It's virus season and just as I think it couldn't get any worse than being stuck in an eight-hundred-square-foot apartment, my phone goes off. I do the usual millennial ritual of first checking if there is any need in engaging in communication before picking up the call. Upon seeing that it was my mom, I had no choice but to commit. There was a profound silence on the other side of the line which was unusual considering the sprightly nature of my mother. After a brief silence, she said "I lost my job…it was filed late."

Thoughts are racing through my mind as I realize that as a twenty-four-year-old woman I may finally need to take up a job. But there's more to this than my millennial struggle. This is about injustice faced by a woman in her forties. This is about the story of "it" and the thousands of people who are longing for permanence. Now the story of the "it" is a rather long one. So if you are reading this and scrolling through Instagram at the same time, now may be the time to pick one task and settle in. To fully understand the story, we must start from the inception of "it.

Let me begin by introducing myself. I am of Indian origin, born and raised completely outside the motherland. And like every other brown kid raised outside the motherland, I grew up with a very confusing identity. No matter how much I tried to integrate myself into the culture, I would stick out like a sore thumb when I would visit India. But being back "home" wasn't any better; the complex aromas of spices in my lunch would confuse the otherwise bland palates of my classmates so much that their mouths start uttering demeaning slurs. I don't blame them. If you're only used to salt and pepper in your food then spices such as cardamom and saffron would seem like absolute witchcraft. As a matter of fact, I remember the first time I had a gelato in Italy I cursed like a sailor. I was so offended that the world had kept this beautifully sculpted globe of cream a secret from me for so long. So I don't blame them.

Anyways, throughout history, Indian culture permeated the world in various waves. First, we came in the form of spices. A whole bunch of Portuguese men jumped on ships to find the renowned "black gold," also known as the humble black pepper. And you know how it is with white men-when one does something, the rest follow suit. Soon, the entire subcontinent was filled with white men arriving on their ships. And in reward, some of the Indians were loaded onto ships to visit the beautiful Caribbean Islands. However, this was no Royal Caribbean cruise that you found on Groupon. It was more like a one-way ticket to a sugar cane plantation on a cruise ship that can only be described as a haven for viruses. The ones who survived the journey were put through another test of endurance, this time, in the form of forced labour at the plantations. While the Brits were busy arguing the optimum amount of sugar cubes for their tea, the Indians were collaborating with the natives and forming their own cuisine.

There was also another group of us that were sent to fight for the British in WWI. But we don't talk about that because Dunkirk didn't show any of that. And if it is not mentioned in a Hollywood movie, then it must have never happened.

Finally, like a woman emerging from an abusive relationship, India realized its self-worth and surfaced as an independent country. If this was a movie, the story would end here. But unfortunately, the convoluted story of India continues. With a population vehemently against birth control and female children, India had no choice but to grow in numbers. The departure of the Brits not only liberated the nation but also left it with a lot of free time. And if there is anything that we have learned over this quarantine, it is that families and closed spaces never end well. As a natural response, some of India's children start moving out in search of some fresh air and better opportunities. This formed the next wave of emigration; qualified professionals transplanted themselves in the post-WWII Western World. They worked long hours and were left with no time to think of the socio-political constructs of their new home. They slowly started injecting colour to the black and white fabric of the western world.

Then came the technology boom. The decade that not only sent computer servers into an absolute meltdown but also created a whole new stereotype for Indians. We went from being the friendly neighbourhood doctor to the little Oompa Loompas of Silicon Valley. Not to mention Apu from Simpsons but I think we have exhausted that conversation elsewhere. Now this new lot of immigrants came from bustling cities and had the suaveness of the younger sibling. Majority of this group came to the US with the famously difficult H1B visa. This visa is the aforementioned "it" and for a long time, "it" was trending among immigrants. The H1B visa was reserved for the highly skilled workers immigrating to the United States. In the initial days, these visas were handed out like flyers for your neighbourhood pest control company. Initially it seemed appealing but you only realize it's a trap after you review its terms and conditions.

As per usual, my parents jumped on this trend slightly later than everyone else. In the early 2000s, my family decided to uproot ourselves from Singapore and settle in the United States. Little did we know the copious amounts of bureaucratic red tape coming our way. My parents are software engineers from a city in India that is approximately the size of Chicago – relatively small for that country. And I was at the ripe age of eight when I headed over. I went from being in a class full of Chinese kids in Singapore that looked down on the Indian kids to a class full of white kids that couldn't distinguish the types of brown but nevertheless looked down on all of us. To the untrained eye, Pablo from Guadalajara, Mexico, could pass as my brother. Again, I'm not blaming these kids. I don't think the concept of colour was taught very well in the West.

