Having packed all the stuff we wanted to send away into our box, we lugged it all the way to the main GPO in the square known curiously as BBD Bag. Don’t ask me why – I’ve no idea. It was a heavy box + a long walk, but with such a load a bus or tram was out of the question, + we eschewed the services of a rickshaw. Calcutta is the only Indian city – one of the only cities in the world, I think – where the rickshaw pullers have not moved on to cycle rickshaws – they still run between the shafts like a horse – but I’ll confess that the reason we didn’t patronise them on this occasion was not the result of a moral decision, but an intense distaste for the haggling before + wrangling after that always accompanies such a ride. So we walked. And since male pride would not allow me to sacrifice my burden to Val, my arms were near dropping off by the time we arrived.
Posting a parcel in India is an amazingly complex + time-consuming business, but a self-appointed helper attached himself to us before we’d so much as entered the main gate, + tho’ he charged us, so far as we could judge considerably over the odds for the physical services he provided, it was probably worth the extra money to have someone along who knew the ropes, who knew what had to be done, + where + when + how. He was scruffily dressed, but young + savvy. A typical tout, in fact, but a likable one all the same.
Stage one was weighing the parcel. We hadn’t yet sealed it up because we wanted to be sure first that it didn’t exceed the top limit. And we were lucky. For the second parcel running, we had somehow just squeezed it under 10 kgs. Sealing + wrapping came next, but not in any slap-dash fashion. The parcel had to be sewn into a linen bag, for which our friend Sam the Spiv charged us the ridiculous amount of 10 rupees. And Val had first to leap in + strap the box down with our trusty tape. Once the sewing was complete, the seams had to be sealed with wax + stamped with a seal. We tried Val’s locket, but that was no good, + we had to settle for one Sam + his friends had ready. For this we were charged a further 5 rupees. A neat ploy, not covered by Val, since she hadn’t adequately established that the original 10 rupees was to cover everything (itemised list on fingers.) A second weighing followed when we were told the price, then off to a separate counter to buy the stamps. We made life difficult for ourselves, of course, by turning down the brand-new + modern franking machine in favour of old-fashioned + lickable stamps. And then we watched while the stamps were cancelled – theft is not unknown, it seems, especially of a large value. There was other business transacted – various stamps for letters, aerogrammes, etc, + somewhere along the way 2 customs forms were filled in + stuck on. But eventually it was all done, + we had merely spent 2 hours + about $20.
Next we were off to the Writers’ Building, also on BBD Bag, for our permit to visit Darjeeling. Quite an experience. Even just getting in. At the entranceway we were handed a short form to fill in, name, address, business. Completed, this was taken to a clerk, who barely glanced at it, stamped it, + handed it back. We then gave it to the man on the gate as we entered the building, who dropped it into a box. Where it joined the thousands of its brothers. So there you go. At each stage of the proceedings, there were 2 people, so there was instant employment for 6. The perfect job creation scheme – 6 people doing absolutely nothing.
We were directed upstairs to Block II, to a world I had no idea existed any more. Throughout the huge long narrow brown dusty room, there were desks, each with a chair, most with occupants. Each desk was piled high with dry + dusty faded + dog-eared foolscap files, several piles to each. With just the smallest space cleared for new writing. And in the available spare corner, as well as all the way round the room in a gallery, were more piles of the same. There was no possible way any of the information stored so randomly + in so ramshackle a manner could ever be retrieved, so was effectively useless. It was there because it had once been created, + remained only as tangible proof of past industriousness, be it ever so useless. The whole scene was Dickensian, + a total anachronism in the computer age. I saw on a poster that certain bureaucrats are protesting the mechanisation, computerisation of their field of work, + one can see why. Our own business there did not take long. There were about 5 of us blancos there, all to see the same man – I’ve no idea what tasks the others were engaged upon. We each filled out a form – more fodder for the files – + were told to return tomorrow to collect our permits.
Amex came next, + as promised they had my refund approved. None as yet for Val, since she had claimed for some before. We had thought to be firm + aggressive in demanding our rights, but were disarmed by my success, as well as the man’s quiet reasonableness. Telexes had to be sent, + answers received. The best we could hope for was Wednesday. As we intended to leave Wed night, that was cutting it fine, but if necessary we would just have to return to Calcutta.
Next chore was the Railway Booking Office. We encountered bureaucracy again, as well as the lunch-break, but the man was friendly + helpful, the system seemed complex but efficient, + we were given what we wanted, 2 berths for Wednesday night’s train. By now, it was into the afternoon, + after plodding around all morning we were pretty tired. But just as we arrived back at Sudder St, we met the tout who had offered the best price yet for our duty-free. We had already decided to accept his offer, so we went immediately to collect the stuff. It turned out, however, that he had no money himself but was merely an agent, + he now led us on a long + not particularly merry dance thro’ the streets of Calcutta to where his buyer had his stall. Val + I were both pretty tetchy + irritable by the time we got there, but he wasn’t bullshitting + we got our money. He now took us to a couple of other places – we’d told him about our watches, so was keen to earn his commission on those too. The shops were jewellers however, + wouldn’t touch fake Rolexes with a bargepole. So we bid our agent farewell, + went to the Blue Sky café to celebrate the earnings we had made.
Later on, I tried to go one better + buy some grass, a tiny amount, from one of the guys on the street. I was rescued however by an English girl we had met earlier in the Railway office, who happened to be passing. She had some grass left over, + was leaving soon, she said. And then, when she saw the amount I had been about to buy, + discovered how much I had been about to pay for it, she told me I was being done. The touts became very abusive at this point, but I was very grateful + invited her up to the roof. It became a very strange evening. She wasn’t my sort at all, Cambridge (very) + gushing about India, but the grass, bought from a govt shop in Varanasi, was mighty strong, + I was soon well away. Entertaining too, I believe. I did a short mime, which seemed to go down well. But it was too strong, + I turned introspective + fiercely self-analytical, turning my mind in upon itself a a self-destructive spiral. Struck by the munchies, of course, so Val + I went to the Blue Sky for hot chocolate + buttered toast. Was it wonderful? What do you think?
Our every encounter with bureaucracy was much like this; fascinating in its own way (though desperately time-consuming and frustrating at the time) as a view of another world, one which has heard or read about, but never before actually seen.
