It was back in May 2009. A twist of events had me sitting in a lawyer’s office in Mumbai holding a file containing documents to my father’s house. The deed was from 1972 – unstamped and on plain paper- those were perhaps simpler days.
A cursory glance and the deep voice resonated with the itemized break-up, “Rs.11000/ will be the fees; 3500 is to oil the wheels”.
In a mind cornered by the priority of getting back to Bangalore reason began it’s earnest debate, “ It’s a legitimate cause. You’re not oppressing the poor or taking away anyone’s rights. Are you to blame for the way things work. So what if you’ve not done it till now; this is real-estate paperwork and the city is Mumbai”.
My voice was timid; “ Sir; I’ve not paid a bribe till today. Neither for my ration card or my passport or driver’s license. I don’t think I can do it now.”
Turning his brow downwards, the voice of experience boomed; “Son; you may be prepared to wear out your shoes; I have work to do”. And alluding to the lostness of my cause also highlighted my non-native status, “ Shiv Sena (a political party with regional chauvinistic overtones) rules the corporation”.
Almost as an afterthought he cursorily added; “ there was this exceptionally militant young lady who got her property registered without paying under the table…”
Clutching my file I walked out into the hot mid-day sun. My more worldly wise cousin whom I took along for moral support advised, “ Why don’t you ask him to file a suit against the concerned office and get them to do the work- maybe that’ll help you stick by your stand.” I dismissed it as impractical- which lawyer would want to get on the wrong side of his `bread-n- butter’.
Six month’s passed by and the December holiday season came by. Post Christmas saw me make my dutiful trip to my Father’s house. The fact that his house; earned through sweat and thrift was without a valid title, still loomed large.
This time I consulted a fellow church member. “ Is there a Christian lawyer who does property work?”
It was Dec. 31; and the gentleman was squeezing in time before the midnight service. He was smooth and suave and while pleasantries were exchanged, one remembers thinking, “ this is a dynamic professional, so glad he’s a Christian.”
Again the itemized rate card; “7000/- fees and 3500/- grease; remaining 500/- for photo-copying and notarizing.”
Like a stuck record I re-iterated “I cannot pay a bribe.” His reply was conclusive and accommodating, “It’s a well-oiled machinery. I myself have to follow a crafted path. You don’t have to worry, since I’ll give you receipts for all the payments.”
My reply was peppered with practical cunning, “ If you had not mentioned it, maybe it was fine.” But mercifully fear of the Lord prevailed, “ Let me pray about it…”
A quick volte-face, “Leave the file with me; I’ll not pay a bribe.”
Like a drowning man clutching on to straws, I walk out and take his word. There is a sense of relief that the problem is solved…and a gnawing thought that I’ve compromised- your Lord is not powerful enough against the oppressor….
The months that followed had agonizing moments of prayer… and debate. Word studies on bribery and integrity followed. Thanks to Google; study texts were not an issue- many classifications of bribery; many accommodating theories on gifts, speed-money etc…consultation with the well-meaning church member who recommended the lawyer and his sagely advice “ I don’t ask any questions. As long as I get a receipt”…, but finally one stands before the Lord who searches the hearts of all…and his searchlight is not dimmed – no matter what the context.
June 2009 and the lawyer is all-set; and assurances are made that no bribe will be paid. One questions the maths though; the rates remain the same though the terms have apparently changed. Finally mustering courage I blurt out, “ I cannot go ahead with this. It is difficult to wash my hands off based on service-charge receipts.”
Back to square-one and wistful thoughts of failure.
Thinking through the issue is distressing and demoralizing and so often the voice of convenience and practical wisdom speaks, “ You’re geographically removed, use an agent and what he does is not your responsibility….”
But Praise God that He condescends to speak to our hearts. “ There was one lady who was reported to have processed her papers without grease – probably she was not a believer; you claim to walk with the Lord- why can’t you try?”
Week before Christmas 2010; saw me back in Mumbai. This time, with wife and two kids who had come along as it was vacation time. There was trepidation in getting the file ready. What would I be getting into? Should I forget this and just make sure the kids have a nice time?
