It was 11.25 am on a hot Thursday morning. I had been sitting on a hard wooden stool for roughly 70 minutes at that point and my butt was uncomfortably numb. There was no end in sight to my vigil. I was waiting for a notary, whom I didn’t know from Adam, to issue me a signed official document (on a Rs 20 stamp paper issued by the government, no less!) certifying I was who I claimed to be. All this, so that I could move a step forward in getting my residential address changed on my driving license. If…
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