts with name of your village, father's name and that of one of the grandparents, the last one becoming your name. A foolproof method to stay tuned to one’s roots. I can’t guess why the nearest railway station, platform number or bus stop got omitted.

Once birth is registered, one never bothers to add the baptized name, let alone collect the certificate for posterity. Word of mouth, not proof, rules the roost thereafter.

Now, nearly seventy years later, I visit the office of the Registrar of Births and Deaths, Palghat, now Palakkad, to verify if the birth has been registered and, if so, to hand me a certificate. “Did you say birth?” the clerk re-ascertains.

For a nominal processing fee, they give you a date depending on the era in which you were born - post-Independence, British, Moghul or pre-historic - to enable them excavate records. My birth stays recorded, but without the name. To overcome that your paternal and maternal relatives affirm, in an affidavit, their relationship with you, personal knowledge of your place, date, month and year of birth, and the fact that you have been named thus at a ceremony.

We travel to Varkala, for my wife’s certificate. Unfortunately, hers had not been registered. We are directed to another desk. “To register birth, at 60?” the assistant asks in disbelief. Apart from legal declarations and undertakings, he insists on us to furnish a personal authentication from an elderly person known to us in the locality. Fortunately, a relative of hers still resides there. He is 89 and kicking. (Longevity runs in both our families and they can give the Japanese, record holders in lifespan, a run for their lives). He stands testimony, though speaking a little more than needed. “That is the problem when octogenarians get a listener,” mumbles the Registrar, probably taking it out on at someone at home.

The verification report in hand, we are directed to the District Magistrate in Trivandrum. After scrutiny, the latter authorizes the Registrar of Births and Deaths to record my wife's birth, 60 years later. I ask the assistant how come they are so much procedure-bound. “That is a good question,’ he says, which means he knows the answer well. “Sir, I don’t mean you (I bet he did), but just assume that an applicant comes to us in the guise of a green card seeker. But in reality he has a court case pending against him where if only he proves this town as his birthplace, the verdict will turn in his favor. He will walk away with the benefits of the judgment, and I will take his place in the witness box for the rest of my life,” he concludes and hands over the birth certificate with my wife’s name appearing on it. “One up on mine,” I hasten, before my wife does that for the rest of the day.

Marriage Certificate. We move on to that task. Nowadays one can obtain it from any city and not necessarily from the place of marriage. We return to our residence in Bangalore. Armed with proofs such as the Wedding invitation, our marriage album (moths having made a sumptuous meal of most parts of our body, leaving a final assault on our face for a later occasion) and helping to climb stairs the two family friends we managed to hunt, who attended our marriage nearly forty years ago, we walk into the office of the Registrar of Marriages. He goes through the papers and the album, and says, “You look the same, sir.” “Either I am not supposed to, or that I manage to look this old that long back?” I conclude. But on all such occasions, an artificial smile, more than countering bureaucrats' observations, makes matters move. I precisely do that.

He signs the papers, not before raising a query. “But, why do you require this certificate, sir? Must be writing your will?” “Not exactly,” I clarify, “we need proof that my wife and I were married before our son was born. He is now a US citizen and is sponsoring our permanent residence there.” “You mean l e a v i n g India?” he asks, reopening the topic we just managed to get over.

Police clearance. This is required from all those places where you stayed continuously for six months in the last five years. We needed one from Bangalore and another from a European city. On remittance of about $100 to the latter authorities, we got the certificate, 'no crime recorded' - $33 per word. For the Indian report, the constable from the Police Station visits our home when we are not around, makes discreet inquiries from a cross section of residents in the apartment complex. Fortunately, we are still projecting the best of ourselves, being new to the place. He leaves a word for us to appear before him at the Police Station, which we do. Standing behind us is a dozen ruffians rounded up during the day and, in front, the police officer himself - a very tall and hefty guy with more hairs on his eyebrows, handlebar moustache and chest than on his head. He surveys us from head to feet. “I have been here for years, but I don’t particularly seem to have spotted you any time,’ he says giving the impression of making a field day of us. “Sir, we try to keep away from three people: the police, an advocate and a doctor, in that order,’ I am about to say, but check myself. Instead I say, “Sir, we shifted to this city recently.” “Ah, so I am right,’ he says triumphantly. “You see, we police officials have an elephant’s memory and a snake’s photosensitive eyes,” he corroborates his case further, as though he expects me to appraise him for his next promotion. I keep mum. “You people seem nice. Your neighbors gave a very good report, which is a rare feat these days,’ he says as he signs our papers in the file. “Next,” he calls, as though we were part of the lot behind.

Meanwhile, we collect yet another report, this one called, Police Verification Report, from the Passport Control Office that their own enquiries of our antecedents have failed to elicit anything incriminating against us. I must say escape route begins with police force.

“If winter comes, can spring be far behind?” To me, this piling up of documents represents the tough exterior of the green card exercise. Once we pieced them together, filled up applications and submitted them to CIS, the tender interior begins to unfold itself. In three months on the dot we receive letters conveying CIS’ approval and welcoming us to US as permanent residents.

V.V. Sundaram, retired from publishing services in a UN organization, is based in Bay Area – vvsundaram40@gmail.com

(Posted: 29 October 2010)