JOST A MON

In a stately home in London, yours truly yesterday became a subject of Her Majesty the Queen. There was a moment, fifteen minutes after the appointed time when the registrar still had not appeared, that I thought it was a particularly British way to play a Fool's Day joke on me. But she turned up shortly thereafter, all apologies, bronzed tan and heaving cleavage. I had to affirm my allegiance to the monarch, pledge my fidelity to the kingdom, sign a document, receive a naturalisation certificate, and walk out of that ancient pile with a tra-la on my lips and immediate plans (like all Brits) to emigrate to a sunny clime. Spain, perhaps? The Costa de Sol beckons.

Of course, it didn't turn out all that smoothly. In keeping with the age-old tradition of the bureaucracy to screw things up, my certificate had my date and place of birth entered wrongly. I have to send it back to the UK Border Agency with a copy of my passport (which, of course, they already have) to point out where they went wrong. Two weeks hence, assuming they get a breather from the recent avalanche of naturalisation applications (people trying to get in before the regulations and fees change in the new financial year), I should hopefully have the correct certificate, which I can then use to get myself a shiny new red biometric passport, wielding which I can pursue that old British dream - move to Benidorm, and park myself in a pub to watch endless reruns of Only Fools and Horses.

I would have liked to attend the citizenship ceremony in a cohort with other freshly minted subjects. Unfortunately, the earliest available date was more than a month away. It would have been fun to see eager and joyous immigrants in the same room, looking forward to full civil rights and participation in this old democracy. Like good Borg, we'd have all chanted the oath enthusiastically, in unison, and gratefully received benediction from the officiating dignitary. But I was in a hurry to be done with the process, a nifty £50 exchanged hands, and I was given the option for a private ceremony.

A rather tatty photograph of the Queen was perched on a table, bedecked with the Union Jack. A little stereo system played classical music that I didn't recognise. The hall is used for wedding ceremonies more often than citizenship rituals, and the collection of CDs available to set the mood reflected this fact: most were love songs.

The ceremony took barely five minutes. I read out the affirmation. I shook hands with the registrar (I could have refused to, had my religious or cultural upbringing prevented me from touching a woman. In Britain, all viewpoints are valid.) She gave me my certificate and welcomed me to the community. The national anthem blared. Thankfully, we weren't expected to join in. I don't know the words. The registrar then showed us out. It was a warm, pleasant day.

Even though there is the notional "overseas citizenship" available from India, I am guilty about having to abandon my lovely blue twenty-year desi passport. It has brought me much joy and angst in equal measure (see episode at Estonian immigration, for example). I don't even look like the picture of me affixed in it. It could belong to a completely different person, a different life. Once I get the OCI, I needn't apply for a visa to visit the heartland. But much is lost to me now: even leaving aside the usual rights of a citizen, it's more difficult to visit the inner-line states, it's costlier to enter Bhutan, and the chances of adopting a kid from India now are vanishingly small. I was eligible for UK citizenship over three years ago. Finally I've taken the plunge. It is a bittersweet step.