The Unnamed Tax Officer

I was nervous as I parked my bike at the Kochi Tax Office. I think they call it Tax Bhavan. I had quit my job a couple of months earlier and started my own cybersecurity company. I was on the verge of getting my first project when I was informed at the bank that I must have a service tax registration (later to become GST) to open a current account and encash my first cheque.

I must admit that all I had fighting in my corner was my knowledge and confidence in cybersecurity. I didn’t understand any business-financial terms. To me, a current account was something meant for paying electricity bills, and capital had more to do with alphabets and, of course, big cities!

But now, I find solace in the fact that, even with such limited know-how, one can still become an entrepreneur and make a decent hash of it. I am living proof of that.

That morning, I had visited a chartered accountant—the kind of person who is supposed to handle things like tax registration. One look at him and I knew that, apart from being a chartered accountant, he was also a pastor. The man was attired in pure white, sported shoulder-length white hair, and had a flowing beard that reached his chest, with a cross pinned on his shirt lapel. He looked like Moses.

You must have seen them—the self-righteous kind who talk about kingdom come, the good lord’s kindness, and stuff like that. But the fee he demanded wasn’t kind at all. He wanted Rs. 3,000 for getting my job done.

I did not have that much money. I mumbled an excuse and quietly left his office.

Now, extraordinary circumstances demand extraordinary action. I decided that, come what may, it was time for me to deal with the government directly.

Looking back now, it feels like a Richard Branson kind of decision. Imagine him banging his fist on the boardroom table and declaring—“Sod it! It’s time for me to deal with the government directly!” It’s got a nice ring to it.

But I don’t think Richard Branson has ever dealt with the Government of India. The last picture I saw of him on a news website ticked all the boxes for someone who has never dealt with the Government of India—well, at least not directly. He looked healthy, was smiling, and most importantly, all reports about him suggest he remains sane. In 2004, we weren’t ranked 116 out of 155 countries in the World Bank’s Ease of Doing Business Report for nothing.

So, as I stepped into the foyer of the huge tax office, my heart was beating quite fast. I had heard horror stories of corrupt officials and unending bureaucratic red tape. I politely inquired at the reception about registering for service tax. A serious lady pointed to an adjacent office and told me to, “Go meet the Sir inside.”

As I took a deep breath and walked towards the door to meet Sir, my current situation flashed in my mind. I was living with my younger sister, with zero income, and we survived on her salary of Rs. 6,500 per month, from which we managed our rent, food, and everything else. Don’t ask where our parents were—that would bring up the nauseating stench of alcohol, violent nights, abandonment, probing questions from nosy neighbors (“Hey, don’t your parents visit?”) and all the associated filth—let’s end this story nicely.

What mattered now was—I needed this document, the service tax number—to incorporate my business, to open a bank account, and to earn some money because I wanted to go beyond mere existence. I wanted to live, with dignity.

Peeping inside the door, I saw a bespectacled, studious, middle-aged gentleman. I politely asked if I could come in. He nodded affirmatively and inquired about the purpose of my visit. Standing in front of his desk, I stated my requirement. He asked for my PAN (Permanent Account Number) card, which I handed over.

Now, I was anticipating that at any moment he would ask for a bribe. After all, it was just the two of us in the room. At least, that was the impression given to me by my friends, who had advised me to go through a middleman. In India, there were always middlemen. They managed such things. This wasn’t my territory at all.

After noting down the PAN number in his notebook, he stared back at me with a studious look that seemed to ask, “Ok! Now what?”

Nervously, I asked him when I could collect the document. He thought for a moment, looked at his watch, and asked, “Did you have lunch?”

The time was 12:45. I thought, This is it! He wants me to treat him to a lavish lunch— maybe he was being kind and avoiding money because I was quite young.

I politely murmured, “No, I haven’t.”

He replied, “Why don’t you have your lunch and come back? Your document will be ready by then.”

I blinked my eyes and thought to myself, No, it can’t be so easy. Things haven’t been easy so far, and there’s no valid reason for this to become easier now.

So, mustering all my courage, I muttered with diplomatic caution, “How much should I pay for this?” I strategically left enough room for him to interpret it any way he wanted. Such refined, diplomatic skills would aid me later in life.

He nonchalantly replied, “It’s free. The government wants to encourage businesses to self-register for service tax. So, come back after lunch, and I’ll have it ready.”

So much for refined strategy and diplomacy.

I just stayed quiet for a moment, digesting what he said. Then, I politely thanked him and walked out of the building in a daze. If he had asked for money or anything else in kind, I couldn’t have afforded it. I wouldn’t have been able to start my company. I wouldn’t have even known what to do. But in the end, it all turned out to be ridiculously easy.

Though it was a blazing hot summer day, I was smiling as I rode my bike in search of an affordable lunch. I couldn’t help thinking about the Moses-like chartered accountant demanding Rs. 3,000 for a document that was essentially free. Yes, a service charge would be acceptable. Or, he could have told me how easy it was to get it done by myself.

I wondered if the real Moses would have ever demanded that from someone like me—a genuine representative of struggling mankind.

I finished my lunch and returned to the tax office. The lady at the reception, still serious (and I will never know why), saw me approach and quietly handed me my service tax certificate. I didn’t even have to ask. It was printed and ready.

As I collected it, it felt like receiving an Oscar.

Twenty years later, as I write this, I can still recall the last four digits of my service tax number—08/08. And in my mind’s eye, I can see him—the unnamed tax officer—bespectacled, studious, in a simple white shirt. For him, it was just another day at work. But for a young and struggling entrepreneur, it was a life-changing day. Back then, where I was, it made all the difference—and it still does to this day.

Wherever you are, Sir, I just want to tell you this—Thank you.