A discourse on Indian administrative policies

Apparently, cricket happened today. I wouldn’t know; the Indians authorities detained me in an over-crowded, under-red nasty corporate room for the entire day.

It was like the 21st century equivalent of the Black Hole of Calcutta.

I had to get a visa for my sub-continental holiday. Oh you bastard, India, you couldn’t have made a normally painless procedure much worse today.

First off, I completed their damned forms weeks ago, but for my hellishly busy life, I was unable to submit them.

However, since my obedient pen-pushing, the buggers had changed the system – unbeknownst to me. So I turn up at the Indian High Commission promptly first thing this morning, on my day off.

Eventually, some incomprehensible goon starts bleating at me,

“A blur Vec toria a blur blue” he said, whilst pointing at an obscure piece of paper on the room.

I squinted at it,

“Visa applications have been outsourced. These are now being handled at Victoria. Fuck off.”

Where in Victoria, I had no idea. Fortunately, work was just around the corner, so I actually went into office on my day off. Searching the internet for a bloody map, fielding “I thought you were off today?” remarks.

Only, I would of, if anyone talks to me. Mercifully, this is one torment I do not presently endure.

I go to office at Victoria. Chaos is all about me. It’s like human-marmalade factory. A woman barked at me: “HAVE YOU APPLIED ONLINE?”

I simper.

“YOU IDIOT, GO AWAY AND TRY AGAIN.”

So back I go to the office, conveniently located on the other side of London. To re-fill those bloody forms. And then get on the same bloody train back again to Victoria.

Now, I have some experience of dealing with third world officials. There are two approaches to take.

Method one: obsequious toadying. Hardened travellers don’t have spines: the customs bureaucrat has a chip on their shoulder the size of Sourav Ganguly’s head, use it against them and flatter your way across the border.

Method two: the British Bluster. A technique used by many colonials throughout time, you bamboozle the official with your feigned air of superiority.

So, in I went, opening with “Now, I say, look here”, when Madame Card Index pointed me towards a ticket. It said 2180. I looked at the board. It said 157. My “methods” nullified in a second. Damn, she was good. Damned good.

The next eight hours were spent losing my sanity, and convincing myself I was a battery farmed chicken. It was a fantastic experience, being sandwiches between man who endlessly informed me of his housing opportunities in Harrow and man who belched vivaciously and joyfully for all he was worth.

£40 and a day off well spent.

Damn your eyes, India!