The pressure!!
Bugger! This blog thingy is getting stressful with people keeping tabs on when I've last posted stuff :-). It has been a while though and Sarolta, this one's for you - oh yeah! and it took all afternoon. Canada's been a revelation - mostly Usha driven!! It's just fucking unbelievable, but she is really bloody super mom! And for anyone who knew her, it takes some getting used to :-). Am hungry so am going to scrounge for some lunch. I actually want to finish, well, start my bit on the Budapest trip, but the only thing I can think to write about is the Ishler!!! :-). More on that later - it's making me hungrier.
Lives of Others
For those of you phillistines who think the 'Day After Tomorrow' is a great movie, here's a newsflash. A great story with no CGI sometimes makes a better movie!! I'd heard lots of good things about this German movie, and wanted to see - finally went over the weekend. A long trek to Finchley Road for the late show, which allowed us to get in dinner. My first ever visit to Fine Burger, and I have to admit, they do make the most exquisite burgers! I had an original, beef, tomato, lettuce (minus onion), and it was the best burger I've ever eaten. This is a cow that died for a very deeply cause and will be much revered in my mind for some time to come. Of course, it's ridiculously overpriced, some £7 for a burger, and that's it - no fries, etc. But my, McDonald's and Burger King.. get a life. I also feel a compelling need to mention their onion rings - seen from afar, which were the size of my face!! I'm not kidding - I could have worn that ring around my upper arm with ease. Dont know what onions they're using, but I suspect a single onion could feed an entire Indian family.
Coming back to the movie, it's basically about life in East Germany, before the fall of the wall, as late as the eighties and nineties, living with the Stasi (that's their secret police that everyone's terrified of). It's about this author, his actress girlfriend, and this bastard Cultural minister who uses the Stasi to spy on the author to get something damaging about him, so he can destroy his career. The Statis spymaster, is the central character as far as I'm concerned, and the movie captures the nuances between the characters brilliantly.
It begins in Stasi school with the spymaster lecturing on interrogation methods and is a cool scene, but then slows down just a tad with the introduction of the author and the others... so I was wondering if my expectations were too high - so far (like all of 10 minutes!!) it was only 'ok'. Well, the movie is really long by un-Hindi film standards, some 2 h. 10 min, and the time just flies. I don't want to say a lot, but it's one of those movies, that leave you feeling very pleased with yourself, like you've accomplished something instead of just sitting there absorbed, watching someone else's hardwork. It's a movie that makes you think, and as you talk about it on the way home, it unpeels like a ruddy onion (I hate the number of times I seem to need to mention this stupid vegetable), layer after layer, some delicately transparent, where you can see the onions purple viens, and the others chunkier.
For me it was about so many things - a glimpse into a completely unfamilliar world (Sarolta dismissed my 'its a superb film' comments, saying it was ok - the story was nothing new, but then she grew up in a socialist state!!), throught provoking in its dealing with power, corruption, truth and beauty. The way the characters are real people, people you admire and at the same time, people victims to their weakness (for Day After Tomorrow fans, it's called a multidimensional character, like real people!). How people respond to their situation, sometimes predictable, and other times, maybe even surprising themselves. The acting is restrained, but really moves you and you get completely caught up in the story of their lives.
Enough of my waffling - it's a bloody GOOD movie, so go see it!! Incidentally, Somya and I were up till 2 am discussing it and we've now decided to buy a house in Berlin....... :-)
Coming back to the movie, it's basically about life in East Germany, before the fall of the wall, as late as the eighties and nineties, living with the Stasi (that's their secret police that everyone's terrified of). It's about this author, his actress girlfriend, and this bastard Cultural minister who uses the Stasi to spy on the author to get something damaging about him, so he can destroy his career. The Statis spymaster, is the central character as far as I'm concerned, and the movie captures the nuances between the characters brilliantly.
It begins in Stasi school with the spymaster lecturing on interrogation methods and is a cool scene, but then slows down just a tad with the introduction of the author and the others... so I was wondering if my expectations were too high - so far (like all of 10 minutes!!) it was only 'ok'. Well, the movie is really long by un-Hindi film standards, some 2 h. 10 min, and the time just flies. I don't want to say a lot, but it's one of those movies, that leave you feeling very pleased with yourself, like you've accomplished something instead of just sitting there absorbed, watching someone else's hardwork. It's a movie that makes you think, and as you talk about it on the way home, it unpeels like a ruddy onion (I hate the number of times I seem to need to mention this stupid vegetable), layer after layer, some delicately transparent, where you can see the onions purple viens, and the others chunkier.
