The Palm Oil that wasn't!

“Where is the criminal records department” I enquired from a guard, smartly dressed, holding a walkie talkie,standing near the staff car in front of the new police building.
He blankly looked at me as if I had asked him something he never came across.
Then his lips began to move, his jaws motioned and he said there is no such thing here. I was bewildered, and I stared at him. I told him that this was the address given for police verification. Then he snapped back and, told me to go behind the building, He was red with anger, and yelled at me for not asking for the police station directly. His arrogance exceeded his abysmal ignorance. I thanked him and left in a flurry, I walked pass the building and entered the lane that led to the police station.
In my mind, I wished I hadn’t gone to college that day, as policemen had come to my place for the police verification for the passport. My unavailability got me an invitation to the police station, with all the importunate documents. Few butterflies found their way into my stomach. The idea of a police station was good enough to get me nervous. Not that every other day I go to the police station.
The lane was dark, with a few street lamps, I kept walking, I came across few men, some with a big flab and a moustache, and others with very short hair and a good physique. It seemed as if cops and criminals stayed together in peace and harmony.
I kept going and I met a dead end, then I turned around and asked a couple of guys mending a police truck, for directions. They directed me to a lane off that road. I thanked them and went on and entered the sub lane, I could see an old building, with bright fluorescent lamps outside. Just behind the light were two policemen standing side by side, dressed in khaki uniform, they summoned for me, the moment they saw me.
It was as though they were waiting for me all day long. The one on the right seemed to be the leader and the other cop was the adjutant I guess. The size of the belly was my rule for classification. I walked up to them and asked them the where about of Mr. Nag*, the guy whom I was scheduled to meet at 7:30 sharp. Police verification for passport, I told them.
Then gave a muffled giggle, as though they had beguiled Chennai’s most wanted. I still wasn't at ease in that place, the fear of an encounter or something gripped me. The place was hidden from public view. A wave of paranoia assailed me. Then the leader put his hand into his pocket, I held my breath, my heart thumping, i was drenched in sweat, I didn’t know what would come out, maybe a gun or a handcuff! I gave a sigh of relief when I saw a cell phone; he dialed some number and literally shouted, I wondered if the phone was actually serving its purpose. He finished his conversation and then focused his attention on me.
“Well, he is a great cop” said the leader. I didn’t know why he had to tell that.
“He is in charge for people like you” he blurted again. I was appalled at his diction. He’s talking as if I were a fugitive who came to seek refuge in the police station. Not knowing what to do, I stayed fixed. Okay what next?
“Your case is different, you don’t have the appropriate documents” said the adjutant. Now the soup was getting clear. These guys wanted their boss’s hands greased under the table.
I nodded.
“You are going to go abroad and earn a lot” he stammered. “You got to take good care of Mr. Nag*”, he said. Now he hit the nail on the head.
“So how do I take good care of him, sir”, I asked innocently.
“200”, he answered unabashed. That’s outrageous, I thought, but he is no fruit shop vendor with whom I could play the bargain game. Besides, bargaining with a police man was out of question. I felt like kicking this guy, but that would make matters worse, it would have been 200 for the verification and six months in prison for violence, and maybe third degree. The paranoia addled me. I aborted the plan. “He is in the marriage hall, on millers road”, the adjutant said. I thanked them and left, thinking, that would be the last time I visit the police station. Little did I know that I would be back in an hour’s time.
I made my way through the scree on the road, and them I arrived at the pavement at the main road, the cacophony was unbearable. Rush hour traffic. I crossed the road with some difficulty. I had to cover quite some distance by foot. The idea of greasing his palm made me sick. Armed with the relevant document and of course the gratuity, I kept strolling and made my way to the marriage hall.
I could see a security guard outside. I had the sudden urge to turn back, but I kept going. I wished I hadn’t applied for the passport in the first place. I went up to him and asked him the where about of Mr. Nag*. He guided me to a small room hidden from the multihued lighting, usually found in marriage halls. Some political function was going on, I was at the right place all right. The room had a light on, and I mustered up my courage and walked up to the room. The reverie started again, maybe he’ll arrest me or shoot me or god knows what? I quickly removed these thoughts and went in.
A seemingly old man, with ultra thick glasses was seated there. His eyes looked like two golf balls with a black patch on each. His belly protruding out like an over filled balloon, ready to burst into oblivion. His hair oiled and combed right back to the beginning of his fore head.
I went in, and stammered “a… ” .
“Police verification?” he asked. Then alcohol stench nauseating me.
I was bewildered, how come he knows? And where is this Mr. Nag? Now a different kind of paranoia surrounded me, maybe this place is the head quarters for such heinous activities or maybe more, smuggling, fraud, god know what else? I squashed these thoughts, surely I was hallucinating.
"Yes sir".
He then pulled out a bunch of papers, I saw my form in that bunch, with my photo affixed on it.
Oh so this abominable guy is Mr. Nag*. No wonder his flab seems to accrete exponentially.
My eyes were transfixed on the form. One by one he asked for all the documents and I duly complied. He then asked for my college identification card, I gave it to him. He had a nice look at it, I had never looked with such interest. Anyways let him suit himself. Maybe he likes it, I got the idea of giving my id instead of the 200, since a fine of 50 would be charged for loss of id.
He then got up, the chair flailing, an inking pad in his hand, he then approached me, I thought he is drunk and maybe the festival of holi in his mind, I stood still, with no idea on what was going to happen next. He came in front and asked me for my thumb, the stench unbearable. Now what does he want my thumb for?
I showed my thumb and then hoped he doesn’t chop it off or something. He asked me to press it hard on the inking pad, I acceded as I realized he required my thumb impression.
He then asked me to press it hard on the form, I did the same. Then, he gestured me to the ramada, I did exactly that.
Now its pay up time, I thought. He didn’t ask for it, so I thought I could get away.
But just as that thought came to my mind, he asked me about what the people at the station said. Now I knew I had to pay.
“They said I got to take good care of you, sir”
“Ok, give it” he said, casually, as if it were something prerogative.
I took my wallet and handed over 200.
“You are a different case, as you haven’t stayed here from birth” he squirted.
Yeah, big deal! I thought he’d zip up after that.
My heart felt heavy, but I consider it an exorbitant tip for what i get rightfully, for something that I am entitled to, by birth. That is my perspective.
I left for my place, hoping that I would never see him or deal with any such thing here after.
I walked home with the documents and …
Oh no! My college Id is still there,
Just great, I thought, now what is he going to ask, I am skint already.
I made my way back to the marriage hall just to find out that he’d already left for the station. I abhorred that place and now I had to go back there.
I made my way through the chaotic traffic, back to that pathetic police station, The two men were no where to be seen, I hoped to catch that guy, Mr. Nag*.
I stepped into the building, and saw him, I went and asked for my Id, hoping he does't ask for any tip. He took out the bunch and searched for my Id, he got it and handed it over to me, then he collated the bunch, and I left.
After the traffic, I jostled through the crowded pavement and made my way to home sweet home.
That’s one police story I will never forget.
*name changed