HCI, London - my tryst with Babudom

A necessary interruption to daily existence is the requirement of certain bureaucratic intervention in essential matters like birth, death, tax, travel, among others and I too found myself compelled to visit the great Indian Babudom; despite being far away from India. I had to visit the High Commission of India, London.
India House is a beautiful building in the fashionable West End of London and I reached there, innocently unaware of the experience that awaited me. Since there was no visible entrance , and making the right presumption that the awe inspiring front entrance was not for the likes of me, I looked around and my suspicions of a general preference for Backdoor Entry being the normal route to all entries, from temple to the medical school, were proved right when I spotted a little side door. As I tried to ascertain that I was not rushing into anybody’s basement flat, a voice beckoned me from behind ‘Hello-madam-hello’ transporting me immediately to the familiarity of the great Indian Chowkidaars who are the gatekeepers to not just the Indian Officialdom, but our fate and fortune at the hands the members of this esteemed tribe. I was transported to the world where the rules of existence were different. A world , where you were treated with respect or disdain in equal measure, directly proportional to the proximity that you can demonstrate to the tribal chiefs, otherwise the biggies of babudom.
Having re-acquainted myself with this world once again, right in the heart of London, I was initially a bit numb by a sense of deja-vu, till the authorative voice of the doorman asked me to cross a wooden frame, supposedly a security check. I was reminiscing the several wooden frames that I have crossed back home, proving that I was no security threat and often wondered the effectiveness of passing by uninterested pan chewing female guards, cruelly clad in khaki trousers displaying the abundance of flat in all the wrong areas, in case any bombs crossed the barrier. Just as I was unconsciously falling prey to such misgivings, I tripped in the threads of a carpet and launched myself into a great big hall.
The centerstage of all activities.
There were big wooden paneled boxes that were last seen in Hollywood movies of the 30s but instead of some cigar chewing sheriffs behind the counters, there was nobody in those cubicles of power – the individual little fiefdoms of those lower down the babu hierarchy. It was an extended lunch time. One of the many waiting in the halls decided to inform having guessed from my looks that I was still getting accustomed to the whole experience of being in India, but still not yet there. The walls of the halls had a series of posters with glimpses of India, if you can separate the dust from the Technicolor images which I recognized immediately from the re-prints I have seen everywhere where the Babu decorator was allowed to leave his trademark – from the walls of the Airports, to the Rajdhanis to the Tourism board offices. Anticipating a long wait, I gingerly made way to some multicolored plastic chairs that were lined thoughtfully for the sake of all visitors, but just as someone got up from her seat, the person on the other end nearly fell off in a see-saw effect. Balance. Like everything in life, we in India, have a strong sense of balance, be it reality shows vs the K serials or the mere plastic chairs which were welded together in sets of 3 and would remain steady only through balanced distribution of weight it supported.
We were given numbers, as in Macdonald’s, but there were no electronic displays of token numbers and so there was a crowd in front of the paneled window where we had to await our turn, which finally arrived for me. As I made my way and was awaiting the completion of necessary procedures, I noticed something not commonly in London, if you discount the graffitis. Scribbles. Those that proclaimed ‘Jitu was here, 08/08/07’, ‘Sitha I love you’, ‘Raj + Lina’,etc. Something that I have seen everywhere and often wondered if it was an intrinsic act programmed in all Indians, the urge to leave our mark on time, albeit in reverse-literally sense. The urge to demonstrate our love for someone or just state simply that so-and-so was there. Is it the same urge that drives Mayawati to order statues of her in all nooks and corner of Uttar Pradesh (for now and rest of India, if ever such a day came) ? Is it the same urge that makes any politician worth his name lay down the foundation stone of buildings that never come up, but the stones remain as mute bearers of the names of those who had the power to lay them in marble ? Maybe.
As I was wondering all these, I was presented with yet another integral object of the Babudom – the files. Yes. Proper environment friendly, recyclable paper files with little bits of strings that hold the papers together. Something that is not easily seen in this part of the world,but which is an object that holds the key to all things in Babudom. How often had I heard tales of the rates of bribe that is needed to make the file move from one desk to another ? How often I have marveled at the power behind these seemingly innocent pieces of paper wherein lies great powers that determine the case history of every incident that was reported in Babudom ? I was glad that such files were still in existence and that they made their way across the seven seas to the banks of the Thames.
But as soon as my work was done, the lady serving me gave me a broad smile and I thanked her. Not just being overwhelmed by the experience of being in India, but not yet there, but also for the genuine way in which we greet each other back home. Unlike the crisp, uniformed and unfeeling way in which you are asked ‘Hi, how are you’ by the person serving you in any bank or any other place in the West, we Indians smile genuinely and greet each other from the bottom of our heart. Swept away with such warmth, I walked away from the HCI, London bidding a bye to the surprised safari-suit clad doorman, back to the hustle bustle of an ordinary London life.