Democratic rights

I had a strange morning today. Coming out the gym, my clothes and hair steaming gently in the unexpectedly sharp burst of sunshine after too many days made gloomy by rain and heavy clouds looming threateningly overhead, I finished my ritual call home and started the trek to get through my errands. They were not many, but they were must-dos. I started at the local grocery store, the Apna Bazaar. Doing a quick whizz though the aisles, I picked up some of the things I felt at that moment to be vital to my existence, and then proceeded to the checkout. All the clerks were people I had seen before, that we occasionally had a brief chat with, that we exchanged civilities with if we saw them outside the store. They have all been unfailingly polite and friendly, accommodating to their limits and helpful as far as they were able. But today came as a bit of a shock.

I got my bill and handed over a Rs500 note. Not something I generally carry when I go to the gym, since I rarely need more money than a few rupees, perhaps just enough to buy a loaf of bread or take an autorickshaw home if I need to. Today I had some shopping in mind, needed to get change and decided to combine the two to make life easier for me later on. I did have enough change to pay for my purchases, but was saving that for vegetables further on my walk home. This has never been a problem, at least not an unsurmountable one. Today, it was. The lady at the checkout counter I chose was obviously not having a good day, what little of it had passed. She stared at me and refused the note. Get change, she demanded. It was not an unreasonable request, but it was not made in that tone of voice. It was rude and harsh and, at that moment, shocking. If I had thought about it, I would have walked out. If I had thought about it, I would have retorted. If I had thought about it, I would have created enough of a stink to have the woman severely castigated by her manager in full public view. But I was too shocked to respond and all I could do was wait for my mind to start working again. Eventually, I found the change I needed, paid, collected my groceries and left.

From there I went on to the local polling office. There has been a drive recently to update all election data, from identity information to voter ID cards. Having tried to get one before, and having failed, I almost decided that it was too much of a bother to try again, but then thought that it would be a useful piece of identification to have, instead of having to carry about my PAN card or passport or even driving license as proof of my existence. So I hustled poor Father into filling in forms and getting all the supporting paperwork in order and carried the completed package over to the office today. No surprise, the place was packed out, with men sitting on chairs even as women stood and waited. I stood and waited too, for a little while. Gradually, as the sting of the Apna Bazaar incident started making its annoying little niggle felt, I decided to let go my need to be democratic and wait my turn, and barged into the small office. Some large man tried to push in front of me and I turned, glared up at him and told him in my most impeccable American accent that he would need to wait his turn.

It seemed to work. The large man did try and make his presence felt at my back, but I made a nasty remark to the official in charge, who then asked the gent to step back. The official checked all my papers, asked for one more copy of supporting documents; then, perhaps seeing the fed-up glower on my already annoyed and still gently sweaty face, he sent one of his minions to get the copy and tried to refuse to accept the trivial payment for it. If there is anything else, I told him sweetly, firmly, in English, I could send my driver with the papers, since I had to get to work, I was a journalist, you see. The minor lie worked better than I had ever seen it do before. There was a flurry of yes madams and my work was done, without my needing to stand in line for the proper counter or do any more running about. All I needed was the right snootiness and a little cold staring to do the job, better and easier than I could have expected.

Which makes me think that it is not surprising that my country, the one that I am so proud of and will always prefer to any other, is not in the league of most progressive, best developed or top of the heap of nations in the world. But then, if we list the number of influential people we have or, best of all, who our fathers are, maybe we could even manage to get there…soon.