This time, I was ready. I had bought 100 Rs. (=100 minutes) on my phone (all of which would be used up by the end of the day) so I could call back and forth to Jaipur. As my uncle and cousin waited in the waiting room, I went inside got my paperwork started to be processed--my uncle wrote a note saying I was living with him in Mumbai and I produced whatever papers I could find that showed I had studied with a registered program in Jaipur. I called my professors/director of the study abroad program in Jaipur and told them about how I needed the Jaipur FRO to respond ASAP to the communication that the Mumbai FRO sent via fax, and one of my professors was headed over to the Jaipur FRO with a folder holding papers about me to present my case. That is when the lady I was working with informed me that it was my responsibility to get the phone and fax number of the Jaipur FRO--of course, it's not like all of the government offices in different states actually have a directory of phone numbers for or methods of communication with each other!
As I kept calling Jaipur to check up on the status of my case being made there, I was informed that I was not allowed to use a cell phone in the FRO waiting room (even though somehow, I was supposed to conjure up the number for the Jaipur FRO myself). So, running in and out of the office every few minutes, an hour later, I found out that my professor had reached the FRO in Jaipur and was explaining my case. I asked him to please tell me the fax and phone numbers for the government office he was in...and he informed me that apparently, there was no land-line phone number, nor was there a fax machine...yes, that is correct, the government Foreign Registration Office of this large and well-known city has no phone number.
Many frantic phone calls later, I finally had a random cell phone number and the number of a fax "nearby" which the Jaipur FRO officer relayed through my professor. By this time it was almost 1pm. A fax was sent from Mumbai to Jaipur asking them to confirm that my exiting the country was O.K. I thought my work was almost done and my paperwork would be processed now. But I breathed a sigh of relief too quickly.
The lady who was processing my paperwork informed me I had yet to fill out an exit permit, which could be done on one of the computers, put passport pictures of myself (which I did not have) on it, write a long letter about why I was in the situation I was in, and do a million other pieces of paperwork, each of which she only told me about when I thought I had turned the last piece of paperwork in. Running in and out of the waiting room (which had now emptied of foreigners since it was after 1pm--only my cousin and uncle remained sitting there) one good thing happened-- through our many interactions the lady who was processing my paperwork had softened a bit toward me and told me that though this was a lot more work for her and she had a lot of other people's paperwork to do, she would process mine if the fax from the Jaipur FRO came back in time--it would have to arrive before 3pm or there was no hope of my paperwork being processed.
My cousin and I ran across the street to a small Kodak shop to get passport photos. When the man handed me my pictures, I asked for my 50 Rs. change back (the pictures had been 50 Rs. and I had handed a man 100 Rs.), to which the man giving me my photos said that the man I had initially given my money to had left for namaz and did not tell anyone that I needed change. By this point, I was quite enraged, but there was nothing I could do--50 Rs. is just a little over $1, but I was determined to not be cheated and vowed I would come back (it was the principle of the matter!). But right now, I had to run back with my photos and make sure my paperwork was processed on time.
We ran back across the street when I got the phone call from my professor, still at the Jaipur FRO, that a fax had been sent back to Mumbai! Jumping for joy, I crowded into the lift and ran into the 3rd floor office once more, where I was informed the fax had reached. I filled out paperwork, signed, pasted photographs, and xeroxed forms for the next hour and finally was informed that all I had to do was pay a $30 fine. Pretty peeved since this was clearly the Jaipur FRO officer's fault, I got a yellow receipt from a lady at the front desk (I wanted to see if I could be reimbursed from my program). However, the lady that had processed my paperwork took that receipt for her records so I went back to the lady who had given me a receipt and asked for the white copy. Setting her jaw and not even bothering to look for my copy, she said she had given me a receipt and she didn't have any other copy--"mera kam khatam" (my work is over), she said, crossing her arms and not budging. No matter what I said nicely (the only other people in the room were my uncle, cousin, and the xerox man who agreed with me that she had not given me the correct receipt), she just kept repeating "mera kam khatam". Having been in the FRO for over 6 hours now, I was more than a little angry and each repetition of the phrase riled me up a little more. In slightly broken Hindi, I proclaimed that I was not leaving without my receipt and started rifling through the papers on her desk myself (my cousin and uncle looked on slightly amused--later on, my cousin told me she was going to come help me with the bullish receipt woman but it seemed I was taking care of myself just fine). I broke through the last barrier of the bureaucracy, as my rifling through her papers finally pushed her into action. Kind of sheepishly (though never admitting any mistake), she found my receipt and I left the office triumphant, 7 hours after I had first entered. I had an exit permit dated for June 7--if for some reason I was unable to leave the country today, well...I didn't want to think about that.
I ran back across the street to the photographer's office and demanded my 50 Rs. Back from namaz and apologizing under what I like to think of as my withering glare, he handed over my money and I rode home reveling in my small victory.
At the airport, my uncle's driver unloaded my luggage from the trunk for the third night in a row. Begging me to please catch the plane this time, I tried to reassure him that I would (really hoping I was right this time). When I walked into the airport, all of the Continental greeted me by name--the ones checking passports, managing the lines, and at the check-in counters. As I pushed my trolley and pulled up my now over-sized jeans, I flashed them wide grins. The nice man who had escorted me around the night before asked if I had my registration as he checked my passport again and, a little loudly, I waved the prized piece of paper that had been stamped, signed, and had my picture on it--my exit permit-- in his face."I CAN LEAVE INDIA NOW!!!" (he looked around a little embarrassedly at my volume, but flashed me a quick smile, congratulated me, and walked away). I sailed through Immigration on a cloud.
Of course, monsoon had just started in Mumbai, I went through a million extra security checkpoints after reaching the gate for some reason, and everyone on my plane sat in a room behind the gate for about 3 hours in the muggy humidity before a man yelled up a storm to the poor airport staff for not having AC in the room (they finally brought two jumbo fans down). When I got on the plane, I learned that because of the rains, they needed to reduce the weight of the plane so about half of the passengers were not flying with us anymore; however, their luggage had already been loaded and needed to be unloaded. After another couple of hours of sitting at the gate, the plane finally lifted off and we were informed the in-flight entertainment system was not going to work. At this point, I really didn't care--I stretched out on 3 empty seats and slept for 14 hours straight. I was finally going home.
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