The Oxford dictionary for India defines the agent as an Indian magician, who gets files cleared at sarkaari offices. Last week we tried to create magic on our own. Decided to get a learner’s driving licence for the daughter, sans this agent magician. Part 1 was simple – took about 4 hours of an online vigil – and a visit to the Hanuman temple – to ensure that the Parivahan website is alive and running – whilst I logged in. Hanuman ji obliged – and we looked up auspicious dates and settled for 2 pm on 27th December 2019. But did not realise that the solar eclipse the previous day had thrown planetary calculations out of gear. I usually cycle down – but felt that going to the RTO for a license meant that we need to use a motorised vehicle. So plonked the daughter on the rear seat of our Hero Electric Photon. 500 m before the RTO realised that my math had gone wrong. Drove into a jam, which had marmalade, butter, mayonnaise – whatever loaded on. As the muhurat time approached, was looking like we would only make it at 2 a.m. Told the daughter that now Johny Walker style, she needed to start walking. 

She did – and I followed an hour later on my motorised scooter. Was greeted by an army of agents. There was a time when the RTO office used to be hidden behind a multitude of agent shops in the RTO premises. One day, a Dabang RTO chief decided to clean up. So now the stalls have been transformed into scooter sit-ins. Was approached by 50 agents, who made a variety of promises – the best was that the daughter could get her learner’s licence even without giving a test. Ostensibly, the agents themselves go and appear for the computerised test on your behalf. 

We decided to persevere on our own. Somewhere in the labyrinth of offices are a dozen windows which need to be approached. During my initial decades of train travel, the railway station coolies used to be the resident Googles. You could ask the red tunic’ed coolie just about anything – and he would have an answer. Ranging from information on platforms for arrival and departures, to delays, to where the empty seats were – and he would know it all. Had no option, but to use the RTO agent as the local google to get me started off. The daughter, a chip of the block, had already done the same. Except that both our googles had sent us to the north and south poles of the RTO campus. We rendezvoused at the equator to decide which pole to start with. Having reached the right pole, we now had to accost sarkaari googles. Unlike the agent google, the sarkaari google extracts a huge time price. Each time you had to clarify anything there is a 100 person strong queue of question-askers that you are pushed into. 

In our first encounter, we realised that the offline form does not work when you have applied online. The sarkaari guys believe in a fully paperised office – so even if you have already plugged in all the details online, they want to see the printouts. In the days of yore, I remember noting the presence of thousands of photocopying shops (even hundreds of doctors, who could X ray you with their eyes in a matter of seconds and issue you medical certificates) But in the lately sanitised environment, it was difficult to find a guy with a portable printer and laptop. One thought that came to mind was to go back to my office – and get the prints. But memories of the massive jam dissuaded me. Thanks to Agent Google, we stumbled upon one printer wallah on the footpath outside the RTO, and managed to get a 3 page printout for a nice ransom. 

Armed with these precious pieces of paper, we ventured into the hallowed office of the document verifier. After standing in the queue for a few hours, he asked us about where the photograph was (paper one of course). In the age of selfies, the daughter surprised me by actually having paper photos with her. But this was not enough, the system also had to be fed with a digital photograph. And no, you can’t upload it. It has to be done at the biometric station. The biometric station can easily be identified. It is the one that has the queue from the RTO all the way to the railway station. Having reached the head of the queue, the daughter was about to get autographed and photographed – and then lunch time happened. 

The sarkaari photographer had a sumptuous lazy lunch, visited the chai shop and finally ended her lunch break with a visit to the beauty parlour. Only then did she condescend to return to her studio. Biometrics done, we were back in the race for the document validation. The inspectors had done a disappearing act yet again. Looks like they have been assigned duty inside the RTO premises to challan any of the offenders that they remember having seen breaking signals in Punya nagari. Like the climax of a Hindi film, the time bomb was clicking away. It was 45 minutes to closing time. Finally, the documents were deemed to be acceptable. They were snatched away from the daughter and entered into a black hole. We were told to wait and hope that the papers would radiate out of the hole soon. After 30 minutes of waiting, we summoned up the courage to stand in the validation line again to query the inspector about the status. We were informed that the papers had actually been put in a wormhole and would emerge directly at the test location. 

We sprinted to the test location – and were queried if the SMS had landed up on the phone regarding validation. It had not. So we sprinted back. By now, the inspector was on his rounds again. We employed a detective to trace him. The inspector then nonchalantly informed us that sometimes the SMS comes, sometimes it doesn’t. Sprinted back to the test center – and informed the test lady about this new piece of philosophy that we had just imbibed. She infused some more philosophy in us – wait and watch. With exactly 2 minutes to test closing time, heard the daughter’s name called out. She was ready to be tested. 

Remembered my friend Hanuman ji again – and prayed that the daughter would survive this ordeal. The advantage of computerised tests, is that Hanuman ji gets his offerings fast. Within minutes, I had tears of joy flowing down my cheeks. The test lady informed us that the daughter had passed. Time for another queue – to submit the documents that had emerged out of the wormhole to the licence issuing window. We were shooed out of the issuing office and told to stand near the backdoor. I had already started counting currency that I was sure I would have to now shell out to get the licence under the table at the backdoor. I found that I was not alone – there was a huge mob that had gathered there – all looking hungry for their licence to kill – ahem – drive. I got a cardiac arrest a short while later – when the daughter actually got her name called again – and voila – a laminated licence with a hologram made an appearance – without the chai paani payment. 

We should have lived happily ever after at this point, but the daughter reminded me of my senility. ‘Pops’, she says, ‘We applied for MCWG and LMV, we only have MCWG.’ For the uninitiated, the MCWG is a motorcycle with gear. We don’t have one at home. Should have applied for MCWOG. Looks like I will have to buy the daughter the Harely Davidson she has been eyeing, so that she can give her test on a suitable vehicle. Am worried about the LMV, because our solo car at home is a Mahindra electric automatic. Hope daughter has not set her eyes on a stick shift BMW to enable her test. Serendipity was finding the LMV licence in a pile of discarded licences. As we drove into the sunset, with the old father now riding pillion, must say it was a great day for Indian democracy. We had proved that in this ancient land of ghoos, there still stand islands of imandaari!