Waiting for Godot

DECEMBER 2004 - In Pakistan the road to anything is a cleverly designed obstacle track. It would seem that those who plan such torture courses for their people do so with a clear conscience and a great deal of ingenuity. The hi-tech world of machine-readable passports may have arrived, but getting to one of those green books has all the makings of an entertaining TV chase show.

Misled by the Ministry of Interior’s bland press advertisement which made the whole procedure of obtaining a new passport easier than reciting 1,2,3, I arrived at Lahore’s crumbling passport office, at what I thought was as early as it can be, only to find that most of Lahore and adjoining districts had arrived there the previous night. Even the car park had given up and there were hordes of motorbikes and cycles parked in every crevice. Between the building that serves the new ID cards and the one at the back where the new machine-readables are to be found, surged a crowd of desperate looking people. It may have been a chilly morning in Lahore, but temperatures here were already rising.

As is usually the case, there was no one to guide the public. A lone policeman guarded a gate that seemed to have received a battering from King Kong. Between him and the gate surged a swaying and pulsating ocean of faces and bodies. When the gate opened – although caved in would be a more accurate description, humanity thundered in. In the little courtyard, there were flailing bodies everywhere as people battled to get near a magical desk and a chair parked in the verandah. This obviously was the source of all miracles. However, this ‘line,’ which would be stretching the point since it was everything but a line, was not the ‘right’ one unless you had paid your fee at the solitary hole-in-the-wall, which someone said was a bank. This invaluable information was not officially available but one of the many tips that you picked up as you got educated throughout the day. For paying your fee, you had to go right of the building where another long and jostling line swayed and shook with dozens of people trying to hang on to their place while struggling to reach the two foot window.

As in most things here where you have to deal with the official world, you ask your way through the intricate procedures. In this case it was not as much intricate as stupid. You first had to obtain a set of forms from one of the many vendors on the road and fill it, attach photocopies of your NADRA ID card – make many photocopies as the man advised (on his photocopier naturally) and also attach the first four pages of your current passport – many more photocopies the man advised knowingly. Then armed with this document – pink if it’s an urgent passport – Rs. 4,000 and five days wait or white if it’s ordinary- Rs. 2100 and two weeks wait, you set out to face the cruel world of long, long queues that were not queues. The ‘bank’ window was the size of a matchbox and all humanity seemed determined to get to it somehow. The process of receiving the money was obviously a very painstaking one as the line moved at a speed that would have only impressed Einstein. More public wisdom was available. You had to carry exact amounts. In the case of Rs. 2100 fee, it had to be that. If you had say Rs.2500, you were in trouble. The ‘window’ did not deal with cases like that. In about an hour and a half, of standing on one leg than another, the fee was deposited. Now the proud owner of a stamped ‘challan’ it was time to run for the other line.

This mysterious line which led to a desk and a chair on which sat a man with a green felt marker, was so long that it had been snaking around the compound like Anaconda. In it stood the proud holders of ‘challans’. Far longer than the bank line, this one moved even slower. All that the man at the desk did once your turn arrived was simply initial the ‘challan’ and write the date. He didn’t scrutinize your papers, didn’t ask you questions and simply noted that you had paid the fee, which incidentally the bank had already verified. This line which moved at an impressive speed of point zero five millimeter every ten minutes was the kind of line where you developed friendships, traced careers, discovered lineage, found lost cousins and shared views on Pakistan’s politics, cricket (the same thing), corruption, officialdom and the General’s uniform. You cursed the red tape mafia and directed a million curses on their blighted heads. You smirked at those lost souls miles behind you and eyed with great envy those in front of you. Progress was measured by each small shuffle that proved your line was moving. Everyone thought it was ridiculous to have this line in the first place. All it did was re-establish that you had paid the fee. Well, if you hadn’t why would the bank issue you a stamped receipt? To this no one had an answer till an old man said it was done to make things difficult for the ordinary people, the only policy that every government had followed honestly. There was loud laughter all around and wisecracks about good governance bounced about. One gent with a knowing look explained that they only took in a limited number of applications and this green marker official was keeping score. “On Fridays,” he added, “it is only 150. On other days, it is more.” Everyone was doing calculations wondering if they were going to be 151 and out of the race for the day. Sure enough, after clearing the desk, our group of new-friends surged to yet another line – this one leading to a door into a hall. The official had already closed shop for the day and was attending to his nose, leaving dozens of people stranded in the compound. Gradually, they all shuffled away like you see refugees in German prison camps. They would have to return the next day.

The new line took 8 people at a go. The door would open about ten inches and people would slither in like snakes. Then it would close and the line outside would shuffle and groan. Once inside, there was another hall and chairs – all taken. Three computer desks took your ID card and gave you a slip with a number. A PA system announced your number and you moved to another hall, where you were thumb-printed and indexed then asked to wait till your number was called. Thereafter you sat with a computer operator who filled in your particulars and asked you to wait. At four interview desks, two of which seemed permanently out of order, people were interviewed as and when their number was called. When it was finally over, you were marched out, appropriately to appear right outside the bank where you had begun your day and left to your own devices.

The government may have computerized passports but how many geniuses does it take to at least streamline the actual procedure of getting the darn thing? Why can’t fees be paid in any branch other than the doghouse in Lahore? Why aren’t there another 6 centres in Lahore processing applications? Is one window and six computers enough for the city of Lahore and all areas that fall under Okara & Sheikhupura? What about fifty computers? Why should it take 5 hours and 40 minutes to complete the formalities? That’s what it took me and I was lucky. In this day and age, is this all the modernization we can expect? Will it require a holy writ from the heavens to employ common sense and make this ordeal less bearable? Like all things, we wait, without much hope.