Kerala: God’s Own (Screwed Up) Country
I never finished reading Arundhati Roy’s “God of small things”. Mostly because I never really liked spaghetti; much less the noodles in time. But I know that the story of the book is set in Kerala, a southern state of India, of which the locals refer to as “God’s own country”. It seems to me, however, that it is also a place where God, if that entity exists, plays 20/20 cricket — that abomination of a noble game. While creating the land, greenery, birds and other living beings, he seemed to have been very focused and purposeful. But when it came to the beings to be created in his own image, he seems to have chosen the most callous, indifferent, cynical and morally corrupt (in the sense of Ayn Rand) ones to be the inhabitants. The best explanation of this contradiction seems to have been given by Al Pacino’s John Milton character in “Devil’s Advocate”: “God likes to watch. He’s a prankster. Think about it. He gives man instincts. He gives you this extraordinary gift, and then what does He do, I swear for His own amusement, his own private, cosmic gag reel, He sets the rules in opposition. It’s the goof of all time.”
A disclosure: I am originally from this state, so it is possible that all of the above descriptions are applicable to me as well.
To start at the start, Carol and I have been planning this trip for the last several months. We arrived in Cochin, India on the 15th of January, via Hong Kong and Singapore. The flights were very smooth and comfortable. We were excited. We were looking forward to the bicycle rides we were planning to do in the Western Ghats of Kerala.
Day 1 (01/15): At Cochin International Airport
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Trouble started the moment we reached the customs counter. We had our two bikes and wheels in a bike box and a wheel bag, respectively. One of the customs officers walked up and rudely asked “what is there in the box?” “Two bicycles”, I replied.
“Motorized cycles?”
“No. Just regular road bikes. Do you want to take a look?”
“Yes. Open it.”
So I opened the box. He convinced himself that they were indeed bikes. I also told him that we were planning to do a multi-day ride in Kerala and then take the bikes back to the United States. Then he asked me what were the prices. And I made a costly mistake: I told him the actual price. I told them the actual price for two reasons 1) that because they are expensive, we will not be leaving it back here 2) I had assumed that looking at the bike, it would be obvious to him that they are expensive ones anyway. Little did I know at that time how much trouble that bit of honesty would bring.
Now this officer started consulting an another important looking officer. They came back and told me that they have to detain the bikes for official “import” adjudication. I repeated to them that we intend to take the bikes back with us when we return to the US and that these were used bikes and that my bike was over six years old. Nothing worked. The officers kept going back to their “private” consultations, every time returning with one technical difficulty or the other.
Meanwhile, it was getting very late — almost midnight. My brother and brother-in-law were waiting outside, not knowing what was going on. We were the only passengers left in the airport.
One officer told us that since the bikes were used ones, we could pay a reduced customs duty and take it with us. So I asked them if they will refund the duty when I take them back. He goes ‘hmm… that’s going to be difficult.’ Even then I offered to pay the reduced duty. But they kept refusing.
Finally, they asked us to produce a bank guarantee for INR 63,088/- towards customs duty that they can claim if we don’t take the bikes back with us. They said they will release the bikes as soon as we produce the bank guarantee.
We were released just after midnight.
The irony was this: the officers did not pay any attention to our other baggages. We both had our laptops (mine a fully loaded 17″ MacBook Pro costing much more than the bikes) and other electronic gadgets that were meant for our own personal use. So much for their thoroughness.
Day 2 (01/16): At the Indian Overseas Bank, Kozhencherry, Kerala
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The morning started pleasantly enough. Despite the previous night’s distress, my sister’s breakfast cheered us up. Spending time with my nephews was also heart-warming. So it was in a cheerful mood that we embarked on our journey to reclaim our bikes.
My sister and brother-in-law (Mahesh) transferred money from one of their accounts to the Indian Overseas Bank (IOB) account, the main reason being that the branch was closer to their place. This was done very quickly: by late morning we had the money deposited into the proper account. The IOB branch manager, a woman close to her retirement years, told us that she is not very familiar with the procedure, but will find out how to do it. She asked to return in the afternoon.
