Indo-Bangladesh Immigration: a neatly woven fallacy

I was woken up by this person whose eyes were popping out, cheeks were sucked in and whose mouth smelled of fresh tobacco. He said something in Bengali, to which I responded, “ Bangla jaani naa.” which translates to 'I don't Know Bengali'.

“Passport, passport. Quick. Now!”, he said as he pointed to a transparent '60 paisa polythene' that had a dozen other passports. I obliged to his asking and did the needful. Although it was a little unusual for someone to handle your identity in a manner that was obscure, indignant and abstruse.

I was in a bus to Bangladesh from Kolkata. At 7 a.m. , I boarded it with 5 other friends and fell asleep. And I was woken up now when the clock struck 11. It was the town of Benapole, the India-Bangladesh border. We were supposed to get off the bus and run through immigration and customs and then cross the border to the other side, where the smell of fresh fish, groggy sweat and astounding amounts of garbage-along-the-road awaited us. Not to forget the meandering and careen traffic!

And so we would do. But the process was rather unusual. We were made to sit in a room first and given stickers to out on our shirts that read the name of the travels so that we could be identified. Then, we were asked to assemble our luggage and give it to the porters who would transfer the luggage to the other side. These were normal porters that you would find anywhere in India. Most of them didn't have a badge or even the dress-code as one would expect. They were just known by face. And all this under the nose of Border Security Force. The porters were allowed to enter and exit the border without any show of identification. They were treated like the police, as if no illegal trading or transport of goods could be done via them. They were trusted completely.

These porters weren't educated people doing a part-time-job. They were uneducated, lower-strata of the society trying to make a living. Many of them should have been in school, but were at the India- Bangladesh border being trusted by the Indian and Bangladeshi Security forces to not cause any illegal trade or subsequent harm to either of the nations. They were just normal people, who for 20 rupees( 52 rupees=1 USD) , would pick 20 kilos worth luggage and move on to the next customer.
Oh! Obviously, they couldn't be bribed, could they? How sententious of the police to allow a)ILLEGAL working of school going kids and b) to have them cross the border to a totally different country without any check.

In 2011 in the Rajya Sabha session- a private member's bill was moved by Shiv Sena leader Manohar Joshi regarding illegal Bangladeshi immigration in India. It was withdrawn after the assurance given by Minister of State for Home, Mullappally Ramachandran, about the tackling of the problem and how things would become better after the UID came into existence.

After knowing about the bill and observing the porters' everyday activity, we were amazed at what we saw but little did we know, this was just the start.

We followed the porters to an old dilapidated building that in an unclear, strange, moss-filled, damp, faded and something-that-looked-like-white-colour read 'IMMIGRATION'. It was in bad shape. For some reason it reminded me of Dharavi( No! I'm not exaggerating). The Sardonic entrance was a little less than inviting. We entered the room that could be described in a single word- CHAOS!

As we entered the room, to the right were a couple of tables that seemed to have been made ages ago. The room was coloured green and it had lots of people, some in queue and some out of it.
The reason we were brought there was so that our identities could be confirmed, we could be checked and after all that verification we would we be allowed entry to a foreign country, so we thought.

But those thoughts were only dissonant voices crying inside us. The reality was in front of us. Suddenly someone called our names (yes! The 6 of us, together. How did they know we were together, don't ask! Indian 'jugaad' probably...) and we were told to sign the 'departure forms'. They had already been filled by the travel guys to speed up work. All we had to do was a signature and we would get the immigration stamps on our visas. And so we did, and no surprises- there we were- identities confirmed, all checked, all verification done, ready to go for customs-everything done with a signature... butter smooth! But we weren't given our passports. They were held by this another dude who asked us to follow him.

We exited the building from another gate into a courtyard where our entire luggage was kept. Everything was there. This guy asked us to identify our luggage and keep it aside. We did so. Then he ordered some porters to pick it up. Then he came close to us and talked in Hindi, “Now. We'll go for customs. After that whatever it is you want to give me, just hand it over. No questions asked. Whatever you want to give.” and he repeated the last statement thrice!

We entered a ramshackle building, a little better than the previous one, the walls pink in colour and the corridors filled with spider's web with pan spat all over the walls- yes, a little better than the previous one. Nowhere was it mentioned that it was Customs. We assumed it was because of the large metal detectors, both for humans and for the luggage and about 5-10 police officers.
This person still had our passports. He called out for us and took us to the police guy and a dialogue in Bangla started. After it ended, the police dude asked us-
“So, you are students? What to do in Bangladesh?” he said.
We answered him. He looked deadly and vitriolic. He had our passports in his hand. Only I was talking on the behalf of my contingent. After a few more questions like when we were coming back or where we were going to live, he allowed us to go.

