Take it from me, to experience a crushing, painful disappointment is no bed of roses. To get to that point, one needs a considerable build up such as your own lofty expectations that come crashing down; or, perhaps, a great desire that goes unfulfilled for much too long.

I experienced such a shattering and defeating disappointment recently, and sure enough, expectation and desire was the foundation that built it up. But, to my great fortune, this disappointment didn’t last long at all. If I were to provide you with a more precise idea of how long it lasted, I’d say it was 20 seconds, 30 seconds tops. But don’t let that in any way lead you to think that my sense of disappointment was any less crushing; disappointment is disappointment, irrespective of the time for which it lasts.

What set the wheels in motion that lead to my disappointment was my application for a passport one rainy day during the last monsoons. All the needed details were collected, and then dispatched by that guy who became known to us all as Passport-Man, just like the guy who did my driving licence subsequently came to be known simply as Licence-Man. With all that done, our friend with that superhero name informed me that after a month or so, I would receive a phone call from the police station, asking me to meet them for the police verification, so that it could be verified that there were no cases filed against me.

Sure enough, a month later the call came, and I began my long journey to the police station. In the one month that had passed since my application was sent, I had been told many tales of what actually went on in that police station. Everyone who had to go there, I was told, had to answer a few questions, and this was all that this police-verification stuff consisted of. And then, I was told further, the nice policeman would promptly demand some cash. You know, for being kind enough to do his job for you, as a little thank-you to him. The amount of cash that had to be given varied somewhat from person to person. For my brother, it was Rs. 100. For my mother, Rs. 50, and so on. My other brother had the pay the most, something like Rs. 200. Mr. Policeman occasionally did have sudden inexplicable lapses and let the person go away, scot free, without paying a rupee, as happened with my sister. But that happened extremely rarely, and only to females, never to males, and since I was an unabashed male, I would be among the privileged former. So I too would have to pay up. But how much? Would I beat my mother’s record and end up paying the least? Or perhaps I would rise to new heights and pay Rs. 300, thus setting a new record? This remained a cause for much debate. But whatever the outcome, I knew that I was assured an entertaining evening at the policeman’s. After all, this was going to be my first personal brush with that wonderful corruption that I’d been hearing so much about practically all my life, and I intended to savor every moment of it.

Before I left for the police-station that day, my mother came up to me holding my wallet, which happened to hold nothing but a measly ten rupees. She took out a Rs. 50 note from her purse and slipped it into the place where one would keep notes in a wallet. Then, she extracted another 50-rupee note, folded it up, and put this one in one of those many small pockets in the front that wallets tend to have. Then she explained to me what she had just done. “When he asks you for money,” she said, “give him this 50-rupee note.” She indicated the first one in the main compartment. Then, pointing to the folded one which she hid, she said, “This note I’ve hidden, just for safety; but if he asks for more, say that you don’t have any more.”

So armed with a wallet containing, in total, Rs. 110, I entered the police station in a state of queasy excitement, happy that finally I was about to have my very first encounter with corruption. I went in, answered a few questions, and then waited for it. It didn’t come. I looked at the policeman hopefully, he looked back at me as if to say, what are you still doing here, you little turd? And just like that I left the police-station. Had all that considerable build up over the past one month, all those stories I heard about the police-verification, and all my excitement come up to this? An honest cop who wouldn’t take my dirty money? I had been looking forward to this for so long that I just felt robbed. Just utterly, completely robbed. Robbed of a great experience that I would no doubt shout out into the great vacuum by means of my own website….was there any hope left at all?

As I was about to mount the bike in the crushed state that I was in, I heard clapping. I looked and saw another ‘lesser’ policeman at the door clapping furiously and waving me back. Was there still hope? I asked myself as I frantically ran back into the building I had just left, in the manner of one running towards the light at the end of the tunnel. “What happened?” he asked me, and not knowing what else to say, I asked him, “What happened?” “Finished?” he asked again. “Finished,” I said, once again repeating what he said. A little irritated, he sent me back to see the policeman who had just had the gall not to ask me for any money.

I found him looking at me with a filthy tobacco-stained grin, a grin that I instantly recognized as the grin of a corrupt man. He, too, asked me that same questions as his assistant, and I, once again, chose to simply repeat what he asked me. I was much too excited to think up smart answers to his questions, of course. Still grinning, he then said, “What about feej?”

“Feej?” I asked.

“Feej, feej,” he said once more.

“Feej, feej, feej?” I asked happily, thinking this was a silly little game, and more than happy to play along.

With a sigh, he looked around the room and then back at me, as if he had an idea. He rubbed his thumb and forefinger together to indicate money, and said once more, this time more sternly, “FEEJ?”

“Oh, fees!” I exclaimed aloud, rejoicing that my visit had not been in vain. I was being cheated by a cop, finally! Just for a bit of fun, I asked him how much feej he wanted, to which he replied that I could give whatever I wanted. Just as my mother told me, I extracted the 50-rupee note and put it on the table. Now a bit gruffly, he said, “No. More feej. Give 100.” Now here was my brief moment of victory, if I did it right. I went through the motions of searching my wallet for more money in the main pocket, which now had only the original Rs. 10. I looked back up at him to tell him I didn’t have anymore, only to find him peering intently into my wallet, straight at the 10-rupee note. I was about to argue that I needed it to fill air in the bike or something like that, but changed my mind when I saw the other lesser police man whacking a man with his baton outside the room, followed by the man’s pitiful yelps. I then gave it to him, willingly. With a joyous song in my heart, I left the police-station for the last time.

I hurried on home and told my mother my all about my first experience with corruption, and saw in her eyes a sense of pride. She took my wallet and as she removed the 50-rupee note she had hidden, she said, “But see, you saved 50 rupees!” and, contrary to what I was hoping, she took the 50 and put the note back in her purse, with the distinct expression of having made her point, which, even after straining my eyes, I failed to see.

So there I was, finally happy to have it all over with. My wallet was completely empty, but I was truly satisfied. Then, I was struck by the great irony of the situation. When I nearly got away without paying even a paisa, I had felt the undeniable sense of being robbed; whereas at that moment, having been robbed of Rs. 60 by the police (not to mention the hidden 50, but never mind that), I felt the most profound satisfaction. Being a huge, huge fan of the Ironic, it only served to deepen my gratitude to the world, and happier than I’d been in a long time, I sucked on the sweet irony of everything that had happened that day till I was high and flying.

Rolando Alvares writes funny articles on all sorts of weird stuff. All his work, or lack of it, is featured on his website, http://www.rollaword.com

Source: www.articlesphere.com