Yellow
SPLAT! A big drop of a yellow viscous liquid landed on Raghav’s left cheek narrowly missing his ajar mouth. He slapped himself in sleepy retaliation. But his brain hadn’t yet registered the entire situation. He had finally fallen asleep after 14 restless hours on his first transpacific journey in an ill-equipped aisle seat. Not long after, a smaller drop of the same mystery liquid landed almost on the same spot. What a rude way to be woken up! His brain kicked into action. He looked up wide-eyed and saw a yellow streak on the hand luggage compartment.
Raghav’s terror was interrupted by someone clearing their throat rather loudly. It was the pilot speaking. His voice boomed over the flight’s intercom in a casual gabble - “Welcome to New Delhi, friends! The local time is 11 pm and the temperature outside is 4 degrees C. Ouch, that’s cold! Please sit tight for a bit more and you can be on your way soon. Jai..”
His voice was interrupted by a cautious whisper. “Sam! The seatbelt bit. It’s important!”
The pilot continued. “That’s right. Yeah. The seatbelt signs are still on. So, please keep ’em on till the bird has come to a complete stop and… Jai Hind!”
Raghav unbuckled his seat belt and got up ignoring direct advice. Many sleepy eyes glared at him. An elderly gentleman seated three aisles behind Raghav’s gave him the most reproachful look, shook his head in derision and said, quite audibly, “Indians! Always in a hurry and never on time”. He had found the culprit behind deteriorating Indian manners. Raghav ignored this and powered on. He had to address the issue before it caused more damage. He used the first paper he could find to clean the stain and examined the situation. The pickle packet had exploded inside an old but overstuffed bag. The oil was oozing out slowly but continuously. He cursed everything in sight and remembered the debate just before leaving home three months ago. His concerned mother believed Raghav would die of hunger in the US and had packed some pickles against annoyed interjections. He had forgotten all about it. Raghav called for assistance which didn’t arrive until it was time to disembark.
*
Red
While our protagonist deals with an irate airline staff, let’s poke around to know more about him, this journey and the state of his world. Raghav Ram Tripathi was the forerunner of the now ubiquitous software engineers. This is before the time “Bangalore” became a verb, before the mouse lost its ball, before flat screen monitors, before TCS and Infosys became MRCs (you know if you know), before Google was born, before India started ‘shining’ and around the time Raj met Simran… well, you get the drift. MNCs were starting to prove themselves as a viable alternative to government jobs. The government itself was in trial mode - the 11th parliament was holding PM trials in the Lok Sabha. Terrorism was afoot and growing. This was also the dawn of the digitalization era in India - computers replacing dusty files or obsolete employees.
While Raghav was a Delhiite, his career in IT had required him to call Bangalore home for the last five years. His father, the late Raghuram Tripathi had passed away a year ago. Raghav had pleaded with his mother to move to Bangalore with them. But, very soon, a short-term onsite opportunity in the US presented itself. As the dates of his US trip drew closer, Raghav’s mother insisted that Kavita, Raghav’s wife and their newborn son live with her in New Delhi while he was away. Raghav had traveled abroad to help a large US bank go-live with his company’s banking software solution. It was a huge success and he was coming back happy.
Now that we know more about Raghav, let’s catch up with him - the man with the leaking bag. We find him in the men’s room taking care of business - unloading the shoulder bag at a frenetic pace, eager to know the extent of damage. After removing almost everything, he found the culprit - the pickle packet - he discarded it. The martyr was a blue puffer jacket which had kept him warm through the trip. Another casualty was his boarding pass which he had accidentally employed for the clean up job on the plane. He cleaned his luggage and belongings to the extent possible and moved to the next stage - immigration.
When he reached the immigration hall, it was in a total frenzy. There were multiple serpentine queues all over. For exhausted travelers from various ports, this was the unnecessary intrusion in their long journeys to their homes and beds. Raghav chose one queue and stood looking on. The immigration officer seemed like a jolly man. He wore large spectacles, had a bushy moustache and completed the look with a muffler and a hand woven sweater - a quintessential government employee if there ever was one. Raghav kept his calm after the little mishap in the plane. When it was finally his turn, the officer smiled and beckoned him to the counter.
“Welcome back to India, Mr. ?”
“Raghav”, Raghav replied, handing over the passport.
“Share your boarding pass as well, please, Mr. Raghav.”
