We are legal! part one

A big sigh of relief! We are legally allowed to stay in India and we're not going to be deported. I haven't said anything so far because I didn't want to freak my Mother, who has a tendency to get freaked about her only daughter getting chucked out of the country, don't we all. But back to the beginning...

Thalia, Keir and I entered India on tourist visas. There are only three types of visa issued at the Indian High Commission in London: Tourist, Business and Employment. Obviously we weren't coming here on business, and we aren't employed by an Indian company, so we got the best tourist visa we could, a multiple entry, six month tourist visa. We used this to visit in April, when we sorted out the schools etc, and it was still valid for our journey back here to start our new life abroad with Rod. Unfortunately, it was only valid until September 17th. We would need to go to the Mini Secretariat in Gurgaon to request our visas be changed into dependants visas, as we were here accompanying Rod while he is gainfully employed.

Rod and his HR lady, Lata, have more experience than they would like of the Mini Secretariat. It does not matter how many suporting documents you have, even if you brought everything they asked you for the last time, there will be something else you need. Guaranteed. Lata now travels to the Mini Secretariat with blank letterhead, so she can write any official letters required on the spot. Lata may be the only person in the building who can do anything on the spot...

Anyway, back at Rod's office Lata draws up the list of documents we would need to get our visas changed into dependants ones. Passports, check. Current visa, check. Photocopies of both, check. Photocopy of Rod's house lease, Foreigners Registration document, contract of employment, check. Our marriage certificate...umm, not check. As we got married nearly 13 years ago, we haven't really carried it with us for a while. Quite a while. It's in a safe place. Back at Marina Avenue. Lata says, how can we prove you are married? I say, we have two children, I left a comfortable life in England and travelled to India to live with Rod, do you think I'd do that if I wasn't married to him? Hmm, she says, do you have anything more concrete? We have a wedding photo, and wedding rings. I'll even wear mine when I go there, I say.
Lata is unsure the official at the Secretariat will accept our wedding photo as proof that we are married, although she agrees that the Secretariat accepts some pretty dodgy photocopies, and that it would have cost us more to have mocked up this photo. The first day this worry proves futile, as he looks at the passports and sends us off to the Home Affairs Office in Delhi.

Another day, a different office. We go to the Home Affairs Office with all our official documents and our wedding photo. We take a token, and join the queue to receive an entry pass into the building. That pass allows us to join the queue to receive the application forms, which must be filled out in duplicate. We hand the completed forms back and are told to wait for an interview. We wait. When called, the man interviewing us is not concerned we don't have a marriage certificate. He wants to know why we don't have copies of the kids' birth certificates to show him. Obviously we have their birth certificates, in that safe place, yes, back at Marina Avenue. We have their passports, we say, which proves how old they are. Aha, says the man, passports don't prove that they are your children. Of course they're our children, we cry. Why would we bring someone else's children to India! He doesn't seem to think that's as bizarre a suggestion as we do. I counter, they look like me and they have his surname. Surnames are common, he tells us, lots of people have the same surname. Not Fairweather, says Rod, and plays his trump card. The school accepts that we are their parents, and places on the table the kids' acceptance letters from the British School. The man stops, the look on his face softens, and he picks up the papers. He reads, "Dear Mr and Mrs Fairweather. We are pleased to offer your daughter, Thalia, a place..." I'll see what I can do, he says. Come back at 5pm.

We collect the kids from school and go back to the Home Office. We join all the other poor unfortunates and wait. And wait. At 6.30 we are given a brown envelope with six seals on it. We must not open this envelope. We must take it to the Mini Secretariat. So we spend the weekend not knowing if we are going to be deported or not. Hopefully you won't have to wait that long to find out...