{"id":13127,"date":"2025-12-19T18:20:31","date_gmt":"2025-12-19T17:20:31","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=13127"},"modified":"2025-12-20T12:57:08","modified_gmt":"2025-12-20T11:57:08","slug":"stuck-in-the-middle","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=13127","title":{"rendered":"Stuck in the Middle"},"content":{"rendered":"

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Image: \u00a9 Courtesy of Manchester City Galleries<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cApplying for a visa extension?\u201d the man behind the plexiglass in the Holborn post office asks you.<\/p>\n

\u201cYes,\u201d you say, slightly out of breath, clutching a crumpled letter from the Home Office. Your stomach had started churning as soon as you saw it this morning and you had hurried to the post office as soon as you could. Your anxiety roils inside you like the sea trying to drown Odysseus. \u201cI am here to give my biometric details?\u201d The man behind the plexiglass holds out his hand for your letter, your obol to cross the river Styx. He reads through the letter and grunts. \u201cMs. Mallika Bull. Got a job here, have you?\u201d he asks you, handing the letter back. You are uncertain about this question. Was he baiting you? Would he call you a scrounger? Would he accuse you of stealing a job? The natural birthright given only to full citizens? Should you lie and say that you are a student? Was that worse? The silence has gone on for too long. You opt for a neutral, \u201cSure\u201d. \u00a0<\/p>\n

\u201cHow long have you been here?\u201d the postman asks, lobbing another grenade into an otherwise placid room of false ceilings, fluorescent lighting and grey carpeting. \u2018Stuck in the middle with you\u2019 by Stealers Wheel is playing in the background.\u00a0<\/p>\n

\u201cEight years.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou enjoy it here?\u201d<\/p>\n

This could get tricky. If you said yes, he could say, fuck you, go back to where you came from. But if you said no, he could still say, fuck you, you lazy, ungrateful immigrant, you should go back to where you came from.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s alright,\u201d you say, going for the quintessentially British answer. It could either mean that it was awful but you didn\u2019t complain about it; or that it was wonderful but you didn\u2019t make a big show of it; or it was over-hyped, like English tea, and you were too embarrassed to ask for something better, like a flat white.<\/p>\n

\u201cAlright, that\u2019s you done here. Have a good day.\u201d<\/p>\n

Sighing with relief that the questioning was finally over, you walk out of the damp room, and onto High Holborn. It is a sunny day but a cold breeze is blowing. You pull down your cardigan sleeves over your hands, hunch your shoulders, pull your body into yourself to shield against the wind and start walking. This would be your last visa extension. After this you can finally apply for indefinite leave to remain. The multiple rounds of visa applications and extensions, and the gut-churning anxiety that came along with it, would finally come to an end.<\/p>\n

Your phone beeps a reminder\u2014 you are getting late for your coffee date. Better start jogging.<\/p>\n

#<\/p>\n

You dream of a small subterranean office in a nondescript suburb somewhere in Little Britain. Like Watford. The room is lit by fluorescent panels. \u00a0There are white bars on the skylight overlooking a derelict pavement. In the room sits your passport, in a pile of other passports, ready for sorting, in front of three grey people in three grey suits.<\/p>\n

#<\/p>\n

\u201cSo, what do you do?\u201d you ask your date trying to make small talk. You are flushed and sweaty from your jog. Ben, your date, was already at the coffee shop when you staggered in, out of breath. You can feel that your face and ears are still hot and flushed, and it\u2019s making you uncomfortable and self-conscious. The coffee shop has a glass front. You can see the park outside. In stark contrast to you, the park is a picture of idyllic calm. The sunlight is dappling the lawns as kids run pell-mell around the central fountain. You turn back to look at Ben. You had matched with him on a dating app but you weren\u2019t very sure about him. He looked too preppy, the kind of man who would have been in the Bullingdon Club. But the app algorithm was confident that you were 95 per cent compatible.<\/p>\n

