This is a tale in two parts – the first part was painless and easy. The second made me rue the day I decided to embark on this journey. But such is life and I hope my experiences make your journeys somewhat easier.
This is the story of my family and I becoming British citizens and then trying to remain Overseas Citizens of India, as well.
After pondering for more than 4 years, my husband and I decided to change our citizenship last year. It wasn’t easy, deciding to give up our Indian citizenship but we finally thought that we will become Brits, considering England has been our home for almost all of our adult and married lives. Our children were born here and the younger one was already a British citizen as she was born when our visa status was akin to permanent residentship, while England was all the older one knew, after living here and going to school here for 8 years.
A simple perusal of the UK Border Agency‘s website was all that was needed to equip us with the necessary knowledge on how to become British citizens. As we had been living in England for over 9 years, and in possession of the “Indefinite Leave to Remain in the UK” visa for over 5 years, we knew we fulfilled the standard requirements for naturalisation.
The only thing we had to do prior to sending in our applications was to pass a test entitled “Life in the UK”, where we would be tested on everyday British living as well as on British history. It was really quite simple and once we passed that hurdle, we set about becoming naturalised citizens.
Accordingly, we downloaded the necessary forms (Form AN for adults and MN1 for children) and filled them out. We didn’t need much else – all we needed were one photo identity document, the Life in the UK pass certificate and our current passport with the relevant visa. The detailed guides (available for download in the PDF form) made it very easy to complete the form.
The form had to be counter-signed by two British-passport holders who are professionals in their own right and as the husband’s colleagues fit the bill, those that knew us well were quite happy to sign our photos and attest that we were who we were claiming to be.
As we didn’t want to be without our travel documents, we used the National Checking Service (NCS). As the NCS is run by the local authorities, the appointment was procured quite easily at a venue quite close to us and with the staff quite happy to accommodate your requests, we got to see someone the week after. On the scheduled day and for a nominal fee, our documents were given a careful perusal and all the necessary supporting documents were photocopied and attested by the Checking officer and our passports returned to us straightaway.
Barely two weeks after that, we got the confirmation that our naturalisation has been approved and can we please make an appointment by calling the number given so we can be sworn in as British citizens. Ringing the number procured us a date a week away and so, in short order, we found ourselves in Chelmsford, listening to this fantastically-livered chap tell us about the part Essex played in the history of England and then bidding us to go forth and do no harm as poms.
Applying for a passport was a doddle – the forms were given to us along with our naturalisation certificate and were quite straightforward. (You can also get it from your post office, request for one here or even apply online.) So it was just a case of fill it out, send it out, make an appointment to prove that we are who we claim to be (as it was for our first passports) and then three days later, we got our shiny, red passports.
From start to finish, the whole procedure took less than three months. Everything went off like clockwork, following standardised procedures and when we got stuck, the guides and websites proved ample information. If that wasn’t sufficient, the helplines were available to point us towards the right direction. If you still aren’t sure, services like the post office’s ‘Check and Send’ service serve as excellent check points, enabling you to fill your forms and send them after having them checked thoroughly, saving valuable time and money. Doing so made it possible for my husband to change the photo he had attached to the form as it didn’t fit the guidelines.
Even as my husband and I marvelled at how easy the whole process turned out to be, we had more than an inkling that the sister process to retain a toe-hold on to our Indian citizenship would be diametrically different and we weren’t wrong!
BBC’s “Famous, Rich and Jobless” (telecast at 9.00 pm on March 10, 2010) seems another in the long list of “Celebrity tourism”, as the Guardian puts it, to grace our television. A bunch of “celebs” visited various members of the public who are living purely on benefits to see if they can help them.
That the rationale behind the show was shaky as hell is another topic altogether. What I want to discuss is the issue raised by one of the celebs, Diarmuid Gavin, as he visited a big family receiving £29,500 a year from the state. 28-year-old Mum and 29-year-old dad are both jobless and mum is pregnant with her sixth child. They live in a massive six-bedroom detached house and the dad hadn’t had a paying job in seven years.
Of course, this small fact doesn’t deter him from having more and more babies, that the taxpayer pays for. When Diarmuid asks the wife what she feels about sponging off the state, she points to her husband and goes “it is his fault! He wants a big family.”
That made me speechless.
How can you have a child without figuring out how you are going to provide for its future? When you yourself do not have a job, how can you have more and more children?
Answer: Quite easy. Get the state to pay for it.
There was some sob story in the offing, of course, why the dad hadn’t got off his backside and found himself a paying job in 7 years but I don’t buy it. Both husband and wife used to do menial jobs before and chances of them pulling in £30000 a year are slim. But now, thanks to the gazillion kids, they not only have the money, they even have other perks like rent, council tax etc that are paid by the state, aka, taxpaying mugs like you and me.