For most of my childhood, I kind of forgot that I was part of the specialist H1B cult. I was just a little kid trying to survive puberty and the breakup of the Jonas Brothers. My parents thought we could get rid of the "it" within a few years and finally assimilate as permanent residents. But life had other plans. The great recession of the late 2000s threw a wrench in the works. It caused not only an international financial crisis but also a familial meltdown. My parent's firm had to call it quits. I remember my mom tried to explain this to me but nothing made sense at that time. Nothing makes sense when you're teenager. In response, I did what every teenager would do and protested. It's all fun and games until you realize your protest at age 14 was against the broken immigration system.

For starters, the process of getting rid of the H1B visa and acquiring a green card is as random as the slot machine at your nearest casino. It functions as a lottery system. Imagine a really sad looking administrative staff picking up random dates and deciding that applications made on that day can go ahead to the permanent resident process. The rest of the applicants just patiently wait until their date is called. Indians aren't particularly known for their patience. If you don't believe me, just go to an Indian wedding and attempt to form a line for food. By the time you actually get to your food, hundreds of aunties will have formed a lotus-shaped mob and consumed half of the buffet. However, when it came to the case of the visa, everyone adopted a very sage-like attitude. They simply stood back and waited because to dissent is to lose out on the opportunity to attain residency.

My parents also played the patience game. They stood and waited. Every time the visa expired, they renewed it and waited longer. Then it came time when the U.S. government no longer considered me as a child. This meant that I meant I was no longer considered part of my parents' application as adults (even if I am in strong denial of being one) don't depend on their parents. So while everyone else was partying in college, I was faced with a life-or-death situation. I either had to figure out my life before 21 or get sent back to the motherland, a place I barely knew. I was rooted in the culture, but we only interacted every five years for three weeks at a time and we all know that long-distance relationships are hard to work out.

My entire life flashed before my eyes and I worked like there was no tomorrow. To make my life even harder, I decided to pick medicine as my future while majoring in economics. It was admission season; my blood and bowel pressure had reached their all-time high. It might have been due to excessive ramen consumption but for dramatic purposes, I am going to blame it on my stress.

As an economics major, I had learned to never put all my eggs in one basket. I used the same logic and decided to apply to medical schools in both Ireland and the United States. Applying to Irish medical schools was a rogue decision. I loved the idea of living in the Emerald Isle but part of my decision was fuelled by teenage angst to resist against the broken U.S. immigration system. I was already losing the immigration battle so why should I give it a second chance? So when my acceptance letters for medical schools in the United States and Ireland arrived, I decided to pick up my bags and leave the country that betrayed me. I had accepted defeat to the immigration gods. I didn't trust the immigration slot machine any longer. With this exit, not only did I lose my chance of having an official paper calling me American but from then on, I became known as a visitor in the country that I grew up in.

While my classmates were having identity crises in the college library or at pubs, I was having my identity crisis in front of a middle-aged immigration officer at the Dublin airport. Every time they asked where I was from, my brain would go into flashback mode and I would start the narration of my story in an unmistakeably American accent. The immigration officer would look back at me with a blank stare compounded with a hint of suspicion. Then I would clarify by saying that I am just "visiting my parents in the States." I would then continue this crisis over a day-old sandwich before I boarded the flight.

During my time on the island, I tried to pick up an Irish accent but it was of no avail. There were just too much slang and I had no idea where to begin. I continued this cycle of crises over my four years of medical school and adjusted to this new title of "visitor". Over my final year, I came to the grips with the notion that I was an Indian who didn't know enough about India, an American who has no papers to prove it, and an accidental Singaporean.

However, my self-actualization didn't last very long. I received the aforementioned call within two weeks of my nirvana. Even though I had forgotten about "it", my parents were very much in line clutching onto "it". In addition, they still have hope that I will mend my relationship with the United States and get back in line. However, once you taste independence, it's hard to push yourself back into the shackles of the immigration procedure. As with my mother, she lost her perfect job because her immigration lawyer decided to have a lazy day and submit her renewal papers late. That's all it took for my family's little world to spiral down.

After I ended the conversation with my mother, I did what every hipster millennial would do and jumped on Twitter to subtweet against immigration policies. Then I messaged a couple of my American friends about this and realized that they had no idea this situation existed. That's when it hit me. No one has really talked about this issue. Everyone who is in line is just patiently waiting. Once they receive the ultimate green card, they repress memories of being in line rather than opening a dialogue about bringing change to this system because it is too much trauma.

So I am here to tell you that this exists. Earlier this month, President Trump signed an executive order banning new H1B visas and extending restrictions on the issuance of new green cards. Thousands of skilled and essential workers will be prevented from entering the United States. And those in line for their chance of permanent residency are forced to continue waiting silently. I may have been fortunate enough to dodge this bullet but many are not. These include everyone from the researchers at the academic institutions to many of the software engineers fuelling this country's booming tech industry.

Standing in line for the immigration slot machine to work in your favour is not an efficient system for an entire nation to manage its immigrants. I think the immigration system should consult the aunties at Indian weddings for a better strategy.