Our bureaucracy is alive and well

When an old tennis friend of mine had to renew his soon-to-expire passport, I warned him that the process might be bureaucratic and that he should exhibit patience, tenacity and an unwavering will to win if he hoped for success. He said that I was mistaken, that doing it today was as easy as sitting on a cushioned bench. All he had to do was fill an application form online, submit it online, pay `2,000 online, apply for an appointment online, land up on the scheduled date with the required papers – just his old passport and a proof of residence – in his hand.

“Three days later I’ll have a new passport in the same hand,” he said, sounding smug.

I was curious to know what happened; so I called him a day after his appointment. 

“I missed it,” he said morosely. “The proof of residence proved tricky. I don’t have an electricity, telephone or water bill since I moved to Mumbai recently and am staying in my company flat. The passport office accepts a public sector bank passbook showing my address; so I went to one to open an account. But they asked me for proof of residence. I explained to the manager that I was opening an account in his bank because I did not have the proof and for no other reason. Instead of showing sympathy, the man got annoyed; but then relented to say he’d accept a private bank passbook as proof. Unfortunately private banks require proof of residence too! Luckily my private bank accepts a letter from employer if you’re ‘changing address’. So I transferred the account from my previous city to Mumbai submitting my employer’s letter as proof of residence, then opened an account with the public sector bank submitting the private sector bank passbook as proof of residence, so that I can apply for the passport submitting the public sector bank passbook as proof of residence. It’s like progressing through levels of the computer game Warcraft, but not as much fun. I’ve asked for a second appointment in three days, by when the public sector bank will complete the paperwork.”

When he reached the counter for this appointment, the clerk told him that annexures F and I were missing. My shocked friend said that this was because the website made no reference to them. In a bored voice the clerk informed him that he had heard that story many times before and had not found it gripping on any of the occasions.

 

My friend went home and investigated the schedule situation. Yes, indeed schedule F, a certificate on his moral character filled out by a gazetted officer, and schedule I, an affidavit by my friend himself, were required documents (though they were not in ‘required documents’). He completed his affidavit, got it notarised and requested a friend in the government to complete schedule F.

When he landed up for appointment number 3 (also fixed online), the clerk told him that both documents appeared to be in order.

“But,” he added, “Schedule F is required to be submitted in duplicate. See, it says so right here.”

“Sorry, I missed that!” my friend said. “Can you please photocopy it on the machine sitting idly behind you?”

“That’s not for public use,” the clerk said coldly. “But anyway, the document should be in original.”

“But it says ‘duplicate’,” my friend protested.

“‘Duplicate’ means original.”

“No! ‘Original’ means original. ‘Duplicate’ means duplicate.”

You know who always wins an argument of this nature: the clerk.

So my friend went back to request the kindly government officer for a duplicate original schedule F. But by now he had exhausted his maximum quota of three interview requests online. He went back to the passport centre he had already visited three times, thinking he would be welcomed like an old friend. Instead he was told that requests for appointments could only be made at the regional passport office.

So my friend went there the next day, waited an hour and met the relevant passport officer, who asked him to submit his request in writing. My friend poured his heart out in an eloquent letter. The officer affixed his signature on it and took it to another officer, asking my friend to wait. An hour later, the second officer summoned my friend to her office. “Request rejected,” she said and also gave it in writing; so everything was on record and clean and above-board.

The clerk told him he would now need to go back online and submit a fresh form and seek a fresh appointment.

“And pay a fresh `2,000?” my friend asked.

“Of course,” the clerk assured him.

That’s where matters stand now. We’re confident that one of these days, in the fullness of time, my friend will get a new passport.

But the episode has served to reassure me that all is well with our public services. For a moment there, when my friend was describing the new procedures, I was worried that technological advances were threatening to make these services efficient. It is comforting to know I worried unnecessarily.