I’m writing this on the afternoon of
9 November 2010. Barack and Michelle Obama have left
India some hours earlier, having wowed all and
sundry with their charm, impromptu dancing, masterly
oratory and command over the pronunciation of Hindi
words. Yesterday was all about the brilliance of
Obama’s speech to Parliament. This morning’s papers
headlined: “Obama Backs India For UN Seat” (The
Times of India); “Obama Backs UNSC Bid, Slams Pak”
(Hindustan Times); “8/11: The World Order Changes”
(The Economic Times); “Mission Accomplished”
(Business Standard) and “Michelle Goes Broke Buying
Xmas Gifts” (The Times of India). India must have
been wonderful for Obama after the awful drubbing he
has got in the US; and Barack and Michelle were
fabulous for India’s ego.
Three days of wonderful entertainment, youth power
and pizzazz. Plus an unexpected bonus of young
Bhajji scoring a century against New Zealand when it
was most needed.
It was time for reality. Mine began at 9.45 am, on
reaching the Sub-Registrar’s office at Mehrauli, a
stone’s throw from the Qutb Minar. I have taken an
apartment on rent in Defence Colony, and someone
from the landlady’s side had suggested that the
lease agreement be officially registered. I had
agreed; and so trotted off to Mehrauli in the
morning. The office is in an old, dirty, abysmally
maintained single-storied colonial kutcherry — a
dilapidated tehsil building long past its sell-by
date.
In the dusty, grimy compound sits a sad stone plaque
proudly stating “Fully Computerised Office of
Sub-Registrar (V), South District, Tehsil Building,
Mehrauli. Inaugurated by Smt. Shiela Dixit, Chief
Minister, Delhi on 18th April 2003”.
The office was shut at 9.45 am; yet there were at
least a 100 people milling around, filling forms,
sticking photographs and mucking their fingers with
ink to decorate various stamp papers with their
fingerprints. By 10.30 am, the crowd had doubled; by
11 am there were at least 300 people, all
congregated to register some document or the other —
typically property sale and purchase deeds.
Judging by the the fact that most of deeds involved
purchase of land, flats and houses, ours was a
piffling amount: a stamp duty of Rs.23,500. Yet,
that one transaction involved seven people hanging
around in the compound: my frail, sweet 94-year old
landlady and her widowed daughter-in-law for
support; their broker; my two brokers; myself; and a
fellow-in-the-know, who bustled about, rushing here
and there, in seemingly total control of the babus
and their processes. Others, too, had teams of at
least five people in tow.
Since the office’s writ covers almost all of south
Delhi, my rough reckoning is that some 70-odd
applications would have been submitted during the
day. My guess is that the value of stamp papers
accepted per day in this office would be between
Rs.3 crore and Rs.4 crore. Thus, over 225 working
days per year, the office will have registered at
least Rs.675 crore worth of stamp paper. Probably
way more.
Now contrast the abysmal facilities versus the size
of business. The only sitting places are concrete
benches. These are dusty, betel stained and
pigeon-shat. Such aesthetics aside, these are well
short of what is needed to seat even a fifth of
those who have to wait for at least two hours. So
you stand for hours.
The action involves three lines. Punctuated by long
waits. After filling up all the forms, signing and
finger-printing them, you jostle in one unruly line
to submit the application and collect your token
number. Then you wait for at least an hour — more if
you haven’t been at the top the first queue —
enjoying the smell of urine that wafts from a dirty
loo in the compound. Then action station two: of
joining another equally chaotic line to be verified.
You time this by guessing what number is flashing in
a broken LED device. Then you hang around yet again
before being called in to be photographed: the party
of one part, of the other, and the two witnesses.
The digital camera shoots nonsense images. The
equipment badly needs changing. But who cares?
Think of my feeble 94-year old landlady. She sat
through all this. For almost two hours. By the end
she was in tears. To be fair, she got some sympathy
from the babus. I convinced one chap to come out and
verify her presence, instead of subjecting her to
line number 2. He did. And others made way so that
she could be photographed a tad earlier than her
time.
But consider a simple fact. This major establishment
is worse than a dump. People who transact here hate
every moment of it. It desperately needs a modern
office; decent seating spaces; and a clean work
flow. Is that too hard to ask for? After Obama
agreeing to support India for the UN Security
Council?
Published: Business World, November 2010
