Thursday 16th October

If there’s something that Indians love, it’s bureaucracy. Papers, orderly queues, forms, documents. Today, we have to register with the Indian government, presumably to reassure them that we are not creating nail bombs for terrorists or opening a sweat shop for nimbled-fingered children to make Western-branded sports gear. As we queue at 8 am outside the Foreign Registration Office, it’s unclear whether any of our punctual, baggy-eyed group could cause subversion at the best of times. An American teenager with her hair in tiny dreadlock-plaits reads an Amitav Ghosh novel. A wiry, pasty Russian peers down his rimless glasses into the dusty air.

We’ve all signed our names on a torn-off piece of paper, next to hastily-scribbled numbers which tenuously denote our place in line. In the meantime, the office is not due to open for another 90 minutes. We leave Michelle glued to her Hindi phrasebook marking our place while we venture out for coffee. On our return, a scrum has appeared around the entrance, as people attempt to assemble themselves in numerical order. It’s like some corporate ice-breaking game, but instead of teamwork it’s every man for himself. Michelle is screaming at an Armenian who has brazenly placed himself in spot number three.

“No!” she shouts, as only a native New Yorker could, “that is NOT OK.” Her red-rimmed eyes are blazing, “There are NUMBERS!” Those in the back of the queue don’t know whether to nod in agreement or cower in embarrassment. A few Philippina women shrink in fear. The Armenian gentleman just grins. He is as resilient as a punchbag to this barrage of American abuse. A small, plump Kosovan child walks up and brazenly begins to bash at the tiger-shaped buckle on my belt, just inches from my crotch, while his mother looks on and laughs. The Afghan visitors, who have an entire line to themselves, push themselves up against the wall, keeping out of this particular diplomatic spat. “Chaos!” shouts the wan Russian with glee. “This country runs on chaos!”

The country does not, in fact, run on chaos. On the contrary, it is ground down by its own bureaucracy. It’s commonly known that the greatest lasting legacy of the British colonial days is not tea, or gin and tonic, but a civil service so complicated it would make Chairman Mao blush. Around 21 million Indian workers are employed by the government. They earn a modest amount more than the average Indian, but salaries can of course, be supplemented by a little bribery and extortion on the side. Moreover, it’s the kudos that matters. The paycheck that buys the new TV for Diwali is nice, but the uniform and ID card brings a level of deference that can be brought out at teatime every day of the year.

Government officers from indiscernible offices are chauffeur-driven in white Beetles around the city, small Indian flags waving on the dashboard before them. They pass effortlessly through no entry signs. Uniformed men, doing apparently nothing, stand at stop points, wearing headgear of varying degrees of flamboyance. Today, one stands at the entrance, peacock-preened, grasping the soggy scrap of paper with our numbers on it, It is meaningless in the face of his turban. What the man in the orange and green hat says, goes.

It’s not the last we’ll see of a government worker that day. In the afternoon, we wander around Connaught Place, looking for an office where we can book some train tickets to Jaipur. “What you looking for?” asks a man in Khaki trousers and sweat-free blue cotton shirt. We ignore him – we’re used to the hassle now and too hot and bothered to be polite. “No, look,” he says, “I work for government,” He takes out his wallet and shows me his ministry ID. “I take you to government office. They book tickets for you.”

On the way, our civil service friend explains his job proudly to me. He works in the tax department. He wants to move to London, he explains gently – to live with his brother in ‘big house in Hounslow’ - but the British government won’t give him a visa. “Until I find wife and make myself marriage,” he says, leaning over and opening the door to the travel agent. True to his word, the office is efficient and ten minutes latee we emerge, not only with transport to Jaipur, but a chauffeur-driven, air-conditioned car at our disposal for sight-seeing all weekend, and directions to the nearest bar to get a decent pint on draught.

Of course, not all Indian government officers are as straight-wheeling. Take as an example the heavy policeman, mounted on an enormous motorcycle, who decided to hail is a tuk tuk and happily (and illegally) cram four of us in the back for a ‘decent price’. The tuk tuk driver, nodding vigorously, gestured in agreement. In New Delhi, 400,000 rickshaw drivers are unlicensed and operate illegally. Suffering beatings and extortion from police is what keeps them on the road.

Under Article 311 of India’s constitution, it is almost impossible to fire or demote a government worker. This means that there are more civil servants than there are useful offices. It also means that no amount of imploring on the part of bribed constituents can bring them justice. Corruption is a way of life in India. In the 1970s, Indira Gandhi, when asked about the high levels of bribery and extortion in the government, simply replied: “What can you do about it? It’s a global phenomenon.”

Back in the queue for the Foreign Registration Office, tensions are running high. While Michelle tries to drum up a multinational force to push the Armenian to the back of the queue, I am still battling to protect my dignity against the giggling Kosovan kid. In the meantime, various office employees shuffle papers, make scummy chai, sweep non-existent detritus from the floor, and attempt to look busy, while anarchy descends between nations.