We returned in the afternoon and she had, surprisingly, found out the details. We were supposed to put the money in a fixed deposit (similar to a money market account, I think) and then they will issue the guarantee in Mahesh’s name in my favour towards the Commissioner of Customs. Everything sounded good and since it was late, and since it required typing some heavy duty documents, she asked us to return the next day (Saturday, 01/17). Fair enough we thought. Besides, it is a 3 hour drive from Kozhancherry to Cochin.
Day 3 (01/17): At the Indian Overseas Bank, Kozhencherry, Kerala
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Mahesh arrived at the bank shortly after 10:00AM (it opens at 10:00AM). The branch manager assured us that everything is in order and she had sent the documents for typesetting She also told us that we could collect them at 12:30PM. We were happy to hear that.
Mahesh returned to the bank at 12:30PM only to hear a new demand from the bank manager: since the bank “doesn’t know me officially”, the only way she can issue a bank guarantee is that I open a nonresident Indian (NRI) account! It was pure black-mail. The bank was not issuing a bank guarantee for me; it was issuing a guarantee to the Commissioner of Customs saying that a sum of INR 63088 was unconditionally available to him towards the customs duty if I break my promise to take the bikes back. All it needed was my name and passport number. Nothing more or nothing less. The money was coming from Mahesh’s account and there was no liability or risk for the bank.
It was a perfectly opportunistic move by the bank manager, who turned out to be as incompetent as anyone I have known. The first day, when she was doing the research, she didn’t do a thorough job. As a result, every time something came up, she had to make phone calls to someone or the other to clarify the issue. Such a shame.
Anyway, getting back to our main story, she gave us a bunch of applications to fill out. We also needed passport-size pictures of mine. We got all these done as quickly as we could and returned to the bank shortly after 2:30PM.
Alas, she forgot to tell us one thing: that the bank closes at 2:30PM on Saturdays.
The next day, naturally, was a Sunday.
Day 4(01/19): At the Indian Overseas Bank, Kozhencherry, Kerala
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Mahesh, Carol and I arrived at the bank shortly after it was open for business. The manager took all our applications and started the procedure to create the account. She had also sent someone out to get the guarantee documents typed out. We were determined that we would not leave the bank without the guarantee documents.
Around noon, the manager called us back into her office and asked us to go through the documents again. Immediately we spotted a minor error: instead of addressing it to Commissioner of Customs, it was addressed to *Office of the Assistant Commissioner of Customs*. The address was also wrong. We had explicitly told the manager about this on Saturday itself and had even left the correct address in a separate sheet of paper. This was because the receipt that was issued to us in the airport, that the bikes have been detained, was issued by the Office of the Ass. Comm. Customs, not by the Comm. of Customs. We knew that that could create a confusion and it was precisely the reason we gave explicit instructions.
Oh well.
To correct the mistake, all the manager had to do was to strike through the “Office of Assistant”, initial it and put the official seal of the bank next to it. It is a standard practice. But this woman was so incompetent and afraid to do so that she forced us to go back, get a new stamp paper and get it all typed up again. Thank Lord, we do have computers with hard drives! The shop were the document was originally prepared had not deleted the file from its hard disk!!!! Miracles do happen!
We shelled out more money, although not a lot, and got it all prepared.
Hurray! By 2:00PM, we had the bank guarantee!!!
The irony is, while waiting for the final documents, the bank manager shamelessly asked me: “would you deposit some money into our branch?” I smiled and replied “I would have, if you had not forced me wait in front of your office for three days and instead of issuing it in the first day.”
By then, however, it was too late to go to Cochin the same day.
As they wrote in colonial literature, we retired for the day.
Day 5(01/20/2009): At the Cochin International Airpor, Cochin, India
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We left for Cochin early in the morning. My sister and my nephews also came along, thinking of doing a bit of shopping and probably visiting the famous Fort Cochin.
We arrived at the airport around 9:30AM. Carol and I went in to the customs office at the arrivals. They directed us to the proper office where we met with one lower ranking officer. He and a colleague of his looked through the file folders, which took more than 10 minutes, to find the file on our bikes. They couldn’t find one.
Shortly, the officer asked to wait and left to meet a senior officer. After about 15 minutes, he returned. It was clear from his looks that we were not getting the bikes.
