Gautam Godse

With those words, the young, fresh-faced consulate officer at the US Consulate in Bombay dashed my hopes of traveling to America for my Master’s degree. This was the third time that I was being denied an F-1 student visa, that coveted document that would allow me to study at Cal State Chico in California. It was the spring of 1993, and I was heartbroken.

Earlier, when he stamped my passport to confirm the denial, I gathered up the courage and asked the officer why he was denying my visa for the third time in six months. He looked at me, smiled, shrugged, and said those fateful words.

I was a potential immigrant. They had strict visa quotas for the year, and he had to ensure that the students would indeed come back after receiving their degrees.
He took one look at me, saw a young, short college kid dressed in a formal shirt and tie with crisply ironed trousers and black leather shoes, and instantly decided, this kid isn’t coming back. He is gonna stay in America for good.

Which was the plan anyway.

All my classmates and seniors who had received the visa never came back. There were 13 of them that year who left the consulate grinning ear to ear and singing “Born in the USA.”

Since I now had nothing to lose, I countered back at him, “Wasn’t that the point of America, anyway? Everyone is an immigrant there.”

With a wry smile, he said, “I don’t make the rules. But you are right. Sorry about that.”