\u201cI work in the City, for an investment bank,\u201d Ben says swirling his matcha latte delicately, in a clipped middle-class accent.<\/p>\n

\u201cI thought you might be a banker.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOh really? How come?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWell, your clothes look rich. And such sharp fold lines. Only bankers wear that.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThat\u2019s funny,\u201d Ben says but doesn\u2019t crack a smile. \u201cWhat do you do then?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI teach English as a Second Language at the London Met, and I do some editing on the side.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cFantastic. It\u2019s nice that your day job leaves you with enough time to do another job.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYeah, thanks I guess.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYes, I think it is rather lovely how you people can just flit about without any responsibilities, dropping anchor where you see fit, and taking off when you like. I envy you.\u201d<\/p>\n

You laugh uncomfortably. Did he think having two jobs was like having two hobbies? Your mind goes to your bank balance, which was always too small.<\/p>\n

\u201cSo, what brought you to London?\u201d Ben asks.<\/p>\n

\u201cI came here to study for my Master\u2019s and then somehow managed to stay on,\u201d you tell him.<\/p>\n

\u201cAh! Of course! Hard to leave London, isn\u2019t it?\u201d<\/p>\n

Was it hard to leave London? You hadn\u2019t left the city in the last four years\u2014 you never had the money for it. You had come because you had been running away. And now, leaving seemed so despairingly permanent<\/em>. You didn\u2019t think you could both leave and<\/em> come back.<\/p>\n

You don\u2019t say any of this. \u201cIt is, yes,\u201d you agree with Ben, instead. It\u2019s easier.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhere are you from, if you don\u2019t mind my asking?\u201d Ben continues, the subtextual \u201cReally?\u201d floating thick and heavy in the air between the two of you.<\/p>\n

\u201cIndia\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOh, I love India. I went there for a holiday last year.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWere you? Where did you go?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cTons of places. Delhi, Jaipur, Rishikesh. It\u2019s so colourful<\/em>. I went with some friends on a Yoga-Vipasana retreat.\u201d<\/p>\n

You try very hard to stop your eyes from rolling over. \u201cOh really?\u201d This man was such a clich\u00e9.<\/p>\n

\u201cYes, it was great. You might find it hard to believe, but I love yoga.\u201d<\/p>\n

Your mother would approve of that, you think to yourself. She had been trying to get you to do yoga since you were a child. \u201cThat\u2019s lovely,\u201d you say with all the enthusiasm you can muster, which isn\u2019t much.<\/p>\n

\u201cYes,\u201d he says as he reaches down carefully to unbutton his shirt. You look at him with \u00a0horrified fascination as he pinches his thumb and forefinger, inserting them into his navel, and pulls out a small lint ball. \u201cFor me, doing yoga gives me the same happiness that people get from orgasming. Yoga is orgasmic,\u201d he finishes and flicks his lint onto an unsuspecting passerby. You feel your stomach turn.<\/p>\n

\u201cIs that so?\u201d you say instead with a manic, forced sweetness and get up to leave. \u201cYou know, it is such a shame, I would have loved to hear more, but I have a meeting I need to get to.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOh?\u201d Ben asks stupidly. He looks surprised and then slightly crestfallen. \u201cWould you like to go on a second date then?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSure,\u201d you say without committing to anything specific, \u201cI\u2019ll call you. I might be a bit busy over the next few weeks though.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOf course. No worries at all.\u201d<\/p>\n

As you walk home, you take out your phone. The dating app has a jaunty notification ready for you, one of the many questions it asks to match its users\u2019 personalities. \u201cIn certain circumstances, do you think a nuclear explosion would be erotic?\u201d you shudder and delete the app.<\/p>\n

#<\/p>\n

There are three grey people in your dreams, in grey suits, sat in a basement office, sifting through piles of passports from across the world, slowly and painstakingly, with no emotions. The world and its people, lie on their table, waiting to be weighed and dissected. The first grey person on the left picks the passports up one by one, flips through the pages, and hands it over to the second. The second combs through the application form, looking for the tiniest excuse to reject a visa. The third reviews everything, confirms the decision, reseals the package, and drops it in one of two bins marked \u2018REJECTED\u2019 and \u2018ACCEPTED\u2019.<\/p>\n

