A four hour marathon to get a notarized signature: Tales of Dickens – Last week Bert had to get some paperwork notarized.  Now, in America this is simple: almost every bank, and most organizations, have a notary public who will, for a very small fee, notarize papers.  In Germany you can find notaries easily and they charge you an arm and a leg and the outrageous prices are well known.  There is a lot more mystery to it here.  Neither of Bert's Indian associates  (H and S) knew exactly how to get a document notarized.  They knew that notaries existed near the law courts in downtown Delhi. The junior associate (S) had some lawyer friends who said they could get this sorted, and so off Bert and S went to the law courts in one of Delhi’s last days of the 2010 monsoon.  H wisely surmised that his time would be better used at the office.

 The law courts were swarming with people moving in all directions but unwilling, or unable, to help.  It first took Bert and S 30 minutes to find the right gate to the Delhi High Court to enter—with cars and mud blocking progress in all directions.  When they entered, they were greeted by an odd combination of Dickensian England, Kafka, and present day Bollywood: many young and serious looking lawyers, wearing no wigs but a kind of false subfusc front—as if they were all going to final exams at Oxford. Some of the women lawyers wore black and white saris with this subfusc tie of sorts on the front—everything was in black and white, with some of the larger lawyers sweating in the humidity with their pinstriped worsted trousers and the subfusc tie.  After a series of false leads Bert and S found a sign pointing to “oaths commissioner.”  The doorway it pointed to was entrance to a muddy courtyard with a bungalow planted in it—with only two feet between it and the ancient looking High Court building.  To make matters worse, there were Styrofoam trays with half eaten thalis on the ground, puddles everywhere, and the building occupying this courtyard was in complete scaffolding.  They uncertainly circled the building, trying to avoid the puddles, food remnants, scaffolding bars, and scurrying  lawyers and their assistants,  and they found the only door showing the way to the “Typing Pool”. Inside were even more scurrying people with desks all around the perimeter.  Giant Remington typewrites still clacked their way through 4 carbon copies while nervous petitioners waited respectfully.  A few typists had computers vintage 2000—and all around young silent servants were bringing tea.

S luckily found one typist who was typing with the sign of the bank which S’s father is currently heading.  Tentatively, he asked the man (60 years old, quite “healthy” and very officiously busy) if he could help notarize something for his boss out of the US (mention of the US often helps).  Notarize?  Not the right department, the man said and went back to his work.  Very luckily, however, S seemed to recognize the man. He commented, "Don't I know you from somewhere?"  This man is a relative of S's extended family and his daughter is getting married to one of S’s cousins.  S kindly asked the right questions about the upcoming nuptials and the man was suddenly helpful—even more as he recognized that S’s father was the head of the bank for which he was in some way the official typist in the Delhi High Court. He demanded we sit down amidst the hubbub of typing and perspiration of others trying to find a way into the power structure that is India’s legal system. After procuring tea, the man was able to obtain a beautifully ornate enormous (half a legal page) 'stamp' with a 50 Rupees nominal price, which apparently had to be affixed to our document to be notarized.  He added various stamps and scribbles while an ancient British barrister was lurking at the man’s shoulder with an urgent request. However, there was nothing doing before the affixing of the stamp.  The typist then summoned another earnest servant with very fashionable black shoes, curved either out of fashion sense or as a result of too many puddles from this monsoon season.  He was assigned to lead us to a notary—who had additional mystical tasks to fulfill.

The notary, however, was in a completely different building and hall—Bert and S set off to try to keep up with the new servant, who scurried away.  When they finally found the notary’s office, it was bolted shut with three separate locks.  The servant shaking the door was clearly not going to bring anything, so S called on his mobile (I have to think that the mobile phone has transformed the red tape of India’s Kipling era bureaucracy into a foe that can, at least  occasionally, be beaten) to another lawyer friend.  The suggestion was made to go to Delhi’s district courts—about a kilometer away—so off they went to get out of the huge and swarming complex to the road where S’s driver could find them and on to the next stage of the quest.  On arriving there, they had to find another lawyer without subfusc tie (was he a demoted or fallen lawyer?) who led us to a very correct lady notary, sitting under a tent with  a wooden desk and grubby books detailing the successes of previous applicants. As rain dripped all around, she affixed various red wax seals and many new stamps (nothing nearly as impressive as the pre-notary stamp affixed  30 minutes earlier)—going away on two occasions and with the accompanying lawyer charging a fee  (apparently arbitrary) that competed with the German notaries.  The bold adventurers took their valuable document and headed to McDonalds to revive themselves after this bewildering experience.  It is amazing what a Maharaja Mac or Paneer Salsa Wrap  can do to revive the body and soul!. :)

The valuable document was FedExed to Poland before I could take a picture of the amazing pre-notary stamp to impress everyone.  :(