non-fiction by Surajit Basu
If there is something I dislike about India, it is the big B. Not Amitabh Bachchan acting out suspense and silliness in the mega-show Kaun Banega Crorepati, but the big Bureaucracy acting out their own version of the mega-game. Largely sponsored by those who want to get some work done, it's called Kaun Banega Chorepati.
Five days after I returned to India, I sat in the hot seat, waiting for the big B to make the next move in the great game. The prize was 100 kilos of my own books and clothes, sent through unaccompanied baggage from Singapore. To get to the grand prize, one has to get through several complex and increasingly difficult rounds.
But the first challenge is to get there. You have to call up the Cargo Section to find out if your luggage has reached. And then you have to answer the telephone questions : When did you send it ? Why do you want it so early? It just came in yesterday, why don't you wait? Then, you get to know where the interview will be. There, after paying up a thousand rupees "for documentation", you get the Delivery Order. That, you think, is your ticket to your prized luggage.
Ha! That is just the beginning of the game-show. I arrived at the International Air Port Cargo Complex, and realised why they call it a complex. No board explained where to go, whom to meet. But armed with a pass, I ventured bravely in. A clutch of competing agents followed me, buzzing like bees. "A couple of thousand, and we will get you the stuff." "Just come with me, saar." "I'll do it, saar." Should I pick the Fastest Fraud First?
With a combination of luck and intuition, I reached the Superintendent, who said, "Why me? All these guys know what to do.", and pointed to the agents. I said to one, "Where can I get the forms? I'll fill it myself." Incredulous looks followed. "Take him there", they whispered, "HE will explain the rules."
And HE did. The Man Who Held The Forms gave me friendly advice. Just a single form, 3 copies. Easy stuff. But there are 25 rounds to clear. Yes, twenty-five clerks, sub-clerks, notaries, signatories, checks, balances, customs, duties. I'll never get past them, he knew. Not all the rounds.
He smiled at me and asked me my occupation, then announced it to the world. The crowd around us nodded appreciatively. I felt I was the centre of attraction. "I hope you are not nervous. Shall I begin?", HE asked. What could do but nod wordlessly ?
First, there's the signature round. The clerks have to get their bosses to sign on the forms - in triplicate, please note, and the clerks note details in a separate register. You need to pay at each round. Does it double every round, I wondered. "Just chai-pani, saar. You will spend at least a few hundred in this. After all, there are thirty people in the chain."
Then, there's the customs duties. Payment here is quite customary. "But I don't have anything except personal effects, clothes and books. Old stuff. Whatever electronics I had I brought in personally, and paid duty too."
"Ah, yes, but first you must pass the round where you find the luggage. It is a big area, and the records are in a computer in a nearby building. Safely air-conditioned building, saar. You get the location slip from there and go to the luggage area. But, but you'll get the wrong location. Again and again. Only agents get the right location slip, saar. Others, they reduce to tears. Very haarible fellows, saar."
And, by the way, how will you give the right answer to the form each round? You won't get the choices. You won't even know the next question. There are no guidelines, no boards. Only the agents know where to get the forms, and who has to sign where. I realised he was right; the only boards I had seen were the Citizen's Charter and the anti-Corruption boards. They proclaimed "Do not pay bribes, report the evils to Mr. Vittal, Delhi". But there was no list of people to contact for the work to be done, no map of the place, no boards saying "Forms available here", or even "Start!" or an "Enter" sign for the maze. How do you get to the next round? Oh, you have to take an audience poll every time to identify the next step.
"Take my advice, don't try it. We officers don't take anything at all. Never." Of course, I said, trying not to snigger. "It's just the clerks and notaries, and all these little things." So what are my options? There are many ways, but we'll simplify for you. Take a 50-50, he said. Either
A) you do it yourself
B) we do it for 1,000/-.
If you take A, you will need several days, he said helpfully.
So there it was, the 100-kilo question : How can you clear 30 tables?
A) Several days
B) 1,000/-.
I stood undecided. What could I do? Both sounded awful; a lot was at stake, not an easy decision. I took an audience poll. The guy beside me nodded dismally, take B, he mumbled; this was the third day he was bunking office to retrieve his luggage: one small package of 10 kgs. I had 5 packages, a total of 100 kgs. How many days would that be?
Still undecided, I opted for my final life-line : Phone a friend. I explained the problem to him, but before he could give his advice, the Telecom department cut the call. Strike is in and calls - if you get them - beyond thirty seconds are definitely out.
So, I looked at the big B and nodded guiltily. Desh ka kya hoga? Lock kar diya jaye?