the U.S. Embassy

As I exited into the main courtyard I felt like I could have been in Washington DC—there was grass, somebody was watering it, the parking lot had a few empty spaces, my clothing grasped onto me as if in an attempt to escape the humidity—then I came to my senses, or rather my senses came to me. The perpetual honking reestablished itself as an ambient noise in my inner ear, the traffic on the visible flyover was littered with auto rickshaws, scooters and motorcycles, the grass was less a part of the earth below than a cover up, thinning and shedding like a balding man, and I was surrounded by walls. Yes, I was still in India. No, I had not really forgotten.

It only took me five months to make the five-kilometer journey to the Chennai U.S. Embassy. This could be because my working hours conflicted with theirs, or it could be because the U.S. Embassy possesses very little cultural appeal and seems more like a place to abscond if under imminent attack. It is the only intimidatingly fortified area I’ve seen in all of Chennai, a city of over 8 million, besides the Old Fort, which today acts more as an unnecessarily obstructive wall. Once my Canadian friend and I took the liberty of standing outside the U.S. Embassy walls to reference our map only to be shooed away by Indians in Police uniforms, as a safety precaution of course. In fact everyone working at the Embassy is an Indian in a uniform, not surprising really, it simply makes the degree of the excessive security all the more palpable. Indians on duty have a way of asserting their role as Indians before that as officials: they’ll uphold the law but somehow it’s clear only to avoid reprisal from above.

After passing through two metal detectors, showing my passport twice, and being asked four times about my cell phone and it’s on/off status, I arrived at the “American Library”. A clean, quiet, well-furnished space with those black, mesh computer chairs I so miss from college, I once again felt like I could be in Washington DC. I perused the isles and inquired about the membership fee, I even took some notes, feeling oddly suspicious, as if I’d be shooed away for doing so. But nothing so noteworthy happened. Had I really come all this way just to read a month-old issue of The New York Times? The one thing I’d actually been looking forward to was sitting down with the only hard copy of The NYT in all of south India. But somehow I didn’t really feel like reading about holiday shopping and Thanksgiving recipes in January, not to mention dated Pakistani politics.

Forty-five minutes was more than enough time in the U.S. Embassy, I decided, unless Chennai was under siege. I began the elaborate exit process of signing out, signing in and out of giant booklets is very popular in India, and proceeding through locked doors (less popular) operated by someone whose job description must be something akin to “press button to unlock door when permissible person approaches”. Most of the time I’m left wondering how they manage to keep their jobs.

As I exited the compound the strong impression of crew cuts and sharp glares gave way to mustaches and practiced oblivion. I reflected on the fact that during my last domestic flight in India I hadn’t once had to produce any type of physical identification. I wasn’t sure what I missed back home, what I would miss when I left India, or what was really normal anymore. Not much in any case, not much seemed normal upon reflection.