Here's the first. My brother is in India, landed a couple weeks ago and found his luggage was misplaced by that esteemed airline, Air India. Great food by the way even in economy. Everything else...the less said the better.
Anyway he gets a call eventually. Your bags have arrived. Come and get them.
No home delivery, you ask, you spoilt petulant child? No courier service where a hefty man drives up in a gas guzzling vehicle and walks to your door and hands you your bags? Alas, no. Its that whole rich country vs. developing country thing again. So anyway come and get it, they say.
My brother makes his way to the airport.
Security promptly stops him, outside the airport. He cannot go in. Hey who knows where terrorists abound and in what form, right?
"Air India lost my luggage. I'm here to pick it up," my brother says, shows him his ticket, passport, mother's birth certificate etc.
"Sorry, can't go in unless you're a passenger," says security.
"Yes but they called me here. I need to go in."
"Sorry, not my problem. Call them."
Good idea. My brother calls about six thousand times and each time a female voice informs him that the line is busy, would he wait. Forty five minutes pass. Next to him standing in the sweltering sun are other victims of lost luggage who have been waiting for over two hours. Not to be defeated, my brother seeks and finds a number that is actually answered by a human.
"You're here? Good. I'll be out to get you," says an authoritative voice.
"When?" my brother asks.
"I don't know." The man hangs up.
My brother continues to wait. An hour passes. Its hot, hunger pangs are starting to strike. There's so much other stuff to do. There's an event to attend in the evening and well, time's awasting. And its...did I mention...hot? My brother starts calling the number that was answered by this man.
Relentlessly. Mercilessly.
Break them down with sheer persistence is a good way to get things done in India.
The other lost luggage souls sit patiently, accepting their fates, waiting for someone to arrive through the gates, give them their bags and some modicum of peace. Not my brother. He calls and calls and calls until the messiah of luggage shows up. Just Air India though. Tough luck the rest of you poor sods.
Bro makes his way through a labyrinth of ledgers--peons of various sorts ask him the same questions and write his name and passport number down in a series of dusty ledgers to record his arrival and he is led to a place and after much bureaucratic ceremony is handed his bags and mustn't forget--the saving grace of the day--money for his taxi ride back.
Hallelujah!
Still keeping his cool bro takes his car from the lot and starts to make his way home. On the way, he drives through a yellow light only to be stopped by a policeman who keeps it brief.
"For one hundred rupees, I'll give you your license back, and no receipt (ticket essentially). For two hundred rupees, I shall take your license and deposit it with the RTO and you shall get a receipt."
Bro wants to do the right thing. "I made a mistake. Give me a ticket, I'll pay the two hundred but do return my license."
The policeman repeats his first offer as if he hasn't heard this response. Why the dilemma about paying the shamelessly asked for bribe. Let me explain. RTO stands for Road Transport Authority. No can't be authority. Its an O. Must be Office, Ominous orifice of an office. So big deal go to the RTO and collect your license right? Maybe. Except there is only one RTO he can go to. Bombay has, lets see, how many people living there? Oh yes, about 14 million give or take. How many of them might be at this ominous office in a given day, I dread to think. There is one other consideration. What takes 15 minutes say in the richest country in the world takes oh...about...2-3 hours in India. This is a blanket statement many might righteously refute but if we average it, fine, I'll say 2 hours. Save face as it were.
Bro thinks on his feet as the policeman watches him. There is the right thing to do. Pay the 200, hand over the license. Then there is the dreaded thought of this tiny 2"X4" license going to this Orifice...I mean Office of bored bureaucrats, overflowing with a million irate folk. Retrieving it will take four hours or so not including traveling there and back home, unless one uses one of the "agents" that sit outside the pearly gates of the RTO just waiting to "help."
Bro is fried from picking up his luggage already and the event he really wants to go to is in a few hours.
He bites his tongue, apologizes to the Gods of anti-corruption and pays the man the hundred rupees.
No receipt. You get to keep your license. Oh, and have a nice day.
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