From Pillar to Post—Part 2

Picking up where I left off the last time . . . So Marathi-fluent Rucha came down to Bombay, and we made a trip to the University. Unfortunately by then, in moving house, Rucha had lost her receipt, which put us in a bit of a predicament. We waited in the usual line, and she explained the story of losing the receipt. Since I had mine, we were allowed to go in. Back again on the first floor, Rucha started off in Marathi, which got us a predictably good reception. We were told to wait as the “Madam” who could help us had not yet arrived. We ensured we got there well past 10 am, almost 11 am, which is standard government office timing. The room being cluttered with desks and even fewer employees, we waited in the middle of everything. We waited for at least 20 minutes before the clerk who initially told us to wait got fed up with us being in the way.

He got out the register, the same one I saw on my previous visit. Our names were still there, the page had apparently stayed intact, unlike the register itself. Again, we were told we had to go back to the college. And again, I recited the saga that the college told me. And again, we waited.

Finally, “Madam” arrived. She too brought out the register and told us the same story, and we repeated our story again. . . NO, THE COLLEGE DOES NOT HAVE IT! (How hard is it to understand that one statement?!) She couldn’t figure out the problem and told us that we would have to speak to “Sir” who she couldn’t disturb, and she told us to come back another time. At that point, we were tired, hot, and annoyed. So we went away, saying we would come back another day.

However, on the way down, we vented to each other about the sheer absurdness of this bureaucracy. What did she mean “Sir” couldn’t be disturbed? Why not? Was he asleep in bed? Was it 3 am in the morning?

We had had enough! We went back to the “Madam” and demanded to see “Sir.” If she couldn’t disturb him, we could. We had a right, especially since we were students of the University and had come during office hours.

Sir, whose name was Mr. Jadhav, came to Room 1 to see these supposedly insolent girls who had demanded to see him. Realizing we were prepared to have it out, he appeared to be quite affable. He patiently asked questions, trying to figure out where the problem lay. We recited our story; he took a look at the register and concluded the source of the problem.

It turned out our certificates were not signed. FIVE years after we graduated, we had no signature on the certificates. The University evidently prints certificates only if they have been applied for. After we had applied for ours, the Vice Chancellor of the University resigned (or was likely thrown out), and so our certificates, while “ready,” were not signed.

Mr. Jadhav then told us not to worry, that he would get it resolved, and we would have our certificates in a couple of months. Being apprehensive of such assurances, we recited the ordeal we had been through and didn’t trust that it would be resolved this time. He took our names, numbers, and addresses, and told us he would personally look into it, giving us his desk landline number in case there should be another hitch.

We went away rather pleased with ourselves for being more aggressive, for we had never before asserted ourselves so vigorously at any government institution. Our fear of being thrown out and denied what we had come for almost always deterred us from demanding what, only naturally, seemed due to us. In the end, we did get our certificates, not 2 months later as he assured us we would, but about 7 months later. In total, we waited for more than 24 months to see those certificates. A bribe may have helped move things along; however, that’s not what we wanted to do.

There are several points of contention that this experience highlighted for me. One, what happens to a student who doesn’t live in this city and needs a certificate? Does he or she have to spend thousands of rupees making regular trips for two years to follow up? Two, how does one battle this bureaucratic attitude our institutions perpetuate, the attitude of “not disturbing Sirs”? Three, in a city like Bombay, where for generations, languages have merged with each another to form new languages, why should Marathi be treated as the city’s exclusive ticket to getting things done?

I believe that the more we question the Government and its institutions, the better our chances are of change. As for me, I’m not certain why I just didn’t give up, especially since I have never looked at the certificate after having opened the envelope when it first arrived. I know for certain that having Rucha for company in this ordeal helped see it through. In the end, I suppose I wanted to know if government institutions work if people persist and do not to back down in the face of bureaucracy. In this case, it did.