The Great Indian Complaints Book

*******************************************************************************************************

http://images.all-free-download.com/images/graphiclarge/cartoon_owl_clip_art_6763.jpg

Ten days of nerve-racking radio silence; and I got news that my wife safely gave birth to our son.

I was then on the East Coast (Bengal), and my wife on the West (Maharashtra). The two are as different as chalk and cheese. The sun rises on the Bay of Bengal and sets in the Arabian Sea. Traveling from coast to coast by train, you pass four linguistic states but the same time zone; unlike in the US, where it is the other way round.

Boarding the train on a 36 hour punishing journey, I began with dreams of seeing my wife after a good 3 months; but midway, a strange, tingling sensation of fatherhood took over. And a terrific curiosity about my son; ‘will he be fair, will he be tall….que sera sera’.

Soon after landing up in Jalgaon, I visited the maternity ward where my wife was confined, and requested the ‘sister’ to let me in, saying that I was the ‘expected’ father. She obliged and I went in, to be greeted by the proud and winsome smiles of my wife. After a few minutes’ how-do-you-dos, she realized that I was dying to be shown the baby, and led me to his crib.

There I found him, all of 6 days, in blissful communion with his Maker Above, not caring a whit for his maker below. I gently poked him in the ribs. He opened one curious eye, gave me what I fancied was a knowing wink, and relapsed into his stupor. That convinced me; and I mentally cuddled him and exulted; “This, this is my son!”; much like Gulzaman in the bleak, sleety, Afghan Mountains:

http://www.subcontinent.com/misc/daruwalla/poem2.html

The sister returned and gently shooed me out asking me to come back at 4 P.M., the official visiting hour. I ‘see-you’ed my wife and strolled out onto the warm high-street of Jalgaon, the town that is the gateway to the famed Ajanta-Ellora tourist spots. I had to beguile a good 4 hours; but was in no mood to disturb the well-earned rest of my in-laws at their home. Exhausted walking the somnolent streets, I wandered into the Restaurant, run proudly by the Maharashtra Tourism Department by the Bus Stop.

Taking my seat, I found the shop rather empty, with few tables occupied. The waiters were gossiping in a corner, taking their siestas of a drowsy afternoon. Eventually, a teenager in a Tourism-bedecked uniform materialized and took my order for a cup of tea. I sipped it as leisurely as I could, and relaxed in the chair. The boy was sneaking at me once in a while, and approached my table after half an hour, and said something in his lingo. I ordered another cup of tea. He fetched it with an unbecoming scowl. I reverted to my earlier routine, more leisurely than earlier. That blew his top. He rushed at me and said many things of which I could only make out: ‘This is no waiting room!’. I promptly ordered a third cup of tea. He told me off to sort of ‘get lost!’.

I was enraged and walked over to the Manager’s Counter; over which hung the placard: ‘Complaints Book’. When I lose my cool, I slip into a barrage of English words which would sock any languid Englishman on his jaw. All that the youthful Manager could make out were the two deadly words: ‘Complaints Book’. He furtively locked up the shelf where the almanac was stored, and gave a piercing howl. I fell silent. The slip of the waiter boy ran in. Before I knew what was happening, the boy took out his ‘uniform’ shirt, grinning rather sheepishly, baring his upper torso. I was taken aback. And, the Manager smiled, asking as if ‘it pleased me so’, rather biblically.

I could see that the motto was: ‘Anything but the Complaints Book”.

I never felt more foolish in my life. And sought less-fancied watering holes for the rest of my sojourn there.

Till my mid-thirties, I was thin as a reed, weighing barely 45 kg. And wished I could make it to 50 kg to look my age and eminence as a professor. (It is the other way round now). So, whenever I visited the world’s longest railway platform at Kharagpur, I would stand on the platform of the weighing machine manned by ‘The Eastern Scales Pvt Ltd’, drop a coin, and collect the printed ticket displaying my unchanging weight on one side, and my ‘fortune and personality’ on the other, with a picture of my favorite film star thrown in gratis.

One evening, when I was in a rather fractious mood, the machine gobbled up my coin, lights blinking all over, but refused to spew its ‘ticket’ despite blows this side and that. (Americans sledge this swindling by vending machines as ‘slottery’). I felt tricked and barged into the Station Superintendent’s office and asked for the ‘Complaints Book’. He promptly hid it under his table, and asked me what for. I told him my sorry tale. He suddenly realized that my complaint was not against him or his minions, but a vendor who flouts his orders routinely. And he produced that holy book with alacrity, helping me with a couple of carbon papers, and a ball pen thrown into the bargain. He practically egged me on to launch a tirade.

A couple of weeks later, I received an Official Inland Letter from the Eastern Scales Pvt Ltd, with a laconic ‘sorry’, and ‘compensating’ me with a ‘Ten Paise’ Postage Stamp glued in it irretrievably.

Felt foolish again!

My good friend once related to me his encounter with the Great Indian Complaints Book of the Department of Posts and Telegraphs: Those were the years before Manmohanjee opened up our economy and flooded our villages with mobile phones, color TVs and the Internet. Whenever he wanted to speak to his people, my friend had to bike up 4 kilometers and present himself at the Kharagpur Telephone Exchange and wait till the clock strikes 7 P.M. For, the rates are halved for calls made after that beastly hour.

One evening, he was waiting, staring at the grandfather clock proudly peering down from the wall of the Telephone Office, wondering if it was really moving (clocks don’t move when you stare at them; they are shy). Playing hide and seek with him, it eventually struck the blessed hour. And, he took the phone in the ‘booth’ off its hook and talked hurriedly for a few minutes (those were the days when call costs were phenomenal).

But the man behind the counter billed him the ‘full’ rate instead of the ‘cut’ rates. My friend was aghast and pointed to their majestic clock. The clerk turned around, and muttered casually that the thing was ten minutes fast.

But, ‘rules are rules’ and, once the bill is made, there is no going back. My friend wasn’t amused and declined to pay, and asked for the Complaints Book instead. The poor clerk woke up and begged him not to do it to him; he has a large family to support, and will have to shell down the rather hefty sum from his ‘pocket’. My friend relented, coughed up the full amount and returned home. But, something told him all wasn’t well, and he was taken for a ride by the Department of P & T. And, he wrote a stinker to the appropriate ‘higher authorities’.

Pat came the reply: 

‘We are sorry for the inconvenience. We thank you for pointing out the misbehavior of our clock. The relevant office has been ordered to put it back by ten minutes. Much obliged, yours truly etc etc.’

Not a word on refund. They must have been haggling back and forth as to whose fault it was and who would foot the bill. The buck was back where it went!

One lives and learns in India, everyday!

*************************************************************************************************************