#<\/p>\n

It is early evening by the time you get back to your flat, almost late for your weekly Skype call with your parents. Your flatmates are out. You trudge through the empty living room and up the stairs to your small windowless bedroom. You fling your bag on to your half-made bed, pop your laptop open and settle down on your small study desk which often doubles as a vanity and dining table.<\/p>\n

\u201cHello Mynah beta,\u201d your mother greets you, using your nickname, invoking an intimacy that should exist between you two, but had frayed into nothingness a long time ago, \u201cHow are you? Have you been eating properly?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYes,\u201d you reply perfunctorily, readying yourself for your weekly maternal boxing match.\u00a0<\/p>\n

\u201cHmm, yes, you do look like you have put on a few kilos. You really should watch it. And cut down on all that coffee that you drink. It\u2019s not good for your heart you know,\u201d your mother says, the champion pugilist, getting a few knocks in right at the start and looking for more openings, \u201cHow\u2019s the job hunt coming along?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m looking, but I still have to hear back from places,\u201d you tell her.<\/p>\n

\u201cAre you coming home for Diwali?\u201d your mother asks. You haven\u2019t been home for Diwali in a few years now. You can see on your computer screen that your mother has already started putting up the lights.<\/p>\n

\u201cI just sent in my biometric details today Ma. If I get my passport back in time, I\u2019ll come.\u201d Your mother notices your lack of excitement and looks disappointed by it. \u201cMynah,\u201d she says in a softer tone, \u201cI had a dream about you last night.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYeah? What was it?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI dreamt that you were back home but were insisting on taking your bedding and sleeping in the toilet. And I kept trying to stop you, \u2018Mynah why are you sleeping in the toilet, you have a nice bed, go sleep there.\u2019 But you wouldn\u2019t listen. You insisted on sleeping in the toilet.\u201d<\/p>\n

The image is both bleak and ridiculous. You can\u2019t help but laugh. \u201cI\u2019ll see Ma,\u201d you respond, \u201cI\u2019m trying to make something of myself here. If nothing works out, I\u2019ll come back.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI don\u2019t know why you keep hanging on there, Mynah. We\u2019ll find you a nice boy here to marry and you can settle down. There\u2019s a new boy that\u2019s joined your father\u2019s accounting firm.\u201d Aaah, that old chestnut. She had taken her time getting to marriage. Usually, it was the first question on their Skype calls.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019ve told you many times already. If I want to marry someone, I\u2019ll be the one doing the finding, not you.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYes, but look at you. You\u2019re putting on weight from all that junk food that you must be eating, and it\u2019s not like you\u2019re getting any younger. You\u2019re twenty-nine already. Come home. We\u2019ll get you in tiptop shape and find you a suitable boy.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThat\u2019s not fair,\u201d you exclaim. You can feel your face heating up again. You try standing up for yourself, without raising your voice. You\u2019re getting emotional, you\u2019re being rude, your mother will scream back. \u201cYou can\u2019t talk to me like that!\u201d you say through gritted teeth.<\/p>\n

\u201cI can speak however I like!\u201d your mother replies, her softness replaced immediately by her usual high-pitched screeching, \u201cHow dare you try and hold my tongue? Who are you to tell me to stay silent?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m not telling you to stay silent, I am telling you that you cannot speak that way to me.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI will speak as I please, to anyone I please. Do not ever dare<\/em> to tell me to stay silent young lady.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWell, how would you have liked me to respond to you then?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou should acknowledge your faults, just like I acknowledge mine. You have a good personality Mallika, but you are lazy. But it\u2019s okay, I\u2019ll sort that out for you, don\u2019t you worry.\u201d<\/p>\n