If one asks for directions to the Office of the Collector of Stamps for North Mumbai it is identified as next to the `Fine-Arts’ Centre, a cultural congregational point. As one entered the gates, the poorly maintained government building seemed to grin with irony. BMWs, Gucci leather and Armani perfume mingling with the reek of ammonia from the rest-rooms; touts on cellphones with gold chains around their open buttoned shirts obsequiously pacifying their clients while busily striding in and out cabins with file-laden tables. All- masters of a `fine art’, and as much part of our culture.
A dark narrow corridor leads from the office of the Registrar of Properties to the Collector of Stamps. There is literal light at the end of the `tunnel’. The corridor ends in a brighter reasonably well furnished office. Facing the entrance is the counter for receiving requests, known as the `inward' section in local bureaucratic parlance.
A glass screen separates the two worlds, with a slot at the bottom for the file to pass through. Either the glass was not the sound transmitting kind or because of lack of awareness- even elderly appellants bend over double and almost genuflected to speak to the officer- possibly a metaphor for the divide between the government and the citizenry.
“ This cannot be accepted”, the chubby bespectacled face had a dead-pan expression. Had he said anything else, it would have been surprising. A quick pass to the next level a few tables back- and confirmation, “Without the original of the title-deed? maybe you can try the Head Office.” Somewhere in the numerous trips to lawyers offices a year back, the original document was misplaced and all I had was a photocopy.
“Sir, the share-certificate is corroborative evidence of date…”, I tried with courage.
“ I don’t have the authority. You can try your luck with the second in-charge ”, he pointed to a cabin.
Like a school-boy asking permission to enter I waited outside the cabin. After the perfunctory nod from the rather senior grave faced gentleman, I brought my case before him. “These are of no use. Had the deed been stamped for even Rs.5/- the case could be considered. How can we accept this?”
“Sir, this agreement is from 1972- the law was introduced subsequently.”
“Says who? The stamp act is dated 1958.” I tried to appeal to compassion, “ Sir, my 78 yr. old father walked in and out of this office trying to get this settled- please consider.”
“ Do you have any bank pass-books noting the transaction.” “From 1972, Sir?” My heart sank…and I quietly walked out.
Back home, we (my more meticulous wife and I) rummaged an old cupboard. In a dusty file among many well-worn papers was a letter from the construction company addressed to my father detailing the transaction value. Hope glimmered and my spirit rose. Also lying in the file were some receipts of payments made towards the apartment.
Armed with these testimonials, there was an expectant confidence as I handed the file to Mr. Chubby Bespectacle the next day. The route was the same- quick glance and passed to level-2. By now the alien-ness of the office had worn out and I too reached level-2’s desk.
“This is just a letter.” “ Sir; it’s an original document verifying the transaction”, I ventured as if lack of understanding was the issue. “Ask
saheb” he gestured toward my `headmaster’s’ cabin.
A quick glance revealed that the all-important chair was vacant. “Prepare to wear out your shoes”, the voice of experience resonated in my ear.
Gearing up for the long wait, the little food stall I had earlier seen seemed a refreshing spot. Walking through the crowded parking-lot Paul’s letter to the Romans rang in my ear , ‘Let everyone be subject to the governing authorities, for there is no authority except that which God has established. The authorities that exist have been established by God.’ The dilapidation and the dust (literal and metaphorical) seemed to belie, but prayer brings faith, often in the most unlikely places.
Beside the entrance, towards the right-side adjoining the compound wall is a group of red plastic chairs and 10-odd tables fronting a counter. The canteen had a quiet efficiency- a board at the counter explained that it was run under the aegis of the government’s scheme for women
entrepreneurs- the matronly lady who asked me to take my seat and not worry about self-service compulsions had a sense of ownership, I realized. The spicy scrambled eggs were a treat. And the surrounding conversations of deal-making added the seasoning of worldly wisdom. Every vehicle bearing an official registration plate is scanned eagerly for the `all-important’ Sir.
