Trikoot III, Bhikaji Kama Place, Sector 3, R.K Puram, New Delhi.
Most of us Delhi-ites would furnish this place with one-word adjectives bearing synonyms with 'hellish'.
My first few minutes in Trikoot III, Bhikaji Kama Place, on a Tuesday evening were that of ridges splashed on my forehead as I struggled to read over the solar glare, the boards and bulletins that hung from the cream colored walls of the building - instructions and points-to-be-noted. There were windows-turned-cash counters with signs labelled 'TATKAL', 'GENERAL', 'Counter No. 12', etc. beaming from the walls over them. The place, I realised didn't have many people around at this time of the day. Bought a passport-form from the 'Enquiry Counter' and jogged my way back home even as the naked sun slapped my face red. I got a headache, once home. Rooh-afzah drunk cold, followed by a 3-hour doze in an air-conditioned room were all I could attribute the running nose to, that I had the following day.
Filling the form, getting the necessary affidavits ready, documents attested, blah blah blah...took one day.
The completed form is stamped with a token number once you are inside Trikoot III, standing amidst your countrymen who're getting their passports ready - most of them with the intention of travelling abroad, where their names will probably be hard to pronounce; where many of them might get used to being referred to as Sid, instead of Siddharth; Sam, instead of Sameer; or Meg, instead of Megha. Curries would cost more than the cost of 5 burgers; people around you would be on an average, 5 inches taller, or five inches short; New customs, new cultures to look forward to. And yet, what I see inside Trikoot III, Bhikaji Kama Place leaves me perturbed.
Chaos. Not a place to sit. Hardly a soul with steady feet. Perspiration translating from beads on the forehead to beads dropping off your face making their way vertically downward. Expressions of exasperation and 'why-the-hell-do-I-need-to-go-through-this-shit' all around you tend to pull you down. A comical smile from my side to every man and woman who happened to lay their eyes on me doesn't do me any good - I get blank indifference in return. Nor does it drown the weight of the popular mood of bedlam. In such moments, people like me tend to draw silent conclusions on how stupid the masses are, and how they can't maintain composure when thrown in the face of rampant entropy. And something tells me that people such as myself thrive gaily in such silent criticism - guilty pleasures.
I see fellow Indians undignified in their pose, victims of my camera that comes in handy - to capture their emotions in negative (pun intended). A man with a receding mane, frowning countenance, kettle-bellied, wearing a dark-blue v-necked t-shirt ( the fabric clinging to his skin, with sweaty adhesive), has dark goggles on, slipping off a sweaty nose. A rural bumpkin wiping saline sudor off his face with his shirt's lower half, squatted - gives away his hairy waist to all interested spectators, myself included. A man jumping a queue - justifying his doing so, to the agonised rest (who intend to show no mercy to such rule-breaking) by proudly declaring that he was a high ranking official from NHRC (which makes me wonder whether it's wrong when people like him get boxings in firang-land even as this tarnishes the image of the global Indian). I toy with the idea of hitting on a chick stationed a few feet on my right, but that's all I do...toy with the idea, never letting the action manifest.
I, token number 52 has his documents verified after what seems like eternity. I miss out on a document. Next day, same place, I, token number 62, hundreds of minutes later, have the document, though missing out on 4 more forms to do with my dual address. What follows 24 hours hence is that token number 32 finally gets his documents act together after undergoing hell - the first two queues take 4 hours of torture - followed by another 2 queues - eating up an hour and Rs 2500 in cash. Hell's over.
I make my way out of Trikoot III, watchful of happiness raging within. I find my way out of the Chakravyuh. 'Hell'-ellujah!
the Guy Next Door