Raghav hesitantly handed over his trashed boarding pass with an embarrassed smile. He wondered how the officer would react.
“What happened here? Fed it, did you?” The officer turned it around to glean required information. “It’s smudged in the wrong places. This is of no use now. Where are you coming from?”
“Chicago, US.” Raghav supplied succinct information but, against his hesitant nature, added on to explain. “Yes, it was a mistake. I used the boarding pass in a hurry. There was a small situation in the plane.”
“I see - you used it as a napkin. Well done.” The officer continued his sarcasm, his face blank. “Ah, the machine is not reading your passport as well. Hmmm, the passport reader is a recent addition by the Ministry. It doesn’t work sometimes. Let me try the old way.” said the officer, a slight frown registered on his face.
He manually entered Raghav’s passport number into the computer. No sooner had he done that than his slight frown turned into horror. The monitor in front of him read “Possible Terrorist threat. Press this button to notify Delhi Police Special cell”. There was no reason mentioned. He hadn’t been trained for this. This wasn’t discussed in any of the morning meetings either. Had he missed a memo? He pressed the red button expecting sirens to start blaring everywhere. Nothing of the sort happened. Not knowing his next step, he guessed he should just continue engaging Raghav to buy time. He tried to maintain his cool and put on his best poker face but the damage was done. His uneasiness was palpable.
Raghav asked “Sir, is there a problem?”
“Nooo” The officer tried the most fake, casual ‘no’ he could, shaking his head more than necessary. He covered up and invented on the fly. “I am unable to find your details in the system. Is this a new passport?”
“It’s about a year old but should that matter? I used it on my onward journey.” Raghav reasoned. “Any way I can help with the system? I am a software engineer.”
“You guys do software engineering too?” He blurted out without thinking. “Anyway I have intimated my IT team. They are looking into it. This will be resolved quickly. Which airlines did you fly by?” He didn’t want to alarm his colleagues, hence kept the info to himself.
“Air India” Raghav shared, quite uninterested in any small talk now.
“That’s good. The journey was comfortable for you, I hope.” The officer droned on.
“Yes, Sir. It was fine. But can you please let me go? My house is far from here and I have pickle on most things around me.” Raghav tried to avoid any hint of annoyance in his tone but his words were annoying enough themselves.
“That is the most correct assertion you made tonight, Mr.” The officer went on triumphantly. “You indeed are in a pickle. Look back, there come the people to squeeze more oil out of you.”
The Airport police had arrived and flanked Raghav. For the second time tonight, Raghav was in the spotlight. Many sleepy eyes glared at him again, this time with a flavor of shock.
“Thank you, Mr. Kumawat” said the taller officer, addressing the Immigration officer. He turned toward Raghav who was flabbergasted. “What happened?” was all Raghav could come up with. His heart started racing.
The same man kept his hand on Raghav’s shoulder. Raghav looked up sideways, horror writ large on his face.
“It's a routine procedure, Sirji. We just have to ask a few questions. Let’s walk together.” said the taller officer. They took the documents from Mr. Kumawat, picked up Raghav’s bag and departed the scene with our protagonist.
*
White
The trio entered the smallest room in the airport. The janitor’s closet would have been bigger than this. It had white walls and a white table with three chairs. Raghav sat down, took his bag. They offered him water. He drank feverishly and tried to calm his nerves. He kept repeating to himself - This is some mixup. I can clear the confusion. Around twenty minutes passed as the Airport officers waited in silence for Delhi Police to arrive.
The airport officers were now stationed outside the room and Delhi Police Special Cell representatives were seated in front of Raghav. It seemed serious. On the table were Raghav’s passport and his oiled boarding pass.
“So, Mr. Raghav Tripathi. What’s your real name?” asked one of the officers.
Raghav assumed they were asking his full name. “Raghav Ram Tripathi, Sir,” he said, stressing “Ram”.
“Look Bhaisaab, let’s not get into Ram Rahim for now. The sooner we get done with this, the easier it will be for all of us. I’ll ask again - share all the details. How did you enter the country? Whose passport is this? Your real name? Let’s go!” The officer rattled multiple questions at once.
“Sir, Raghav Ram Tripathi is my name. This is my passport. I am from Laxmi Nagar in New Delhi - I was born there. I am traveling from Chicago, US. I was away for three months on a software project for my company.” Raghav stated facts answering all questions devoid of emotion.
