Having lived in six cities across three states in the last 16 years has perhaps made me an inadvertent vagabo-nd. But as I recently realis-ed, not having a “permanent address” can strip you of the right to even some of the more modest luxuries in life — like legally owning your own two-wheeler.
The place in which I was born was not exactly flushed with resources. So, I was shunted around a fair bit, between relatives so that I could have access to better education and career prospects. And here, my journalist’s salary pays me enough only for a rented one-room apartment in a distant suburb. And, my father, back in Bihar, was never the sort to consider property acquisition as a priority. This effectively leaves me with nothing to really call a “permanent address”.
After four years of spending close to five hours a day just commuting to work and back, I decided to allow myself the privilege of a motorcycle. The fact that none of the motorcycle dealers in the city could give me one for the next eight months forced me to buy a two-wheeler from outside Mumbai.
It was duly brought to the city, but for it to be a legal vehicle, it needed to be registered at the regional transport office — a process, which would be very simple, I was told. A fact I seriously doubted.
After mustering courage, I did go to the RTO office. I’d expected the crowd and the serpentine queues, but seeing them in the flesh deterred me completely. I called my trusted colleague and said, “I’m handing over the responsibility to an agent.” But my conscienctious colleague was against it. Confidently, he said, “Just walk into the office, ask for the assistant regional transport officer and tell him you have already spoken to the RTO chief.” With much apprehension, I asked a few people where the ARTO would be, but no one seemed even to have heard of the name I had mentioned!
Unsuccessful in finding the big boss, I resorted to inquiring how and at which window should I register my vehicle. Three different people gave me three different answers. I gave up, called my colleague, and told him I’d had enough, either I’d let a darned agent do this, or I’d ride without a licence plate.
Riding sans licence plate was not an option of course, and my friend (rather uncharitably, I thought) would not allow me to go the agent way. The deed had to be done. Another trip to the RTO office was made, this time with the colleague in tow. He walked into the ARTO’s room and I followed meekly. The name of the chief RTO was “dropped” and the work at hand explained in flawless Marathi. The ARTO initialled the papers and pressed the bell for his orderly. Much to our am-usement, an agent walked in, and was given instructions to get the job done.
Relieved, I thought Mission Registration was accomplished! Little did I know that the ghost of “permanent address” and “address proof” would co-me to haunt me. A traffic officer inspects any new vehicle and its documents, and even have to be. The agent, as we walked towards the inspection offi-ce, warned that the officer in question was a menace.
The cop lived up to his reputation. The fact that I was a Bihari and my Marathi atrocious, did not augur well with him, and that my driver’s licence and passport bear different “permanent” addresses even less so. “Kahan rehte hain? Yahan ka address proof nahi hai?” he asked. I showed the leave and licence agreement for the apartment I rent, but the inspector was unconvinced and refused to sign my papers. I needed to give concrete proof, he said. “Hum ye galat kaam nahi karenge,” he stated.
In an attempt to salvage the situation, the agent reminded him that his own boss — the ARTO — had signed the papers. But undeterred by the name-dropping, the man on the job refused to oblige. “Bola tha na ye bahot takleef deta hai. Chalo main kisi aur officer ka sign leta hoon,” our agent muttered.
Of course the job was done. The vehicle was certified and “inspected”. The motorcycle now is registered. It is legally and rightfully mine, but I still do not have a permanent address and I have taken an oath never to buy anything that requires an “address proof”.
This is the second of a series of columns that will dwell on the issues plaguing Mumbaikars — traffic snarls, uncooperative civic servants, unreasonable landlords, arrogant cabbies and lots more. Watch this space.