THE EVOLUTION OF PASSPORT OFFICES, THANK GOD! - (TALES OF INCLUSIVITY) #Blogchatter #WriteAPageADay

 

                                                            The Indian Express

“Those were the days, my friend, we thought they’d never end…”

That was the song that went through my mind, many years ago, when I was waiting at the dingy, overcrowded passport office at Chennai, a building that spoke of desperation and perspiration. People milled about, clutching at files that held precious documents that would decide if they were eligible for a passport or not. The queues were serpentine, an unbroken chain that meandered across the lobby, crawled up the stairs and stood for hours outside tiny cubicles where officials sat, getting more and more irritable with every hour that went by. God help those who were at the end of the queue for they were often at the receiving end of frayed tempers and bad behaviour, for no fault of theirs.

Having been part of the Indian Army, with my husband being posted to myriad places every two to three years, my passport got misplaced even as it tried frantically to keep pace with our moves. Unfortunately, when it got to Delhi, we had just moved out, and hence, it was sent back to wherever it came from.

After frantic attempts to locate it, my husband finally filed an RTI to find out where my passport was. Finally, we got the good news that it had landed in the Chennai passport office and that we needed to cut the red tape and finally get it in hand.

As far as I was concerned, my entire day would be dedicated to standing around in the passport office. My husband dropped me off and went to work, promising to pick me up in the evening. I had fortified myself with a bottle of water and a sandwich. At nine in the morning, my wait began, as I slowly began to flow upwards with the crowd. The day went by and I wandered from cubicle to cubicle, till in one office, a man beckoned me in. He took a look at my papers and nodded.

“Rs. 600, and I will get you an interview with the Passport Officer!”

I was bewildered. As far as I knew, all my papers were in order, and all I needed was to get to the end of the line. Anyway, I nodded, but I told him that I would pay him only after I met the officer concerned. He asked me to go sit outside the Chief Passport Officer’s cabin. He would do the needful, he nodded gravely.

By then, it was almost evening and my husband had come looking for me. I told him proudly that I had managed to bypass the line and find the right spot. His scepticism did not faze me. After a short while, we found ourselves inside the Passport Officer’s cabin.

The Passport Officer looked at my documents with a frown. “Who sent you here?” he asked, brusquely.

“An official who was sitting in the floor below, “ I answered. “He told me that I would have to pay him Rs. 600 to meet you.”

The officer’s brow darkened, and he retorted, “There is no such official downstairs. Are you sure you are telling me the truth?”

My husband and I were stunned. Before I could convey my annoyance at being doubted, my husband said with all the dignity he could muster, “I am an Army officer and we do not need to rely on falsehoods to get our way.” His manner was so decisive that the officer paused. Then he turned to me and said, “Madam, can you identify the official who told you that?”

The next moment, all three of us were charging down the dingy staircase as people stared at us, wondering what on earth we had done. When we reached the room, I peeped in. The official was still sitting there and when he saw me, he gave me a big smile. “Come in, Madam!”

The next moment, his smile slipped when he saw the Chief Passport Officer and he stood up sheepishly, as he received a mouthful from him.

The upshot of the matter was that the so-called official was actually a sweeper from the next building, a tout who had been making some money on the side under false pretences. Luckily, I had not risen to the bait.

Needless to say, the Passport Officer was as apologetic as he could be and in a matter of days, I had my passport in hand.

This morning, I escorted my mother to the Passport Office in Thrissur. Happily, the entire passport office system has now been outsourced to TCS and when we went there, well before time given my mother’s famed punctuality gene, we were ushered in immediately. There were cubicles everywhere, where people worked like clockwork. In no time, we were taken from one cubicle to the other, and in about half an hour, we were at the final one where my mother’s photograph and fingerprints were taken. The officers were the epitome of courtesy and nowhere did we have to wait. The moment the formalities were done, an SMS was sent to our registered mobile which indicated that the passport would soon be on its way.

What a world of difference between the two experiences! The world of passport offices has evolved, and life has become easier for the common man. As Tennyson put it so well, “The old order changeth, yielding place to new, / And God fulfils Himself in many ways/ Lest one good custom should corrupt the world.”

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