Lately I was posted to London. On arrival, my first job was to arrange for my children’s admission to a good school. I started looking for people who could recommend my case and organise admissions. I was taken aback when I was told there was no need for any recommendations and the schools were obliged to admit children in their catchment area. My wife spoke to the principal and he warmly asked us to meet him. He personally took us around the whole school — each room, lab and playgrounds — and the admission process was over. I was convinced it must be an exception. Back home, irrespective of a child’s merit, was it not an essential ritual to line up some impressive recommendations? When it came to the installation of phone, insurance of the household effects or registration of the new car purchased, the experience was equally gratifying. Everything was done on phone or through mail and without any persuasion. The best was correcting of the electricity/gas bill. My wife rang up the agency and told them that the bill was on the higher side. "What amount do you consider reasonable?" asked the company representative. "The house was vacant for five months before we occupied it two months ago. I suppose we should pay for two months that we have been in occupation of the house," argued my wife. "Fair enough, madam. We shall send you the revised bill." We were overwhelmed by the incredibly judicious public services.

In contrast, I recalled when I was Private Secretary to the Union Power Minister, how many requests the Minister’s office received on single count-settlement of erroneous electricity bills. Despite intervention at the highest level, some times redressal was provided, many times not. The most classic case I remember was of my batch mate in the Foreign Service. Her father, a retired officer, was served with a bill of Rs 5 lakh since he refused to oblige lower level officials. He wanted an extra load in the house for which he was asked a graft. He refused to give in. Instead his daughter spoke to a senior officer. This antagonised the officials so much that they framed him for tampering of the meter and levied a fine of half a million rupees. The terrified family approached me. Though the Power Minister requested for personal intervention of Chief Minister of Delhi, the harassment went on unabated.

The more time we spent in London, the more the realisation came to me about how hassle-free the life of a common man was in this country. I was most convinced of the fairness of the system when my son needed an emergency medical assistance. His appendix burst in his stomach and his life was in peril. It was past midnight and we were new to the place and did not even know the way to the nearest hospital. Left with no other recourse, we called the emergency and an ambulance arrived at our doorstep within few minutes and he was rushed to the hospital. On arrival, I was not asked who I was, what was my position or income group. The doctor only focused on the child. Despite being aliens with zero acquaintance with anyone in the hospital, the child received the best of medical treatment and personal care. Would our child have received similar care in India as son of a common man? Definitely not. Perhaps not even as the son of ‘somebody special’. A few years ago my three-year-old daughter had fallen ill and had to be admitted to AIIMS, New Delhi. The difficulties we had to undergo to first have her admitted and then to manage the paramedical staff seemed like a nightmare best forgotten.

Eighteen months in London have exposed me to various facets of egalitarian governance. As a common man in London, but for my red light-mounted white ambassador and the attached status of being ‘somebody’, my life is no less privileged than it was in India as a mini VIP. In some ways it is even better. In India, a phone call from me could make a difference and deliver results. Here there has been no need to make a telephone call! The system treats every one at par irrespective of one’s status or position. How was the life of a common man in India? I had no idea. I, therefore, decided to gain vicarious knowledge by acting as an ordinary man during my next visit to India.

I was in Chandigarh during Christmas holidays. I remember I had to make an international driving licence. True to my trademark (IAS) style, I picked up my most effective instrument — the telephone — and called the Deputy Commissioner’s office. Sahib has not arrived, the telephone attendant informed me. "It is 10 a.m. What time is he expected?" I asked politely without revealing my identity. "Call after 11," came the reply and the phone was dropped. I thought of contacting him at his residence. "Sahib hai," I enquired humbly. "Aap kaun". I disclosed my name without revealing the three-lettered suffix. "No. He is in the bathroom." I looked at my watch — it was a quarter past ten. I realised it was early to call after a weekend. "Whom are you calling?" asked my wife. "The local D.C," I proudly announced. "Why?" she asked. "For my driving licence." "But had you not decided to apply for the licence as a layman," she teasingly reminded me. "Yes, of course, I had," I sheepishly admitted.

