Arachnoid Agent

I’m writing this while on my way back to work. I’ve just driven down to Vasant Vihar to inspect the house and curry favour with its owner. It seemed to go well, albeit in Hindi. The house was older than expected, but very big against Indian standards. It has two living rooms and a very large balcony. The bathrooms appear to have been fitted out from Ikea’s prisons catalogue. The previous tenant was a Ukrainian diplomat who - with regard to the stains in the bathrooms - might have been satanic.

But please don’t worry (Mum and Jen especially). Should we get the place I’m sure we will be very content. After all, it’s in a cosmopolitan suburb, it’s large and filled with natural light, and it has a Jacuzzi (that calves were ritually slaughtered in). Any misgivings I have about it are neutralised by the fact that I’m going to rent a house in a country whose population outnumbers Australia’s by over 50 to one – and does it with must less land. I will be blessed to have a house in a nice neighbourhood, as many others suffer small apartments in Gurgaon’s moonscaped boroughs.

With the house’s description complete, let me dedicate the balance of this post to spraying venom at the Indian real estate profession (and I use that term very loosely). They are carrion who feed on the dead hope of tenants. There’s no need to censor this rancour to account for any cultural relativism because the goodness in a man’s heart is a universal measure, and these swine have none. Our agent and the cabal he fronts have attempted to deceive and sting us at every juncture – giving us an asp-like smile in place of answers, and playing us off against each other like a malevolent puppeteer.

Today was a low watermark in the transaction, with my having to jump through the agent's hoops alone. I picked him up at his ratshop and drove to the house, during which time he barked directions at Pritam in the most obscene tone of voice. He spoke to me in such a slippery form of Hindi agent-speak that poor Pritam was at a loss to properly translate what this shyster was trying to sell me.

During the inspection of the house the agent decided it was time to see my credentials and attempted to help himself to my wallet. I slapped his hand away and yelped – not from fright but because I think his skin may have been poisonous. After that I removed myself from the building after quickly thanking the landlord for his time (he looked like Gandhi, I look forward to having him over for dinner). I jumped in the front seat of the car to force the agent into the back (he’d assumed the front seat on all our prior confrontations). I pushed my seat back as far as it went to remind him that cars weren’t made for giant spiders. The trip back to the agent’s stinkhole was dominated by my talking at this man using the most imaginative string of profane superlatives I could compose. Interestingly he seemed to understand a lot of it.

Interesting discoveries:

• I have a much shorter fuse than formerly thought

Administrative facts:

• Curries consumed so far: 11 (shouted Pritam one on the way back to the office)

Song of the moment:

I Hate Real Estate Agents, by The Agent Haters

The Bubble

The bubble continues, and is starting to weigh on the hip pocket. Last Saturday night was a colleague’s birthday party so many of us went to a club in Delhi after a house party. Bad night clubs are the same the world over, and paying the equivalent of AUD $60 to get in did not further enamour me to these venues. It's impressive to note that India subscribes to the international convention for naming night clubs, which requires randomly selecting words from Freudian textbooks - India enjoys such clubs as Climax, Elevate and The Red Light. The overall drinking experience in India though is a lot of fun, as it centres (at least for me) around the consumption of Kingfisher beer - an enjoyable and extremely good value brew. This Friday a group of us from the office will be dining at Bukhara, which apparently holds, among its accolades, the recognition of being one of the top ten best restaurants in the world. I can’t imagine this being a cheap night out.

Many people discuss India in terms of a dual economy system. According to Wikipedia:

Dual economy (sometimes also known as a 'dualistic economy') is the existence of two separate economic systems within one region; common in the less developed countries, where one system is geared to local needs and another to the global export market.

I’m going to add a further layer of precision to this definition. I’m going to call it the ‘local vs ex-pat’ economic system. It’s no secret that many things in India carry one price tag for locals and another for foreigners. This isn’t really a big deal, because despite the often 100 fold mark-up a foreigner is fleeced with, it usually amounts to only a pittance if travelling on a strong western currency. This doesn’t worry me at all, but it does irk some of my Indian friends. Consequently, when going out to lunch or dinner in one of the open air markets I’m instructed to stay back or hide behind something while our order is being placed, because if the vendor gets wise to any foreign consumption of his goods then the whole party gets stung with a price hike. I find this amusing. Others don’t.