The same officer moved forward in his seat to respond but the other, most likely his senior, put his arm on the table. The ACP was twiddling Raghav’s passport in his hand, weighing it, scrutinizing it. He now spoke in a sort of dead tone.
“The passport looks too genuine, so your answer better be good. Where did you print this?” His eyes seemed to be measuring Raghav’s every move.
“At home.” Raghav said with a smile. The police became furious. He perceived that and quickly corrected it. “Sir, like any other Indian, I applied for a passport and filled a form. The police did their verification at my home address. Yes, an illegal thing I did was offer prasad (bribe) to the Delhi Police constable but that was because he insisted – a lot. What is the issue here?”
The ACP conferred with his junior in hushed voices. “Sethi, he is either speaking the truth or is a hard nut. Remind me again why we are here.”
Sethi explained in whispers. “Suri Sir, this is the result of a recent tip. Our source suggested that terrorists have found a way to make fake passports using credentials of dead people. I brought the floppy disk with data from the registrar’s office to the airport last month. This is our first alert after we set the trap. The UAPA Intelligence team worked hard. Raghav Ram Tripathi is most likely dead and this guy is using a fake passport to gain access by misusing his name. Look at his boarding pass - the important data is so well smudged out - such precision!”
“Okay, check with Air India if the story concurs. Has this passport been used to do more trips before, etc.? I’ll continue the questions.” The ACP mouthed crisp instructions. Sethi got up, saluted and left.
Raghav was looking closely. He had noticed Sethi gesticulating at his boarding pass and offered his explanation.
The ACP wasn’t impressed. “Mr. er.. Raghav, you have an explanation for everything. You are either straight as an arrow or a big crook.” He stressed the last words and broke his monotone for the first time.
Raghav wondered how he could prove he was telling the truth. Then he remembered and dashed into his bag. The ACP asked what Raghav was doing and his hand went towards his holster in response. Raghav quickly straightened up. “Sir, I am just looking for my ticket and office ID card. May I please?” The ACP calmed down and motioned with his hand.
Raghav emptied his bag yet again and found the flight ticket and his company’s ID card. The ticket was like a booklet mentioning his name. His company’s badge had his photo and name. Both said “R R Tripathi” and in his view established him bona fide.
The ACP looked over these but he wasn’t convinced. These weren’t government issued documents and carried no water. One was a ticket booklet and the other a private company’s ID card. He went on, figuratively, peeling an onion, “Tripathi… is a Brahmin surname. You must have a janeu (sacred thread)? Show that to me.”
Raghav was aghast. He couldn’t believe his ears. He said with ample politeness. “No Sir. I don’t. I don’t believe in religious rituals. Hence I don’t have it.”
“There’s the difference between Ram and Rahim.” the ACP snapped.
“What are you insinuating?” demanded Raghav.
“You are a terrorist and are trying to gain entry into our country using a fake passport. Our system has caught you.” The ACP unloaded.
Raghav wasn’t puzzled. He chuckled. While he couldn’t find the reason for it, his assumption was confirmed. This indeed was some confusion.
“If the system caught me while immigrating, why did the same system allow me to leave three months ago? See the stamp on my passport from September.” Raghav reasoned. “Can you please call my wife? She’ll be able to bring my PAN card and identify me in front of you.” He requested.
Argh, I can’t believe I woke up for this, thought the ACP. He agreed to call Raghav’s wife. With a lot of difficulty, a phone was brought inside the room.
The ACP called the number Raghav supplied. The phone had hardly completed one ring when a woman picked it up.
“Mrs. Tripathi?”
“Yes, speaking”. Her voice trembled as she spoke. She seemed to have been sobbing.
“I am ACP Pankaj Suri, Special Cell, Delhi Police. I wanted to ask about your husband, Mr. R R Tripathi.”
Kavita broke down. She somehow gathered herself and said, “He was supposed to come back today from the US. But this morning, some officers from LIC visited and gave me a cheque saying his life insurance claim was approved. Do you know what has happened?”
The ACP looked at Raghav in fury and Raghav looked back in sheer bewilderment.
*
A year ago
Tegbahadur Chaudhari walked the same road, at the same time, to reach the same office everyday and he had done that for the last 35 years. He sat at the same desk, stared through the same doorway, at the same wall almost everyday. The wall housed an iron gate which made a loud ruckus each time a mortal dared to move it. The wall went through cycles of pristine white, light blue, shadowy gray and mossy green depending on the weather and the newness of its whitewash. The wall was a boundary wall that belonged to the MCD office where Mr. Chaudhari registered births and deaths in Delhi East - the human version of Chitragupt, the assistant to Yamaraj, the God of death and justice.