For me it was about so many things - a glimpse into a completely unfamilliar world (Sarolta dismissed my 'its a superb film' comments, saying it was ok - the story was nothing new, but then she grew up in a socialist state!!), throught provoking in its dealing with power, corruption, truth and beauty. The way the characters are real people, people you admire and at the same time, people victims to their weakness (for Day After Tomorrow fans, it's called a multidimensional character, like real people!). How people respond to their situation, sometimes predictable, and other times, maybe even surprising themselves. The acting is restrained, but really moves you and you get completely caught up in the story of their lives.
Enough of my waffling - it's a bloody GOOD movie, so go see it!! Incidentally, Somya and I were up till 2 am discussing it and we've now decided to buy a house in Berlin....... :-)
Short Story: Arrogance in Distress
It was balmy in the University courtyard, the fringed shadow of the palm trees standing like unmoving sentinels over the driveway. The warm grey stone of the old University building glowed under the electric lights strategically aimed at it’s heritage façade. Maya got out of her car, and walked towards the forlorn notice board in the middle of the courtyard, lit up by halogen lamps. Her Doc Martins crunched on the gravel, sounding louder than usual in the stillness of the night, a steady counterpoint to the tinkling of the jhumkas dangling from her ears. She strode past the night watchman’s empty chair, and a few more steps brought her into the bright circle of light around the notice board. A lone figure, faded jeans clinging to her coltish legs, a plain white man’s work shirt, knotted at the waist, the sleeves rolled up revealing a collection of leather thongs, friendship bands and a smattering of silver bangles. Her streaked mane, held together by a tortoise comb, formed a halo under the bright light. She spent a few minutes in front of the notice board orienting herself to its layout and the information provided, and then began looking for her roll number in the results of the University’s Bachelor’s of Arts degree.
Maya’s body tensed, and she desperately ran her eyes over the typewritten numbers on the A4 sheets innocuously pinned to the board. All the numbers possible, except 268. Twice, thrice – the distinction list wasn’t that long. She could feel a sickly hollow sensation starting in her stomach, pushing its way up. It had to be a mistake. She was good. The best in her class. Could the incompetent fools at the degree board have marked her down to 1st class? Frantically, she scanned the 1st class list. A lot longer. But still no 268.
Disoriented, she started walking away heavily, the darkness of the evening punctuated only by the distant thrum of Bombay’s late night traffic and the thudding of her heart. She hesitated – maybe she’d hadn’t looked carefully enough. Back again, anxious eyes following the now familiar trail, when the thought came – maybe they’d accidentally thrown her in with the ‘pass’ class. She’d heard all the horror stories about the callousness of the exam board evaluation process. Shuddering, she scanned the lowest section of pages, but 268 remained as elusive as a cool breeze in May. Down the column, next column, down again…..like an automaton. Rows of numbers, but all the wrong ones. Inadvertently, her eyes tarried on the long ignored middle section – 2nd class. She hesitated – it wasn’t even a remote possibility….. was it? Down the row, up to the next one, and down again…. And then almost absently, her brain processed a blip – was that a 258? She blinked. Her eyes grudgingly refocused on the offending sheet of paper so casually, almost indifferently, pinned to the notice board. She reached out and touched it – no illusion. 268. Sitting there like it belonged. 2nd class.
Maya’s body tensed, and she desperately ran her eyes over the typewritten numbers on the A4 sheets innocuously pinned to the board. All the numbers possible, except 268. Twice, thrice – the distinction list wasn’t that long. She could feel a sickly hollow sensation starting in her stomach, pushing its way up. It had to be a mistake. She was good. The best in her class. Could the incompetent fools at the degree board have marked her down to 1st class? Frantically, she scanned the 1st class list. A lot longer. But still no 268.