Yesterday I discovered an interesting reversal of fortune in the local/ex-pat negotiation dynamic. The house we have applied for in Vasant Vihar has, up until now, been administered from our end by Bobby. This makes sense as the transaction’s being handled in Hindi. However, for reasons still a little unclear to me, our application as of yesterday was in jeopardy. While I’m unsure of the details of the problem, Bobby has told me quite clearly what the solution looks like. I am to drive down to see the landlord personally, shake his hand, smile and leave. That I don’t speak any Hindi is irrelevant. It seems in this strange dual economy the ex-pats have the advantage in the rental market. Unfortunately this is not due to any inherent domestic qualities westerners have over our sub-continental brethren. The more sobering answer is that ex-pats only require a finite tenancy, meaning they will get out of the house one day. Indian tenants, it seems, have surprisingly effortless recourse to a court order protecting their desire to stay in someone else’s house for an unlimited duration, regardless of rent default or any other misbehaviour.

On one hand I’m chuffed that I’m a valued point of leverage in rental negotiations, on the other hand I feel like I’ve been pimped for my pedigree.

Interesting discoveries:

• As India’s Hindu, McDonalds does not sell any beef products – it’s all McRoti and McPaneer for these guys
• Delhi has excellent coffee
• India is one of the most terrorised countries in the world. As a result, any public area has airport level security that one must pass through. Malls, cinemas etc all have metal detectors and guards giving pat-downs to all folk who enter.
• The newspapers run matrimonial ads every day. Most ads placed specify from which caste the suitor must belong.

Administrative facts:

• Curries consumed so far: 9

Song of the moment:

Any Punjabi or Hindipop

I’m becoming addicted to Indian MTV.

The Red Fort - Big. Red.

Human Help

I live in a bubble. As I’m here for work, I have found that my life so far has been conducted within the confines of a corporate environment. I am still at the hotel - which is situated, along with my office, in a huge business park. The only available lunch and dinner options are those found in the food courts within the park. Globalisation’s hard at work here and is championed by Subway, Baskin & Robbins, Pizza Hut and the ubiquitous golden arches. My case work has prohibited me from exploring beyond the bubble.

There are a few things, though, which remind me that I am, in fact, in India. To begin with my office has a peculiar amenity called ‘pantry’. This is a euphemism for the superfluity of waiting labour here to fulfil any need the professional staff may have. Food (both purchase and preparation), laundry and any other menial tasks can be left to these guys and can be taken care of without leaving your seat. Another effect of the oversupply of cheap labour can be seen in the extreme cleanliness of everything. Hundreds of people are forever hurrying around with an assortment of cleaning weaponry, eager to buff the wall you just leant against. There’s even a whole team that pulled the short straw for cleaning detail as they’re permanently stationed in the john. You’re never alone in India…

The other ever-present reminder is the different worlds people live in. There is the bubble-like existence I’ve been plugged into, and then there is the impoverishment that exists on the doorstep of my office building. Every morning I drive by families washing themselves in the run-off from construction sites, who live on the side of the road in shelters made from rubbish. Perversely, India’s catatonic environmental awareness is perhaps the chief reason why the destitute have any available building materials.

I expect all this to change soon as Bobby, Prameet (another Sydney ex-pat) and I will be moving into a house next week in trendy Vasant Vihar, in South Delhi. Many of the other ex-pats have commended us on escaping Gurgaon, as they have all grown tired of living in a corporate wasteland. Despite the attractive suburb, the hour long morning commute we will be enduring is a hurdle they’re not willing to jump.

Hopefully this commute will be made much more entertaining by Pritam, my new driver. For the first couple of days I was in the chauffeured care of Vijay, who I’d estimated to be one hundred years old. The problem was he seemed to drive like he wanted to last another hundred. In the cut throat world of Indian automotive travel I’ve discovered that one needs to drive like a hellcat just to get from A to B. Additionally, we had a language barrier that made many trips to and from work frustrating and repetitive. I’m afraid to say that this barrier also meant Vijay sat in the car all day outside my office as I couldn’t get it across that I didn’t need him to wait for me while I was at work. The poor man ended up sitting in his car for about 16 hours until I left the office to finally meet him. My colleagues have told me that drivers are used to waiting, and have pointed out that they are at their employer’s beck and call 24 hours a day. That said, Vijay has a family so regardless of his job I’m sure he would rather spend time with them than sleep in a car in a business park.