2:45pm- walk back- empty cabin- reach canteen for tea number 2…the cycle continues with Chubby Bespectacle assuring that “ Sir has informed he’ll come.”
Staring into empty space one wonders…if this does not work do I have the liberty to take the beaten path – the sheer confidence and efficiency that `grease' delivers, on display, also plays a role.
Many rounds later I change my location to the waiting area. Maybe it’s the calmness that comes with familiarity…but strangers walk up to me for direction to the counters, which by now I can confidently rattle off. And even arcane details like, “ Sir has gone for a hearing- he said he’ll be back.” This level of information casts an authoritarian mask over me and a stranger laid bare his entire property dealings to me- expecting guidance from a veteran.
5:45pm…The registrar is back and looks tired. He’s complaining, “If they cancelled the meeting, shouldn’t they inform us.” Minions run around with comforting words and files to sign. Sensing his displeasure I weigh my options. My 5 hour wait and the tiredness propels me. I take up my school-boy position outside the cabin. A cursory nod and I’m in. “This letter cannot be considered official.” Maybe it’s the tiredness but fear leaves me and restlessness grows, “ It’s an original letter bearing testimony to the transaction. What further proof do you need?”
“Is it a government document?” he retorts. “A bank pass book can be considered, not this.” I change my stance and plead, “ Sir, please- my elderly father walked in and out of this office trying to resolve the issue. And it’s not a case without corroborative evidence.”
“Surrender the documents to the Enforcement Division; they may process it.” Gathering my wits I reply, “Sir; here I can appeal for adjudication- there I’ll be a criminal.”
Don’t know if it was the realization that I had seen through his ploy, but there seemed to be a slight flinching. The man deftly side-stepped, “I am not the only person who signs on these files. There are three signatories- you could speak with the Collector.”
This to me seemed a move in the direction of a solution and my hopes rose. As i waited outside the sound-proof glass doors, the significance of the next few moments dawned. My heart raced with fervent prayer. This was the 'make or break' meeting, I realize. Perhaps it was the novelty of an unfamiliar face, I was quickly summoned in.
The man behind the file-laden desk seemed studious and rather soft-spoken. He gestured me to take a seat- a courtesy which was not extended so far. As I sat, and waited for the preceding petitioner to finish his business; the collector turned to me.
My one-sentence summing up of my case was met with, “ Get a First Information Report (FIR) for a non-cognizable offence, saying you’ve lost the original and submit the file- we’ll consider it in good faith.” With a hastily nodded thanks I walked out- the first sound of possibility ringing sweetly in my ears. The strains of the melody were quickly snuffed by the next challenge- getting the police to register an NC without paying under the table.
Day -3: Police Station
“Are you ready to spend? Rs.200/- we’ll write it right away”, the constable appointed to write the report was pretty straightforward, after a preliminary assessment of my employment status. My thoughts are tenuous. Will this constable hold up a larger task for a petty sum. Pay it and get over. My voice almost quivers, “ Sir, I’m a Christian; I cannot pay a bribe.”
“What’s the issue with Christians”, he retorts, “we’re all the same.”
Theology and Secularism seemed to find a level playing field before Mammon.
I persist, ‘Sir, it’s not that I have a problem with you making a few bucks- but our religion teaches us to not be corrupt.”
“ Then you’ll have to follow procedure- get a notarized, sworn affidavit on a Rs.100/- stamp paper.”
He also guides me to a typist outside the police station. I can’t help but think whether this is another multi-tiered scheme- but am getting weary- and he is the authority on procedure, I guess.
Day-4: Police Station
I walk in early with my elderly father in tow. We submit the affidavits and there is a new writer on duty. Yesterday’s constable barely acknowledges a recognition, but before going appraises `Writer-2’, “They’ve bought the documents, hand them the copy of the registered NC”.
Writer-2 is of meeker mettle. He dilly-dallies, coughs intermittently, dusts his complaint book and apologizes for his rasping voice, “My voice is broken- please could you speak to the inspector again- now there is another gentleman who mans the morning shift.” I wonder now if this is another circuit he’s putting me on and walk up to the inspector. He summarily dismisses me and shouts out, `WRITER- file their NC’.
