We complain about our "system" so much. We say that corruption has eaten into the core of every government institution in India, hindering their proper functioning. We say that there is no work culture in state agencies, riddled with partisanism as they are. We all know about the "sarkaari karmachari", who arrives at office at 11, has tea, gossips, then sits at his desk at 12, then goes for lunch at 1, dozes through the afternoon, then asks for a bribe to sign a document submitted to him in the morning, and goes home at 4. We all dread the police that, come Pujas, go out hunting for helmet-less bikers, stopping them and asking them to pay a hundred rupees if they don't want trouble. We all know about the TTEs in trains, and how forking out fifty bucks saves a man caught smoking from being officially booked and paying the hefty fine of two hundred and fifty Rupees.
My experience of the past few days have compelled me to think a bit differently.
While on my way to college the other day, I saw a lady trying to cross a busy road with her baby on one hand and a heavy bag in the other. Then I noticed a policeman approaching the lady. He went up to her, took the bag from the lady's hand, and escorted her across the road, stopping on-coming traffic in one direction at the busy junction. Once across, he signaled for the traffic to resume plying, and went about his business. I was part of the way which was not stopped, but I couldn't help but look back at what was happening. It felt good.
Last Thursday, I had a bank demand draft to make, on which depended my getting an application attested, on which depended my sending the application by post. And my getting the demand draft made depended on whether or not my friend got hers made, because the one she already had, had a few mistakes in it, and I couldn't make mine until I knew if the corrections had been made on hers. My friend rang me at about 12-55 in the afternoon, telling me that the mistakes in her draft had been caused by the Indian Overseas Bank itself (from where she'd got her draft) and that, on asking them about it, they admitted their error and promptly had it corrected, rather than asking her to get a new draft made. Well, I had been waiting for her call at the local State Bank of India branch. The moment I got the call, I filled up the form and went up
to the counter. Now lunchtime at the bank had started at one, yet here I was, standing behind two others at the draft-counter, five minutes past the stroke of one. I had little hope of getting the draft made before the second half, in which case there was no way I could send my application by registered post the same day. To my pleasant amazement, the lady at the counter accepted the forms from the three of us even while she was munching away at a piece of cake, stamped the forms and sent them for approval at the next counter. Within fifteen minutes I had the draft in my hands. I thought of Ma, who had told me that getting the draft made would take at least a half hour, so make sure I made it to the bank with enough time to get it done, because once lunch-hour started, then my draft, if in processing, would get stuck till the second half.
I drove home, entered my friend's and mine draft numbers in the respective application forms' soft copies, took a print out of each, then ran off to college to get them attested by our Registrar. The whole process of getting the application forms attested took all of two minutes, which included submitting them to the academic section for the stamps, getting them back, going over to Registrar sir's office, and him putting his signature on them.
By the time I had gathered the rest of the documents, put them in the envelopes, written the address on them and sealed them, it was twenty past three. My mother called me again, asking me when I would come home. I told her that I had yet to go to the post office to send the envelopes by registered post. Immediately, Ma said, "Are you dreaming? You won't get any work done at the post office after 3, and by the time you reach most people will have gone home. Do the posting tomorrow, come home now." But I had other ideas. I had been having incredible luck since morning that day, and I decided to push it a bit further.
Off I ran to the post office. When I entered, I saw all of two people outside the counters, and the first thought that came to mind was that Ma had been right, I should have listened to her. If there were only two people outside the 15-odd counters, there would be fewer behind them. However, as I approached the first counter, I saw a man behind it. He was in charge of the stamps-counter. I asked him whether or not articles for registered posting were being accepted any more for the day. He told me to go to counter number 10. To counter 10 I went, and found myself behind one of the two people I had mentioned that were outside of the counters. The official at the table asked for the envelopes, I forwarded them to him, he weighed them on the electronic weigh-scale, stamped them, stuck a computerised receipt on them , and gave me the counterfoil. My envelopes had been accepted for registry. My counterfoil bore a time-stamp of 3:42 p.m.
I am not saying that the first paragraph does not hold anymore. It does, and very much so. But something, somewhere, has slightly changed. And changed for the better. State-run banks, facing fierce competition from private banks, have improved their efficiency and performance. The postal system, if only for sheer survival, has brushed off some of its infamous lethargy,
and the police are actually doing some good work for a change. The Asansol Railway Station, which used to be a dirty, congested place by day and a shanty at best at night, has now become a picturesque, well-lit railway station. The jam-packed, overflowing parking lots have been spaced out and pushed back a hundred yards. There is a dedicated car parking lot where cars are
neatly arranged over a spacious area, as opposed to the place being congested with randomly parked vehicles. Sulabh complexes have come up in erstwhile stinking public toilets. The Asansol Bus Stand has been constructed in an orderly fashion, platforms, public announcement system, rest room, hotel et al, and it does not encroach on the busy Grand Trunk Road any more, causing traffic snarls even in the not-so-peak hours. The G.T. Road itself has been re-laid with excellent materials, making it a one way and reducing the congestion of traffic. The disorganised, filthy hawker's stalls all along the G.T. Road have been relocated to a dedicated market constructed for them. In their place have come up three-storied well-built market buildings, giving more scope for the buzzing economy of the hub of commerce that is Asansol to flourish. Traffic signals are followed and seldom broken, buses are not allowed to stop anywhere in the middle of the road, the pavements have been relaid with concrete, and the drainage system has improved.
My faith in government has been renewed. I believe we have a responsibility to take the good work forward by wearing the helmets, not littering the streets and following traffic signals and parking rules. I believe that there is still a lot of work to be done, and we can collectively do it.
