Sturm und Drang at the FRO

I wasn't going to write about this, because it's my equivalent of Mel Gibson's flaying in Braveheart, or one of his other obnoxious public self-flagellations. This experience absolutely IS one that I would wish visited upon my worst enemies, mostly because I'm not in the habit of feigning empathy, but also because I really hate one or two of my enemies.

If you ever plan to visit India, you should read this, a brief account of my four days of torture at the Foreigner's Registration Office, unpopularly referred to as the 'FRO.'

My first contact with that insidious evil started with a phone call. I'd heard that expatriates must register with the FRO within 14 days of their arrival. This puzzled me, because I figure, if someone is willing to go through the months of hell required to obtain a visa for a trip to India, you'd better believe they want to go bad enough to at least make an appearance. So, after some fumbling - I was still learning to use the phones here - the call went through.

Phone call # 1

FRO: Hello?

Me: Yes, Hello, I've just arrived from the U.S. and need to

FRO: Hello?

Me: Yes, Hello. Anyway, I've

FRO: Hello?

Me: Yes! Can you hear me? Hello!

FRO: Hello?

Phone call # 2

Me: Yes, Hello, I would like to register as a foreigner with your office.

FRO: Yes?

Me: And I would like to know what documents I should bring with me in order to register with your office. Because I would like to register with your office.

FRO: Oh, no problem, sir. Bring your passport and four photos.

Me: That's it?

FRO: Yes, that's it.

Me: Ok, thanks, bye.


I should interject here and mention that in order to obtain a cell phone, I had to produce: 1. My passport, 2. My visa, 3. A letter from my landlord (I was staying at a hotel for only two days, but by god they demanded to have a letter from the manager) to prove residency, 4. A passport photo. Just to get a damn cell phone. This in mind, I doubted that registering with the FRO would be as simple as the voice on the phone said (Still, I had no idea how bad it would be). So, I called again five minutes later.

Phone call # 3

Me: Yes, Hello, I would like to register as a foreigner with your office.

FRO: Yes?

Me: And I would like to know what documents I should bring with me in order to register with your office. Because I would like to register with your office.

FRO: Oh, no problem, sir. Bring your passport and four photos.

Me: That's it? That's really all I have to bring in?

FRO: Yes, that's it.

Me: Ok, thanks, bye.

An hour later, I show up at the FRO armed with the prescribed documents, plus one of the letters I used to obtain a visa, just in case.

FRO Drone # 3 (with a scornful look): This is all wrong.

The FRO guy said that, besides the ones I already had, I needed an additional eight different documents, including, but not limited to: A letter from my landlord, three applications (each filled out in pen, in block letters, and each original - you can't just fill one out and photocopy it), my boarding pass from the flight over and two other forms of identification. I returned home, over an hour's drive, to retrieve the necessary documents.

And so it went, I retrieving, commissioning or creating the requested documents, and the FRO officials becoming sexually excited at the chance once more to sneer at my little packet and send me home one more time. Each time it was something new; if they didn't ask for completely different documents from the last time, they would find ways to tweak their previous request. For instance, the first couple of days I spent there, they never complained about the fact that I brought in copies of five of the documents the Indian Consulate had required for a visa application - because the requirements, according to their respective Web sites, were exactly the same. And, most maddeningly, the FRO officials would assure me each time before sending me scuttling home that all I needed to do was make just these two or three more changes. I kept returning to discover they were lying.

By day three, I was beginning to recognize people who, like me, were being forced to return time and again, trying desperately to jump through the ever-shifting hoops and accomplish whatever it was they had come here to do. On this day, the drone behind the front desk finally noticed I was using copies of documents from my original visa application. This will never do, he said. I called the appropriate people and had them redraft the original documents, simply cutting and pasting the same text but affixing a more recent date. Went across town to an Internet cafe and printed them off. Returning for visit NUMBER FOUR (!!!!) I triumphantly presented my paperwork. Of course, Drone # 3 rejected it. I presented a list, hand-written by his colleague, that purported to include all of the documents I needed. I met every requirement, I pointed out. But no, he said; "When it says 'Letter from landlord,' it should really say, 'Proof of residency, and that requires three documents: 1. Letter from landlord, 2. Photocopy of landlord's voting certificate and 3. Copy of a recent utility bill.

Foiled again.

FRO: How many times have you come here?

Me (expecting sympathy): Four.

FRO (leaning in and shaking finger for emphasis): And this is due only to YOUR negligency!

I screamed something about it only being due to his incompetency, and went outside, feeling the urge to beat my head against the cinder-block wall in despair.

Next day, I returned with a new friend to serve as a witness to the FRO's sadism. Need I continue? First, when confronted with the exact documents he had requested, Drone # 3 informed me that the address at which I claimed to reside was not in New Delhi.

Me: It's in fucking Dwarka! I think I know where I live! Look, it's the same here on his voting certificate and his phone bill.

FRO: What is this? Why did you bring in a phone bill? We requested a utility bill. When we say 'utility bill' everyone knows that means a current power bill.

Me: I believe my papers are in order. Where do I go from here?

Somehow, that worked. On this particular visit, I ran into a nice woman from the U.K. who had encountered similar difficulty in years past, but for some reason had it easier this time. According to her, needless and senseless bureaucracy in India is a cultural anomaly for which we can blame the British:

"I think the attitude is, the British did it, so it must be good," she said.

The British were infamous for their endless documentation of every possible documentable thing, and have even been blamed for exacerbating inter-caste discrimination by their endless census-taking. This approach has apparently never been re-examined, and the response to complications of any sort seems to be to pile on more paperwork.

Take for example, the Mumbai shootings. According to news reports, some of the shooters used unsecured wifi links to send e-mails back to their handlers, thus facilitating their murderous plans. Oh, and they also used cell phones. The response here? Exactly what I am experiencing. It's now nearly impossible to get wifi access, and the paperwork required for obtaining a SIM card is enormous.

Terrorists may someday once again rain lead hell from Mumbai's Taj Hotel, but, by god, when they do, the cell phone companies and the FRO will have files on them that are thicker than Terri Schaivo's parents' skulls. And if that's not a deterrent, I don't know what is.