Without a choice and after an interminable hawing and humming he hands me the copy of the FIR.
Don’t know whether it is out of a sense of relief or gratitude but I dip into my wallet and give him Rs.50/- which he gratuitously pockets. A small token of gratitude is not the same as a bribe, I reason.
But gratitude for what? That he’s done what he’s supposed to do. We live with very low standards in our country, I realize.
Day-5:
During the twenty minute ride to the Collector’s office, I reason with myself. “ I’ve done all that I’ve been asked to and the ball is no longer in my court.” With a prayer I resign myself to Sovereignty and walk-in.
Chubby-Bespectacle cannot feign ignorance. And also seems to have developed some measure of sympathy toward my case. Without a moment’s delay, he springs into the collector’s office with my file. I take my position outside and pray.
Through the glass panels, I can see the discussion and every page of the file being leafed through. My eyes are fixed on the floor and my heart is praying. After what seems like the longest 5 minutes, the collector looks up from the file at me, through the barriers of glass. I acknowledge his gaze and quickly look away…and pray.
Chubby-Bespectacle comes out announcing, “Sir says your case seems genuine- we’ll accept the file.” The date for adjudication is set for a month ahead.
As I leave the by now very familiar precincts of the North Mumbai Stamp Collector and Property Registration office, Rich Mullins’ `Everywhere I go I see You..’ rings in my ears.
Christmas vacations are over and we head back to Bangalore. The salty air blowing across the Vashi creek bridge seasons our optimism…and I’m already planning my next trip to attend the hearing.
January 22, 2011; my waitlisted train ticket for Mumbai only creeps to the RAC (Reservation Against Cancellation). Two of us have the privilege of sitting through the night on the side bench that masquerades as a sleeping berth.
My compatriot for the night suggests we `speak’ with the Train Ticket Examiner (TTE). Speak is merely an euphemism for more tangible exchange. In the back of my mind is the thought- this may help me win a night's rest but lose the battle- I’ve set out on. Resolutely I make up my mind…as the hours pass by I bring out my Good News Bible and read it in full view of my now impatient seat-mate’s pressing, “We cannot sit through the night”.
Then I gather courage, “I will not pay a bribe and get a berth…i'd rather sit”. I repeat my litany, “I have never paid a bribe- for a passport, drivers license…” My travelling partner who works in the financial department of a US corporation gets the drift. He says, “Our company too is very much like this. We are very stringent- and don’t hesitate to lose money in delayed payments rather than use bribery as oil in the wheels.” I mutter a silent prayer of thanks…that my travelling companion for the night is not antagonized.
Maybe his ingrained company ethics were kindled by my stand- he takes a bed-sheet and luxuriously spreads it on the floor across the aisle. All of my insistence to `adjust’ falls on deaf ears. Finally I say-“we’ll exchange places at 4:00am” (mid-way through the 6 hours of night left) to which he agrees. I also hand him another bed-sheet which he rolls and keeps as a pillow.
Groggy with sleep I stumble out of my luxury earned at another’s sacrifice at 4:00am and wake him up. As I prepare to stretch out on the floor, the gentleman in the upper berth steps down saying he has slept enough and I may use his berth. The rhythmic rocking of the speeding train and the comfort of a clear conscience soon lull me into an assurance- My God can provide, without me sullying my hands- and I doze of.
Jan 25, 2011- Bustling with optimism and assured of favor I reach the office early. Now that the file is accepted – they would have no choice but to process it. I present my counterfoil to `Chubby-Bespectacle’. He perfunctorily dismisses my appeal- “I have nothing more to do with it. Receiving the file was my job. Now it is the trio- `Supervisor- Asst. Collector and the Collector who’ll decide.”
