License to kill.
Have you been to a Government Office recently? The experience is unforgettable, nay, the hyperbolic in me goads me to say that it is a life-changing one.
My recent brush with the law led me to the RTO to get a simple, straightforward, little learners' license. I went in, the cheerful, happy creature that I knew myself to once be. I staggered out a dried, shrivelled-up shell of a human being, contemplating the futility of my very existence.
The first fifteen minutes were a breeze. There was a queue of around 40 people lounging about outside the RTO office. Armed with an extensive knowledge of queuing theory, I confidently joined in at the end, as is the universal practice. Half an hour of waiting later, I realised that all the knowledge in the world couldn't get me to move the distance covered by a heavily pregnant ant loaded with a truckload of confectionery. Apparently some highly enterprising buggers ahead of me were selling their spots in the queue for a cool profit.
Still smiling through all this, I harbored the hope that I could meet His Highness, The Officer, before the end of civilization as we know it. Very shorly, my frenzied ruminations were interrupted by a bunch of wannabe-youth (you know, the bandana-ed kind) , some of them apparently suffering from a serious bout of halitosis. When they joined the queue behind me, my faith in the humanity of it all was restored, albeit with some reservations on the TV habits of the folks in question. (Don't they watch all those Pepsodent, "you-are-served-by-a-team-of-12-dentists" ads flashed with mind-numbing regularity on TV??)
But this was shortlived too, you see, for our foulmouthed friends had "ministerial back-up" in their favour. Soon, one bureaucratic lackey escorted them in, their victorious, cavity-ridden smiles reflected only in a collective sigh of angst on our part.
Time, the great healer, came to my rescue after an hour, or two. I can't remember which. It was approaching lunch-hour and the Great Saab sent a peon out to see what the clamourous multitude outside his Office was upto.
This must be it, I thought. Surely Fate would lead me unto deliverance. Well it did. Kinda.
The peon took our files in. A mere half an hour later, a booming voice bellowed, "Venkateshwara Rao!".
Now, now, gentle reader, this is no mere exaggeration, for why wouldn't it be a booming voice? After just 16 rounds of idlis topped up with musambi juice for breakfast, and shortly followed by 16 varieties of bisi-bele bath and bagala bath for lunch, the human vocal chord is very well-equipped to shatter ear-drums at a distance of 16 feet, at the very least. I only wished some people around me had had a bath instead.
Looking around, no one seemed to respond to the call of the wild. On the offchance that the Saab in his divine mercy, was in fact referring to "Venkatraghavan" , I stepped timidly into the hallowed portals of The Office. Hoping against hope I looked up, to find the Officer signing my form.
"That's it! I can officially drive now!", I feverishly wondered.
"Venkatesh Rao, please take this form now, and go to Room 6 where you will take a written test". His words seemed to be uttered in a language I once understood, but my mind refused to process the gravity of their import. I had waited for two hours outside the great man's office for a mere signature, then.
Room 6 seemed a floating mirage in the distant horizon. But being made of sterner stuff and paying little heed to the piteous wails issuing from my stomach, I bravely marched into Room 6. A strict looking traffic policeman led me to my desk, partly occupied by a gentleman from the armed forces. After casting a few disapproving looks at my un-uniformed appearance, the policeman tossed the question paper at me and went back. I dived into my test, unmindful of the world around me.
My grappling with strange symbols that looked like hapless-stickmen-repeatedly-being-hit-by-red-lightning, boulders-raining-down-on-lorries and smiling Jolly-Rogers, was interrupted by a rapping noise. The military officer was staring at me pointedly. Dismissing it as a mere figment of my recently afflicted imagination, I returned to the test with an increasingly beleaguering resolve.
The rapping returned. This time there was no mistake. The officer was making complex facial gestures, all seemingly aimed at me allowing him a peek at my answer paper. After all that I went through, an officer of the Great Indian Armed Forces trying to pilfer answers from an ignorant civilian such as myself was the proverbial last straw that forced me to end the misery of it all. Giving him the kind of cold shoulder that would normally make him consider defecting to the other side, I decided that I'd had enough. I returned the question paper and walked out, battered and bruised.
Two days later, after much rest and recuperation, a life affirming moment happened. The mail arrived, with my license in it.
And of yeah, I did pass the test after all, deeming me worthy enough to learn to drive in beautiful Bangalore. I can't wait to see how my attempt at a drivers' license is going to turn out.
