Ever since I first lost the chance to go for a trip abroad (Back in the call centre days), my mother has been behind my life to get a passport. I don't know when or why it started, but I had developed an allergy for everything
sarkari. Every time my mother brought up this dreaded topic, I would either change the subject, or hang up pretending network disturbance or some such.
There were many phases in my life, where I was told by friends and well-wishers that I should get a passport made for myself. My only answer to them was - "Passport ka mujhe kya karna hai?" Thanks to the fact that how insignificant my existence was, it strengthened my resolve to not get a passport for myself ever.
Forget about leaving the country, I had decided that I wouldn't even leave Yari Road. Now things have come to a stage that I don't even leave my study, till it's a matter of rum or cigarettes. Passport? Naah. One of my ex-colleagues had once conned me into getting a PAN Card a few years ago. I hated him. I even lost the PAN Card… twice. After a while I never even bothered to get it reissued. I didn't even need it. As it is I don't make more money than those at the traffic signal, and if they don't bother to have one, why would I need one? Fair enough? Rani didn't think so.
Of late, mostly all good things in my life have happened whenever / wherever / however Rani was involved. One fine evening, she thought that I really needed to get my PAN Card re-issued. She convinced me that REALLY I needed to or else bad things would happen. Just before she could tell me that my Sholay DVD would be eaten by a lizard, I succumbed. She dragged me around a bit, thankfully Rani filled the forms… Lo & behold… even before I could spell 'Ramgarh', I had a shiny new PAN Card. I hated the damn thing. My pic on it was horrible. I looked like a love child of Gabbar Singh & Kaalia in it. Shudder!
Anyway, life moved on and I successfully managed to hide the shiny new '
sarkari' acknowledgement of my fiscal existence under the carpet. Till one day my parents and Rani decided that I should get a passport for myself. KABOOM! That was that. Since that day, Rani's only concern was that I should get a passport. Initially I did the usual - the sulking, the bickering, the sobbing etc. But how long will Basanti not dance in front of Gabbar? I succumbed again, this was two years ago, one unfortunate evening; I agreed. I told upfront that I am not filling any forms and not standing in any queues. Hah!
Our girl being the 'pro form filler' that she is, filled the forms before the 'Ye dosti' song ends in the beginning of Sholay. But I had not played raw bullets; I did everything in the book to avoid going to the wretched Passport Seva Kendra (PSK). I kept postponing it till very recently. I managed to avoid this whole passport affair for more than two years. Till now I had lost a bunch of opportunities to fly away from India, so what if it was for a holiday or a location recce even. The dreaded 'Passport' made a comeback into my otherwise peaceful life.
So my first trip to the PSK was short - the guy at the counter looked at me, told me, "Passport ka aapko kya karna hai?" and politely asked me to bugger off. Second trip was shorter - The security guys sent me back because I was eight minutes late. Deep down inside my joy knew no bounds. I could fake such short trips to the PSK and nobody would even know. As they say in French, "Dil dehlaane ke liye Ramu ye khayal bahut achcha hai." Rani decided enough was enough. I overheard her talking to some Mr. Modi and threatening him of dire consequences. Last I heard her screaming to that man on the phone, "KEYRUN NEEDS A GODDAMN PASSPORT *beep*!"
Yeah, so a few days later I am told by Rani that I have an appointment at the PSK. It happened on the sly. I didn't even have time to prepare excuses etc. I even tried to fake a seizure, but by now Rani knew me far too well. So I was sent off to the PSK one more time, and this time nobody judged me as they usually did. Not the security guard, not the guy who checks the documents. On the contrary they were all very nice to me. One of the staff members even offered me 'Jalani jaljeera', which I politely declined. All I had to do the whole day was sit pretty, twiddle my thumbs, play games on my phone, look around and judge people, and feel sad for the bawling kids who came attached to their parents.
So that was the story of the day. I came out of the PSK with a piece of paper which read: Passport: granted. I didn't know to laugh or cry. I called my mom, and she sounded very pleased by Rani's accomplishment. Huh? What? I stood / sat / sulked / yawned / burped / gallivanted at the PSK for a good six hours of my life doing NOTHING AT ALL & the credit went to Rani? That easy? Fokat ke poore pachaas hazaar? Just HOW is this FAIR? You guys tell me! Tell me oh khuda! Somebody?
So yeah, if you guys want anything done, you know who to call. And I am not talking about Mr. Modi.
Chalo now somebody fly me out to someplace exotic…
Thanks in advance.
Chance pe dance.