His dissemble attitude was remarkable. A senior police official allowing some citizens, he doesn't know for sure, if they belong to the country they claim to belong to, entry into a foreign country and all this without even checking their passports. No verification done! For all you know, I would be traveling on my father's passport but they wouldn't give a rat's arse. And the metal detectors, I noticed weren't even working, leave alone us-passing through them. We skipped everything. No one opened our bags. No one checked our luggage. No one checked us. I could be carrying a 9mm berretta under my jacket and they wouldn't know. I would have a kilo of cocaine in my bag and they just wouldn't care.

The legitimacy of our existence was ransacked and our passports were stamped- we cleared customs.

We walked ambulatory out of the building where the person gave us our passports. We paid him 100 rupees(less that 2 USD) for the 6 of us and he had the Great Indian smile on his face, “salaam Saab!” he said as he nodded 'bye' and we followed the porters once again.

The border was a gate. The police it seemed were bolstering crimes instead of putting an end to them. The porters didn't have to do anything to get to no-man's-land. Our passports were checked for stamps and within moments we were on no man's land where the porters left us and were replaced by Bangladeshi porters.

After leaving the laconic Indians, the Bangladeshis seemed loquacious. The porter asked us a large number of questions about our hometown, about India, about where we were going and while doing that he gave us some insights on the new land.
We expected nothing from the Bangladeshi immigration and customs. Our faith in 'security' had lapsed and by the end of the process, our expectations were met, candidly indeed.

Our arrival forms were filled by anonymous people who had taken our passports from us and we just had to sign. Now we had to enter a building that looked a lot better than the Indian side. We were supposed to enter and come out from adjacent gates. It was in a U-shape. First, we were supposed to get our passports signed from someone who did something on a computer and took a while to finish the process, being Bangladesh Immigration and then we were supposed to get our bags checked, being Bangladesh customs.

So, we stood in line to get our passports stamped. By that time, I had befriended a porter. He was standing next to us blabbering hay-wire things. And then he asked me to stoop as he whispered something,

“Listen boss.” he said in Hindi, “after this stamping, you will be passed through a metal detector. The security guard there will ask you for some bribe. Tell him you are students and don't give him the money. Else, if you give him less, he will ask for more and then you might lose out on a substantial amount. It’s the 6 of you, which is why I am saying.”

Wo-ow-wow was the expression I had on my face and so did everyone in my group. How open can they be about all this? I mean even a porter knows about the kind of money they take. It’s difficult for the Prime Minister to be unaware of this. And so we reached the metal detector. More than the bribe, it was astonishing to see our names and passport numbers being manually jotted down in a pale yellow notebook. That was the record for the people entering a nation. The guy sitting on the table noting our passport numbers asked us for bribe and we refused and he did not insist again, although he was faking a smile now with his alternate teeth having pan-masala stuck between them and the other alternate missing.

We had taken a U-turn and now there were tables where some dudes were opening bags and manually checking for things. We were asked to do the same. My suitcase was opened and closed. The checker didn't even lift up the clothes or make an attempt to see below them. He asked me what was in there and as I answered, he let it be. My bagpack, still hanging on my back wasn't even opened. Nobody seemed to have even noticed it.

And so we got out with the porter who gave us the information about the bribe, smiling at us as if he were captain planet who had saved the world. And this is where it ends. We paid the porters and they took our luggage to the bus and we were happily in Dhaka, in a 5-star hotel sleeping off with no reason to feel like an outsider who had entered another country.

The officials’ lured faith and trust in us, so much so- that they were dead sure that we did not have any 'harmful' things. And I presume this was for the 15,000 people that cross the border everyday from India to Bangladesh. Every-god-damned-day.

But then, let’s look at the other side. Every day 25,000 Bangladeshis enter India on temporary visas and never get back. And we're talking diurnally since 1971 till god-knows-when.

1 week later, I was among them getting back to my country with my 5 other mates. This time it was even easier, even more hilarious or should I say, even more melancholy.

We were on a bus boarded at 7am from Bangladesh and we reached the border at about 4 in the evening. This time we were on the West bengal official bus. So, we had some privileges, as if we hadn't had enough.

On the Bangladesh side, we were supposed to fill our departure forms and pay some money in takas- the Bangladeshi currency. But we were out of takas.

