The Refusal Room

Unplanned lesson at an Indian airport.

Welcome (Back) to States of Matter

Welcome, or welcome back! I’m so grateful for the community here and excited to connect with the new subscribers.

My writing explores the fluid nature of identity through personal stories about travel and transitions; everyone navigates their own transitions and constantly shifts between versions of themselves. I aim to share authentic stories to help us thrive in these transitions, not just survive them.

Today’s post is an excerpt from my forthcoming memoir, Lesson (Un)Planned: A Decade of Travel, Teaching, and Transformation, which explores how life gives us what we need, even when we are looking for something easier.

The Question I’m Still Answering

A few years ago, I found an old journal in a box while unpacking in Colorado. Bahrain Days, it said on the first page, dated August 20, 2003. I spent days reading it like a thriller, as if I didn’t know how it would end. As if I hadn’t lived it.

That journal became the basis for my memoir, which recounts ten years in the Middle East and how they shaped my ideas about freedom and identity.

If you want the whole backstory, I wrote about it here: Lesson (Un)Planned, Prologue. It involves some hilarious, some humiliating, but all crucial moments that helped me to understand the truer version of myself.

Today, I want to share one of those slightly darker moments, one that was hard to live through but makes a good story. Who else can say they got kicked out of India before they even entered?

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Doing the Needful

I planned my trip to India in my usual breezy style, more suited to a weekend getaway than a 6-week service trip to possibly the most bureaucratic country in the world. I found a small NGO that supports women’s small businesses online and had spoken to the director a few times.

I thought I had the basics down: a place to stay, a vague idea of my purpose, and even a ride from the airport in Chennai. So, I felt pretty confident when I handed my passport to the ticket agent – eager to begin my journey – on July 4th, of all days. Of course, celebrating American independence was irrelevant in Bahrain, and I hardly clocked the date myself. American, or even Western, holidays slipped by with little notice, which bothered me at first, but I eventually found it freeing.

The agent quickly turned to the last page, looked up at me, and said, “Where is your visa?”

“Oh, I don’t need one. I’m volunteering, and my sponsor said I could take care of it when I arrive,” I said with complete confidence. He argued with me for a few more minutes: “Americans must have a visa to enter India. You can’t get a visa on arrival,” and other things I chose to ignore. He finally let me board, which I took as a sign that I was right, but it was more of a sign that he no longer wanted to argue.

After a quick layover in Muscat, I arrived in Chennai on time and ready to meet my coworkers. The line in customs was pretty short, and a few minutes later, I handed over my passport to a serious-looking Indian man, who quickly called over another, possibly more serious-looking official, and had an exchange in Tamil or maybe Hindi. I looked around nervously, noting other Western types breezing right through.

Suddenly, the angrier official said, “You need to come with me. You can’t enter India without a visa.” I repeated the same argument I had with the airport guy back in Bahrain, but he just kept insisting I follow him. “I don’t understand the problem,” I pleaded as I trailed behind this speed-walker; he was obviously eager to get rid of me.

“I’m here to do volunteer work. I have the paperwork from the NGO in Virudhunagar.” But my pleas still fell on his heels, and he speed-walked ahead. Finally, we stopped in front of an ominous-looking black door with the words “Refusal Room” printed in English above it. The officer finally spoke, in exaggeratedly slow English, “You must have an Indian visa from your country of residence to enter India, and you do not. You must wait in this room.” He pointed at a door, and I stepped back; there was no way I was going into a private room with some random airport official, so I refused.

The angrier official frowned. “This is where you wait until you can do the needful.”

I stepped back and said, “I can do the needful from that chair. Just tell me what I need to do.” I walked toward the chair.

“Miss, this is not the correct procedure.” He said, shaking his head and gesturing at the refusal room, but I held my ground until he just turned and walked away. I waited, watery eyes staring at the refusal room door, but no one came in or out. Some time later, a more approachable official explained my situation and the options available to me.

I could either return to Bahrain (where I lived at the time) or fly to a neighboring country to get an Indian visa there. By this time, I was crying, more angry tears than sad ones. I was simmering in the injustice of it all: wasn’t I there to help? Why was I being treated like a criminal? I thought of my friends back in the US eating hot dogs and shooting fireworks, and I berated myself with the questions I often asked: Why did I have to make my life so difficult? I would rather have a pack of black cats blow up in my hand, maybe even lose a finger, than be dealing with this shit right now.

What was even more infuriating was the official, Rohit, who at least told me his name. Went into a long rant about reciprocity and how Indians are treated in the USA. I’m sure he had a point, but all I could do was ugly cry and simmer in self-pity. Finally, Rohit calmed me down with the needful plan: go to Sri Lanka, get my visa, and return to India.

Within a few hours, I boarded the flight to Colombo, Sri Lanka. I’m not sure if it was an official action or just a last act of humiliation, but Rohit escorted me past hundreds of impatient and curious eyes. I could see their questions flashing, “Is she a criminal?” When I finally reached my seat, Rohit waited until I buckled in before he handed me my passport. My first trip to India ended up being a trip to Sri Lanka, and given my state of mind, I had no plans to attempt re-entering India: the land of refusal rooms. However, I knew I had committed to a volunteer job, and people were counting on me, so my first step was to head straight to the Indian Embassy in Colombo.

(Spoiler alert: I fell in love with India and have returned at least seven more times).

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What the Refusal Room Taught Me (Eventually)

The refusal room was my first real lesson in what freedom actually costs: preparation, humility, the willingness to admit when you’re wrong before you’re standing in front of a mysterious door with your name on it.

Now I understand that sometimes we need to be refused. Sometimes the door that won’t open is protecting us from walking into something we’re not ready for. I wasn’t ready for India the first time. I was still operating under the delusion that freedom meant doing whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted, without consequences.

India, the patient and uncompromising India, made me sit with my mistake in Sri Lanka. Made me come back through the proper channels, a little more humble, and a lot more prepared.

The refusal room wasn’t a punishment, or even a humiliation. It was a redirection, and I sorely needed it.

You can read what happened on the rest of the trip here.

What About You?

Have you ever been “refused,” or turned away, rejected, told no, only to realize later that it redirected you toward something better, or taught you something you couldn’t have learned any other way?

I’d love to hear your stories in the comments.

And if you’re new here, thank you for joining us on this journey. I’m glad you’re here for it.

If you are curious about where the phrase “the needful” came from, check out this Substack piece by Harleen Kaur.

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