There it was. Your mother\u2019s need to sort you out. This is why you had run away. There was no point arguing with her, you knew that from experience. If your mother had her way, she would prefer that you debased yourself, killed yourself, and replaced yourself with someone who looked like you but was docile, lobotomized. Better to cut the call, better to stay far, far away. There was no winning, only escaping. \u201cI should get going, I have work to get to,\u201d you say.<\/p>\n

\u201cOkay, make sure you eat your dinner on time Mynah,\u201d your mother says, soft again, her perfunctory ending for every call, as if convincing herself that by telling you to eat she had fulfilled her role as a Good MotherTM<\/sup>. You cut the call, with the bitter taste of bile in your mouth.<\/p>\n

#<\/p>\n

Stubbed out cigarettes and half-empty coffee mugs were piling up next to the handling table as the three grey suits spindled out the passports. Most passports went into the two bins, but a few fell into the endless chasm between them and were lost forever. The first grey suit finally picks up your passport.<\/p>\n

#<\/p>\n

You knock on Laura\u2019s apartment door, late for her house party. \u201cCome in, come in, we\u2019re just through here,\u201d she says as she opens the door and ushers you into a narrow passageway which continues into a narrow kitchen which in turn continues into a narrow dining area, all of it made narrower by the press of people in the room.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m so glad you made it! Come on, let\u2019s get you a drink. What would you like?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cGin and tonic please.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOne Gin and Tonic coming up!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHow\u2019s it going so far?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNot too bad! We have some finger food here to nibble on. We might get some pizzas later if people want.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cCool!\u201d<\/p>\n

Laura draws you in close and says conspiratorially, \u201cMy only aim for this party is that it doesn\u2019t become one of your stories.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat do you mean?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNothing. You have such funny stories about meeting awful people. I\u2019m hoping this won\u2019t give you fodder for that.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cFingers crossed!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHere, let me introduce you to my friends,\u201d Laura takes you by the hand and leads you to a couple standing by the window. \u201cDo you know Harry and Abigail? What were you two talking about?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOh, we were talking about our weekend. We were at this lovely exhibition about slavery at the Tate Modern the other day,\u201d Abigail says as Laura leaves you to play the host somewhere else in the room.<\/p>\n

\u201cOh yes,\u201d you say, \u201cI went to that one. I was in tears by the end of it.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWell, we didn\u2019t cry,\u201d Abigail says, looking at you like you had admitted to shitting in public, \u201cWe thought the Angela Davis portrait was amazing.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAnd Fred Hampton\u2019s Door 2 was fun as welll,\u201d Harry added. \u201cIt was so cool to see all the bullet holes in the door. It must have been quite an operation, getting him.\u201d<\/p>\n

Why was Fred Hampton\u2019s door, pock marked with his assassins\u2019 bullet holes, fun? Had they not seen the tragedy in it? But then again, you think , why would they? Later, you\u2019ll be angry at yourself for even thinking like this. They should <\/em>see the tragedy! They should, they should, you will think later. But right now, you can feel your face burning again, you feel uncomfortable again, so you change the conversation. \u201cWhere are you from Abigail?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m British-American, so I keep moving around. Most recently I was in the Netherlands for a bit.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOh, really? What did you do there?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI was interning with a law firm.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThat\u2019s such a coincidence. A friend of mine interned at The Hague a couple of years ago, at the International Courts of Justice. She said she liked living in Netherlands better than living in London. And that it was much cheaper too.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYes, but London really is the best place to live in the world. Well, maybe New York too, but that\u2019s it.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhy do you say that?\u201d\u00a0<\/p>\n

Abigail looks at you aghast, as if you had asked her to prove why water was wet. \u201cWe\u2019re just so cosmopolitan,\u201d she purrs \u201cSo much art, so many cuisines. You really feel like a citizen of the world. You can\u2019t really find this anywhere else.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI do like those things about London,\u201d you say, not liking Abigail\u2019s superior tone.<\/p>\n

