My life is insured by a government run insurance company, so I made my annual piligrimage recently to one of their anachronistic offices to pay my premium. Like government offices all over India, this one too was populated by groaning ceiling fans, irascible people with cobwebs, East India Company files, a forlorn-looking Gandhiji on the wall, and an unbalanced security guard in army fatigues and a whistle whom everyone called "major". The walls, floor, and ceiling were all broken, stained, and leaking; each chair had a different missing part and I don't think there were any tables at all - files were piled so high in front of each person, no one would've noticed if major had stolen all the tables and auctioned them to pay for his fatigues and his evening drink. Huge old steel cupboards were backed into far-flug corners and omniously locked with ponderous looking 18th century heavy metal. I was sure if someone unlocked them, decomposed bodies would tumble out ("Ok, we can now tell Mrs. Sharma to withdraw the 'missing persons' complaint she filed about her husband during the Quit India movement"). Glass panels separated the public from the mildly demented staff who sat behind the glass panel glowering, barking, and baring their fangs at the likes of me who had gone there to make them happy by paying them money for our lives - they were very bitter; perpetually watched over by Gandhi made their experiments with truth very uncomfortable.
I went to the section titled "PREMIUMS" and immediately noticed I was the only one there; there were serpentine queues at every other desk except this one; that was because the chair behind the glass panel was empty.
"AWOL," major offered helpfully.
All of AWOL's colleagues turned and glared at major and me and I quickly found an interesting pattern to study on the floor.
"Where should I pay?" I asked major softly under my breath (for I didn't want to disturb grateful dead Gandhiji).
He waved his arm in a general north-east/north-west direction and yawned and I thanked God I was not lost in Kosovo with major as my guide - then, I realized that actually, I was.
I joined the queue closest to me. Have you noticed inside a government office, people are scared to talk to each other? No one will help you (which on second thoughts might be a good thing because the blind leading the blind isn't such a good idea - look what happened to Tony Blair).
"Excuse me," I said softly to the person in front of me; he looked at me out of the corner of his eye but didn't turn around.
"Are you standing here to pay your premium?" I whispered.
He shook his head in a way that could mean, 'yes', 'no' or 'maybe.'
I looked around helplessly and decided to join a different queue.
"Excuse me," I whispered to the back of a new head.
"Shhhhh," he hissed without turning around.
Not knowing what to do, I approached the glass panel; the entire queue became restive and started to growl. I heard "queue," "line," "go back," and even "monkey".
"I just want some information," I said desperately to no one in particular.
"YES! WHAT DO YOU WANT?" someone barked from behind the glass.
"I want you to burst into flames," I almost said but of course didn't.
"Where do I pay my premium?" I asked timidly.
"WHAT DO YOU THINK EVERYONE IS DOING HERE STANDING IN THE QUEUE?" the voice spat back.
"I thought they're celebrating Kosovo's independence," I muttered and joined the queue. Someone giggled."SILENCE PLEASE!" the voice thundered and everyone, amazingly, fell silent!
"Why shouldn't we talk? Has someone died?" I asked recklessly.
"MADAM, THIS IS AN OFFICE!!"
"Yes, I noticed it's not a funeral parlour," I said.
He muttered abuses under his breath (which I cannot repeat here due to lack of space).
When my turn came to pay, I paid up and asked for an ECS form.
"He's on leave," the non-combustible character snapped without looking up.
"Who? The form?" I asked.
"THE PERSON AT THE COUNTER WHO DISTRIBUTES THE FORMS IS ON LEAVE," he said slowly and loudly like talking to someone very vacant.
"Can someone else give me the form?" I asked.
"NO! COME TOMORROW!" he commanded.
"Yes, I'd love to see your pretty face again," I almost said but of course didn't.
The next day, they were out of forms; the day after was a public holiday; the day after that was a second Saturday; the day after the day after the day after the employees were on strike, and the day after all these days someone should've torched the place but didn't.
MORAL OF STORY: When you find him, vote for Tony Blair.