Disoriented, she started walking away heavily, the darkness of the evening punctuated only by the distant thrum of Bombay’s late night traffic and the thudding of her heart. She hesitated – maybe she’d hadn’t looked carefully enough. Back again, anxious eyes following the now familiar trail, when the thought came – maybe they’d accidentally thrown her in with the ‘pass’ class. She’d heard all the horror stories about the callousness of the exam board evaluation process. Shuddering, she scanned the lowest section of pages, but 268 remained as elusive as a cool breeze in May. Down the column, next column, down again…..like an automaton. Rows of numbers, but all the wrong ones. Inadvertently, her eyes tarried on the long ignored middle section – 2nd class. She hesitated – it wasn’t even a remote possibility….. was it? Down the row, up to the next one, and down again…. And then almost absently, her brain processed a blip – was that a 258? She blinked. Her eyes grudgingly refocused on the offending sheet of paper so casually, almost indifferently, pinned to the notice board. She reached out and touched it – no illusion. 268. Sitting there like it belonged. 2nd class.
Short Story: A Rose by any other name??
Oh my. But he was delicious. Tina pushed back her sweaty bangs, more to keep her hands occupied than anything else. The man had ducked under the ancient bookshelf to retrieve her fallen map, and the urge to reach out and touch him was embarrassing. She hastily averted her eyes, pushing her glasses up her nose and looked around the cool, dimly lit room that served as the reception. The rich tapestries on the wall, ornately carved wooden tables and potted palms made her feel like she’d strayed into an oasis from the Arabian nights, and she felt a shiver run up her spine.
She was finally in Granada, ready to visit the Alhambra and experience for herself the Moorish influence on the region, the start of her grand adventure. Her mind drifted towards the stories surrounding the palace and it was a moment before she realized that he had straightened and was watching her. She blushed, and launched into a halting explanation in Spanish, her hands more eloquent than her limited vocabulary. He handed her the map, his dark eyes smiling. Flustered, she thanked him, her eyes on his lips, watching them move. He said something, she knew that, but what?
He moved behind the desk and looked at her expectantly. Quelling the rising feeling of ditziness, Tina gave him her brightest smile and nodded. It was the right response, as he grinned, grabbing a key from behind the counter before coming around, kissing her warmly on either cheek, and introduced himself as Carlos. Oh my, he smelled so good. Still smiling, he steered her past an archway, down steps decorated with vivid turquoise tiles, to a small alcove branching into a map room and a games room. The warmth of his hand seeping through her thin t-shirt, raised the hairs on her arms. She drew in her breath at the alcove’s rustic charm, the rich, earthy tones of the décor.
She saw Carlos enjoying her unrestrained pleasure before leading her to a picturesque terrace, dotted with wrought iron tables and chairs, rose bushes and a regally indifferent tabby sunning itself. Tina was thrilled. She could picture this in the 1600’s, the Caliph’s house, hidden nooks, crannies, and crazy steps everywhere, servants at your beck and call. Carlos was talking as he preceded her down some more steps, but all she caught was ‘kitchen’ and ‘breakfast’ as they entered a bright courtyard of what was obviously the restaurant.
The restaurant? Had he invited her for breakfast?? She hesitated, but Carlos drew her forward and introduced her to Marita, the ample chef, who embraced her, thrust an apron into her hand and told her how glad she was to finally see her. Bemused, she tried to focus on the rapidfire exchange as the magical moment slid away. She listened as Carlos deftly tied her apron, patting her encouragingly. With a last smile he turned and left. She felt the heat climbing up her face. Carlos the Love God had scrambled her brains....that fool of a man thought she was the new kitchen help!
She was finally in Granada, ready to visit the Alhambra and experience for herself the Moorish influence on the region, the start of her grand adventure. Her mind drifted towards the stories surrounding the palace and it was a moment before she realized that he had straightened and was watching her. She blushed, and launched into a halting explanation in Spanish, her hands more eloquent than her limited vocabulary. He handed her the map, his dark eyes smiling. Flustered, she thanked him, her eyes on his lips, watching them move. He said something, she knew that, but what?
He moved behind the desk and looked at her expectantly. Quelling the rising feeling of ditziness, Tina gave him her brightest smile and nodded. It was the right response, as he grinned, grabbing a key from behind the counter before coming around, kissing her warmly on either cheek, and introduced himself as Carlos. Oh my, he smelled so good. Still smiling, he steered her past an archway, down steps decorated with vivid turquoise tiles, to a small alcove branching into a map room and a games room. The warmth of his hand seeping through her thin t-shirt, raised the hairs on her arms. She drew in her breath at the alcove’s rustic charm, the rich, earthy tones of the décor.
