This time, I was there in the queue even earlier-at 9 am. But that was of little help. I was still way down the side road from the entrance to the Passport Office building. However, from 10 am. when the doors opened, the queue moved briskly. I was at the first floor by 10.30 am, and in the queue to see the DPO.

Finally, at 11.15 am, I was ushered into the office. We were herded in, four at a time. The young damsel just in front of me dressed in black looked very chic and was perhaps a model. At least she looked like one.

I could not hear what the first two entrants said. Then it was the model's turn. She put forward her papers-the formal request and payment receipt. "I need to leave tomorrow for Mauritius, sir," she said as sweetly as she could.He glanced at the papers and kept them aside. "Come within two days," he snorted.

"But I have to leave tomorrow, I have a show in Mauritius the day after...""Come after two days," he repeated. She was in tears.It was my turn next. I gave the DPO the letter explaining why I needed the passport urgently. He glanced at it peremptorily. I tried to give an explanation. He stopped me, "Please leave the letter and receipt here." He scrawled something and put his initials below.

"Please wait outside," he said. I went out. Patel said that there was no need to stand immediately outside the door. He asked us to move further away against the wall, next to the toilet, our names would be called out.And so we waited, in the heat and the sweat and the din of high decibel sounds of exasperated applicants. At 1 pm, the DPO's gatekeeper announced my name. I was thrilled. But my joy was short-lived. "Vieira!" he shouted. He handed me the receipt: "Come after two days."
I asked, "Will I get the passport then?"
"No, come after two days."
"Shall I pay the additional amount now?"
"No, you come after two days."
"And what will I do?""See the DPO again."
"But why? Is there a problem?""I don't know. Come after two days."
The gatekeeper was enjoying himself. When Max Weber propounded the bureaucratic system of management, he must have also had `peon power' in mind.

I was back again on Wednesday and again in the queue. Once again, I went through the whole process. Once again, I wasted the whole morning. Once again, I was told to come back after two days. But why? No reason. `Yours is not to question why. Yours is but to do and die.' But this time I was smarter. I had brought a letter from a very high official in the government, requesting the Chief Passport Officer to help, and explaining that I was head of an international professional organisation, hence the need for frequent travel.

With the sword of another wasted Friday morning hanging over me, I had no inhibitions about using this only weapon in my armory. And it worked magic. Max Weber again-the theory of hierarchy and rules and regulations. "Please wait for a while." I waited till 2 pm. The receipt was released."Please pay the additional fee, Rs 1,000, and come back."Why? I queried."We will then give you a date for the passport to be issued.""But why can't you put a date now, subject to the payment being made?""Please come back."Another queue for payment. Another receipt. And back to the queue of the DPO. Mercifully, it was now thinning, and I got in to meet him in just 15 minutes. Just as I began my presentation, he got a call, perhaps from a friend.

In all fairness, he told the caller that there were a 1,000 people waiting around him, and he could not talk right now. Could he please phone later in the afternoon, when he would be more free? I pushed my receipt forward. He studied it and scribbled on it, "Come next Tuesday for the passport." I mumbled a thanks and made my escape.

Four days later, it's a relief to see that there is no queue spilling its tendrils onto the side roads. I walk through the security check and the sentry asks for the payment receipt and tells me to go to Counter 41 on the first floor. I follow his instructions, and find myself on the fringes of a large group crowded round the counter. "Is this the queue to collect passports?" I ask.There is no queue, I am told. Your name is called out and then you push your way through to get your book and sign the receipt.

But the voice of the clerk at the counter is too low, we cannot hear her. I request a person closer to the counter to shout out the names after her. This is much better. It is 6.15 pm and my name has not yet been called. Why? Because the passports are brought in six at a time, freshly prepared, like hot chapatis.

If the issue time is 4.30-6 pm, why are all the passports not kept ready at 4.30 pm? Why can't we have an illuminated board where receipt numbers can be listed so that applicants can see it and take their turn at coming up to the counter? Or at least, the lady-clerk at the counter could call the names using a collar-microphone, so that she is universally audible.

Finally at 6.40 pm, I was relieved to hear my name feebly announced. I rushed to the counter. I was afraid they would close at the appointed closing time, but they were considerate. They waited to serve all those who were already in.

I took my passport and fled, happy in the thought that I would not have to join the queues at Manish Centre, Mumbai, again. And if I do, then I will be able to move on a little faster because mercifully, there is a separate counter for handicapped and senior citizens! The first part of this article appeared last week, on July 9. This is the second and concluding part.

(Walter Vieira is president, Marketing Advisory Services, Mumbai)