My recent brush with the law led me to the RTO to get a simple, straightforward, little learners' license. I went in, the cheerful, happy creature that I knew myself to once be. I staggered out a dried, shrivelled-up shell of a human being, contemplating the futility of my very existence.
The first fifteen minutes were a breeze. There was a queue of around 40 people lounging about outside the RTO office. Armed with an extensive knowledge of queuing theory, I confidently joined in at the end, as is the universal practice. Half an hour of waiting later, I realised that all the knowledge in the world couldn't get me to move the distance covered by a heavily pregnant ant loaded with a truckload of confectionery. Apparently some highly enterprising buggers ahead of me were selling their spots in the queue for a cool profit.
Still smiling through all this, I harbored the hope that I could meet His Highness, The Officer, before the end of civilization as we know it. Very shorly, my frenzied ruminations were interrupted by a bunch of wannabe-youth (you know, the bandana-ed kind) , some of them apparently suffering from a serious bout of halitosis. When they joined the queue behind me, my faith in the humanity of it all was restored, albeit with some reservations on the TV habits of the folks in question. (Don't they watch all those Pepsodent, "you-are-served-by-a-team-of-12-dentists" ads flashed with mind-numbing regularity on TV??)
But this was shortlived too, you see, for our foulmouthed friends had "ministerial back-up" in their favour. Soon, one bureaucratic lackey escorted them in, their victorious, cavity-ridden smiles reflected only in a collective sigh of angst on our part.
Time, the great healer, came to my rescue after an hour, or two. I can't remember which. It was approaching lunch-hour and the Great Saab sent a peon out to see what the clamourous multitude outside his Office was upto.
This must be it, I thought. Surely Fate would lead me unto deliverance. Well it did. Kinda.
The peon took our files in. A mere half an hour later, a booming voice bellowed, "Venkateshwara Rao!".
Now, now, gentle reader, this is no mere exaggeration, for why wouldn't it be a booming voice? After just 16 rounds of idlis topped up with musambi juice for breakfast, and shortly followed by 16 varieties of bisi-bele bath and bagala bath for lunch, the human vocal chord is very well-equipped to shatter ear-drums at a distance of 16 feet, at the very least. I only wished some people around me had had a bath instead.
Looking around, no one seemed to respond to the call of the wild. On the offchance that the Saab in his divine mercy, was in fact referring to "Venkatraghavan" , I stepped timidly into the hallowed portals of The Office. Hoping against hope I looked up, to find the Officer signing my form.
"That's it! I can officially drive now!", I feverishly wondered.
"Venkatesh Rao, please take this form now, and go to Room 6 where you will take a written test". His words seemed to be uttered in a language I once understood, but my mind refused to process the gravity of their import. I had waited for two hours outside the great man's office for a mere signature, then.
Room 6 seemed a floating mirage in the distant horizon. But being made of sterner stuff and paying little heed to the piteous wails issuing from my stomach, I bravely marched into Room 6. A strict looking traffic policeman led me to my desk, partly occupied by a gentleman from the armed forces. After casting a few disapproving looks at my un-uniformed appearance, the policeman tossed the question paper at me and went back. I dived into my test, unmindful of the world around me.
My grappling with strange symbols that looked like hapless-stickmen-repeatedly-being-hit-by-red-lightning, boulders-raining-down-on-lorries and smiling Jolly-Rogers, was interrupted by a rapping noise. The military officer was staring at me pointedly. Dismissing it as a mere figment of my recently afflicted imagination, I returned to the test with an increasingly beleaguering resolve.
The rapping returned. This time there was no mistake. The officer was making complex facial gestures, all seemingly aimed at me allowing him a peek at my answer paper. After all that I went through, an officer of the Great Indian Armed Forces trying to pilfer answers from an ignorant civilian such as myself was the proverbial last straw that forced me to end the misery of it all. Giving him the kind of cold shoulder that would normally make him consider defecting to the other side, I decided that I'd had enough. I returned the question paper and walked out, battered and bruised.
Two days later, after much rest and recuperation, a life affirming moment happened. The mail arrived, with my license in it.
And of yeah, I did pass the test after all, deeming me worthy enough to learn to drive in beautiful Bangalore. I can't wait to see how my attempt at a drivers' license is going to turn out.
posted by Venkat at 3:07 PM
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