I was asked to wait for 20 minutes for some confirmation. Twenty minutes turned to forty. I paced about the store and came back to the desk of the operative who was dealing with my request for a sim card. He was on the phone. He motioned me with a raised hand to be patient. When his call ended, he started some business on the computer. Then he called someone. — Representational Image

“Why let sleeping dogs lie?

Do they compose lies in their sleep?

Why not insist they tell the truth

Or are they by canine nature sly?

And are their untruths trivial or deep —

And do dogs speak in their sleep — and why?

— From Don’t You Humsay Aagey Jao by Bachchoo


I land at Mumbai airport and surprisingly meet with none of the bureaucracy I was expecting: forms to fill, questions about who, why and where and what my grandfather did for a living… BUT — I came to ‘Immigration’, walked into the queue marked OCI — overseas citizens of India — and was through the gates in a second. No forms, no questions…

What the f—labbergasting f—lummoxina? No bureaucratic forms, questions, photographs? Hang on, am I in India? I checked on Google maps and it said I was.

So the DNA of the country has been modified by AI? The institutions of the country have finally realised that the purposeless filling of forms and answering questions, which lead no one anywhere, is a waste of time and life? Whew at last!

Alas, gentle reader, nothing has changed. That encounter at the OCI was unique.

The mire into which the institutions in India are immersed has still not been drained.

A few weeks ago, in this very column I wrote about my adventures with Standard Chartered Bank. It worked. I was contacted by Standard Chartered’s troubleshooters immediately and told that everything I had complained about would be put right.

Two issues. This bank had suspended my account for no reason.

I’d asked them why, but answer came there none. The troubleshooters then asked me for the particulars of my debit card which I gave them. They said the card would be activated soon. I’ve been in India the last week — I could draw money from my account using this card.

Dream on. The ATM declared my card invalid.

Hello Standard Chartered, what’s this about? Oh, they said by email, you will be issued a new card, go to the central Mumbai office and get in touch with a named person. I did.

This person understood my problem: I was in India and wanted to use money from my totally legitimate account. So yes, I was, there and then, allowed to withdraw a restricted sum. But the card?

The kind operative heralded me into an office and sat me down to fill out forms! Only one of these forms was to do with applying for a new debit card.

The rest were six duplicates of forms I’d filled out several months ago called KYC applications. I had, as I wrote in this column some weeks ago, an up and down correspondence about these eight forms. All I wanted was my account restored to normal. I hadn’t laundered any money, hadn’t borrowed even a rupee from the bank, had never had an overdraft, had regular deposits in payment for this very column etc. — so why block my account, or suspend it, or whatever the banking jargon is?

I don’t suppose I’ll ever find out.

But enough about the bank, let’s move to the process of getting an Indian sim card in my phone. I was told I couldn’t just pay for one and have it fitted into my spare mobile iPhone. I had to take my passport and my OCI card to the Vodaphone store, which I duly did.

Yes, they told me and calculated the charges I would incur and then photographed my docs three separate times. Then I had to pose for a photograph against a white background. All the photographs were then submitted to some remote official or agency via computer.

I was asked to wait for 20 minutes for some confirmation. Twenty minutes turned to forty. I paced about the store and came back to the desk of the operative who was dealing with my request for a sim card. He was on the phone. He motioned me with a raised hand to be patient. When his call ended, he started some business on the computer. Then he called someone.

After a few minutes of spirited discussion, he asked for my documents again. The young lady with the mobile phone camera was summoned again. My passport and OCI card were subjected to the same triple-photograph treatment, and I had to pose without my spectacles for more photographs.

I surmise that all these were sent again to remote control. Another half hour and I was then asked for the name and address of a close relative who lived in India. I wrote down my niece Niharika’s particulars. They wanted her phone number and they asked me to call her and tell her to expect an SMS. I didn’t know quite what they wanted me to say, so they took the phone from me and spoke to her.

In the next half hour, they must have phoned her four times. Then remote control was on the phone again. ‘Remotus’ said the were not satisfied with the photographs of myself or my documents. I said there seemed to be some misunderstanding. I hadn’t come there to buy the Taj Mahal — I only wanted a sim card in my phone. The sarcasm was wasted and so was my time. They returned the money and asked me to come another day.

Would I????

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