My StoryI knew I couldn’t afford to let this
door to Germany close forever and,
given that dual citizenship was not
permitted, I knew of no other way of
keeping it open.
At 3pm I knocked gently on the
door and went in. The official, an
unsmiling middle-aged woman
with greying hair and a raspy
smoker’s voice, asked me to take a
seat while she got my file out. I felt
unaccountably tense as if I were
there to be assessed once again. The
mandatory written test was behind
me, but I wasn’t sure if I’d have to
pass some sort of inspection
to prove myself worthy of
the citizenship that was
about to be conferred upon
me. I worried that I would
fail. To control my nerves,
I forced myself to look
around the office. There
were a few small plants
and nondescript art prints.
The only picture that stood
out was a face, round as a
ball, by avant-garde artist
Paul Klee called Marked
Man, which is divided into
variously coloured sections.
How appropriate, I thought!
A sectioned face, symbolic
of the immigrants who sit in this
chair, their souls broken into the
colours of the cultures they come
from, their multiple identities, their
divided hearts.
I was surprised by her first
question. “Have you brought your
last salary statement?”
“No, I thought the salary
statements from last year were
enough.”
“Well, that was four months ago!”
she said with a disapproving look,
and I knew that I’d already failed,
that I’d been found wanting.
“ShouldI comebacksomeother
day?”I askedquickly.
“No,no,that’sallright,”shesaid
grudgingly,wantingtogetthewhole
thingoverwith.“Wecangoon.Just
makesureyoubringit tomelater.”Rima Datta divides her time between
Goa and Germany. She loves nature
and is saddened by the pace of
urbanisation. Rima also enjoys writing
poetry.
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