In the Bowels of the Monster

After a hectic day of wondering around the ancient temples of Kujarhao, I arrived back in Satna at 21:30, content for having two hours and half before my train. Enough time, I thought, to retrieve my luggage from the Cloak Room (the British name for baggage custody), have a quick shower and eat dinner, when I discovered my baggage receipt is missing- I must have mistakenly thrown it away during the day. Not a big problem, I hoped, wrongly assessing the determination of the monster of Indian Bureaucracy.
"I can not help you sir", shouted the cloak room clerk, "Come back tomorrow with a court bond and I'll give you your luggage back."
"But my train is due in two hours...Look", I tried appealing to his common sense, "My name is written on the bag, and inside it there's a copy of my passport..."
The clerk sensibly claimed that while my passport can be easily forged in any half-descent laboratory, the receipt (needless to say, a plain piece of paper) is a formal document of the Republic of India and therefore irreplaceable.
Determined not to give up, I went to the station manager, who listened to my story sympathetically and instructed me to report to the GRP (Railway Police office). The constable made me write a formal complaint (in two copies), then passed it to the Sergeant, who passed it to the GRP commander. At this stage (90 minutes to my train's departure) I cautiously tried the old Baksheesh:
"In my country it is possible to pay an immediate fine, couldn't I just..."
"No, I'm sorry but we have very strict rules here in India", said the commander, and sent me, along with his Sergeant, with a rickshaw to the Satna Police Department.
Thirty minute later I found myself in a police jeep with five local policemen, wondering the dark streets of Satna in search of a civil court notary who could issue the necessary bond. 50 minutes to T time, I started to enjoy the situation, realizing the with all due respect to the elaborate erotic sculptures of Kujarhao, this cruise in the police jeep will be the thing I remember the most of this day. The first attempt was rather unsuccessful: the clerk's wife came out yelling something in Hindi- I imagine he was asleep or simply couldn't be bothered with stupid foreigners loosing their receipts. The second one, however, was quite cooperative, and after filling yet another form and paying the sum of ten Rupees (1 shekel!) I got the priceless court bond.
The adventure climaxed with me running on the platform, all my possessions restored, just in time to board the train to Varanasi.
If you learn nothing else about India, learn this: Never appeal to a bureaucrat's common sense, and never, ever, lose your Cloak Room receipt.