\u201cSee! And the Dutch are such\u2026conformists.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIs that so?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYes! No sense of individuality, they just follow whatever the norm is. And if you want to act against it, they really go after you for it! It doesn\u2019t go down well with them.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHow so?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWell, take immigration for instance,\u201d Abigail says. Aha, you think, we could slag off Fortress Europe together. \u201cLook at how they\u2019re taking in so many refugees! It\u2019s a bit irresponsible really.\u201d Abigail continues incredulously.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m sorry?\u201d you really should have seen this twist coming.<\/p>\n

\u201cYes! I mean, I know I\u2019m in the minority here, in my generation, but I don\u2019t think immigration is such a good thing.\u201d<\/p>\n

You can now feel your ears heating up with rage and shame. Your smile is frozen into a rictus of rage. \u201cHow do you mean?\u201d you manage to spit out.<\/p>\n

\u201cWell, I\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cMallika, there you are!\u201d Laura comes tumbling back with a few more guests. The flow of the conversation abruptly turns back to small talk as another wave of introductions takes place. You stand in the circle, but you are only partly there. Part of you is still in your conversation with Abigail, seething.<\/p>\n

\u00a0\u201cWhat plans for the bank holiday weekend Mallika?\u201d Harry asks you. You hadn\u2019t noticed that he was standing next to you now.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat? Oh!\u201d you snap back to the party, \u201cProbably just going to a park and reading, what about you?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWe are going to Austria on a skiing trip, why don\u2019t you come with us?\u201d Harry offers, with the sudden generosity of the drunk.<\/p>\n

That was dangerous, you want to tell him. You might push Abigail off a cliff. \u201cI\u2019m afraid I can\u2019t,\u201d you tell him instead, \u201cMy passport is with the Home Office.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat? Why?\u201d Harry asks, \u201cDid you do something wrong?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI applied for a visa extension.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cCome on! That\u2019s a pretty lame excuse. I\u2019m sure you can travel without a passport?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo,\u201d you say, quietly but firmly, \u201cI can\u2019t. I need my passport to travel,\u201d Harry harrumphs, unconvinced. He doesn\u2019t believe you. He moves away from you, as if being an immigrant was a contagious disease.<\/p>\n

Later that night, when you are leaving the party, you bump into Abigail coming out of the loo.<\/p>\n

\u201cOff so soon?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYes, I need to catch the last tube back.\u201d And get far away from you Abigail.<\/p>\n

\u201cThat\u2019s a shame. I\u2019m sorry we couldn\u2019t talk more! I hope to contest the elections one day with the Labour Party, you know. Have a safe journey home!\u201d<\/p>\n

Funny, I thought you\u2019d be fighting on a UKIP ticket, you think to yourself. It was only when you\u2019re back on the Victoria line that you remember that Abigail had said, \u201cHave a safe journey home!\u201d Not, \u201cnice meeting you\u201d, or \u201cgood night\u201d.\u00a0 It probably meant nothing, but it still leaves you feeling queasy.<\/p>\n

#<\/p>\n

In your dreams you see the first suit poring over your passport with spindly hands, like an overgrown cockroach. He emotionlessly passes it to the second suit. The second, also grey, also spindly, does the same and passes it to the third, also without emotion. This was not a room for emotions. Their job was to clinically unspool people\u2019s lives. No joy, no anger, no empathy, no emotions. Sometimes, people didn\u2019t get their lives back, but that was just how things went in this small, fluorescent-lit, subterranean office.<\/p>\n

#<\/p>\n

\u201cDon\u2019t use the pedals for now, just balance on the bike,\u201d Daniel shouts. He is a friend from college who has decided to teach you how to ride a bike.<\/p>\n

\u201cHow come you never learnt ? We all did when were kids,\u201d Daniel had asked you earlier in the week.<\/p>\n

