"Do it in 8" and other short stories from the FRRO

(The incidents in this post have taken place around July 2007.)

The FRRO (Foreigners' Regional Registration Office) is some kind of a government-related office that most foreign visitors to Mumbai need to register at. It is also the place foreigners go to get some kind of a extension to stay within India. For the Mumbai region, this office is located near CST (close to the CST station).

It so happened that one of the guys I know happens to be a foreigner studying in India. It is a common practice for the visa to be issued only for a year and then get it extended after a year. Let us call this foreigner guy as "PH". So, PH ran out of his visa and needed an extension. Since this is a very common practice among foreign students, I guess it might be well documented somewhere. PH somehow got himself acquainted with these procedures (say, by reading a web site or maybe by talking to other foreign students). His only concern was travelling to CST.

He asked me if I could come along, and I said yes. So, one morning we left to go to CST. Me being me, the only way someone could get me to travel (from the distant suburbs) to CST would be by a local train...no amount of air-conditioned comfort and other luxuries would make me travel the distance by road.

He being him, agreed readily to travel by the local train. As luck would have it, the train was a bit crowded, but eased out as we crossed Dadar. After a few more minutes, we reached CST. We reached before 12 noon and that was considered to be a good time since the office would not yet be closed for lunch. PH knew the shortcuts to get to this FRRO quite well...in fact, I had never been to the FRRO earlier (which is not surprising since Indians residing in India have no business to be at the FRRO). So we reached the FRRO, signed in at the ground floor register, climbed up the stairs to the third floor, and there was a reception counter there.

To ensure orderliness, a reception counter on the floor checks if one has all the documents in order to get the extension. There was not much of a queue. So, PH's documents were checked after a while, and then he was told that a particular letter did not mention his nationality. Now that was stupid, PH thought. After all, he had his passport...and the passport is considered the global proof of nationality. Nothing doing said the lady at the counter. No nationality, no entry to the office. I tried to intervene...in Marathi. No avail. I understood the matter quickly...these govt. people wouldn't budge an inch. So I told PH that we should get the nationality into the letter. PH being a bit naive said that he could write the nationality in the typed letter. I said that was not a legal thing to do since anyway the letter was signed by some other authority. So any change to the contents required the signed authority to sign over the changes as well. We tried to get the corrected letter faxed, but no avail.

Day 2:
With the correct letter mentioning the nationality in hand, PH and I travelled again in the second-class train to CST. We reached the FRRO, again signed in the register, went upto the third floor. The reception counter checked our documents. All was okay. We were allowed to the inner offices. Now, once in, the systems were supposed to all web-enabled and of the self-service variety. The problem was that the JSP application needed some kind of complex username and password derived from the application earlier. We got a staff to help us out, and put in the application for the visa extension online. The offices inside were nicely furnished. All air-conditioned, nice seating, an LCD TV showing a news channel...even some abstract art paintings thrown in. There was even a small shop inside selling vending machine tea and some potato chips (wafers).

The online system prints out a receipt that we then needed to take and give to an officer. So we went and met the officer. The officer said that the application was not complete since the letter in question did not mention until what time the study course would be over by. "Oh no", I thought...not again. PH tried to reason with the officer stating that everyone knew that a master's programme would be for 2 years. But, no. Government offices do not work that way. If it is not in black-and-white, then it is not present. These government officers keep their brains at home...maybe that's nice for the country, since rules are rules, I thought.

I knew it then and there that a third visit to the FRRO was definitely on the cards. The next situation was, however, very surprising: The officer said that if he forwarded the file to his senior, PH's application would be rejected, and since his visa was expiring on that very day, it would mean that he would have overstayed without a visa. This is a very legal angle. The officer was "kind enough" to say that we could come back the next day and he would keep our application "on hold" with him. So I told PH we should go back and come back with yet another version of that damned letter.

PH then told the officer that he was willing to take the risk of being deported from India and that the officer should forward the application to the senior. Things seemed to get out of hand, so I intervened. Surprisingly, I blew off my top for a while, and tried to reason with the officer...why, on earth, I asked they did not have this stupid thing documented anywhere. And, why did the lady at the reception counter not inform us of this thing on the first day itself. Anyways, since the officers leave their brains at home, no amount of reasoning works.

Day 3:
We arrive at the FRRO again with yet another version of that letter. The ground floor guy now starts to recognize us. Unlike earlier days, even though I have a beard, he does not seem suspicious about me. We reach the FRRO at 13:15...we were asked to come a bit late by the officer. We approach the officer, who seems quite pleased with all his power. PH is then asked to wait for an hour or so.

I go out to nearby McDonalds to fetch PH his meal. When I return back, I call PH down and he eats his meal sitting under the shade of a tree outside the FRRO building. After lunch, we go up again. We enjoy sitting cosily on a sofa in the cool air-conditioned environment. There is nothing for me to do (I have not lugged around my books). So, I look around and observe the activity in the office.

Around 10 foreign people lounging around waiting for something or the other. One fat NRI type of guy is sitting next to us at a distance. Most the other guys finish their jobs and go away. Our fatso is still present. A little while later, a well-built officer comes out of the office and signals to the NRI to call him. The officer himself proceeds towards an entrance that is marked as the way to the toilet. Our NRI chap makes a call on his mobile (presumably to the officer) and I tune my ear in. "Do it in 8", "I know you guys for so long" is what I hear...of course, the conversation is in Hindi. A little while later, the NRI has finished talking...he also heads over to the toilet.

Moral of the story: Talking over the mobile increases the kidney activity leading to bloated bladders. After talking over the mobile, one needs to go to the toilet.

Okay, I made that one up. A little while later, the NRI comes back, the officer also comes back...both look happy. The officer goes to his seat, the NRI sits back at the sofa. The NRI is summoned inside the office...he comes back after a while, it seems his "job" has got done.

What that "8" happens to be I will never know. 8 hundred, 8 thousand, 8 lakh, ...

In the meanwhile, PH is also summoned. His work has also been done. He gets his extension.

On the way out, I look at the visitor's book. It is full of praise-worthy comments for the "helpful staff". I remarked to PH that he must also make an entry...which of course, he refused...I think because English is not his strong language.

We return back by the crowded local carrying the peak hour traffic. I urge PH to document all this since it would help the others...of course, he does not do so. I think its because of his English.