India abroad

India House. Home to the Indian High Commission in the United Kingdom, and some of the rudest Indians this side of the Suez.
After a sworn declaration never to darken it's doorways again after an aborted attempt to add pages to my passport this time last year (the prospect of trying to locate the correct unsigned window to hand in my passport in the midst of random queues and three quarters of a gazillion confused bodies heaving in an under ventilated room was too much for my delicate nerves, so I abandoned the exercise and hoped for divine intervention). God now has other things to do apparently, so there I was, at 8.30 am on a freezing Friday, armed with a suspicious looking photo, bryson's short history of everything, and a boss warned to call emergency services if I didn’t show up by 5 pm.
Two queues and a surprising absence of white skin greets me on arrival. Naturally, the one I have to join in order to obtain a token number (one always assumes there is a greater purpose to this exercise than mere statistical pleasure) is the longer. I console myself with the observation that the shorter queue stays immobile. It is 7 minutes before my keen powers of observation cut through the cold and I realise acquisition of a token number is a mere privilege for a place in the immobile queue. My vantage spot overlooks a hauntingly empty hall, with the exception of this girl working on a ‘Ladies’ sign with unwarranted dedication. 20 minutes of dard e disco type music in an effort to take your mind off the inhospitable conditions, and watching apparent employees stroll in casually as the first queue dwindles lead you to scan through your vocabulary of swear words in multiple languages. I have 17 stylish combinations ready, when there is a rumour of movement near the door.
I revel in the feeling of a marauding victor as I walk through the metal detector. Not only have all the foreigners disappeared, so has one of the windows. Unbelievably, the ones left are clearly numbered, with two obvious monitors displaying passport, PIO and other miscellaneous services, which actually change with a poignant ding with each ascending token number. Another 3 minutes devoted to admiring this deeply un-bureaucratic occurrence of positive change, before I settle down to bill, and the reluctant arrival of staff behind the windows.
I understand there is a minimum level of offensiveness that is necessary to the smooth functioning of an efficient bureaucracy, and particularly, if the said bureaucracy is in the upper echelons of foreign service, I can appreciate the professional need to temper a normal level of offensiveness with a degree of insolence in a proper government servant. Well, the IFS’ recruitment policy is flawless. No stone left unturned in their search for the rudest employees. I do not claim to have an inkling about how one aspires to a position in the Indian High Commission in London, but if I were to guess, I’d say the 2nd class ladies compartment on the Virar local is where the cream of the crop is spawned. I can state with all honesty, that aside from the aforementioned location, this is the only other place I have come across women with hideously shrill, un-modulated voices, abrasive manners, nose rings, bad hair styles and the suggestion of body odour on the journey back. And we thought it was the lack of infrastructure that kept the tourists away….
Two and a half hours later, after a frustrating 99% download complete situation (yes, token # 240 is on the board, when the lady, in what should have been my window decides it is an opportune moment for her tea break!!), I’m grudgingly asked, “Jumbo?”. I do not retaliate with “Haathi teri maa!”, but politely say “yes please” and am rewarded with a white receipt (pink copy stays with them), with 10/12 3-4pm Jumbo scrawled on it. Veni, Vidi. Vici.