A few days back, all of us in the office were super-excited about a certain parcel being sent to us by a customer (who also happens to be a very good friend) from Aussie land. As and when the parcel moved, we were notified via the Australian post and later through the other postal services as they kept updating the status on the Net. We were promised it would reach us within a week of being sent. We checked the position of our parcel for the first 3 days online. However, as soon as it hit the Indian shores, mysteriously, all updates stopped. As we started hunting for the coveted parcel, we learnt it was sitting with the India Customs- or to be precise was at Mumbai. Phew! We heaved a sigh a of relief, knowing it was just a matter of a couple of days before we had it.
However, this was not to be. The next week was spent in anticipation and we had no clue of where our parcel had landed. Our friend from Australia went to the extent of calling up people in India, only to be hung up on or to be subject to some incorrigible English. We decided to take charge and started making a few phone calls here and there. It was then that we were told that it had been despatched from Mumbai long time ago and was sitting with the Bangalore Customs. Again, with a flicker of hope, we dialled the BC. Here's what happened after that.
The call was taken by a man who knew no other tongue except the one he'd grown up speaking i.e. Kannada. When communication with him started getting exasperating, mercifully a woman came on the line and informed us that they'd need a letter from the 'gentleman' who had sent the parcel along with it's value. Our friend immediately typed out an email, of which we took a printout and on a Thursday, along with my Focal, I embarked on a cab to reach the customs office to claim our parcel. Continuous calls to the office went unanswered as we searched frantically for the office from this end to the other. Though we had Google-d the address, it wasn't of much help as we ran around in circles. To add to our woes, we had been warned that the office was open to the public for just a couple of hours, 3 pm to 5 pm IST, hence we needed to land our asses there within time or forget about the whole thing.
Mercifully, someone answered the phone after the 20th ring (!) and informed us of the location. We raced to the spot only to be told that only for sending parcels you went there, to receive parcels it was in a completely different section. By then it was 4.40 pm. With hardly any time to our disposal, we ran to the office where 'delivery' was done. On finally reaching, both of us raced up the stairs (there was a lift that took you straight to Hell, so we opted for the stairs). Here we find 5 people already waiting in the queue. We marched up to the man sitting at the desk, show him our documents and narrate our woeful tale to him. The man blinks, looks at us, and says "I don't understand Hindi" in Kannada (thankfully we 'understood' what he said!). He takes our letter though, and asks us to wait for 20 minutes (the clock already showed 4.53 by then). Irritated at his lack of interest, we sit down on the rusted chairs, since the foam sofas do not look so dependable.
Our man keeps the letter at his table, rises and proceeds towards a cupboard. He hunts for something there, which we hope is our parcel and then withdraws his hand, holding a small bag. He positions himself on his chair, removes the papers lying in front of him (including our letter) and this is what he does. Eat. At 5 in the evening, with 7 people waiting in the queue, he comfortably munches his snack. Again we go up to him and this time demand to talk to someone else, as his callous attitude had inwardly shaken our confidence. He directs us to a lady who knew English. We foolishly narrate the whole story, only to be told that the letter was just a way to validate the parcel. They would now check the contents and re-check the value. If everything was okayed, the parcel would be delivered to our doorstep (like we should blow the vuvuzela for that!). And all this may take another week.
Here's where our frustration. Why couldn't our government departments have an email address? Why were there no fax numbers? Why is it that if you speak Kannada, you will be able to convey your message across? Later, we also learnt that the man at the desk was a staff boy. Attitude at it's hilt! All this raises a very important doubt- are we really trying to match up to the statndards of those developed countries? While I have no intentions of demeaning my country, what happened to those that had been sent to get an Internet connection? Why couldn't they replace the dilapidated xerox machine lying there, dead?
Our parcel came through 2 weeks later. It was bitten off at the sides by rats (it contained chocolate boxes). 2 out of 8 boxes sent were missing, and I'd like to believe they too were taken away by rats, as it really hurts to think that it may have been stolen by the people whom we should actually trust with our belongings. What disturbs me most is that the entire episode drew a rather ugly picture of Indian government service before a man who is used to being pampered by his country. He had a first rate experience of what we go through and perhaps, even accept mutely. Probably, this too could have been dismissed as a passing incident. Only this time, it was exposed before an eager-to-help friend, who unfortunately had the most "bitter experience" of his life! Mr. PM, are you listening?