So I set out in my car to the office of the licensing authority in Sector 17. It was about 11 a.m. I had taken my passport, the domestic driving licence and three photographs with me. This was all that was asked for by the licensing authority in Delhi, from where I had obtained my international licence earlier. On presentation of the application, I was told my documents were incomplete. "But sir, in Delhi, these were the only documents required," I pleaded. "This is Chandigarh," the clerk curtly told me. "So what am I supposed to do?" I asked. The clerk directed me to furnish nine documents, which included photocopies of my passport, visa ticket, driving licence and what not. That too duly attested and an affidavit that my driving licence was genuine. Besides, two hundred rupees were required to be remitted towards the licensing fee at a designated bank. "Come back with all these documents before 1 p.m. or after 2.30 p.m. and we shall see what can be done," counselled the clerk. I departed meekly without daring to point out that officially the lunchtime was only for half an hour.

First I headed for the bank to remit the fee. The bank is located a mile away from the licensing office behind the KC theatre. I stood in the queue and when my turn came after about 30 minutes, I offered money for remittance. "Sardarji, first go to the treasury and have your remittance challan entered there and then come back to me." "Where is the treasury?" "It is a bank not an enquiry office," shot back the clerk drowned in monotony. I somehow found my way to the treasury entirely on the opposite end of the sector. After finishing at the treasury, I again returned to the bank. I finally succeeded in depositing the fee in the nick of time since it was close to 1 p.m. and the bank would not have accepted deposits after that.

But my woes were not over yet. I had to travel to another direction now to get the affidavit. When I reached the courts, I was told stamp paper could not be sold as it was already past one. I felt frustrated. One of the oath commissioners, however, offered to manage the problem on payment of an extra fee. I readily accepted his proposal. An affidavit was prepared which said that the contents in my driving licence were true and I had never been involved in any traffic crime, etc. A totally useless document to my mind. But it was not an occasion to evaluate the utility of the procedures prescribed. Despite all rush, by the time I was able to get all other documents ready, it was 3 p.m. I speeded back to the licensing authority’s office only to find: "Sahib has not yet turned up but is expected anytime." I heaved a sigh of relief. I was afraid I was late but I had forgotten that lunchtime for officers was unusually long.

I presented my papers to the dealing hand. "Please put them in a file cover", I was advised. I was bemused at the audacity of the suggestion. Nevertheless I went out and bought a file cover from the hawker sitting at the gate. The file covers were being sold at triple their price. I was desperate to get my licence and, therefore, ignored the price. After neatly putting all the papers in the file I was back at the counter. "Your domestic licence is valid only up to April ’03. Therefore we can issue the international licence only up to April ’03," pointed out the clerk. "But can’t my licence be renewed," I requested. "No, you can apply for renewal only one month before the expiry of the licence." "But I would be out of the country at that time," I tried to argue. "That is your problem," rudely replied the clerk.

It was 4 o’ clock. But the ‘sahib’ had not arrived. We were all sulking but no one gave vent to their feelings for fear of being denied the licence. At last the message came that the sahib would not come to this office at all. Instead, he would be going to the State Transport Authority Office in Sector 18, some two kilometres away. Like the rats following the Pied Piper, we followed the dealing clerk to Sector 18. The sahib had yet not arrived. We had given up all hopes and were upset with the unending wait. Mercifully, the sahib arrived close to half past four and, finally, I got my licence. After a full day’s toil and running from one corner of the city to another, I was the proud owner of a licence with merely four months of validity.

On returning home I was seriously debating whether the full day’s pain I had undergone was worth it. Would it not have been much better had I gone to the DC’s office straight and shared a cup of tea with him? By the time the tea would have finished, the licence would have arrived. Was my wife wiser than I (as she has always claimed to be so)? She had spoken to a colleague in the Delhi Administration and had got her international licence in precisely 13 minutes. Of course, a phone call to a colleague would have saved me of all this day’s discomfort but I would have continued to be ignorant of the travails of the common man.

The brush with reality during the day hammered home the realisation of how alienated we had grown from the masses. My conduct in office may have had been no better. I shudder to think how much pain my behaviour might have given to the public. I owe a sincere apology to all those whom my officious conduct might have hurt, though unintentional. Only if I had known, I would have never caused this pain. In the instant case too, I am very sure the local Deputy Commissioner would have no knowledge of how a licence is obtained. If he knows about the hardships it is causing to the masses, I am more than sure he would take necessary measures to correct the situation. The moral of the experience I have gone through is that we can serve the people well only if we stay tuned to their sensitivities. Perhaps one good way of knowing people’s ordeal is to step out of the cosiness of our glasshouses and live like a common man at least once in a while.