She saw Carlos enjoying her unrestrained pleasure before leading her to a picturesque terrace, dotted with wrought iron tables and chairs, rose bushes and a regally indifferent tabby sunning itself. Tina was thrilled. She could picture this in the 1600’s, the Caliph’s house, hidden nooks, crannies, and crazy steps everywhere, servants at your beck and call. Carlos was talking as he preceded her down some more steps, but all she caught was ‘kitchen’ and ‘breakfast’ as they entered a bright courtyard of what was obviously the restaurant.
The restaurant? Had he invited her for breakfast?? She hesitated, but Carlos drew her forward and introduced her to Marita, the ample chef, who embraced her, thrust an apron into her hand and told her how glad she was to finally see her. Bemused, she tried to focus on the rapidfire exchange as the magical moment slid away. She listened as Carlos deftly tied her apron, patting her encouragingly. With a last smile he turned and left. She felt the heat climbing up her face. Carlos the Love God had scrambled her brains....that fool of a man thought she was the new kitchen help!
What a Stew!
Had a double dinner last night – the first courtesy Aashish who took me out for a belated birthday dinner. Since it was right after work and around Oxford St. it had to be Busaba, my favourite Thai fast meal deal. Enjoyed a chilli prawn fried rice with the Chinese broccoli/shitake mushrooms with their slivers of garlic and of course, no meal there is complete without their fabulous Thai Calamari. So feeling very pleased, I get back to Somya’s to find she’s finished cooking – her rendition of what was supposed to have been a Thai curry turned Avial combo stew. Since my Bengali DNA allows and indeed even encourages constant inputs via the oesophagus, I was only too glad to keep her company over a late dinner, the first of her day and the second of mine :-).
What can I say about the stew/jhol, except that it was really very, very simple vegetable stew, but absolutely delicious! So much so, that I had to get the receipe for myself, even if I don’t ever make the attempt, at least I now have the power! The secret is to not cook like Indians do, i.e. death to all the vegetables, but to make sure they stay CRISP so you have to bite and chew and not directly swallow.
So, in tribute to Somya’s fabulous meal, I’ve put down the receipe and since it’s her very own creation, I’m going to stick to calling it….
Somya’s Surprise Stew
Ingredients:
1 tbsp Olive oil * Mustard seeds * Curry leaves (preferrably dry) * Haldi powder (a couple of pinches) * Ginger (3” piece, finely chopped) * 2.3 Green chillies (for spicy stew, finely chop, otherwise, just split lenghtwise) * 2-3 Carrots (diced rounds) * 1 Potato (cubed 1”) * 3-4 Courgettes/Zuccini (diced rounds/halves) * 75 gm Brinjal (diced) * 75 gm Lau/Dudhi (diced) * 1 onion (chopped, but large pieces) * 1 cup peas * Juice of 1 good sized lemon * 1 cup Coconut milk * 1 cup Yoghurt/Dahi * 3 Glasses of water * Salt (to taste) * Corriander leaves to garnish *
N.B. – the baigun and lau were leftovers in the fridge… but tasted yumm!
Method:
Heat oil and add mustard seeds. When spluttering, add the curry leaves, chopped ginger and green chillies. Stir, then add the onion, and sautee on high heat till soft (2-3 min). Add the potatoes, carrots, brinjal and lau, salt then cover and cook till the vegetables start getting tender (3-4 min). In the meantime, blend the coconut milk and yoghurt separately. Add to the vegetables, along with the water and bring the stew to a boil 2-3 times till vegetables are cooked through, but still crisp. Squeeze the lemon juice in, stir and then add the courgettes and peas and cover the pan (lid must be tight fitting). Leave for 5-10 minutes. Garnish with chopped corriander and serve hot with rice. Yummy!!
ENJAI!
What can I say about the stew/jhol, except that it was really very, very simple vegetable stew, but absolutely delicious! So much so, that I had to get the receipe for myself, even if I don’t ever make the attempt, at least I now have the power! The secret is to not cook like Indians do, i.e. death to all the vegetables, but to make sure they stay CRISP so you have to bite and chew and not directly swallow.
So, in tribute to Somya’s fabulous meal, I’ve put down the receipe and since it’s her very own creation, I’m going to stick to calling it….