He came up to us and said that the Deputy Commissioner of Customs, who is senior to the officer who issued our receipt, is refusing to release the bikes because the documents are not in order and that the procedure was not followed correctly. I asked the lower officer if I could meet the senior officer. We were taken to His Highness Senior officer’s court.
The senior officer started out on a rude note that exuded power from every syllable: “Who asked you to come here today with this document?”
“I was told to get a bank guarantee and come here any time to get the bikes.”
“Who told you that?”
“The officers on duty on 01/15 when I landed here.”
“Then you come when those officers are here, the day after tomorrow. They will release the bikes.”
“Look, I don’t know who those officers are. Besides, I am not talking to you as an individual. As far as I am concerned, right now you are the official representative of the institution that asked me to do these things. So it is your responsibility to resolve it.”
“I can’t release the bikes on a bank guarantee. It is not the procedure.”
“But that was what I was told and I have brought the guarantee.”
“You have committed an *offense* and this is not the procedure to clear it.”
At this point I was beginning to lose patience. I asked “What offense did I commit? I brought the bikes. I declared it properly. Opened it up for inspection. Offered to pay the customs duty. So what is the offense you are referring to?”
I was also losing my temper. I was getting tired of the freaking bureaucracy and the harassment.
Fortunately, help came from close quarters. Carol, realizing that I was on the edge, took over the conversation. She bluntly asked the officer: “What would it take for you to clear the bikes in the next thirty minutes?”
For whatever reason, the officer began to shed his arrogant posture and began to pretend that he was being helpful. He said the officers who detained the bike didn’t follow the proper procedure. He asked us the same questions about the bike. This time, we were wiser: we put the price around $500. He said: “Then why did they put such a huge value on it on Friday?”
“It wasn’t clear to us what they were doing and so we didn’t really pay attention.”
“This is too high a price for a bicycle. It is impossible for a bicycle to be this expensive. Anyway, they have put it down and now I can’t do anything.”
He continued, “What needs to be done is that you have to execute a bond, in addition to the bank guarantee, stating that you will take the bikes back with you. That needs to be done on a stamp paper worth INR 50. I will get the application done for you.”
He then took us to another office and asked one of his subordinates to type a bond statement (which we would have to retype) for us. The girl who started working on it was a miserable typist. She typed at the rate of about two words per minute. At one point, I offered to to help her, but she very politely refused.
Meanwhile, my sister, Mahesh and the kids were waiting outside. It was well over 90F. I went outside once to let them know what was happening.
By about 1:00PM, while we were waiting, the girl finished typing the draft document. We took the draft and left the airport, promising the officer that we will try our best to get it done by 2:00PM.
We drove from the airport to Ankamali, about 5 miles away, and found a formal document preparing shop. The guy was anxious to get our job done(free market and competition are good) that he immediately sent an assistant to procure the official stamp paper for INR 50, while he started typing.
I had noticed that he wasn’t in the habit of saving the document frequently. Frankly, I was secretly praying to the lord of electricity not to mess up. Guess what, John Milton is right, the lord of electricity is a prankster. Power failed and the document which was almost half-way through was lost.
Fortunately, the guy’s real typist came along and took over the typing. I have never seen anyone typing that fast in my life. She finished the document, which the customs officer’s assistant took well over an hour and a half, in about 15 minutes! But she also was not in the habit of saving frequently and at one point, I insisted that she save it.
We returned to the airport by 2:15. By this time, the security officers and the customs officers were all familiar with me and Carol. After taking possession of the bond and the bank guarantee, they released the bikes. It was 3:00PM.
My nephews were hungry and tired, waiting outside. We cancelled all our plans and left for home. On our way, we had a very, very late lunch. It was hard to look at the kids, who had to suffer for no fault of theirs.
Just before we left, the deputy commissioner who was dealing with us, said this: “you know, those officers on duty on 01/15 could have just let you go; especially because these were used bicycles and that you were taking it back. I don’t know why they detained it in the first place.”
Customs officers seem like Gods. And John Milton, the character, is right in their case too. This is India, “bhai”, and there are 333 million Gods according to the Hindu mythology.
At this point, I just want to ask one question to all Keralites, the same that Senator McCarthy was asked decades ago: “Have you left no sense of decency, Sir?”