I wait for the Supervisor, a fair medium built characteristically Maharashtrian face with a well groomed moustache drooping slightly on both sides, giving him a villainous look. I hastily order my mind to not draw conclusions based on the movies I have seen but remain rational. Droopy Moustache saunters in by 11:30am, with a contrastingly contemporary backpack. I give him a few minutes to settle down and then am at his table. “Sir- my file”. “ Prashanth- get his file”, and the eager- to- please young office boy bustles with importance. “ADJ/4273/2010” he officiously pronounces and hands over the chrome yellow folder. Droopy Moustache takes a long look and shakes his head- “We don’t have authority to accept duty on a photocopy”. “ Sir- the collector asked me to submit the police NC”. “Please ask the Collector himself what is to be done”.
Droopy Moustache walks in with my file and I hold my breath and pray. The `scholar’ beckons me and I walk in – my body language communicating as much reverence as possible.. “We need guidance on this”- Noticing now that the conversation is in Hindi- I suddenly feel alienated- after being addressed in the mother-tongue (Marathi), the last time. What can I say but nod humble acceptance as the scholar pronounces the verdict. “Write to the head-office and mark a copy to the petitioner”. “How long will it take”-I timidly venture to ask. “They are our seniors, we cannot comment on the time they require”, comes the dismissive reply, from the all-important authority. The order is passed - and I’m out in a minute.
My heart sinks…`this is it’- my file and the papers to my father’s house will be sucked into the black hole of bureaucratic space and be lost forever…a million thoughts cross my mind and berate my idealism- “should have just paid an agent- now it is a lost case- do you have the time and your employer’s benevolence to do the rounds of the Head Office". A faint voice of optimism argues, “maybe the higher officers at the head-office will be more just.”
Droopy Moustache hands me the copy of the letter addressed to the Collector of Stamps, Mumbai- `The petitioner has attached a Non-cognizable report documenting the loss of the original title deed. Request guidance on whether to accept stamp duty.’ As if rubbing salt on my wound, he adds; “If we are not able to accept the document we’ll inform you in writing.” As I clutch this single A-4 sheet and forlornly walk out, I can’t help but think that Droopy Moustache would probably type that one letter with an expediency never witnessed in his entire career.
It’s with mixed feelings that I stare out into the seemingly endless mustard and sunflower fields lining the Mumbai-Bangalore train route. Atleast I tried, “Now if it does not work, probably I can take the familiar path…after all the house is legitimately purchased…probably it will have to be sold- but which buyer will not strike a dirt-bargain on a property without its paperwork in order…
On couple of other trips in 2011, my courage is insufficient to venture in the direction of the office- like a back-alley where you got mugged and don’t want to go back to.
May 9,2012- An unwilling 80 year old father has been re-located to Bangalore because of ill-health. And every day like medicine in it’s diurnal doses, are complaints about bills to be paid and `all-important’ work to be done about the flat in Mumbai. Finally to silence the daily harangue, one decides to make a trip.
But the thought looms large- shouldn’t a vacant house not become a liability and be in a position to be sold…and the nightmare begins- Droopy, Headmaster & Scholar, the ammonia reeking passages, the loneliness…
On my knees, I pray- and the Lord in his mercy drops a word of comfort to the anguished one- `RESOLVE’- this word I pick up and pray- “Lord please resolve this matter for me, one-way or the other…
Like the cloud, the size of a fist in the Elijah story, a ray of hope rises. Friday night’s journey gets me well in time to attend Sunday morning worship. Saturday night is spent restless- thinking about the ordeal on Monday morning. A desperate man, I rummage through stacks of old documents, hoping for a miracle. I also recollect a message by a preacher, who testified that God miraculously reproduced a lost set of documents which would have cost him his job. I remind God of that testimony and ask for a similar miracle. All my rummaging is in vain- no original agreement of sale can be located anywhere.
Sunday morning after worship, I meet with the pastor and explain my venture. The pastor prays with me. A simple,three-sentence prayer- the enormity of the task did not perhaps need a proportional drama in prayer-- I reasoned was the pastor’s line of thought.
The Mumbai Monday morning in May is like an oven on pre-heat. The humidity adds to the discomfort and a half-an hour’s walk can drench one in sweat. I’m eager to ensure that I don’t walk panting and sticky shirted to the office.
