Dreams

 

"Oh, my life is changing everyday

In every possible way
And oh, my dreams
It's never quite as it seems
Never quite as it seems”

Dreams – The Cranberries

I say this because I didn’t quite expect to be grubbing around in 40 degrees heat, in the Nashabandhi office, when I decided to move back to India to work on the Olympics bid. Let me start at the beginning, or at least the middle. Gujarat decided for various reasons, to be a dry state. Now, prohibition has never proved effective, but the Government, striding atop its high Gandhian horse, is undeterred. Thankfully, as a Foreign Passport Holder, I am not expected to give up my sinful ways. However, I am still answerable to the Government in the amount of alcohol I consume. As a non-desi, devoid of the burdens of cultural heritage, I am allotted the highest quota, i.e. 4 units of alcohol a month. Mind you, this amounts to 50+ bottles of beer or 4 bottles of hard liquor, so it is quite enough for even most high functioning alcoholics (more on that later). The catch is, to avail this privilege, one needs to present an alcohol licence to a designated liquor shop, which will dispense your choice of poison (at exorbitant rates and limited by availability) and record it against the quota on your licence documents. Its all quite communist era quaint. And if you thought that this licence is simply applied for online, you clearly haven’t gotten the vibe of prohibition.

Last year I paid an agent to procure this document for me. He assured me that he was saving me the hassle of going to a Government office and dealing with Sarkari processes, and I was happy to believe him. However, this year, with the great Indian General Elections around the corner, I was informed by said agent, that I had to go in personally to the Nashabandhi office (roughly translates to prohibition, with vague tone of ridicule + plus the underlying assumption of being a drunk, on top), to renew the licence. I put this off for a few weeks, but finally a parched throat and very persistent nagging from other benefactors of my licence pushed me to make this trip into the old city. I dared not brave this alone, so under the promise of beer as payment, one of my teammates was persuaded to accompany me. Being his boss, he may not have had a choice in the matter, but I decided to ignore my guilty pangs in lieu of the comfort of having a Gujarati speaking male with me. I didn’t know what to expect, so I armed myself with all the documents of proof I owned, and we set off at 11 o’clock on a Tuesday, playing truant from office. The best part about deployed from work at a Government office is, you need to ditch work to ever get anything done. Maybe this is why Sarkari offices are so slow, everyone is at each others office, trying to get things done, hence nothing ever gets done. But I digress.

I arrived at the Nashabandhi office and was pleasantly surprised to see it wasn’t a seedy hole in the wall with drunks lying on the approach street, where I would be taunted about being an “unsanskari” woman who drinks. Now I admit this wasn’t a very logical expectation to have, but its what the name of the office warrants. Instead, I walked into a clean and air-conditioned office, with helpful staff ready to answer any and all questions a "foreigner" could have about the licence process, in Gujarati. My teammate jumped to my rescue, we procured the necessary form, filled it and set off to the bank to make a demand draft. I had never made a DD in my life, and in this age of UPI, I was hoping there would be a simple shortcut, but as we soon found out at the bank, nope, we had to go from counter to counter, fill in 3 forms and wait in queue to deposit cash, just like in the old days. Quaint, as I said. Armed with the payment slip, we braved the sun to walk back to NB office. I was quite pleased, thinking the process was simpler than anticipated, and could now hand in the deposit slip and be off. Alas, this slip only allowed me to get the real application form, so it was now time to fill in more details, furnish copies of documents and stick photographs. As I looked up while resting my cramped signature-hand, I saw a friendly face. The employee of the alcohol shop where I availed my monthly quota was loitering in the corner. He came over and deftly guided me on what needed to be filled into the rather confusing and double-edged queries on the form. That done, I hit another roadblock. I need some 3 Rupee Government stamp. As I looked around in confusion, he went over to a lady in a bright green sari, who came over to me, grabbed my arm and took me to a corner behind the office. From within the folds of her sari, she pulled out some stamps, licked them and stuck them to my form. She whispered that I must pay her 10 Rupees but later, when no one was around, and disappeared into the crowd. In bewilderment, espionage complete, I patted down the saliva-soaked stamps on my form, and proceeded to submit my application for my liquor licence. 3 hours of my life gone; I was delighted to learn I could come back next week to pick up the licence. A great boon and bane, for I do not know if colleagues and neighbours are nice to me because they want to be friends, or they just want a unit or two. When I applied for my German passport, I imagined it would come in handy if I was ever again stranded in Nigeria and needed to be airlifted out. I did not imagine it would be the sole source of my Friday night Feierabendbierchen, (at least until one turns 40 and can convince a doctor and the Gujarat Government that one needs to drink for medical reasons; not sure what that could be, apart from being an alcoholic).

That German life of easy access to cheap alcohol is far away now. 9 months after my move, my new life is spent working with Sarkari babus, calling them “Sir” and “Maam” and answering to their beck and call, following outdated protocols like standing when senior officers enter the room, being part of car convoys, doing business on Whatsapp and working alternate Saturdays. All in the hope of bringing professionalism to the sector, and helping change how sport is governed. It seems a tall ask, but in an office where pigeons roam freely, I take it as a win when got them to procure decent office chairs with back support for my team. On the same day at lunch, I learnt from colleagues that it was illegal to bring in non-vegetarian food into Government offices. As I nodded in understanding and continued to chomp on my tuna fried rice, I realised two steps forward and one step back, was still one step forward.