The deal is that, the Bangladeshi taka is an undervalued currency (75 takas = 1 USD). So, it is not exchanged in India. Hence, we blew it up in Bangladesh. So, we were left with USD and rupees. We chose to keep the dollar aside and pay in rupee. Initially, some confusion persisted and we were told that the rupee wasn't accepted. And the conductor arranged for some guy to allow us to pay in rupee to the official who would stamp our passports for exiting the country. Basically, we would bribe him and get ourselves out of the country. But then my friend found out that we could pay in rupee. We had to pay close to 300 rupees to get out. The bribe would have been much higher. Then, our stamps were signed for exiting and the receipt for payment was also stamped.

Did, I mention- our bags were still in the bus?

While getting out of Bangladesh, our bags remained in the bus. We were supposed to complete all the formalities and sit back in the bus. And then cross the border in the bus and when we got to the other side our bags were checked. Whats more, in the bus we had a conductor and a police official. They gave us a disclaimer. They said there were crooks who would cheat us on currency exchange and that we were not supposed to give in to that. “Okay!” we agreed wondering shouldn't they actually prevent that from happening instead of warning us?

We caught hold of our bags and entered the same destitute building in India. We were made to stand in line that led to an old, wooden metal detector with spider webs on it and the mains switch broken. The detector was switched off or not working- which ever makes you feel better. Whether we passed through it or not, it didn't practically make a difference but it seemed as if the government expected applause for it. We went to the police guy, looking similar to the one on our way to Dhaka. He did the same thing, asked us a few questions and let us go. Our passports were with us. No 3rd party mediator was involved and our passports weren't even checked, forget our luggage. The bags were still zipped.

The indisputable were those who paved way and set examples, or were they the diffident, I for sure was confused.

Having done with customs, we would keep our bags in the bus and proceed for immigration. It was the same process, we would stand in a queue, fill our arrival forms, they would ask us to sign and done! We can now enter India. We are as safe as any India-loving person with no threat to the country whatsoever. As safe and certified as Manmohan Singh, himself. Or was it Ajmal Kasab who was certified safe?

And the best part was this- right outside the immigration office a person was standing with money in his hand, shouting, “ Taka-dollar. Taka-rupee. Dollar-rupee.” Illegal FOREX was happening right outside the immigration building, the forex guy chatting away with the police official at the gate. Incidentally, it was the same official who warned us in the bus!

There is a reason why 30,000 Bangladeshi women are in brothels in Calcutta, only. Whats more? The price for girls is between Tk. 10,000 for the old and 'used-up' to Tk. 30,000 for the beautiful and healthy girls. Children are bought for Tk. 7,000 to Tk. 8,000. (Trafficking in Women and Children: The Cases of Bangladesh, pp. 20 &21, UBINIG, 1995)

There is a reason why the Nellie massacre in 1983 happened in Assam.

India has already sanctioned a $1 billion loan to Bangladesh (it’s largest-ever to a foreign country) and held out the promise of electricity exports and trade concessions. Billions of dollars worth of goods are smuggled across the 4,100km (2,500-mile) Indo-Bangladesh border every year. Making that trade legal would make the official figures look more respectable.

In August 2008, the Delhi High Court dismissed a petition by a Bangladeshi national against her deportation. The High Court ruled that the illegal Bangladeshi immigrants "pose a danger to India's internal security".

The Assam Accord and The Illegal Migrants Determination by Tribunal Act (IMDT) still remain ineffective and the Foreigner's act of 1946 is still not being used for determination of Bangladeshi migrants.

The National Register of Citizens should be updated and computerized and a separate register of stateless citizens should also be maintained. Its obviously not happening!

Assam shares a 272-km-long border with Bangladesh. A vast stretch of that is still unfenced. India says that the large-scale infiltration from across the border was threatening the region's demographic profile. Though the exact number of illegal immigrants is not known, generally it is estimated that about 20 million Bangladeshis are illegally staying in India .Of this number; about 6 million are present in Assam alone.

India seems to be just as confused as the pregnant stepmother who can't seem to understand who the de-facto child is! And guess what- it’s divorced too!!

And when we were just about to board the bus from the Indian Immigration office while coming back from the country in crisis to the country in duplicity, I noticed one last sight that I don't think I will ever forget.

The bus which was parked on the roadside and with the night setting in, it was a little dark. There was a black coffin kept under a tree with a women sitting beside it reading something from a book and a candle lit by her side. It was big enough for people to notice it.

To the right of the coffin, people were taking a leak. Yes, they were peeing-on the road, on the wall of the customs office. With nobody saying anything. Like- right there. As if they were playing a game as they pissed- “whose goes farther, yours or mine?”

And under the same tree, on the other side of the trunk ,behind the woman, a man was selling 'jhalmuri' and people were bargaining for the price, forgetting for a while that they were live humans and someone around them wasn't as fortunate!