U.S. visa stamp

On my first flight to Miami, USA, I wondered how I would adjust to country I had never been to before. I pictured wide roads, skyscrapers, and a rich country where a few dollars would not even matter. But, to my amazement, even a penny mattered in this country. The skyscrapers were way too taller and scarier than what I had imagined. From the plane’s window before it landed, a car parking lot looked like a car dealership. Inside the airport was richly carpeted and the shops looked glittered and dazzled glazed with lights. They were neatly decorated and designed so immaculately that I feared I would defile the place with a mote from my clothes although they were new though. People of different colors and looks and origins were passing me scurrying along with their luggage, while others seemed to be strolling around.  

A security guard beckoned me towards the direction where I was supposed to be in line, asking me to take my passport out and carry it in my hand. It was the line for immigration I had to go through. I took the passport out of my satchel and held it in my hand.

My passport was new and felt smooth. I had recently got the passport to apply for a US visa. I flipped through the pages of it and made double sure that the US visa stamp was right there. When I had got that visa, tears rolled down my cheeks, tears of joy. Every year, hundreds of students applied for a US visa at the American Embassy in Nepal, but hardly ten out of hundred would get them. The visa in my passport had given me the opportunity to come to the US to further my studies.

I was puzzled and trembled, why was this happening to me? I again wondered if I would ever make it to America. So near and yet so far. I looked up at the ceiling high above my head and stared. I had got the US visa with strenuous effort and hard work. I saw the warm smile my parents had and their tears of joy when they saw the visa in my passport. I had borrowed a lot of money from my relatives to book the expensive flight ticket at a high interest rate. My parents’ and my own dream flashed in and flashed out. I wondered if I would get an entry to the USA.

“Your passport, please,” an immigration officer behind a glass shield asked. He looked tall and bulky.

I gave him my passport trying to put a smile on my face and showing him the page where the US visa stamp was. He went through it asking a barrage of questions why I was there, where I was from…

“Tell me the name of the university you will go to here,” he asked.

I carefully and honestly answered his questions every time he asked. Someone had told me while in Nepal that if the immigration officer doubted that I was not in the US for a specific purpose, they might deport me back to my own country. They had the power to do so. I was deeply shaken inside and felt my palms become sweaty while he took time to go through my passport. He asked me to place my thumb and forefinger on a pad. So I did. He pressed them down onto the pad taking my finger prints.

“Where did you get this visa? He asked me again, stern and without any smile. And he took me to a different counter, handed my passport to a different officer and steered me to a waiting area and left. 

I was puzzled and trembled, why was this happening to me? I again wondered if I would ever make it to America. So near and yet so far. I looked up at the ceiling high above my head and stared. I had got the US visa with strenuous effort and hard work. I saw the warm smile my parents had and their tears of joy when they saw the visa in my passport. I had borrowed a lot of money from my relatives to book the expensive flight ticket at a high interest rate. My parents’ and my own dream flashed in and flashed out. I wondered if I would get an entry to the USA.

Someone came to me with my passport and handed back to me, saying “You are all set; welcome to America!” (For more, please go to this link: https://www.amazon.com/Running-Dreamland-Tulasi-Acharya/dp/0988733293)

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.