Somya’s Surprise Stew
Ingredients:
1 tbsp Olive oil * Mustard seeds * Curry leaves (preferrably dry) * Haldi powder (a couple of pinches) * Ginger (3” piece, finely chopped) * 2.3 Green chillies (for spicy stew, finely chop, otherwise, just split lenghtwise) * 2-3 Carrots (diced rounds) * 1 Potato (cubed 1”) * 3-4 Courgettes/Zuccini (diced rounds/halves) * 75 gm Brinjal (diced) * 75 gm Lau/Dudhi (diced) * 1 onion (chopped, but large pieces) * 1 cup peas * Juice of 1 good sized lemon * 1 cup Coconut milk * 1 cup Yoghurt/Dahi * 3 Glasses of water * Salt (to taste) * Corriander leaves to garnish *
N.B. – the baigun and lau were leftovers in the fridge… but tasted yumm!
Method:
Heat oil and add mustard seeds. When spluttering, add the curry leaves, chopped ginger and green chillies. Stir, then add the onion, and sautee on high heat till soft (2-3 min). Add the potatoes, carrots, brinjal and lau, salt then cover and cook till the vegetables start getting tender (3-4 min). In the meantime, blend the coconut milk and yoghurt separately. Add to the vegetables, along with the water and bring the stew to a boil 2-3 times till vegetables are cooked through, but still crisp. Squeeze the lemon juice in, stir and then add the courgettes and peas and cover the pan (lid must be tight fitting). Leave for 5-10 minutes. Garnish with chopped corriander and serve hot with rice. Yummy!!
ENJAI!
P.S. - The original was the same stew but only with broccoli and courgettes/zuccini, but the broccoli weren’t behaving well that day......
Independence Day!
26th January, Republic Day. This day 57 years ago, India became a republic after gaining independence from the British. But their legacy lives on… the language, roads, railways, judiciary…… and of course, the persistent malaise of bureaucratic red tape. But India at with a mere 60 years of experience is a mere novice in the arena of bureaucracy unlike Great Britain, where it has been lifted to the level of a fine art. Since moving to London in late 2004, I have been at first been stupefied, as a result of seeing things through Indian eyes, where ‘developed’ ought to be better, and then gradually enraged at the most ridiculous and unimaginable delays brought on by the stalwart bureaucratic bulwark here. When we arrived, it took us a month to get a BT phone connection. I could get one in Bombay in a days time, so what could BT possibly be doing for the remaining 29?
Next came the unanticipated challenge of the bank account. A simply procedure (given that in India in the past one needed to be introduced by 2 existing account holders, citizens of worthy standing, above reproach) of opening a bank account has to be experienced to truly appreciate the finer points of UK’s bureaucratic supremacy. In hindsight, I was one of the fortunate ones – being an exalted ‘premier’ customer with the bank in India, I had a superior status to any normal applicant, already having been vetted to be worthwhile the bank’s time to assign a ‘relationship manager’ – apparently cultivating me was important enough to them in India, so it wasn’t even a matter of my suitability or my presumption to open an account with the erstwhile HSBC, but rather a matter of formality to have me introduced by HSBC India. Not rocket science – but naturally, copious amounts of paper work must be involved. It would be gauche of me to expect such an old and venerable organisation to just do things electronically….. in this day and age and in shuddering bad taste. So, I wait patiently to be summoned by the bank… and after a week, greatly and justifiably miffed given my exalted status in Bombay, vent my frustrations on my relationship manager in Bombay, only to be told the paperwork had been dispatched just after my email ….. and that too by courier (yes, I did ask if they had entrusted it to the Indian postal system with its endemic reliability problems). So you’re possibly wondering, what could have happened? Quite simple really – even elementary you could say…. The paperwork was in London as a matter of fact, but hadn’t reached the desk of my new relationship manager…… !!!
