Bad places and good people

How often do we hear tell that women should stay at home because the outside world is bad? Any place at all may be labelled bad, and hence, they shouldn’t set foot there. I think men in India sprout these value judgements only to control women’s movements, like putting them up on a pedestal they can’t get off of.

In the Indian social context, ‘bad’ is something the respectable and dignified should not associate with. Women brought up to hold ‘respectable’ and ‘dignified’ as high ideals must be, in other words, trusting and obedient to the controls set upon them. Few of these women ever question the word of their men folk, or cross the lakshmanrekha (invisible boundary) drawn for them. What can we do, we are only women, is the common refrain of their life-long dependency. 

One such bad place is the office of the Licencing Authority. And who inhabits these “bad places”? They are members of the bureaucracy, not rapists, paedophiles, and other criminal elements! Many women keep the driving licences they issue merely as trophies. These are never used, because the people on the roads in India are also bad. Neither have the women ever set foot on the office premises to get the licences. There are male ‘representatives’ to do that dirty work for them!

Well, I need to renew my licence, and so I head over to the office. On my way into the building, at least half a dozen touts clamour to “represent” me. Why, I ask each of them, do I look illiterate? I hardly need to hire somebody to buy the forms from a vendor and then to fill in my details! 

I complete the required medical formalities, and a few days later, I am ready to submit my application. I expect the process to get arduous here on. It is common knowledge that governmental institutions tend to be arbitrary in their dealings with the public, and their departments can shut down at any time before transactions complete. I am likely to have to make several visits to get it done, but so be it. It still seems worth doing for myself.

 

Back in front of the building, I see several young men approaching me, and wave them off. A few mutter that they have been unable yet to make boni (first catch), but I am certainly not feeling charitable. I march into the building and there seems to be a lot of people hurrying in different directions. I’m reminded that time is of essence.

I ask a policeman on duty where the papers will be received. He doesn’t quite know the process. But, Wait, he says, let us find out. Several young men around are eager to show off their knowledge, perhaps hoping to be called up for representation. He tells them sternly they had better be right or else! They indicate a certain window and I have to go around the building to get to it.

The man on the other side of this open window seems busy. As I wait for him to finish with what he already has on his hands, another scruffy young man walks up and pushes ahead of me to thrust a fresh bunch of applications through the window. I tap him on the shoulder. Am I really invisible to you? I enquire loudly. He grins a little sheepishly, and backs off.

But it turns out I am actually at the wrong window; this one is for payments only. My application details need to be checked first at another window open further along. A young man sits to one side at the counter desk in there. He looks up as I speak, and recites a list of supportive documents that must also be submitted in photocopy. I find I don’t have the appropriate address proof document with me, like passport, voter’s id, Bank passbook or statement.

I have a chequebook though, with my full address on it - will that serve purpose? The young man shakes his head, no. Ah well, I think resignedly, I’ll just have to come back tomorrow.  Just then, his senior arrives. What’s the problem, he asks. He listens and then says decisively, OK, just submit the first page in photocopy. His young assistant is surprised, but takes it in stride. Take care; don’t drop anything, he calls out as I hurry away to get the relevant copies before they change their minds!

The young man at the copiers frowns at the chequebook, and says that it won’t be accepted. They said so, I insist. Who said that, he asks, was it the man in the window? I nod. Very strange, he comments. It’s not the norm and they usually are very particular, he explains. But logically, why should it not be accepted? It is a legitimate document, after all! He shrugs, Sign the photocopy and submit it, see if it works. He photocopies all the documents I need and pins them together. Put the licence in a polythene cover and attach it at the top, so it won’t get lost, he advises. He points where the cover may be obtained.

The man in the window is a perfectionist. He doesn’t like the way I attached the licence to the application. He calls out to somebody and a small man appears beside me to do it right. My documents are then accepted without fuss. I’m told to make the payments. That means the other window for one payment quickly completed there. I am then directed to a third place for another payment.  I see a big crowd milling about outside, and only one window in operation. It looks to me my luck is running out, and I’m sure I won’t reach the counter before it closes today. Still, I join the queue and several people look around in surprise. I ask if that queue is for the payment I am supposed to make. Several heads shake in unison and several hands point to a room inside the building. 

Thankfully there are no crowds at the window inside.  I pay up and am handed the receipt. I head back to the receiving window, and submit all the various papers I have collected. The small man materializes again, and makes two sets of my papers  – one, to be received at the counter, and the other, my takeaways of receipts. These are now stamped on the reverse with the official seal of the Authority. Come back in 25 days, the young assistant says from the other side of the window. 

25 days? My question is how I am to manage without licence meanwhile. The senior smiles slightly, and points to the stamped paper he has just signed.  That’s enough to cover it, he says, but if you like you can put your photograph on it, and have it attested. That makes perfect sense to me, and accordingly, it happens. 25 days, I ask again to reconfirm. 15 days should do it, he replies, Come back then and check.

I am elated that I’m done in less than an hour. As I walk away, I wonder what is so bad here? Government offices may look seedy and run down, but the bureaucracy functions all right. They keep the country going. In fact, good people may be found at these socially condemned bad places that are really helpful to the public.

Seems to me that it is not they, but the ubiquitous representative culture of touts that overrun the place that are the problem. They are poorly educated young men socialized into speed money by the more privileged sections, and now it is their livelihood they protect. Indeed, it is their accosting anybody and everybody as a matter of course that gives the places the bad name. 

For too long, women have swallowed the value judgements men throw at them as gospel truth. They need to realize the truth, to be out and about, doing their own thing themselves. That does not take away from being respectable and dignified, rather it actually facilitates independence - and self-worth. It may be better for societal advancement for them to be less trusting of judgements, and less unquestioningly obedient!