Standing in line (no, standing in queue) at the immigration check in Heathrow Airport, I prayed, that the Punjabi officer would call me. His turban and beard told me that he must be a Singh. Even though I am a Singh from Nepal (which has nothing to do with the Sikh religion, although I did edit a book about ten Sikh gurus a long time ago). During my ten year stay in America I learned making my Singh identity known does make a difference while dealing with another Singh, no matter where he, or sometimes even she, is from. Therefore, I prayed, that the Punjabi officer would call my name and go through my documents, rather than any of other five or six immigration officers who were brooding over other passengers’ passports and documents at their respective tables.

God did hear my prayers. “Next,” he announced (I mean this Punjabi Officer, not God). I let out a big sigh of relief and hurtled towards his table, greeted him enthusiastically and handed him my passport along with “other relevant documents.” He looked at my passport, and looked at me. I gave him the biggest and friendliest simile I could come up with, using those seventeen muscles to their fullest extent, and I signaled with a knowing nod that screamed, “Of course, officer, I am a Singh too.”

I thought that neither he “heard” my nod, nor did he see the collective work of those seventeen smile muscles. He sat back in his chair, looked at me, and started grilling me with questions, so that I feared the worst. He put my passport through some kind of machine, and called in some other officers for their input as to whether I could be let onto UK soil or not.

This process lasted almost 45 minutes. Then he asked me another insulting question. “Mr. Singh do you have TB?” Later, I found out that it was a standard question asked of all Asians, no matter where they come from, as the prevalent belief is that all Asians carry the TB virus in their chests.

After that, I “technically” stepped onto UK soil—ashamed, exhausted and distraught.

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I went to open a bank account. The teller, a woman, asked me whether I had a job or not. I said I didn’t, and that I had been in the UK for just over a week. She asked me how I had money to deposit in the bank if I didn’t have a job. I said, “Huh?” and added that I robbed a bank in America before coming to the UK. She told me that until I have a job she could not open a bank account for me. I told her to go f**k herself because she didn’t have the aptitude to deal with customers nicely, and she was very good at asking customers insulting questions. She gave me a hurt look, seemingly not knowing where she went wrong, but by then I was already storming out of the bank.

I went to another bank. Here another lady told me that I have to have utility bill or a driver license to open bank account. I told here I was giving her business by being willing to open an account in her bank and she should be ‘more than happy’ to open my account, not ask me for documents I could not provide. She shrugged and told me, she couldn’t help me. I tried several other banks without success. I still don’t have a bank account.

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I went to use internet in an internet café. A big sign written on the glass door announced that it was an internet café. I went in, didn’t see any computers around, and asked the guy behind the counter where the computers were. He said “Huh?” I said I want to use the internet—where are the computers? He said, “No computers.” I said “Huh?” I looked at him, looked around, and went out. I came across another so-called internet café without any internet. I stopped asking for computers in any internet café unless I saw them for myself.

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I went to a dentist. My appointment was at 12:00 noon. I got there 15 minutes early. I told the receptionist my appointment was for 12:00, and she checked her computer and told me to come back in three hours. I said “Huh?” She said the doctor was busy with someone. I told her my appointment was for 12:00 noon and I was 15 minutes early and I didn’t see why should I come back after three hours. I told her that I have other things to do after finishing with the dentist and I don’t see any rationale behind her asking me to come back in three hours. I also told her that it was ‘unprecedented’ for me because I had never been told to come back after 3 hours without earlier notice anywhere in the world for an appointment I had booked well ahead of time. She looked appalled, as if no one had ever questioned her decisions, and sheepishly announced that she was going to consult with the doctor and would be back in a minute. She came back and said, “OK, Mr. Singh, the doctor will see you in a minute,” but even so she made me wait for an hour anyway.

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I went to register for my Primary Doctor, which is called GP – General Practice—in the UK. A receptionist told me that I was not eligible because my visa has a date that shows it expires on a certain date. I told her that it was not so. My visa was in line with any European Union citizen and hence my rights in United Kingdom were as per any EU citizen, and the date was the date within which I should have entered United Kingdom. She didn’t listen. She told me she never saw that kind of visa and could not help me. I went to a solicitor and told her my situation. She wrote a long letter emphasizing my rights and that if I were denied registration in the GP, it would be against the law. I went back with the letter, and after at least four staff members at the Surgery (a “medical office” or a “clinic” is called a “surgery” here) went through the letter and my documents, they finally assigned a doctor for me. When the doctor had finished she gave me slips to make other appointments at the reception desk. I went there and gave the slips to the woman at the desk. She checked in her computer and gave me an appointment for a week later. I checked the time of the appointment, and it was “9:09 am.” I asked whether it was a mistake or the appointment time actually was 9:09 am. She said “Huh?” and I said “Never mind,” and left.

