The Coils of Bureaucracy

There is a long queue at the bank. Cram packed inside the small, ill – ventilated office furnished with its bulky wood and glass partitions are queues of people, waiting for their turn. Opening a new bank account, deposits, withdrawal, transfers: a humdrum of chaos greets the eye. Form no. two to be deposited at counter no. four, but first stamped at counter no. 5 and attested at counter no. 7. Do you have a PAN, Aadhar, and two passport sized photographs, cross -signed? No? Please come back with all these details, next Monday. The signature needs to be in black ink, any other colour won’t do. Having stood in this queue for ten minutes now, my turn will come shortly.

“When will the pension come?” asks the man in front.

“Oh, it’s just a matter of days now,” replies the officer behind the counter.

“It’s been six months! I hope I needn’t remind you of the ever - soaring prices of oil.”

“I understand, sir. But what can I do? It’s not in my hands. Come next week.”

Next person

“Yes, how may I help you?”

“I need to transfer this sum of money to this account number in this city.”

“Ok, please fill this form and submit it at counter no. three.”

The woman approaches a clerk’s desk in the corner, its top filled with mutli – coloured slips of paper. The clerk is on leave. In the meanwhile, a newly recruited insurance agent sitting behind the desk, flits through vast stacks of paper in the creaky metal drawers. Finally, the woman picks up the thread tied pen at the desk to strain her eyes at a paper covered in size 9 font.

“What’s IFSC?” she asks.

“I don’t know,” blushes the insurance agent, “It’s my first day, today.”

“Perhaps it is mentioned in your account book?” volunteers someone in the queue.

“Could you please check it for me?”

“Here it is…”

“Oh, thank you so much” she smiles and goes to another counter.

“This is the wrong IFSC,” says the officer.

“But that’s what it says on my booklet, right here.”

“No, ma’am, we shifted branch after the merger, and this booklet needs to be updated.”

“Please get your transactions printed from that counter over there and we will issue a new one after you deposit this form here.”

“I’m pressed for time, today! I’ll get it updated some other time. For now, please complete the money transfer.”

It’s my turn now.

“I want to get this account changed from a minor to an independent one.” After sharing a minor account under the guardianship of my parents for nearly ten years, at age eighteen, it is time for me to become financially independent.

“Form 37 prints aren’t available now. Please take form 20 and fill these marked pages. Attach photocopies of PAN and Aadhar, cross signed with 2 passport sized photographs.”

I came prepared. I filled in the forms, attached the documents and re-joined the queue.

“You forgot to sign in these places.”

I step out again to do the required.

“You will also need your parent’s signature.” My parents promptly sign. They are on leave today and with me at the bank.

“Your parents’ signature does not match. Please get them to sign it again, in this format.”

My parents sign again. I make a mental wish of never having to fill that form again. I hope I don’t have to re – do it on account of the blotched - up signature.

It is then that I notice an old man hobbling around with a walking stick with a form in hand. He got it filled by his children and now thumb presses it. “My son is a daily wage labourer. If he stands in the bank queue all day, the family shall go to bed without dinner.”

“What’s the form for, sir?”

“We need to transfer some money that the government is sending in as daily wage, to the village. People at home are sick.”

It is a form of privilege to be able to stand in a bank queue for a whole day, shuffling between long queues, filling up these tediously lengthy forms, coming back to collect documents, being able to read and understand the 5 font terms and conditions on the last page where you can put down your signature. It’s a privilege to be able to collect the government aid when you need it the most. Sometimes, it’s even a privilege to be able to collect your own hard – earned money in time.

I deposit my form.

“When can I collect my documents?”

“Come next Monday, it is lunch time now.”

This is an anecdote based on a real experience of the author. Bureaucracy is difficult. Going to the bank is a very minimal encounter that each individual has with ‘official – work’. There are even more mind – numbingly difficult tasks that millions of people have to go through, repeatedly – getting ration, social – security benefits, scholarships, admissions, employment, certificates, official documents. There are people who have to manage get all these when they cannot afford to stand in queues and cannot read or write.