three cheers to babudom!

Government offices are uniquely governmental. Its exterior,interior and inhabitants drip in its government-ness: a sense of active efficiency about doing absolutely nothing and cleanliness that would put to shame the best hotels in the world. For someone like me who is not a regular at such places, an occasional visit can be quite memorable and entertaining and so it was when i went to the 'water tax department-jonal one' to pay tax.
The use of 'j' instead of 'z' on the main board smelt of nonchalant but pompous babudom just as the chipped off yellow paint and plaster did on the outward walls. The entrance was preceded by a staircase and an rusted iron railing by its side, lined by streamers. I thought it was in honour of diwali. Got to know later that it was a permanent fixture; afterall who would go through the tedoius process of removing and hanging it for every festival? God! too much work!
A dark thin sickly woman sat at the door along with a strong huge long moustached fellow, both looking disgusted with life. An orphaned khaki uniform hung behind the woman, fanned lazily by the pedestal fan. There was another flight of steps, grander than the earlier one: mosaic tiled, chipped from the edges, paan stained. I was greeted by seven bulky ungainly blue machines, with big dials,very H.G. Wellesque, shaking and screaming monstrously. To complete the time machine look each had big black pipes connecting it to the other or just twirled around themselves. In a tax payment department it looked a li-t-t-le odd.
And how can i forget the tax collectors, the high priests responsible for water supply to every corner of the city. There were three of them. The first looked tired. Of what? Only he knew. He seemed to share the woman-at- the- door's disgust. Add a handful of lewdness and a dash of disdain and there! you have the perfect babu. However he faced stiff competition from his colleague, our desi Morrison. With an air of somnolence and ecstacy, this man was rubbing tobacco powder into his hand as if he wanted to dissolve it in his epidermis. After two minutes of vigorous rubbing he inhaled a pinch of it. Then again rubbed, then again snuffed. Intermittently he grinned as if wanting the approval of his colleagues. The trio was completed by the man who took the dues. The latter was yawning n shouting but the object of his abuse was no where to be seen.
When i showed the water-tax collector the papers he asked my name, looking at my signature, then at me, then again at the papers, and after deep meditation enquired "is this your sign?" I nodded. He didnt seen convinced so i glanced at the papers and realized that i had signed my middle name too which i did not tell for the sake of convenience. I apologized, clarifying the problem. It took him two minutes to understand and when realization finally dawned on him he smirked, that oh-u -dumb-girl smirk, all along looking at his colleagues, uttering " oh thats what, thats what is the problem!" All three laughed heartily and i could not tell why. Was it because the disparity of not telling but signing my name so enormously funny? Or because they had nothing to do since morning and this slight misunderstanding was an outlet for some action on their part, even if it was laughter?
At length they asked me to pay the tax.
A mini catastrophe struck when i started making the payment and fell short of five rupees. The tax collectors looked miffed and grumbled that they had no change so i searched frantically in all my visible and invisible pockets, but hard luck. One of the collectors even suggested that i go home and pay later when i had the entire sum, at which i felt like guillotining him, but managed a faint smile. Suddenly i spotted a five rupee coin under the table next to the hallowed feet of our desi morrison. I dived and produced it making it appear that it had just fallen. The same smirk, the same laughter followed.
on leaving i thanked them, wearing a toady smile. needless to say i loved the place. Just what i needed to pep me up.