It's seven forty-five in the morning when I'm standing on the most posh avenue of this town. I light the first cigarette of the day and try to relax.
The Indian Visa Office opens at eight. I feel edgy and restless. Applying for an Indian visa might look like an ordinary case of paperwork and paying. It's a huge step forward on this dubious trail. The speed of which reality is catching up with my hazy dreams is truly frightening.
At eight o'clock sharp I take a deep breath and enter the office. It's a tiny place, just a waiting area and a counter. A flat screen in the corner is playing 'Visit India' commercials on the beat of Hindi pop music. There's one person in front of me; a cute, blonde twenty-something girl. She's nervously struggling with glue, passport pics and visa paperwork. While looking for a seat I catch her apologetic smile. We greet in broken English. She looks rather lost and confused in here. Then an official appears and invites her over at the counter. While she's standing there I can't help but notice that her derrière looks very pleasant in those jeans. Slowly my eyes drift upwards. Her sweater appears to be somewhat strange. There are washing prescription tags on the outside. Seams run down from her smooth neck along her sleeves all the way down to her graceful hands... By the time I have finally figured out she's wearing her sweater inside out, she has noticed it too. Quickly she glances around to check if anyone's looking. At this point I'm still very much staring so our eyes meet. I laugh and then she has to laugh too…
Two days later I return to the Visa Office to collect my passport. I'm good to go.
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