As the faded brown and cream façade comes into view I confess the name of the Lord- “saying Jesus- you’re the Lord of this place- all authority belongs to you”.
Chubby. B recognizes me as I walk in. Not that he offers a warm welcome, but beckons the office boy to search for my file. Prashant, has a pleasant disposition and his popularity belies the post he holds. But he is not without his officiousness- “ A 2010 file- how do you expect me to find it- that too which was sent for guidance to the head-office”. Chubby seems to be my Providence ordained advocate- “Check the records, the guidance should have been received.”
A terminal is quickly activated and the file number keyed in for search. Lo and behold the file has received it’s guidance. I cannot contain my anticipation. “Lord grant me the courage to face and accept the inevitable.”
Droopy glances through the file and then starts an intense scrutiny of all the papers- I gather this as a positive sign. The suspense is killing and my throat is virtually dry, “Sir- what is the guidance? I mumble”.
Droopy does not reply, but again shuffles through the papers. By now I’m familiar enough to cross the divide and stand adjacent to Droopy’s chair. The guidance is in a single sheet of paper- `Concerning your request for guidance, we deem that you are capable of assessing the case and RESOLVING the matter as soon as possible. Signed, the Collector of Stamps- Mumbai.`
The meaning of these words have not yet sunk in. Droopy jumps with my file into the Scholar’s cabin. I continue my earnest prayer, while the discussion continues. Droopy comes out and says I should ask the Scholar. I go in.
After a cursory greeting, we dive into the matter at hand. Now we’re again talking in the mother-tongue. The Scholar doesn’t take more than two minutes. “We’ll put it up for valuation.” I nod a quick thanks and double back out – worried that he may change his mind.
The rest is procedure I assume- still they caution me. “Do not get the funds till the demand note is issued, we need to discuss”, adds Droopy, just in case I thought it was downhill from here on.
Wed. May,16-2012- I walk in and head straight for Droopy’s table. The yellow ochre file lies unmoved. As Droopy emerges from the Headmaster’s cabin I greet him with a smile. Strangely Droopy responds and picks up my file. One more glance and he passes it to the clerk. With mechanical efficiency, the clerk types out the demand-note. All three, Droopy, Headmaster and Scholar have to sign on it before it can be handed over to me.
There is the worry whether this will get stalled, whether there will be further discussions which can go against me…a set of files travel from Droopy to the Headmaster and my ochre one is part of the retinue.
From the Headmaster to the Scholar…and back- simple in procedure and a total distance of
about10 feet, but a journey of five hours. There wasn’t even a semblance of a discussion. As Chubby handed me the official request for paying the duty to the government- 39 years after the transaction was carried out- I was like a marathon runner- too washed out to realize the significance of the moment. Mechanically I collected the note and made a quick call- to my wife- who was more worried about getting a rickshaw back home, before the pre-monsoon May showers pounded and flooded Bangalore's streets.
Strange, how mundane an existence we lead…and how the challenges of coping with everyday travails often takes the wind out of the sail of celebrating the `grander- moments’.
It’s downhill from here. The duty is paid, the receipts submitted and the all-important STAMP takes it’s pride of place on greying yellow papers, legitimizing a transaction which took place 40 years ago. The forlorn property gains a title.
As Chubby hands me the file after its 17 month stay, I bend down and shove a package onto his desk. While he vehemently nods, I inform, “It’s some
kaju barfi (a milk sweet with cashew nuts) Sir.” Chubby’s eyes fill up and he quickly turns to his colleague to avoid embarrassment, “ His file was delayed for so long…it was sent to the Head –Office…” In the same breath he beckons, “Prashant, distribute this”, I take an about-turn, shove the file into my back-pack and leave.
The sceptic and the agnostic will argue that many without an unique claim to a relationship with Christ have registered property without paying a bribe.
But only a weak –vessel knows its limitation to take a moral stand. And without the hand that reaches through the veil, holding and upholding, our chances to live righteously are slim and the effort perhaps of no practical worth.
