The Great Driving Licence Adventure

My decade-and-a-half-old, dog-eared, falling-apart booklet of a driving licence needed an urgent lease of life that would transform it into a swanky laminated card and, well… the beginning of the year seemed just perfect to implement that much-put-off task!

Predictably, I was besieged by advice from all quarters. Someone suggested approaching a local driving school to get the job done painlessly. Another friend swore by online services, which could save me a whole lot of time, and I thought that was an excellent idea.

But once I logged on to the Motor Vehicles Department website, I was stopped at the payment gateway, which recognised only SBI or SBT cards — neither of which I possessed. There ended my online sojourn. Finally, I decided to go personally to the RTO office and apply for the same directly.

RTO offices in Kerala are generally places flooded by bored-to-death driving school agents, prospective student drivers with scared faces and timid voices, irritated and articulate vehicle owners who have been waiting to get their documents authorised, important-looking men who have nothing better to do than check available fancy numbers for vehicles, and a whole lot of other people like me, who are unsure of whom to approach for information.

As luck would have it, I found myself in front of the Motor Vehicle Inspector himself, who, to me at that time, was nothing short of God incarnate!

You know what… he actually asked me to take a seat. Unbelievable courtesy in a government office, unless you know the officer personally! He helped me make out an application, wrote a note in red ink on the corner of the application directing the person at the counter to give it a ‘fast track’ status, and directed me to the payment counter outside his office in an extremely pleasant manner.

Well… with my head held high and with all the rightful attitude of a proud Indian citizen, I walked to the counter and handed my papers cheerfully to the clerk.

There ends the good part of my story.

One nonchalant glance at my papers — her eyes remained firmly focused on the computer in front of her — and she scornfully informed me that there was no ‘fast track’ facility for this. Being assured of preferential treatment due to my application having been endorsed by her superior, I was a little taken aback. I wondered if she had actually seen the instructions written in red. I gingerly mentioned that I had been directed by the Inspector himself.

She emotionlessly asked me to come the next day, since payment wouldn’t be accepted after 1:30 p.m. The time was 3:45 p.m.

Fair enough.

The next day, very determined, I walked into the RTO office with my application, onto which my old driving licence, along with a photograph and a copy of my ration card, were stapled. I went to the same counter, where another lady clerk was sitting. Yesterday’s lady was nowhere in sight.

After waiting for my turn, which was easily about twenty minutes later, I had to satisfy her blank stare by explaining matters all over again. This time, the lady explained that they didn’t accept cash payments and that payment had to be made via an Akshaya e-kendra, with the payment receipt attached to the application.

So now, where could I find an Akshaya e-kendra?

And why on earth hadn’t someone mentioned this yesterday?

The Akshaya e-kendra, which was about a kilometre away, was manned by two ladies who were beleaguered by questions from impatient people waiting for their turn. But I must say that, in spite of the hectic workload, the lady who attended to me was extremely helpful. When she learnt that I also required a change of address on the new licence, she opined that I needed to apply only for the same by paying a fee of Rs. 250 instead of the Rs. 550 prescribed for a duplicate licence. It made sense to me, and I obtained the receipt.

I hurried back to the RTO office, stood behind a longer queue and, when my turn came, triumphantly handed over the documents to the lady behind the counter. She scanned through them again and told me that I had to pay Rs. 550 and not the reduced amount. She was not prepared to listen to my logic and dismissed me with a vacant expression.

I was back to the helpful lady at the Akshaya e-kendra, who had learnt something new through my experience. So had I.

The next day found me once again at the RTO office, predictably facing another clerk — this time a physically challenged, middle-aged man with a pleasant smile. When my turn came, he glanced through the papers and discovered that the copy of my ration card attached to the application required an attestation. He directed me to the employment office nearby.

I had no other option but to rush to the saviour who was going to decorate the copy of my ration card with his green signature. A wait of fifteen minutes outside the director’s office — he was on the phone — and I was informed curtly that he was too busy to attest documents in the mornings. If I wanted, I could come in the afternoon. Nonetheless, the obliging person directed me to the agricultural office on the first floor, where, he claimed sarcastically, there were about four or five practically jobless officers who could help me out.

I thanked him for his guidance and, without bothering with the agricultural office, took my chance with the nearby Economic and Statistical Department, whose accommodating director helped me out without any qualms. Bless him!

Thankfully, the RTO clerk had no other ways to torment me, and the rest of the procedure was speedy.

I don’t know why, but surprisingly, instead of feeling angry and irritated at the time-consuming process, during which I had to forego three days of productivity, I was left with a strange feeling that I had achieved something great on my own. Perhaps, after all those queues, counters, signatures, receipts, photocopies and people who sent me from one office to another, getting that driving licence renewed had become less a government procedure and more a personal achievement.

And, for some inexplicable reason, I was rather proud of myself.