Now why I would have assumed they’d automatically check incoming post, is beyond me and only emphasises my lack of comprehension in these weighty matters. So eventually, after two excruciating weeks was I grandly bestowed with a savings account in the UK and I’ve been assured by other expatriates, that I was very fortunate to get it done so quickly!! Boggles the mind….. but what made me think about the past, is of course, the present, and yet another brush with the delicate fronds of UK’s inscrutable government – a whole new level of bureaucratic inefficiency. If only this was a category in the Olympics, you wouldn’t be reading nearly as much about Britain’s hopes or rather the lack of them in the 2012 Olympics! But I digress – so easy to do when there’s steam coming out of ones ears. Having arrived on a dependent visa on the coattails of my erudite spouse, a student, it now came time for us to extend our visas. The Home Office website, optimistically (and now in my mind entirely untruthfully!!) states that most applications – almost 70% are processed within 4 weeks. So, instead of writing this from my Mom’s place in Bombay while enjoying a display of nationalistic pride watched over by the Russians and eating something deliciously spiced, I’m negotiating my way through an indifferent sandwich in the grey and freezing London weather. We submitted our application on the 2nd of January as soon as we got back from our Christmas break, and promptly received an acknowledgement from the Home Office stating that they were indeed in receipt of our request and that they would assign it to a case worker who would get in touch with us if our application was deficient. Most impressive thus far… and being a gullible fool lulled by the false sense of security brought on by this missive, I rebooked my ticket to Bombay for March 8. Enough room to manoeuvre even around the home office or so I naively thought.
Well, it’s my duty to inform you, that I was sadly mistaken – why? Oh I don’t know – a certain ‘je ne sais quoi’ perhaps? Or could it be the call to the Home Office this morning to check the procedure to expedite an application as I now had a business meeting fixed in Switzerland at the end of February? After being bored to tears by the automated system, a rather anaemic male voice hesitantly introduced himself as Steve – while I gave him my spiel and the all important reference number, there was absolute silence form the other end, making me wondered if I’d lost my tenuous connection, but that was not to be – instead my blood pressure steadily climbed north, when, after noisily consulting with his computer, Steve reported that our application hadn’t yet been assigned to a case worker ….!!
I’m still taking deep breaths, but my ears still feel warm. At the end of a month (70% processed according to their libellous website!!) they still hadn’t gotten around to allocating the file to someone to review. Beat that. Back home, I could have paid someone to move my file from one desk to another….. corruption you say – hmmm, but then again, could it be a commercial interpretation - introducing the alien word ‘efficiency’ to the otherwise thriving bureaucracy? To be fair though, the Passport Office in India has progressed by leaps and bounds – they have a fixed time it takes to get your passport back, whether it’s the same day, a week, month or 3 months, but by God – they do deliver. But to be blithely told that my application was just languishing there after nearly a month – the GALL!! I have this tremendous urge to slap someone – preferably several people at the Home Office – justifiable remedial therapy as it were. But instead, I’ve come to the sad conclusion, that this is now the time for me as an Indian to just bow to the masterful hand of the British Bureaucracy and admit out loud to the world and more so to my Indian brethren, that we take a false pride in our inefficient, corrupt, laggard and supremely useless public and government sectors.
We are but chelas….. merely aspiring to greatness….this is the birthplace of bureaucracy and any upstart colonist with grandiose visions of having surpassed their guru is merely to be pitied as delusional. So now, I’m off to another favourite British pastime – dashing off an indignant letter to the Home Office berating them from their gross ineptitude. But I lie. It’s a letter humbly requesting them to expedite my application and return my passport in time, naturally, duly supported by the firms senior partner, on the company letterhead. After all, I am from the colonies….
Next came the unanticipated challenge of the bank account. A simply procedure (given that in India in the past one needed to be introduced by 2 existing account holders, citizens of worthy standing, above reproach) of opening a bank account has to be experienced to truly appreciate the finer points of UK’s bureaucratic supremacy. In hindsight, I was one of the fortunate ones – being an exalted ‘premier’ customer with the bank in India, I had a superior status to any normal applicant, already having been vetted to be worthwhile the bank’s time to assign a ‘relationship manager’ – apparently cultivating me was important enough to them in India, so it wasn’t even a matter of my suitability or my presumption to open an account with the erstwhile HSBC, but rather a matter of formality to have me introduced by HSBC India. Not rocket science – but naturally, copious amounts of paper work must be involved. It would be gauche of me to expect such an old and venerable organisation to just do things electronically….. in this day and age and in shuddering bad taste. So, I wait patiently to be summoned by the bank… and after a week, greatly and justifiably miffed given my exalted status in Bombay, vent my frustrations on my relationship manager in Bombay, only to be told the paperwork had been dispatched just after my email ….. and that too by courier (yes, I did ask if they had entrusted it to the Indian postal system with its endemic reliability problems). So you’re possibly wondering, what could have happened? Quite simple really – even elementary you could say…. The paperwork was in London as a matter of fact, but hadn’t reached the desk of my new relationship manager…… !!!