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I went to look for a job. I went inside a Money Shop. “Money Shop” is equivalent to “Check Cashing Stores” in the USA, and as I’ve had almost seven years’ experience in check cashing work, I was confident that I would impress the manager there. I asked the gentleman at the window whether they were hiring at the moment. He said “Huh?” I repeated my question and saw a glimmer, in his eyes, meaning he understood my question and responded in something I would call Polish or German but never English. I said “Huh?” He repeated another volley of gibberish (excuse me, mate) that sounded like English. I said “Huh?” He looked at me as if I had defective ears. Something inside me told me to explain! I said, “Sir, I am new to the United Kingdom and I am having difficulty understanding your accent, I am sorry, but could you speak a little slowly? He looked at me, sighed, and brought his face close to the glass (he was standing at the other side of the glass window with a small hole on it) window and said. “We are not hiring at the moment, but we have another store down the block. You can go ask them.” I said, “Oh, OK,” thanked him and left the store again, ashamed, disheartened, and distraught. I was wondering whether it would be good idea to join an English pronunciation class.

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I went to study ESOL (English for Speakers of Other Languages) just to while away my time. It was free, and after completing the course, I would be able to join free computer classes as well. Therefore, my “hidden agenda” to be honest, I am afraid, was to get those free computer lessons rather than ESOL. If I were to study ESOL in some private institute, it would cost me 2000 pounds. Besides, I would need to pass a test called Life in the UK if I wanted to get British citizenship in the future, which I thought I would eventually apply for anyway. Another reason I was there studying English is that an ESOL course is equivalent to the Life in the UK test. Except for getting a few ‘covert corrections’ from someone I could confide in, I didn’t think I needed to go back to studying English at that level. Or do I?

Among about 15 students I was the only one from Nepal. The rest were from Pakistan, except for one each from Bangladesh, India and Somalia. The teacher was from Pakistan as well. I thought I would learn some ‘bubbly’ English slang and sharpen my ears for that ‘drawling’ that always left me with a gaping mouth, as if a perpetual “Huh?” had been imprinted across my forehead, but I realized, a week short of my exam, that I was speaking Urdu more fluently than ‘English’ English.

I told this to my teacher. She looked at somewhere just above my forehead, as if I had not spoken at all and asked the class how many of us had been in a train. I shot my right hand up as quickly as possible, looked around and found that only my hand was up. I said to myself, “Huh?” I thought it was little ‘awkward’ to have been the only one, in the class of some 15 students who had been on a train; kind of a little ‘self-conscious’ and even ‘shameful’ to some extent. I thought, “There goes my ‘English’ English.”

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This time last year, I was walking in my ungainly shorts, skin tight t-shirt (Skin tight, not because I was an athletic type but because I strongly believed that I could never outgrow my ‘medium’ sized image of bygone days, whereas the truth was, I was nearing the ‘extra large’ strata of my image breadth-wise), and worn-out Reeboks in Queens, Manhattan, sometimes Brooklyn, and sometimes even in the Bronx, sweating as if my life depended upon it. The aroma of grilled meat and onion would float around the neighborhood when people barbequed on weekends, making me feel as if ‘life is what happens when we are planning for a barbeque with Corona in abundance, on a hot summer day in New York’. “Huh?” Did I plagiarize John Lennon here? Not intended.

I went shopping at Morrison (one of the major supermarkets in the UK). I remember clearly that I was wearing a t-shirt, a hoodie on top of it, and my ‘eternal’ outerwear consisting of a jacket. I remember it because I would never wear that if I were still in New York—“naturally,” because it would be New York in June and not Birmingham in June. I was thinking I would have a great barbeque party when summer comes at last. While in the store, I got nostalgic and went to see how much the barbeque stove would cost. What I saw made me say “Huh?” despite the fact that it had been repeatedly pointed out to me lately, that I should not use that word in public so profusely. I saw, an overhanging sign at the aisle where the barbeque stuff was kept that read something like “summer is here, yada-yada-yada!!! “Huh?” I uttered, in spite of myself, “Where is the summer?” I thought I was waiting for the summer. To confirm, or rather to console myself, I asked one of my friends whether the sign at Morrison was a stupid mistake. She said, “Noooooooooo, this ‘IS’ summer.” Rather, I wished I were sweating as if my life depended upon it.

Something at the back of my mind stirred. I remembered the day I was at the dentist. I was waiting for the receptionist to call my name. There was a guy sitting in a chair next to the big window in the same room. He looked like someone from some Caribbean country. It started to rain suddenly, one of those hard swift rains. The Caribbean guy looked out the window and said “Sama’s Ova”!! I looked at him and just uttered my handy “Huh?” because I neither had any clue as to what he was talking about nor did I understand his Bob Marley accent. Now that I come to think of it, he probably meant, “summer is over”, or summer is over in Birmingham because of the rain. “Huhhhhh”, (this one is not the questioning type, rather seeing-the-light-at-the-end-of-the-tunnel type). So ephemeral? I should stop thinking about barbequing anymore.

Well, life goes on. Hot of New York, blow hot, blow cold of Birmingham, life still goes on. A bird in hand is worth twenty (owing to inflation) in the bush. I started out in Nepal and I am in the United Kingdom now. Sometimes you tend to see things in a different perspective, but when you realize how beautiful life actually is, those trifling anomalies don’t count much. The bigger picture is much more beautiful than the wayward piece you found somewhere by accident.

So shut up and live. “Huh, huh!!“
-Birmingham, UK