So, I went to the Department of Motor Traffic which, incidentally, has no parking. It’s surrounded by weird murals of children dying in accidents, splayed over swingsets and swerving off the road. They’ve shoved a desk in the entry so you have to gal kapana everybody else as you try to sidle in. I need to go behind the counter (been here three times) so I just tuck my papers and walk through like I work there. Unlikely, cause I don’t have the characteristic pallor of the bureaucratically undead. Mr Whatshisname rifles through my paperwork as he tells me to turn and cough. Directly in front of me he’s got an empty hair gel bottle containing styrofoam and a fake plastic flower. I feel like you’d have to go out of your way to assemble something so stupid. There’s an old arrack bottle filled with what looks like hair gel.
They want my Canadian license, passport, visa (uh…), citizenship papers, national ID, birth certificate, medical certificate and first born. Photocopies, originals and retinal scans. Didn’t go through a driving school so have to assemble all this stuff myself. Then I bounce to like 3 more people and finally get a bill. Go to another counter to pay and all three attendants have taken lunch at the same time. I am all about not eating alone, but wtf. Check out the games on my Razr and wait wait wait. Finally pay Rs 1000 and go get this little paper which I promptly lose. Psyche. It’s folded in my wallet and I can make it through the police checkpoints now.