Now why I would have assumed they’d automatically check incoming post, is beyond me and only emphasises my lack of comprehension in these weighty matters. So eventually, after two excruciating weeks was I grandly bestowed with a savings account in the UK and I’ve been assured by other expatriates, that I was very fortunate to get it done so quickly!! Boggles the mind….. but what made me think about the past, is of course, the present, and yet another brush with the delicate fronds of UK’s inscrutable government – a whole new level of bureaucratic inefficiency. If only this was a category in the Olympics, you wouldn’t be reading nearly as much about Britain’s hopes or rather the lack of them in the 2012 Olympics! But I digress – so easy to do when there’s steam coming out of ones ears. Having arrived on a dependent visa on the coattails of my erudite spouse, a student, it now came time for us to extend our visas. The Home Office website, optimistically (and now in my mind entirely untruthfully!!) states that most applications – almost 70% are processed within 4 weeks. So, instead of writing this from my Mom’s place in Bombay while enjoying a display of nationalistic pride watched over by the Russians and eating something deliciously spiced, I’m negotiating my way through an indifferent sandwich in the grey and freezing London weather. We submitted our application on the 2nd of January as soon as we got back from our Christmas break, and promptly received an acknowledgement from the Home Office stating that they were indeed in receipt of our request and that they would assign it to a case worker who would get in touch with us if our application was deficient. Most impressive thus far… and being a gullible fool lulled by the false sense of security brought on by this missive, I rebooked my ticket to Bombay for March 8. Enough room to manoeuvre even around the home office or so I naively thought.
Well, it’s my duty to inform you, that I was sadly mistaken – why? Oh I don’t know – a certain ‘je ne sais quoi’ perhaps? Or could it be the call to the Home Office this morning to check the procedure to expedite an application as I now had a business meeting fixed in Switzerland at the end of February? After being bored to tears by the automated system, a rather anaemic male voice hesitantly introduced himself as Steve – while I gave him my spiel and the all important reference number, there was absolute silence form the other end, making me wondered if I’d lost my tenuous connection, but that was not to be – instead my blood pressure steadily climbed north, when, after noisily consulting with his computer, Steve reported that our application hadn’t yet been assigned to a case worker ….!!
I’m still taking deep breaths, but my ears still feel warm. At the end of a month (70% processed according to their libellous website!!) they still hadn’t gotten around to allocating the file to someone to review. Beat that. Back home, I could have paid someone to move my file from one desk to another….. corruption you say – hmmm, but then again, could it be a commercial interpretation - introducing the alien word ‘efficiency’ to the otherwise thriving bureaucracy? To be fair though, the Passport Office in India has progressed by leaps and bounds – they have a fixed time it takes to get your passport back, whether it’s the same day, a week, month or 3 months, but by God – they do deliver. But to be blithely told that my application was just languishing there after nearly a month – the GALL!! I have this tremendous urge to slap someone – preferably several people at the Home Office – justifiable remedial therapy as it were. But instead, I’ve come to the sad conclusion, that this is now the time for me as an Indian to just bow to the masterful hand of the British Bureaucracy and admit out loud to the world and more so to my Indian brethren, that we take a false pride in our inefficient, corrupt, laggard and supremely useless public and government sectors.
We are but chelas….. merely aspiring to greatness….this is the birthplace of bureaucracy and any upstart colonist with grandiose visions of having surpassed their guru is merely to be pitied as delusional. So now, I’m off to another favourite British pastime – dashing off an indignant letter to the Home Office berating them from their gross ineptitude. But I lie. It’s a letter humbly requesting them to expedite my application and return my passport in time, naturally, duly supported by the firms senior partner, on the company letterhead. After all, I am from the colonies….
Why am I doing this really?
Buggered if I know! It feels a little strange to be writing stuff which could be read by just about anybody. Aashish suggested I use this space to host the bits of writing I'm doing now, but how can I say this without sounding insufferably coy? It's hard to make public things that are so personal. True, the stories I've got so far are not about me or anyone I know, but it still feels like I would be posting a piece of me for all the world to see and talk about and that's really unsettling. So guess I should forget about ever becoming a famous author!!
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