It Happens Only In India

A recent trip to New Delhi, our nation’s bustling capital, provided some very amusing, if not alarming, insights into the Indian psyche and way of life. The amusement began even before we landed at Indira Gandhi International Airport (IGIA), continued on to the streets and led us right into the hearts and minds of the Indians one soon came to know and secretly giggle and point fingers at, or stare at in disbelief.

1. An obviously jet-lagged traveler who has come in from the United States (for the uninitiated, that's ME) is lying across three seats on Indian Airlines flight 896 from Dubai to New Delhi. The traveler has requested water from the stewardess and popped some sleeping pills. She is now covered from forehead to toe in the slightly musty smelling blanket provided by the airline. Clearly, the traveler seriously intends to try and sleep fitfully for the duration of the three hour flight. Yet, our exhausted friend, having been in this supine position for a quarter of an hour, suddenly has her toe wiggled insistently. The traveler wearily peers over the blanket expecting an announcement of grave and mortal danger. Instead, a stewardess asks loudly, “Do you not want to be disturbed?”

2. Before landing at IGIA, the obviously jet-lagged, and now unable to sleep, traveler fills out the landing card. Too tired to remember, she asks the stewardess the flight’s number. The lady screws up her eyes to remember. A few moments later she says IC 859. No, 958. No, wait. Yes, 985. The traveler thanks her and writes it down. Of course, when the traveler’s father wakes up and fills his own card he tells her it is IC 896. So much for “please let us know if you have any questions.”

3. At Airport Immigration, there is a sign with arrows pointing in two different directions: one says “Indians”, the other says “Foreigners”. Talk about xenophobia.

4. At the baggage claim area, a back-lit sign showcasing the “India Shining” mentality which lauds India’s technological progress (and got the BJP voted out of power) reads: “IGIA Customs. Your feedback and Enquiries. Contact us at igiacustoms@hotmail.com”. I'm sure Sabeer Bhatia would be proud of his contribution to government back home.

5. A sign over a counter reads “Khoya Hua Saaman”. Its English translation below: “Mishandled Baggage”. Quick quick, mere suitcase ka balaatkaar horaha hai.

6. On the way to our hotel, a road sign reads “Left Turn Free”. We seem to be taking inspiration from the Monopoly board. Do we pay for other movements on the road?

7. Speaking of the road, no one can mention Delhi and not mention its snarling, suffocating, interminable traffic that swamps the roads in all directions at any time of the day. It is not uncommon to have a three lane road and have five vehicles running side by side at the same time. The problem is not that the traffic makes you take more time to get from A to B (as is the case in Mumbai, I hear); it’s that driving in Delhi is a dangerous game of survival. Cars are rickshaws and scooters and trucks are all careening into each other without logic or deisgn, and passing you by with an inch to spare. Worse yet, the sane driver cannot help but also revert to such madness or else he’ll be run over by the overenthusiastic auto or the lazy cow.

8. Finally we arrive at the hotel – the Intercontinental Grand in the busy market area of Connaught Place (whose grand old days are long past, its majestic white columns in the market place reduced to dirty grey, dog-pooped and pissed infestations of filth). You are first struck with the general disposition of the staff at reception, and then this quickly becomes apparent in the rest of the hotel staff, and every other store or service counter in the city – they don’t thank you. It is strange that an entire society is ignorant of the power and need of words like “sorry”, “thank you”, “please” and “you’re welcome”. When you thank them (out of sheer habit, if not pleasure) people look at you bemusedly and hastily mumble an awkward “thank you” back. It’s as if these are antiquated phrases they recognize from a long time ago, but which no one now uses. I find it mind-boggling to extrapolate the consequences of such blatant rudeness. If no one thanks anybody, everyone feels unappreciated, which causes disillusion, which causes apathy in the general good, which causes bad service, which causes frustration with bad service, and then you can’t really expect a “thank you” from a customer can you?