\u201cMy mother never let me,\u201d you had said, shrugging. You had learnt to live with that fact. \u201cShe thought it was too dangerous. She worried that I might get run over by cars. Or get kidnapped.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAnd you haven\u2019t learnt since?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI keep thinking I might, but I never get around to it.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhy don\u2019t I start you this Sunday? And we\u2019ll make sure that you don\u2019t get run over by a car or get kidnapped.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAre you sure? I feel uncomfortable bothering you like this.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s no bother. If I can help a fellow kid rebel against their overbearing parents, however late in life, I consider it time well spent.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOkay, if you insist.\u201d You found his exuberance charming.<\/p>\n

You meet him in front of the British Museum where he\u2019d been standing next to a bank of Santander bikes. \u201cThese are really heavy,\u201d you complain once you get a bike out of its stand.<\/p>\n

\u201cYes, I think it\u2019s to make them harder to steal,\u201d David says, and catches you gallantly as you almost trip, \u201cI\u2019m sorry, I\u2019ll get my bike next time. It\u2019s much easier to handle. In the meantime, let\u2019s find somewhere with a nice incline, so pushing the bike will be easier. You can just steer.\u201d<\/p>\n

You walk around with David till you get to the Senate House parking lot and find the incline he is looking for.\u00a0 He stands you at the gate at the top of the incline, holding you by your waist. \u201cOkay, so I\u2019m going to give you a push. All you have to do is make this go all the way through the lot, to the building. This is a gentle incline, so you should be fine,\u201d he announces.<\/p>\n

\u201cOkay.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cReady?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cReady.\u201d<\/p>\n

He pushes the bike and down the slope you go, picking up speed. Suddenly, as you near the bottom, the front wheel veers to the left, and you careen into a wall. \u201cThat\u2019s great! Let\u2019s try again,\u201d David calls out.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s great?! I thought I\u2019d pitch over the wall! This was not a gentle incline!\u201d<\/p>\n

You roll the bike back to the top of the incline and get into position. Daniel pushes you again. This time the bike doesn\u2019t veer left. Instead, it goes straight, and you almost hit an old man coming out of the building. \u201cWhat the bloody hell! Watch where you\u2019re going!\u201d the man shouts at you, as he jumps out of your way. Daniel is doubled over laughing as you roll the cycle back to the top. \u201cThe Empire strikes back,\u201d you quip sheepishly. The lesson continues for a bit, but you don\u2019t feel like you\u2019re any closer to getting the hang of it. You do feel Daniel becoming a lot more comfortable adjusting your stance on the bike. Instead of instructing you, he moves you as he sees fit. Your hands, your elbows, your shoulders, your waist, your feet. You think you can see where this is going.\u00a0<\/p>\n

After what you think was a futile lesson, you get onto the Victoria line together. \u201cWhat\u2019s your biggest fear?\u201d you ask Daniel. \u201cImmigrants,\u201d Daniel says drily, and you burst out laughing. \u201cYou\u2019ll have to deport me then,\u201d you say. \u201cOh no!\u201d he says in mock horror, \u201cand I was teaching you how to cycle too. I can\u2019t deport you now, you\u2019ll just cycle away! Or run me over!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI promise to try my best,\u201d you say, smiling.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat\u2019s your biggest fear?\u201d Daniel asks.<\/p>\n

\u201cCurrently? That I\u2019ll be stuck here, unable to stay, unable to leave. That I\u2019ll be alone, without hope. That I\u2019ll find a person I love, but they won\u2019t love me back.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThat does sound terrible. Can I give you a hug?\u201d Daniel offers with a kind smile, and you gladly accept. \u201cYou know, if I were dating you, I\u2019d never let you get away.\u201d You are silent and look up at him. You want to kiss his goofy face so you reach up and do it. But Daniel pulls back, suddenly serious. \u201cMallika,\u201d he says, in a pitying tone, just as the tube comes to a stop, \u201cI\u2019m so sorry. I thought you knew? I have a girlfriend.\u201d You don\u2019t know what to say, you can feel your face burning from embarrassment. You quickly apologize and get out of the carriage, even though you\u2019re a stop away from where you meant to get off. You walk the rest of the way home, cursing yourself.<\/p>\n

