The Pakistani consulate in New York is housed in a beautiful 19th-century townhouse steps from central park, a fact that wouldn’t guess from looking at it. The house is slightly grimmer than the private residences around it, its windows less shiny, its stone mottled and dirty, and generally it exudes that air of decrepit acceptance I expect of any reputable government building. A large flag hangs outside the main door, where I stood for a good two minutes, trying to get through the locked wrought iron front door.
The words came out of thin air. “Yes?”
I tried to open the door again.
“ID,” said a voice after a particularly vigorous shake of the door knob didn’t budge it.
I tried peering in through the grail to see who was speaking.
“Hi, I’m here for...”
“ID,” the voice repeated irritably.
I always thought consulates and embassies had a reputation for unlocked front doors, an image made famous by Cold War movies where Russian spies ran into US embassies in Berlin to escape death. Standing outside our own consulate felt like trying to get into some seedy, out-of-bounds establishment.
Eventually I saw pair of eyes examining me from behind the door and so I flashed my ID. It opened noisily into a vestibule manned by a young man wearing a guarded expression.
“What do you want?”
I said “Passport” because “To feel slightly welcome, you venomous gnome” wouldn’t have been productive. He pointed to a waiting room to the right. Inside I took a token (#293) and sat down on the empty row of plastic chairs that faced two people behind a glass divider.
The interior looked like the sets from Age of Innocence has been refurbished into a hospice waiting room by budget conscious government officials. Small print-out pictures of Mohenjodaro and Gwadar were perched haphazardly on top of ornate marble fireplaces that boasted cherubs holding garlands; the wainscoting and paneling of the main room was overrun with Government of Pakistan handouts; the light fixtures were that special harsh blue tubelight you only find in South Asia, and looked extravagantly misplaced in their decorative plaster niches. The whole place looks, feels and most strikingly smells like a proper government office in Pakistan (*sexy whisper*: Eau de Apathy…by Calvin Klein). This atmosphere is quite an incredible feat, considering it is 200 feet away from Central Park.
After getting my passport renewed in Pakistan turned into the third most stressful event in my life, I vowed I would try to do it abroad next time, you know, for a change in trauma. And it seemed I was right, because on this Tuesday mid-morning, there was no one but myself and two files in that room, both uneasy transports from Punjab. I looked up at the monitor.
Serving #290 it said. I looked at the people behind the desk, they looked at me and then away, and nobody spoke. So it went on for 15 minutes until I gingerly went up and asked how long it would be, at which point they wordlessly took my application and pointed to a photocopying machine in the corner.
“What about it?” I asked.
“Copies,” said the man and got up to refill his coffee. I came back a few minutes later with a stack of papers and these he stapled together before sending me into a deeper part of the house.
If I was arrested by the dissonance of the entrance vestibule, I was positively traumatized by the reception hall. It was a heartbreakingly beautiful room - soaring curving staircases, iron railings, floral moldings, black and white parquet floor - that had been decorated as nothing more than a functionary’s office. Disturbing paintings of men with goats against blue triangles were hung in prominent positions, or at least where a PTDC poster wasn’t already disintegrating. Aesthetics aside, the rest of the process went quicker than expected, but less quickly than it should have, considering there was not a single other person. Not even one.
Towards the end they printed out a receipt that had my date of pick up, and I got all excited about this aspirational promptness until the guy at the door took the paper and crossed out all that info.
“Check here,” he said, writing down a link with a new tracking number, “and it will tell you when it’s ready for pick up.”
“How long does it usually take?”
Shrug.
“Can I call someone to find out?”
Half-shrug.
“So where are you from?” I said, in an effort to get chummy.
The man nodded and walked right away.
I opened the front door to leave and the two flies escaped with me. As I turned a corner I saw an Indian flag, and realized that both consulates were probably neighbours here too. I smirked at this little coincidence, and left with the knowledge that although there may be no place like home, you can recreate it anywhere if you talk to the right government department.
Write to thekantawala@gmail.com
The words came out of thin air. “Yes?”
I tried to open the door again.
“ID,” said a voice after a particularly vigorous shake of the door knob didn’t budge it.
I tried peering in through the grail to see who was speaking.
“Hi, I’m here for...”
“ID,” the voice repeated irritably.
I always thought consulates and embassies had a reputation for unlocked front doors, an image made famous by Cold War movies where Russian spies ran into US embassies in Berlin to escape death. Standing outside our own consulate felt like trying to get into some seedy, out-of-bounds establishment.
After getting my passport renewed in Pakistan turned into the third most stressful event in my life, I vowed I would try to do it abroad next time, you know, for a change in trauma
Eventually I saw pair of eyes examining me from behind the door and so I flashed my ID. It opened noisily into a vestibule manned by a young man wearing a guarded expression.
“What do you want?”
I said “Passport” because “To feel slightly welcome, you venomous gnome” wouldn’t have been productive. He pointed to a waiting room to the right. Inside I took a token (#293) and sat down on the empty row of plastic chairs that faced two people behind a glass divider.
The interior looked like the sets from Age of Innocence has been refurbished into a hospice waiting room by budget conscious government officials. Small print-out pictures of Mohenjodaro and Gwadar were perched haphazardly on top of ornate marble fireplaces that boasted cherubs holding garlands; the wainscoting and paneling of the main room was overrun with Government of Pakistan handouts; the light fixtures were that special harsh blue tubelight you only find in South Asia, and looked extravagantly misplaced in their decorative plaster niches. The whole place looks, feels and most strikingly smells like a proper government office in Pakistan (*sexy whisper*: Eau de Apathy…by Calvin Klein). This atmosphere is quite an incredible feat, considering it is 200 feet away from Central Park.
After getting my passport renewed in Pakistan turned into the third most stressful event in my life, I vowed I would try to do it abroad next time, you know, for a change in trauma. And it seemed I was right, because on this Tuesday mid-morning, there was no one but myself and two files in that room, both uneasy transports from Punjab. I looked up at the monitor.
Serving #290 it said. I looked at the people behind the desk, they looked at me and then away, and nobody spoke. So it went on for 15 minutes until I gingerly went up and asked how long it would be, at which point they wordlessly took my application and pointed to a photocopying machine in the corner.
“What about it?” I asked.
“Copies,” said the man and got up to refill his coffee. I came back a few minutes later with a stack of papers and these he stapled together before sending me into a deeper part of the house.
If I was arrested by the dissonance of the entrance vestibule, I was positively traumatized by the reception hall. It was a heartbreakingly beautiful room - soaring curving staircases, iron railings, floral moldings, black and white parquet floor - that had been decorated as nothing more than a functionary’s office. Disturbing paintings of men with goats against blue triangles were hung in prominent positions, or at least where a PTDC poster wasn’t already disintegrating. Aesthetics aside, the rest of the process went quicker than expected, but less quickly than it should have, considering there was not a single other person. Not even one.
Towards the end they printed out a receipt that had my date of pick up, and I got all excited about this aspirational promptness until the guy at the door took the paper and crossed out all that info.
“Check here,” he said, writing down a link with a new tracking number, “and it will tell you when it’s ready for pick up.”
“How long does it usually take?”
Shrug.
“Can I call someone to find out?”
Half-shrug.
“So where are you from?” I said, in an effort to get chummy.
The man nodded and walked right away.
I opened the front door to leave and the two flies escaped with me. As I turned a corner I saw an Indian flag, and realized that both consulates were probably neighbours here too. I smirked at this little coincidence, and left with the knowledge that although there may be no place like home, you can recreate it anywhere if you talk to the right government department.
Write to thekantawala@gmail.com