9. I mentioned that the hotel was a “Grand”. It certainly looked quite majestic in the lobby. Upon entering our room however, we were sorely disappointed. It was damp and musty, with the air conditioning barely working; the beds were all wrong, the bathroom was worn and in general it was not what one wanted to come home to at five in the morning. I was content at the time with just being able to see a pillow, but my father knows better in India. A nasty phone-call to the reception indicating that we are rich, learned, well-traveled NRI’s who won’t put up with this kind of b***s***, provided us with a swift move to room 1632, which was borderline-grand. I soon learned that this constant unpleasant bullying seems to be the only way to get things done in Delhi, where no one seems to value your time, business or opinion unless you prove that you can buy them out and destroy them in a wink, so they’d better get cracking on giving you their best product/offer/behavior instantly. It’s not so much a bargaining mentality; it’s a lazy attitude to life, where the layman believes "I won’t give my best until I’m about to get into serious trouble". Initially, I felt that the bullying was a rude option that could be avoided, but the Indian attitude eventually gnaws away your patience and you can’t help but start yelling yourself. It’s one of many vicious cycles in India that one can’t seem to break.

10. As I’ve already mentioned air conditioning, as a small aside let me mention that air conditioning in Delhi is either too broken down to be of any use, or blasting out torrents of such freezing cold air that breathing it hurts your lungs. Our driver, Bhavani Ram (bless him) loved turning our comfortable little Tata Indica into a freezer quite regularly. I think Indians still haven’t gotten over the excitement of cooling systems that actually work.

11. For a country with a burgeoning population, the absence of women everywhere was quite shocking. On the plane, in the market, at the airport – there were hordes and hordes of men, but not a single mahila to be found. Consequently, I became the object of much curious and licentious staring, which one found unpleasant at first and then just got used to. The best way to deal with staring men is to stare right back. It intimidates them to see women who are not scared by their leering.

12. Finally, there were the salesmen. These were the most fascinating creatures I've ever chanced upon. Our need for shopping (I'm getting married in a few months) took us from store to store, but everywhere the treatment and attitude was the same. The salesmen plied us with constant coffee, tea, water, cold drinks, mithai? They told us how exquisite our choices were, how unaffected by America I was, how my mom couldn’t be blamed for wanting the best for her daughter, and how my dad’s budget was not being blown to pieces. One salesman kept repeating that he wasn’t looking to make money, he just wanted “ke humari Zeenat should look WOW”. Another papa-ji insisted tonelessly that every suit piece he showed us was “bilkul simple, fashionable aur decent” (as if unstitched material could possibly be indecent). The plump salesmen pushed their skinny minions around with barks and angry glares, as if to impress us with their immense power and prove their commitment to providing us with their best product, even if it meant a violation of every worker’s rights to a pleasant working environment. My father and I were not duped by the attitude, but my mother was - and it was fascinating to see how the salesmen recognized this quickly, and began trying their tricks primarily on her, but without offending the sensible sensibilities of my father and I. At the end, the one who wanted me to look “WOW” (Mr. Tandon) managed to make a sale, but unfortunately when we went back to the store for the outfit’s fitting, he was not around and we once again had to become yelling, intimidating, rich, learned, well-traveled NRI’s who weren’t going to put up with b***s*** before Mrs. Tandon managed to take control and see to it that everything would be taken care of.

There were some other smaller observations made during the course of my trip. Here they are - As Seen From The Car Window:

a. A huge banyan tree fell over with the weight of its drooping leaves. As it fell, a man just escaped from under its toppling leaves, and the (empty) car parked upon the ground where the trees roots were, was lifted into the air and teetered upon them. Unfortunately, we drove by that place and so we didn’t get to see if it fell off or not. Darn.

b. A seedy, badly lit, three storey building, called “Hotel Swapnil International”. I don’t think the hotel could have had a counterpart in the seediest village of Bihar, let alone internationally.

And that wraps up my Delhi memoirs. I’ve learned that India is full of contradictions and contrasts - blinding poverty abides parallel to massive wealth; technological advance means cell phone service that shows you on your LCD screen where exactly in Delhi you’re located, but air conditioners that only serve to give you coughing fits; very clean air on the streets, as a result of stringent CNG regulations, but dirty minds where every woman is ogled at lasciviously without regard for decency or propriety.

Yes, indeed. It happens only in India.