On August 26th (a couple of weeks ago), I went to register with the Pune police and along the way discovered two very different sides of Indian life: the quaint and the chaotic.
Because I was sick, I miss the day my classmates registered. So on my twelfth day in India (and, henceforth, my last day to register without having to pay a fine), I hopped on to a rickety motorbike with Suban ( a worker at ACM), and we took off into the crowded and exhaust filled streets of Pune. Suban steered us through the throng of giant buses and pushy rickshaws towards the heart of the city.
That day, my rash had reared its red, ugly, and insanely itchy head, so the breeze created by the ride quickly distracted me from any of the apprehensions I had about my current mode of transportation. I watched as we passed college kids in Western clothes, business men in suits and ties, and ladies adorned in every color of sari and korta imaginable. We sped over a river, glimpsing elderly women bent over doing their laundry and groups of holy Indian cows grazing. I wrapped my scarf around my head, choking on the clouds of pollution that enveloped us whenever traffic came to a stop and endured the stares from those we passed by, understanding that a white girl straddling, instead of sitting delicately side-saddle, on a motorbike with a much older Indian man was a spectacular and controversial sight.
At one point, Suban suddenly veered off the broad highway and away from the fumes and traffic onto a narrow neighborhood lined with cute, little concrete houses painted in vivid blues, greens, pinks, and yellows. Women balancing their parcels on their heads held their saris up in one hand and pulled their daughters with them by the other. Young dashed about, full of energy. Small goats feasted eagerly on the small piles of trash overflowing from the sole dumpster in sight, while dogs (who looked infinitely healthier than the strays I have seen all over the city) sniffed them cautiously.
This was the India I had been expecting. My astonishment must have been obvious because Suban turned to me with a grin and said in his accented English, "Shortcut".
Eventually, we arrived at a gated complex surrounded by men with rifles. We pushed the bike into slot and attempted to enter through the closest gate. We were immediately yelled at and pointed around the corner to another entrance as two scary, armed guards stepped towards us.
Around the corner, we found the other entrance was chained shut; and Suban (thank god for him) picked his way over to a guard and pressed his face against the bars to convince him that he should let us in. Eventually, he relented; and we squeezed through the still partially chained gate. We then bypassed a very long line outside for the "verification of C Form", which was luckily done when the other students registered. Suban and I entered a dingy building through an imposing metal detector and plunged into the crush of body odor and confused foreigners, mostly Iranians. Suban directed me into one of four lines that led to a harassed typist in front of a substantial computer screen.
After forty-five minutes of being shoved around, budged several times, and waiting for the typist to return to her post, I finally handed over my forms and my passport. She filled in the computer blanks using those documents, as well as, by gleaning information from a cursory look-over (a physical description is required), handed my stuff back, and said, "Go to scanning". I had no earthy clue what that meant but was pushed out of the way by the guy behind me. So chaos and confusion ensued, and I returned to Suban, who put me in a line that I was soon told to leave by the police officials and then later redirected to. They then sat me down, took the worst picture of me ever (I was not allowed to sit up straight or smile), and made me sign a computer pad. I was then point towards a long counter crowded with people that I shoved my way into. In the press of bodies, I met a beautiful man ( maybe twenty-five years old) from Sudan who offered me his place in line and was blatantly hitting on the sweaty, disheveled, and rash-covered me. In shock, I chatted with him until he had to go. I walked out into the comparatively fresh air of Pune two hours later and rode the motorbike back to ACM.
Monday, I have to return to the police station to collect my hard-won certificate that will allow me to buy a sim card. Then I can finally make calls both here and at home. I hope this time the process is a little less eventful.
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