Pritam, on the other hand, does not need to be told twice that his services will not be needed until called upon. He has an excellent grasp of English that one could be forgiven for thinking was acquired from television commercials. Pritam’s an excitable man who floods the car with spurts of jocularity and extremely personal inquiry. Much of his conversation is peppered with enriching terms of speech such as “no doubt about it” and “you better believe it”. He is also insane in his interest of cricket – even for and Indian. As soon as he discovered that I am Australian he besieged me with an incredible command of cricket statistics. I started to panic when he almost managed to settle himself next to me in the back seat to talk cricket while he was driving. Once I’d calibrated my nervous system to better handle his company I was extremely pleased. I’d found my hellcat.

Interesting discoveries:

• My office fridge is stocked with cardamom and rose flavoured milkshakes – they’re actually very good
• Indian men hold hands as a sign of friendship
• As an ice-breaker, Indians will typically ask whether you are married, and will always follow up with ‘why not?’
• Last Sunday I visited the Red Fort, which is possibly the largest red thing on the planet after Ayers Rock
• Indians defiantly refer to Mumbai as Bombay

Administrative facts:

• Curries consumed so far: 5 (including one for breakfast)
• Gurgaon (where I work) is one of India’s special economic zones – being an area dedicated, politically, to accelerating export commerce
• Equivalent cost of a standard lunchtime meal: ~$2. This is grossly inflated as the food courts know they’ve got a captive ex-pat market

Song of the moment:

Venus, by Air.

An apt soundtrack for my drive to work.

The Olive Restaurant. Go there to play maharaja for a day.

Culture Shock

Welcome to my blog.

It’s day one in India. I arrived late last night via Singapore and was picked up from Delhi’s airport by a gentleman who spoke as much English as I do Hindi. Interestingly, when asked, he advised me that we were to arrive at the hotel by ‘eleventy’. This language barrier actually proved welcoming as it absolved me from having to explain myself after accidentally tearing the seatbelt from the car upon buckling up.

The ride from the airport to the hotel took about half an hour. During this time I saw no more than five streetlights. Delhi, typically, is not very well lit at night. However I arrived during the five day Dilwali festival and so every building was blanketed in fairy lights. From what I have gathered, these lights (as well as fireworks) are to show Rama (a popular hero from Hindu mythology) the way home from exile. Dilwali is as important to Hindus as Christmas is to Westerners.

My office, along with the hotel, is based just outside Delhi in an area called Gurgaon. I’m currently staying at the delightful Lemon Tree Hotel which is an oasis within the 50km long industrial dustscape that is Gurgaon. There is nothing here for miles, except featureless shacks and factories.

Today I experienced both extremes of human inhabitation of Delhi. This morning I witnessed a level of desolation and poverty that broke my heart; and then this afternoon I undertook a visit to one of the most beautiful and decadent restaurants on the sub-continent.

For lunch I met up with Bobby, a colleague from our Sydney office who grew up in various parts of India. As the irony of international transfer plays out, Bobby has found himself transported back to his native country to live a sort of weird ex-patriot/local life. He took me to an establishment filled with wealthy ex-patriots and aristocratic locals. While the experience of being treated like a god over lunch is novel, it was difficult to reconcile after having beheld the sickening mass of starving and deformed people in Old Delhi, only hours before. Against advice from others, I had spent my first foray outside the hotel gates in the older parts of Delhi – where the aristocratic money does not penetrate. There is nothing there except desperation. The quality and relative value of life here will take some getting used to.

Tomorrow I start work with my firm’s Delhi office. The case I’ll be working on involves a client and an industry that’s fascinating and exceptionally unique. I’m looking forward to it.

Interesting discoveries:

• There is nothing that can prepare you for the poverty that surrounds you
• A shared birthplace with the Australian Cricket Captain makes me instantly likable among the locals, given the sport’s likelihood of displacing Hinduism as the religion of choice
• Indians play cricket all the time, everywhere
• I’m pretty sure it wasn’t cow’s milk in my cereal this morning

Administrative facts:

• Time difference: Delhi is 4 ½ hours behind Melbourne
• Today was overcast, but remained around 27.C
  
• Delhi is referred to as a ‘hypermetropolis’, and it’s only the third largest city - population: 12.8 million