Simple Adventures

Today I had the glorious experience of purchasing Stamp Paper. Stamp Paper, but why? you ask, because this is a terribly fascinating subject. Well, since I am a foreigner, even though I am of Indian descent, The Indian Government requires that I register my existence in an official manner. Apparently I can't just park myself here for more than six months without their approval, so one of the numerous tasks I have to complete involves using this Stamp Paper for several documents that account for my occupation of precious Bengalooru space.

So - it's just an official paper sold at various denominations, with the stamp of approval from a bank. Simple enough, I thought, I will just mosey my way down to the one bank that sells it in Malleswaram and purchase it. The bank opens at 10 am - I thought I was being awfully responsible by reaching promptly at 10, rather than waiting until two minutes before it closes, like I would usually do. I get there, and of course the line is endlessly snaking its way around the complex. Wonderful.

I see everyone holding a yellow slip, and astutely find myself one and fill out the necessary details. I get back on the line and wonder, why do SO many people need stamp paper today? And, why does only ONE bank in this densely populated locality sell stamp paper? And, why is the line moving at such an exponentially SLOW rate?

I get on the end of the line, daydreaming about the completely delish drink that Rev and I shared the previous night (white rum + litchi + guava = bliss), when I am abruptly startled by a random police officer flaunting around an unncessarily extra long double barrel rifle. Clearly, he does this to compensate for unnecessarily small body parts that need not be named. Seriously people, we are a line of innocent-stamp-paper-purchasing-creatures! I get very anxious around people with loaded weapons, because I do not trust their judgment or instincts. This officer was wagging his thing around to "quell" the miscreants who had parked illegally. Of course, other standers-in-line feigned concern to eavesdrop on the ensuing gelata.

Soon, I notice that the line behind me has extended, while I have moved a whole six inches forward. I want to listen to my IPod, but feel like that would draw uncomfortable attention to myself. And as I look around, I realize that it is too late - I have already become the subject of attention, as I am a lone female in a sea of testosterone. Yes, out of the sixty people who were on line at that point, I was the only woman. Again, it seems futile to ask the question why. It is something about India I fail to understand. How certain tasks are so absolutely gender divided - and apparently going to the bank is one that falls under male jursidiction.

Now, let me clarify. This scenario of being a lone woman amongst men - not always a bad thing. Except that these men were of the constant-crotch-fondling, synthetic-shirt-wearing, musty-Bangalore-body-odour-smelling, mucous-regurgitating variety. And for some reason, they find it very amusing that I am amongst them - they have juvenile smirks on their faces and are stupid enough to think that I am oblivious to their behavior.

Forty-five minutes later, the line is moving and I am close to the magical window where I pay up - hallelejuah! As I approach, I find some answers to my questions. Behind the window are two middle aged woman, very casually handwriting the information on each stamp paper application, with a disturbing lack of urgency. There could have been two people on the line as far as they were concerned. I pay up and then all hell breaks loose - the unusually organized line that had thus far contained us no longer exists. There is another window, where one of these middle aged aunties shouts out people's names to give them the final document. Yikes.

Because there is no line formation, everybody is crushed together. People are pushing, bodies of strangers are glued together in dangerously close proximity, shoulder to shoulder, elbow to elbow. It is as if this frantic crowding will somehow ensure fast receipt of the Stamp Paper. And I am making a mental note to always bring Purell when I have to run such errands.

Finally, my name is called and I extricate myself from this can of sardines feeling very liberated! I'm off to the Police Commissioner's Office, but that story's for another post...