#<\/p>\n

\u201cBack again?\u201d the postie says. You are surprised he remembers you. \u2018Stuck in the middle with you\u2019 is playing again. Did they always have it on or does their music system know, through some cosmic connection, to put it on whenever you step into this post office?<\/p>\n

\u201cYes, I got a message that I have a letter from the Home Office waiting for me?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo worries. What\u2019s your name?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cMallika.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cGreat, if you can just wait a minute, I\u2019ll go look for it,\u201d the man disappears and reappears a little later with a letter and hands it to you. The letter reads\u2014<\/p>\n

Case reference number: 023152117<\/em><\/p>\n

Regarding applicant: Ms. Mallika Bull, 17 December 1989<\/em><\/p>\n

It is important that you read and understand this letter. If you cannot understand anything in it, please find someone to help you.<\/em><\/strong><\/p>\n

Dear Ms. B\u2014<\/em><\/p>\n

It is with regret that you are informed that your passport has been misplaced. It would be recommended that you report this to your embassy and the police at the earliest, and apply for a new passport as soon as possible. Please be advised that if you plan to leave the country without your passport you might be stopped from leaving, or, alternatively, from returning. You are reminded that without a passport you shall have no legal standing as a person. <\/em><\/p>\n

Your application fee for this visa will not be refunded. Once you get your new passport, you can apply for the visa again after paying the full fee and immigration surcharges. <\/em><\/p>\n

In the meantime, this letter will function as proof of temporary leave of stay that shall expire 15 working days <\/strong>from the date of the letter.<\/em><\/p>\n

If you fail to apply within 15 working days, your application will be rejected as invalid, and you will be deported to your home country promptly, and banned from applying for another visa to the UK for 10 years. <\/em><\/p>\n

To find more information about applying for a visa, please visit our website<\/em><\/strong>.<\/em><\/p>\n

Please do not email us for any purpose. <\/em><\/p>\n

Please do not respond to this letter in writing.<\/em><\/p>\n

You don\u2019t scream, you don\u2019t cry, even though you want to. Your mother\u2019s words came back to you. Maybe you should have gone back like she had said, but to what? An arranged marriage with an accountant of marriageable age? She will be smug about this. There would be more uncertainty, more bureaucratic limbo, and more visa fees for you. More standing in queues, waiting on supercilious embassy officials asking for more papers. And you, stuck here paying them even more money for the pleasure of their incompetence and malice. More more more more more, the word hammers away in your head. More more more more more, you keep thinking as you trudge back home and slink into your bed.<\/p>\n

That night you don\u2019t dream of the three grey suits. In your dreams you are at the South Bank book market under Waterloo bridge. You come here often to look at books but not to buy them. Books will only weigh you down if you have to move. You\u2019ll buy them when you feel more stable you tell yourself, but you haven\u2019t bought a book in eight years.<\/p>\n

But in your dream, you buy books, an even dozen, without thinking twice about spending the money. You pile them up next to you as you sit opposite the Palace of Westminster across the river Thames. Sunlight wanes, and the street lamps come on. You can see the Parliament lights reflected on the Thames. You keep sitting there, in the dim light, reading. Like you belong in this city. Like you are no longer just a visitor. Because you have found your place and made it yours, like a proper Londoner.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Chinmay Sharma<\/strong> is an assistant professor in the English Department at Shiv Nadar University (Delhi NCR, India), where he teaches Critical Theory and Postcolonial Literature and Theory. He specializes in South Asian studies, cultural studies and comparative literature. His essays have been published in South Asia: Journal of South Asian Studies (2025), Journal of Hindu Studies (2025), Parapolitics (2021) and Indian Genre Fiction (2018). His short story \u2018Hostile Environment\u2019 was published in Wasafiri 111 (2022).<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Image: \u00a9 Courtesy of Manchester City Galleries \u201cApplying for a visa extension?\u201d the man behind the plexiglass in the Holborn post office asks you. \u201cYes,\u201d you say, slightly out of breath, clutching a crumpled letter from the Home Office. 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