A recent addition to Mr. Chaudhari’s view, or rather, a blocker to his view was a large computer monitor which had been added by his department as a salute to modernization. It was also a subtle goodbye to the likes of Mr. Chaudhari, urging them to make way for the younger generation. But he wasn’t one to give up this easily. He tried his best to draw parallels between the old workflow and the new in order to learn the new method.
He was slow - he typed with his two index fingers, moved the mouse like he were diffusing a bomb, his mouth open, poring over the notes he had taken on multiple sheets of paper and cursing the computer whenever it misbehaved. This was his second week submitting certificates the ‘soft’ way. He was making some headway but the backlog was increasing, the queues were getting longer and it was all riddling out of control. To make matters worse, the link to the main server was the severest case of touch-me-not. The connection was erratic and sensitive. A broken link brought all operations to a standstill and affected throughput gravely.
This morning, Raghav visited the office and met Mr. Chaudhari. It was his third visit in the last 2 weeks. “Chaudhariji, I am leaving for Bangalore today. Can you please help me out?”
“Beta, link is not working today again. I’ll suggest you leave the papers with me. This was for a death certificate, right?” Mr. Chaudhari tried to lend a helping hand to Raghav.
“Ji, my father’s. All the details are in here. Thank you!” Raghav was thankful as this was an important document to obtain.
It was afternoon. Mr. Chaudhari had his customary lunch in the office garden with his colleagues when the weather allowed it. The November sun was pleasant. In recent times, the topic of discussion was always the same - digitalization. Mr. Chaudhari said, shaking his head “We used to easily cut down twenty trees (complete 20 certificates) before lunch everyday. Nowadays, getting 2-3 out is a challenge. Do the bureaucrats understand our pain?” Everyone shook their heads in unison.
A younger man was among them. He said, trying to pacify the others, “Takneekikaran (Digitalization) is the future. Every new system takes time to stabilize. We’ll also need some time to get used to it. Agreed, there are some teething issues. But, it’s for the greater good. It’s short term pain for long term gain.” He finished with a smile.
People laughed. “Alok beta, you might be right. After all, you are a B.Sc. Major! For me, it’s a bone stuck in my throat.” Mr. Chaudhari confessed.
“Sir, I am here to help out any time.” Alok bowed, his right hand on his chest.
“Chaudhariji, The green light is on,” A peon came running to tell Mr. Chaudhari that the link was working again.
Mr. Chaudhari finished his lunch and hurried to his desk to start the application. He pored over his notes for submitting a Death Certificate Application.
Step 1. Click on Start New Application - it said. Mr. Chaudhari followed. He moved the mouse pointer to the required button and clicked. It showed multiple options.
Step 2. Click on Start Death Certificate Application. Mr. Chaudhari followed again. One of the options was “Start Death Certificate Application”. He dragged the mouse close to the option and clicked. The click didn’t work. “Ah, darn it.” He tried again. The second time proved to be the charm.
His desk was covered with papers. He reached for the file Raghav had left and opened it. There were 2 PAN card copies of Raghuram Tripathi and Raghav Ram Tripathi. A passport copy of Raghav Ram Tripathi, copy of a ration card, a doctor’s note with the cause and time of death, etc. But there was no form. He looked around his desk. Nothing. He checked the floor. Nothing. He went back to his computer and decided to finish the job as he didn’t want to drag it on.
The sun shone through the doorway directly at him. Mr. Chaudhari peered at his screen. Under “First Name of Deceased”, he started typing - one keystroke at a time - his brain, eyes and tired fingers laboring in rhythm - R-A-G-H-A-V he typed. He slowly completed the rest.
The sun’s lengthening rays cast long shadows on the walls of the MCD office as the day stretched into a beautiful dusk. Mr. Chaudhari leaned back in his chair, his hands clasped behind his head. He looked at his desk, the computer and the zigzag path beyond. The humdrum life carried on, one day at a time. The monotony of it all sometimes peaked in the evenings.
Unknown to his fate, Raghav boarded a train to Bangalore with his pregnant wife and mother. They had a lot of luggage with them. He reminded himself to visit the MCD office the next time he was in Delhi.
*
