Where There’s a Will, There’s a Complicated Way.

          I told Bai Goanna, “We want to make our wills, Shri Husband and I.”

          “Don’t talk like that, haanh,” she said.

          “Don’t talk like how,” I asked.

          “Wills and all, like, it’s inauspicious to make you know, like you’ll die and all if you do that,” she said in Konklish, a language I can understand but not speak. “Why invite trouble, no? They say haanh, I’ve heard.”

          Shri Husband “bah’d” his way into the conversation, starting with “utter rubbish” and ending with “superstitious nonsense”. He made his first will at 21 years of age because it was compulsory where he was employed and has been updating it from time to time. More out of habit than thought, I guessed in my mind; he read it.

          “It’s a practical thing to do,” he growled at Bai Goanna and me. “The next of kin won’t have to waste time running around clerical desks in dusty government offices. Or at least the running around will be less if there’s a will. Easier to handle the paperwork.”

          I sat at the keyboard.

          Bai Goanna said: “What’re you doing?”

          I said: “Typing out mine.”

          She said: “You’ll need a lawyer.”

          I said: “Why? I can write out what I own and what I want to give to whom in my own simple language, can’t I?”

          “Better check what the system really is,” butted in Shri Husband. “Formats, exact vocabulary, know the system before you rush into things.”

          Off I trotted to my kind, gentle lawyer friend, T. She said, “In Goa, you need to make a draft and submit it to the sub-registrar’s office. Someone in that office will write it out by hand and give you an appointment. On that date, you will have to go with three witnesses, pay for the stamps, the fees, and that’s when and how you’ll get your will registered.”

          I thought, I later said to Shri Husband, we’d have to type out our wishes maybe on stamp/legal paper and give it to a notary who will check with witnesses that we’re in our right senses and then take it to the sub-registrar’s office.

          Why, grumbled he, do you think? Find out and do.

          So off I went to find out more. Another lawyer, this time one more interested in getting fees than giving advice.  A young intern sitting in the foyer of his office confirmed what dear T had said and added: “It will cost you ten to fifteen thousand.” That’s a big fraction of what I’ll be leaving behind, I mumbled, stumbling out of that office.

          I bussed-ferried-walked to the sub-registrar’s office to find out from the horses’ mouth(s) what registering a will was about. No one in the front office either knew the answers to my questions or was willing (pun unintended) to help.

          One gent pointed to another to a third before I was guided to a desk whose occupant suffered from Restless Knee Syndrome. I tried to count how many times per second he shook his leg, but gave up because that sort of multi-tasking needs a higher IQ than mine.

          “I want to make a will, to register my will,” I said these phrases in various ways, a couple of times, in English, Konkanni and Marathi before he figured.

          “You get birth certificate, photo id, go to advocate,” he said. “All property papers, your death certificate, everything.”

          I explained, “I’m not dead, nor am I getting estate, I want to make my will for my things to go to next of kin.”

          He looked blank. I described my need in three languages.

          “You got draft?” he asked, finally comprehending.

          “No, I just want to know what to do.” 

          “First you get draft, then I’ll tell.”

“After I give you a draft what will happen? What am I supposed to do after I give you the draft?” He stared at me, at someone else, out of the door, at his shaking foot. Said nothing.

I asked again. Then I said: “Show me a sample, a format.”

Mr Adamant should be made a minister. He has the qualities for the job. He said: “I can’t tell you that now. You get draft.”

A couple of such questions/answers later, he fought with a drawer on his table and won. From inside it he dragged out a shocking pink file with a bundle of carefully tied papers. He showed me someone’s will. It was handwritten.

I don’t know why I expected pearls of cursive letters dropped on parallel lines that would make a kindergarten teacher proud. This writing was the envy of a busy doctor. One could make out the words in context, not really read them. Out of work or retired pharmacia owners could be employed to decipher the script. Maybe they are.

Mr Adamant melted a little and whispered some secrets to me: “I’ll tell you how long the appointment will take only after I’ve seen the draft, haanh, and if you’re married, no, you will have to take your husband’s consent.” Seriously? To make a will of that which I’ve earned not inherited? And more: “Get with you your proof of identity, proof of identity of the beneficiary, and one thousand rupees fees.”

As a goodbye he said: “One of the three witnesses has to be an advocate.”

I hurried home to tell Shri Husband of my discovery: that in the year 2015, when Goa’s aiming to attract high-tech industries and education, we’re still preserving/conserving antique techniques for documentation in some government departments.

As for making wills, we all know, where there’s a will, there’s a way… perhaps to neighbouring states.

Feedback: sheelajaywant@yahoo.co.in