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.

iParenting

“It’s amazing how we brought up our children without the help of technology,” I said to my wife, looking up from the newspaper. I often introduced deep, philosophical topics like this over our morning cup of coffee.

“You mean disposable diapers?” she asked.

“No, but good point! We should discuss that another time. But I was wondering how we brought up two children without even one iPad?”

“Jordy Kaufman of Swinburne University, Melbourne,” I continued, reading from the newspaper, “claims that using an iPad is intuitive to babies and it fosters creativity and intelligence. According to Ofcom's report, 51% of UK households own a tablet and where children are in those households, they tend to be users too. And in the US, as many children have their own iPads as did adults two years ago! All our kids had was the rattle.”

My wife nodded sagely.

A few days after this intellectual exchange, our friends Mithun and Amrita came home for dinner with their six-year old twin boys and infant girl of eight months. Like a good host, I moved to help them dismantle the baby’s pram. That’s when I noticed it had an iPad mounted two feet above the baby’s face.

“Wow! That’s neat,” I said, reaching out to pluck it out of its mount.

“No! Don’t!” screamed Mithun, but too late. I had already removed the device. Immediately the baby began howling and thrashing about in the pram, making it impossible for me to clip the iPad back.

A newcomer's guide to the Singapore language

When I first came to Singapore I thought communication would be a breeze as English is the national language. But I soon realized that knowing English before entering Singapore is like knowing running before entering the tennis court: it helps you to get around but not actually play.

Affection for Acronyms

The enthusiasm for abbreviating names into acronyms in the country is unparalleled. The World Bank places Singapore no. 3 in the world in population density (with 7,713 people per square kilometre) but if we reapplied the measure to acronyms used in everyday life, Singapore would be world leader in acronyms per square kilometre.

“Where’s PIE?” I asked my Singapore colleague in my early days here. “The road signs pointing to it are very prominent.”

“It stands for Pan Island Expressway,” he explained.

“Ah!” I said. “And CTE?”

“Likewise: Central Expressway.”

“But that’s CE. What does the ‘T’ stand for?”

“For ‘Tral’, in ‘Central’. Singaporeans love three-letter acronyms; we think two-letter ones just don’t make the cut.”

“What’s BKE?” I asked.

“Bukit Timah Expressway,” he said.

“Wrong! That’s BTE, not BKE!”

“No! The ‘K’ stands for ‘Kit’ in ‘Bukit’.”

“But why?!” I cried. “Unlike CTE, we have a perfectly legitimate ‘T’ waiting to be used here.”

“That’s why! If we have CTE and BTE, where’s the creativity? People would wonder if future highways would be DTE, ETE and so on.  And how silly would ATE sound? People would wonder who ate it!”

I thought if we already had a PIE, there should be no problem if someone ATE it but I didn’t say so.

The 'uncle and aunty' syndrome

We all know that age carries clout in India. As the website indianchild.com says, “respect for elders is a major component in Indian culture”. In ancient times, this meant youngsters would touch the feet of elders in greeting, talk to them deferentially and fetch things for them. But the modern guideline for respecting elders in India is crisper: simply address them ‘uncle’ and ‘aunty’.

I discovered this truth early in my marriage, at the tender age of 24. A couple older than us and their three-year old daughter were staying in the ground floor of our apartment building. On our first visit to their house, the girl smiled sweetly at us and said, “Hello uncle; hello aunty’. My wife and I found it endearing to be addressed like this by the little one.

Two days later, we were trudging up the stairs to our flat when the door of the apartment on the second floor opened and a man walked out. He politely moved out of the way to let us pass and smiled.

“Hullo uncle; hullo aunty,” he said. I looked at him closely. He had a thick moustache and a three-day stubble that made him look more adult than me. Yet he was calling me ‘uncle’ and his only excuse was that I was married!

“Hullo,” I said coldly and offered him my hand. “I’m Paddy. And you?”

As he shook hands with me his smile became more friendly. I thought he had recognized his error and would now address me by my name.

“I’m Ajit, uncle,” he said. “I just finished my B. Com and am looking for a job.”

Maybe he needed a broader hint.