Apparently, the sick bastard labelled ‘British Fritzl’ was “driven by child benefit greed” and kept raping his daughters and having babies with them because he got child benefits! Ba$tard wants a plush lifestyle and instead of going out there and working his butt for it, he impregnates his daughters repeatedly and bills the state for the childcare.
If these are not examples of gross abuse of the British welfare state system, I do not know what is.
I say give the benefits to the old, the infirm, those who cannot fend for themselves. The OAPs who die every winter because they cannot afford to pay their heating bills, give them the money. The disabled person who cannot go out there and earn her daily bread, give her the money to look after herself. The others, able-bodied ones who are sitting in the comfort of their six-bed taxpayer-funded life, get over yourself and go out there and get a paying job.
I used to work for a social research agency and one of my projects was working on the incapacity benefits – who was receiving them, how much and what was their status. The findings made my blood boil. Whilst there were genuine applicants, there were many who, despite their claims to go out there and work if given a chance, would rather sit comfortably and watch the benefit cheques come in month after month.
I say the simplest way to reduce the massive deficit is to completely rehaul the benefits system. If guys like the father-of-five-with-one-on-the-way had to pay their own way, I am sure they would stop whingeing and get a vasectomy first and a job next.
I took the last step to change my surname today. Finally. No going back. And I feel kinda weird about it.
I have been using the married name slowly and gradually since I came to the UK. From strictly stating “I WILL NOT CHANGE MY SURNAME” to ” hmm yeah maybe in my medical forms – and purely so the baby will have your name”, it was a journey fraught with difficulties. What’s in a name, you ask. Well it is MINE. The one I was born with and here I am becoming something else.
It is okay for the men, who are Mr XY from the day they are born till forever after. Unlike us poor women, who have to suffer the collateral damage of getting married, as a friend once put it. Here we are, happy going through life as Miss AB and suddenly, in one fell swoop, everything about you is changed – right from what you call “home” to your flipping name! Not fair, is it?
And, being a Tamilian, I didn’t have a “surname” as such, just my dad’s name after mine. So it felt like I was letting go of my maternal home by ditching the pater’s name.
Well I whined variations of this theme for the past almost 9 years and The Spouse has become blase to it. It wasn’t as if I didn’t have the long-winded name tacked on to mine at all. I just didn’t get it done officially – in my passport, it still stated my name as my maiden name. And that was just fine.
Till today.
This morning, we took the first step towards finally embracing Britain as “ours” by applying for British citizenship and had gone to the National Checking Service to get our documents verified and our application passed through. It was all going swimmingly till the nice lady who was checking things turned to me and went “Would you like to change your name to your married name? It would be easiest to do it now” and started the old “should I? should I not?” argument again. Though she was quick to say “You don’t have to, you know – I just wanted to point out to you if you mean to get it done, now will be the easiest time. Afterwards it will mean more money and time”. Well, there she said the magic words “more money”. After having shelled out a whopping £1310 + £85 for the three of us, we were feeling slightly sick and I think I jumped at the words “MORE MONEY”.
So, I hummed and hawed and finally mumbled “Ok fine. Change it”.
There. Changed the most fundamental bit of me forever. For less than 30 pieces of silver.
Some might find it dreary, some depressing but to me, Autumn has always seemed exotic. With trees sporting warm tones of colours, from a mellow yellow to a fiery red, the first half of Autumn is more fun than Winter can ever be.
After Bonfire Night, it gets tedious, admittedly, with sodden leaves on pavements that make you slip and slide but despite this, there’s nothing to beat Autumn. Last week, as we were bowling through Scotland, with the hills covered in orange, I was most ecstatic. Standing at Glenfinnan, gazing at the Viaduct, it the air seemed to thrum with magic. I wouldn’t have been surprised had Harry and Ron come flying in a battered Ford Anglia.
There’s nothing to beat Britain during the cold months. Fireworks, roasted chestnuts, christmas lights going up everywhere – there is a sense of expectation and revelry that only Autumn can give. Other people can keep the crisp Spring, the warm Summer and even the frigid Winter. Me, I’ll be happy with Autumn. Sodden leaves and all.
Just got back from our holiday last night. Nightmare, food-wise. Being preg and a proper veggie is a hellish combo as far as Disneyland food is concerned. See leaves, stuff your face, seems to be the thinking. I shall get into that later.
But for now, I am steaming. I had some coleslaw one night and have been worrying ever since about the ‘eat no raw eggy product’ preggie rule ever since. This morning has been spent in trying to speak to a midwife who can appease my mind and essentially say ‘you had just a couple of spoonfuls? now quit worrying!’ to me. So far, I have drawn a blank.
