- Bribe Fighter
- 14 years ago
- 1384 views
The Writer's block
The day I decided to get a passport for myself was the first time I happened to cross the threshold of a Police Station. Half way through my lab exams, a couple of cops came knocking on my door and after careful scrutiny of my face and address against their reference sheets, satisfied, they informed me that I had to be ‘verified’ by the Police Inspector – thus beginning the arduous journey.
In order of to fully understand the story, it is necessary to supply the nuances of the process of obtaining a passport. After filling up the application form and submitting it to the Passport office – along with the necessary documents (which interestingly took one whole day on my bike, riding across the city, coupled by several attestations, refusals and delays), the next step in the process was to ********** the Writer, who happens to as the name suggests, carry out all the written work in the station (or do they?). The Writer fills out certain forms – personal information regarding the applicant. The Inspector then, does just that, inspects the person, signs the form to complete the Police Verification stage of the process. Well, sounds pretty straightforward, right? – It never is.
The first shun came on my very first visit (yes, there were more visits). That morning I had made a phone call to the Writer in question, enquiring the time(s) of his availability. I arrived fifteen minutes before the stipulated time. Si, at eleven in the morning I tripped off to ********** the Writer. A man on guard duty, a desk clerk and another man were there to greet me. The police station was a small one (or I thought it was small). The entrance opened out into an ante-room three side rooms for the Inspectors and two sub-Inspectors. From the ante-room a corridor led to an inner chamber holding a Xerox machine a couple of jail cells and three offices directly opposite the cells. The writer’s office was directly opposite to the first cell. There were other floors to which is was not privy to, as my work was limited only to the ground floor. I waited there for over two hours at which point I was told that the Writer would only be coming in the evening. The Inspector – a loud-mouthed, half balding man – who happened to come during this time noticed the absence of the Writer and launched into a tirade of colorful Kannada slang (later, I came to realize he spoke English too). He was in his office for a time equivalent to a phone call, then left to attend a party organized by the newly elected Member of the Legislative Assembly for that constituency. I gathered my stuff and took the long walk back home.
In the evening, I again made the phone call before going and to my surprise, this time, he told me was present in the station at the time. Not wanting to miss the chance I rummaged for and gathered all requisites before dashing off to the place. As I went in I stared at the occupied cell and received a look of complete disgust and loathing – smiled at the occupant not knowing exactly what to expect as a response and was saved of a reply as I was ushered into the Writer’s room (for lack of a better word). He signaled me to sit, which was when I first looked at his face. He was a man with striking dark features, had the traditional belly of a government employee and a look of complete loss on his face. On my right-hand side sat dreamy-eyed woman constable whose features were dulled in the company of men. She was making entries into ‘the big book’ of all the complaints received (which apparently included one on the Police Department itself).
The Writer completely ignored my presence for the first fifteen minutes, which I thought was normal from the many stories I had read, seen or heard. He sifted through several trays on his desks, shifted files from one tray to another, cleared his desk, clarified doubts, stared out the window (well I still thought all of this was part of the game). He then suddenly, seeming to notice me, pulled out a printed sheet of paper and rattled off questions, sometimes referring to my application and occasionally to what I seemed to say. I replied, patiently, to everything. As I thought my work here would be over sooner than was made out to be, in came a young constable – who was not in his uniform – apparently, straight from his native village (and also a few days late). Such was the trend as I then learned from the conversations that were flying around, that, when officers did report late to work they would buy themselves out. How? Well, he placed a large packet of puffed rice on the Writer’s table and another packet of home-made sweets, specially prepared by his wife. The Writer promptly removed several rough sheets, scooped out equal quantities of both and distributed them, to all. I was offered a sweet, which at first I refused, but sadly succumbed to the coaxing.
As I looked down at my documents, clearly embarrassed at being offered something, they began chatting about how he was married to a minor, the life in his village, slowly the conversation moving along weird tangents and finally ending up with a physical examination of whether the Writer’s present shirt was a best fit or otherwise. All this while I played spectator, being thoroughly ignored. Thank God for Eoin Colfer and Artemis Fowl, it kept me sane and aware. I finished fifty pages of book five there and the pace of my reading is average, considering I had to pick up the conversation around me.
What brought the Writer crashing out of his self-examination and into reality was the arrival of middle-aged woman, a child’s hand in hers’. The woman looked gullible, short, having the face of a child, had her hair done in plaits and rather in a hurry. The Writer immediately dropped everything and attended to her (not surprising). I took this opportunity get my work done as he completely let his guard down to her. He finished with me and told me to wait for the final confirmation by the Inspector who was due to arrive any moment now. He picked up a printed sheet, walked out to the corridor to get it photo-copied. As he passed me, he tugged at my shirt indicating that I follow him. Thinking it was something to do with the form, I trudged behind him. As he placed the sheet above the laser scanner he scanned the room for anyone who could eavesdrop on us, satisfied at his stealth, he spoke in a voice louder than a whisper. He said, “I need money for the paper, for the forms I filled out”. He then repeated the request when I told him that the government provides the paper.
It doesn’t take a lot to “read” into the trivial statement, but I wasn’t prepared for this, quite literally. I wanted to say many things to him. To point out to him what the right was, to tell him I wasn’t going to pay up, not a single rupee and that I would have to report him – all the noble talk that my ideals screamed for were right at the tip of my tongue waiting to be unleashed, waiting for a pass at him, to deliver an ultimatum, to set an example. All I could manage was a, “I’m sorry, Sir, but I don’t have any money”. Visibly unaffected but mentally determined to punish my insolence, he told me to wait for the Inspector to arrive. The women also came out and sat beside me, very satisfied. It wasn’t helpful that the Inspector on his arrival went straight to his office and summoned the Writer. The thorough verbal hammering he received was audible to all. Now, a visibly shaken Writer came out and looked for an outlet to vent his anger on, searching for an easy prey, checking for vulnerability and his eyes locked onto mine. I wasn’t scared. I wasn’t defensive or even angry. I was just confident to getting this through. He approached me and told me that my application which seemed fine all the while had glaring deficiencies and that my passport would not be approved.
The women went in first to see the Inspector, understandably, seeing that she was privileged. She came out thanked the Writer and left a broad grin etched on her face. When my turn came, I picked my forms up and went into the room without even a glance at the Writer. The Inspector was decent. Looked at me, then at the forms, signed them and then told me I could leave. I went out wanting to thank the Writer and mumbled an inaudible acknowledgement and left the place, happy to have succeeded when others have given in (or so I thought).
The next day I got a call from the Writer asking me for a copy of my bank account passbook as irrefutable proof of address. So began the third and final jaunt which surprisingly was devoid of any incidents of significance apart from the fact that I had to wait for him (again!).
The next ten days were an agonizing wait dotted with incessant checking of the status of the application on the Internet. On the eleventh day however, the status changed to “Police Verification Completed” and another month later I got my passport. The pride at having been successful was so great that I couldn’t keep from smiling the whole day. I had beaten a corrupt system. I had proved it was possible to do it the clean way. I had won. After several hours of boasting, my mother beckoned me aside and told me just one sentence. I was destroyed. I had wanted to be different. I wanted to change the way world worked, but life didn’t let me be. I didn’t smile anymore. I skipped a meal (which is the usual way I do my penance). I was shattered when my mother told me that my father had visited the Police Station just before my third visit. I was disappointed to learn that my application had not even been touched after I had left the place. I was saddened to learn that the Writer had then been given “his due”. I was defeated by the Writer’s block. I had lost.