I live in, let’s say, Booville and have decided to have my baby in the nearby Bashville. But my GP surgery, when giving me the choice of hosps between the one in Bashville and another in nearer Rroomville (ah jeez!) didn’t tell me that their midwife supports only those that chose to have their babies at the latter hosp. Now, I rang my hosp who said the antenatal appointments are the GP’s concern. GP says as I am going to have my baby at the Bashville hosp, their midwife cannot help me as she cares for those deliverables at Rroomville. So I am stuck in some sort of ante-natal no man’s land. Just peachy, eh?
I wonder why people act surprised when I say I want to leave this brilliant place for the shores of home, where at least I can be assured of some decent medical care as long as they know my money’s solid! *sigh*
So young Max is not going to continue blogging for Guardian. What a shame! After the vitriol that followed his introductory post, the poor lad will not be posting furthermore. The Travel Editor posted a follow-up piece on Feb 15, explaining the editorial decision behind allowing the trip to go on the site as well as pooh-poohing any claims of nepotism. Well that went well with the punters, I tell you. The great British public had a rollicking time commenting on that piece, with phrases like “shame on you, Editor” and “where’s the blue pencil” appearing with some regularity.
There was also a comment from ‘Maxdad’ that went as follows:
“As Andy Pietrasik’s blog hasn’t mentioned the fact Max won’t be writing any more blogs, I thought I’d bring all those heroic internet warriors the good news. Max’s trip (which he paid for himself I’m afraid – sorry) has got off to the worst possible start and he’s feeling pretty grim so that’s double good news for the brave warriors. You may like or dislike the blog but the cruelty is shocking if quintessentially British. Obviously everyone in his family is very hurt for Max so that’s a bonus. I won’t be reading any more smug clever dick comments but feel free to kick me around the field a bit now – just please leave Max alone. He hasn’t actually done anything wrong and you have your wish – he won’t be writing any further blogs.”
Ah my heart bleeds! The comments he got were miles better than the ones bloggers get at the hands of trolls. And some of them were perfectly legit too, IMHO.
What I do not understand about these kids ‘finding themselves’ is why justify the horrendous expense of the trip under the guise of a learning experience or a social service-type one. Granted, you learn so much by living amongst different people and different surroundings and the perspective you get is invaluable. So go on a working holiday. Go to a place where people are screaming for the bare necessities of life, pull up your sleeves and get stuck in. Build them toilets, help construct houses, eat the same crappy food they eat – that will be a revelation.
Going off to Goa and Bangkok, hitting the top spots with an odd peep at the real suffering world every now and then, well, what good does that do? Better just go on a month’s holiday, live it up and don’t dress it as anything but a holiday. After all, if you’ve got the money to do it, then what’s the harm?
But what’s this faux interest in suffering capitals of the world, like India and Thailand? What’s wrong with good old community service in the estates around UK? There are old people living on their own in absolute squalor who would be glad of the company of a young 19 year old lad, who can drop in and stay for a chat and make them some tea in the process. And maybe do their weekly shopping or trim their weeds.
Not cool enough, I suppose.
Oh well, there goes my planned entertainment for the next few months. Sigh. Hopefully something more entertaining will show up on the horizon soon.
Jordon – sorry, we are supposed to call her Katie Price now, to go with her new demure, non-smutty image. She is, after all, trying to reinvent herself as a serial writer and a children’s author. Which moron decided to let her loose on the influential minds doesn’t bear thinking.
For those of you who don’t know who she is (oh you lucky, lucky sods!), she’s a Brit glamour model, who married former pop singer Peter Andre and has been alternatively baring her bod and having his babies. She’s also trying to shed her glamous puss image and become a wholesome personality. She ain’t having much luck with it, I should say. During the launch of her recent book at the Waterstone’s outlet in Central London, she showed up in a supergirl type outfit, complete with hot pants. Not a look a children’s author would like to sport, now is it?
Well, true to type, she resorted to her usual shenanigans – she lifted her hands and guess who popped up to join the party?
What amazes me about this character is her releasing her THIRD autobiography!!! I mean, word fails me to learn that not only has some one commissioned her to write an account of her life but gone on to update it a further two times. Really!
One cannot have an article about Jordon without a mention of the other skanky mank, Jodie Marsh. So here is she, in her ‘wedding gear’. The picture says it all, doesn’t it?
I really despair for the British society that these individuals are the celebrities who are flying the Union Jack and are having young, impressionable children looking up to them. What has the world come to?
I spent some jolly 10-minutes reading about young Max, 19, who’s off to India and Thailand, in a bid to discover the world and himself AND blog about it for Guardian. Normal? Harmless? Well, the entertaining commenters (451 at the last count) thought not, especially as it seemed more and more probable that Max’s daddy might be the Guardian’s travel writer. Comments ranged from a fairly normal ‘tut, tut’ to more vociferous ‘shame on you, a pox on you!’ kind of curses. Most Brits are getting their knickers in a twist over the gross unfairness of it all and the obvious nepotism. Like I said, pure entertainment.
What was even more hilarious is this kid’s take on India. He’s ‘scared shitless’ of the place, right? Then why’s he going there? Good q. He has to take a gazillion shots / pills to be deemed fit to travel. As soon as he lands in Bombay, he’s gonna take off ‘pretty sharpish’ to Goa, and civilization, to ease himself into the land of snake charmers and elephant rides. Ooh, what a lark!
I tell ya, economic boom, one of the world’s viral job markets, exporting some of the best brains to all parts of the world post graduation day and still, the world’s yuppies still think we sleep on nailed beds and have pet monkeys. Tut, tut! I tell you what, I bet ol’ Max would probably piss himself the first time someone speaks to him in English. It may not be the Oxbridge he is used to but hey, totally serviceable, mon. I, for one, am going to bookmark his blog and keep visiting. If not to keep abreast of what shenanigans he gets up to in Goa or Bangalore, most def for the bollocking he’s going to get in the comments section.
A friend forwarded me this hilarious article from Times Online as it would appeal to my quirky sense of humour. Well, hell, it did. It is so droll I loved every word of it. How can you not, when you find beauties such as this:
“about discovering how comprehensively a mixture of hot
water and detergent can reduce banknotes to an indecipherable squidge of
papier-mâché, while leaving tomato-sauce strains entirely intact elsewhere
on said garment.”
or,
”
Nor about realising that I may need to work until I am 89 because my pension
has shrivelled to the size of a hamster’s testicle.” Amen to that, ol’ man!
He sagely adds “Still, far be it for me to complain about
the state of Britain. Not while I wear this wristband, anyway. I’m giving it
until lunchtime, incidentally, then it’s going in the bin. The strain of
being so bloody nice is making me feel ill.”
I can sooo get behind that sentiment tho’ no one in their right minds would ever accuse me of being bloody nice! Go on, read it – bet it will make you crack a smile!
Well no one can come up with a more outraged squawk than the Mad Momma but as she has implored us desi bloggers in merrie England to not take it lying down, well, how can I ignore the invitation?
What am I blathering about? This – the Communities Secretary Hazel Blears’ ‘Immigration pack’ that is inform an immigrant how to behave on landing on British shores. Simple things like don’t go touching the nice woman at the tube station, put the trash out, spit in the street or *gasp* play loud music. Why? Coz the locals are doing enough of it and please don’t add to the mayhem, there’s a good chap.
I think someone should tell this to my neighbour opposite. He seems to think that every Saturday comes around purely for him to test the strength of the concrete blocks our buildings are made of and proceeds to spend most of the night pitting some high decibels at it. Or the rest of the idiots who cannot read the words that say ‘please do not dump your cycles and old washing machines here – that’s what the Council’s £30 collection facility is for’ and proceed to happily chuck any old crap in the bin area, which means I get the bill!
Drinking and driving? How dare you, you pathetic immigrant? How dare you entertain that notion! Take the train and go to any of the bars in Romford or Basildon instead, where the delightful chavs would give you more than your money’s worth by puking copious amounts of beer and other assorted gunk and round off the show by showing their tits.
I am so tired of reading everywhere of the Brits who have thrown opened their doors and are knitting out ‘Welcome’ sweaters for every immigrant foisted on them. Why the hell have I been spat at and told home on a regular basis? And what about the snooty sales women who are all nicety-nice spreading sunshine and cheer all around but clam up and give Mt Rushmore a run for its money the minute they see my mug? Or – this is one of my favourites – how about the chemist down the road who paid no heed to me when I stood outside her door in the cold for 30 frigging minutes, wondering when she will open up, only to find her outside explaining to the first white person that came round that as the pharmacist wasn’t in, she cannot prescribe medicine and so sorry and all that – and finished off with a sneer in my direction? Sadly lacking in the spirit, wouldn’t you say?
Yeah give us behavioural packs all you want, sweetie, but let’s stop pretending we are housing paragons of virtue here. The number of louts and ‘lads behaving badly’ that you see around the Town centres and High Streets come weekend have to be seen to be believed. Immigrants like us pay more in tax than idiots like that lush Holly, now seen on Ladette to a Lady, who proudly says she spends her dole money getting trashed every weekend and behaving like nothing human can possibly can. Getting sozzled on every occasion and showing her knickers to all and sundry, well if she remembers to wear them in the first place, are all such sterling behavioural examples, ain’t it?
Whilst I am not claiming that all Indians are gold medal winners when it comes to behaving well or that every single Brit is an ill-mannered lout , I am offended that this sort of pack can be handed out to people and one expects us to be what? happy? If that isn’t smug and patronising, I do not know what is!
