Delhi - 10 Years On

Papaji is so charitable

2010-09-29T16:03:00.000+05:30

It was at the end of September 2010 that we had agreed to vacated our house in Anand Niketan.

Papaji seemed fine with it as he was with initiating the check-out process a few days before we moved out. But once again, he forgot his promise. "I need to see the house in running condition," he said. "It won't take much time".

"Don't worry about your security deposit," chimed Auntieji. "Papaji is not-money minded. He is always giving money to charities."

As it turned out, Papaji was untraceable even when we were all packed up and ready to leave - on the D-day.

The phone-calls went unanswered as did the knocks on the passageway door. It was only on ringing the door-bell repeatedly that Papaji stepped out. "We could not co-ordinate with you because our phone has died," he said, even before I mentioned making repeated calls to his number.

A little while later, Papaji arrived with his Man Friday. Socket by socket and switch by switch, they started the inspection process. I didn't remember the house being handed over to us this way. "Everything is new and everything works", both Papaji and Auntieji had said in tandem. "Don't worry about the living room. Our sofa is arriving from Kashmir and will be there soon. And yes, the main bedroom will have a bed."

Man Friday kept checking for current in every socket and counted the number of bulbs that were fused in every room.

Until he came to the spare bedroom. The air-conditioner isn't working. Nor is the fan. Or the light. It's the same in the dining area - no fans or lights working here either.

Hang on, I thought. My little girl was playing here just a moment ago and the fan was definitely working.

"Sorry, looks like there is no current, " Man Friday sheepishly admitted.

After nearly an hour of checking if the water-heaters were dispensing hot water, the washing machine was working, the refrigerator was cool and almost putting his hand on the electric hot-plate (God bless him), Papaji went down for his calculations.

About 45 minutes later, I knocked on the door. "Give me some more time," Papaji said. "We are just checking if there has been a major damage to the property".

A major damage to the property? There was no major damage to the property. Didn't we just have an inspection?

Papaji and Man Friday was back in again soon after. Another round of inspections. Are the keys to all the doors there? Can the cupboards be locked up? Is the Water Purifier playing music when switched on? What about that hidden bulb? Does it work? Papaji still couldn't find any major damage.

After nearly three hours, Papaji had his list ready. Lots of plug-points needed replacement. All the bulbs and tube lights needed to change. The Water Purifier and Washing Machine needed mending. And some deductions needed to be made for bills unpaid. That, along with some earlier expenses, would come to 10,000 INR.

This didn't seem like the charitable man Auntieji had reassured me about. Unfortunately, she had suddenly taken ill and couldn't get out of bed on the day.

I told Papaji that the bulbs could not and never did work together. The wiring in the house was so old that an attempt to do this could blow up the house. As for the plug-points, they are exactly as they were when we moved in. In fact, a lot of those had to be changed by us as they posed a risk to our electrical appliances. The Water Purifier and Washing Machine never worked, and all the bills have been paid already.

What? The Water Purifier and Washing Machine were not working? You never told us. By this time Auntieji had come in too. She joined Papaji in expressing shock at the Water Purifier and Washing Machine situation.

My better half, who was patiently until this point, just walked off in a huff. That is blatant lying. Why would we buy water worth hundreds of rupees every month if the Purifier worked? And do I really need to remind you about time spent on Washing Machine?

This was the opportunity Auntieji was looking for. "You are nice man. Papaji always talks highly of you. But your better-half should not have walked away like this".

I reminded her of the kind of things that cause anger. Remember the sofa that had set out from Kashmir? It hasn't reached the house even a year after it allegedly reached Gurgaon (some 20 kilometres from the house). "Oh, that. That will never reach here. We were thinking of knocking down the house and turning it into a multi-storey building".

Needless to add, it was pointless to continue arguing. It had already been four hours since we packed up and day had moved into late-evening.

After some more haggling and digging my heels in, we brought the deduction down by 50%.

Suddenly, I could understand why "the previous tenant all his money back, only for Papaji to discover he had broken a few things in the house". The more plausible explanation seemed to be that the tenant just lost it after Papaji refused to return his money, and got his revenge by breaking a few thing!!

Shall we play Commonwealth Games?

2010-09-20T12:46:00.006+05:30

"I enjoy reading your updates," a friend remarked recently. "But there seems to be a tinge of negativism in them".

This is something my better half has said too. No, she doesn't read this blog. Her impression is based on commiserations from common friends about our time in India. "Sorry to hear that you guys are having a tough time," one of them had said.

Call it human nature, but we seem to make more fuss about unfortunate episodes in our lives and tend to ignore the good ones. Why? We are just too busy having a good time.

This isn't an attempt to redress that skew. It is merely an attempt to try and balance the view - if what I hear is indeed the impression readers of this blog carry.

As I mentioned to a friend recently, "I have a love-hate relationship with Delhi, but it is my city - a city I am familiar with and where my family and friends are".

There are many other things I love about Delhi - its green spaces, its long and visible history, the ethnic mix of people, the way it has beaten Mumbai as the preferred destination of those who dream of success.

It is most definitely a city where frustration turns into anger, anger into hope and hope into excitement, rather quickly.

Like with the Commonwealth Games. For months, one only read or saw TV reports of rampant favouritism and corruption in the organisation of the games. Over the last week or so, everyone seems to be pulling together for Delhi's moment of glory.

Even my little one. She declared the Commonwealth Games open on Sunday morning. The first thing she said on waking up was, "Daddy, shall we play Commonwealth Games?"

I am sure you wouldn't blame me for the panic it caused. She is too young to learn about bending the rules, beating the system and making loads of money in the process. I am not even sure if the makers of Monopoly have sought to make an Indian version of their game.

Some of the panic was misplaced. All that the little one had in mind were a few races, covering the length and breadth of our living room.

"Whoever wins, gets a metal", she said. No, darling. The winner gets a medal. No, the winner gets a metal. You are right. The medals are made of metals, but they are still medals. No, it is metal. Fine then. We are in agreement.

First on the agenda was the sprint. Daddy, you have to walk slowly. I can run as fast as I want to. Hang on, wasn't this the kind of rule-bending that organisers of CWG were being accused of? Stop being cynical, I told myself. Just go with the flow and enjoy the spirit of the game.

After being presented with a gold metal and waving at the crowds, we moved to the next event - a hopping race.

The little one had set the rules for this one as well. She could hop or run at will, but I had to stick to hopping. I could suddenly visualise her turning into an able Indian sports administrator. Let me qualify that. A sports administrator in India.

Event by event, I was hammered. "I am the winner. You are the loser," she sang. I tried to reason with her that sports wasn't about winning or losing. It was about participating and enjoying the experience.

But then again, the CWG2010 anthem isn't too kind to losers. It insists that everyone should rise, move forward and win. The chorus goes: "Don't stop. Don't stop. Don't stop. Don't lose. Don't lose. Don't lose."

It does say, however, that the way to victory should be to play with passion and within rules.

And to be honest, though she bent the rules a wee bit, the passion was there. The first day of the at Anand Niketan ended with the biggest metal haul for one participant. My girl one nearly a hundred of them - all gold, of course.

This morning too, she came, gave me a hug and said: "Daddy, shall we play Commonwealth Games?"

Today being a weekday, another day of sporting events was not possible.

However, we don't want this enthusiasm for sports disappear. So serious thinking is on at our household to buy tickets for events that the little one would like to see.

The dilemma of schooling

2010-09-17T11:01:00.005+05:30

So here's a dilemma. A real tricky one.

With the countdown to our return to the UK having begun, a big question is the little one's education.

You may recall weeks spent last year applying for a place in a good Delhi school. The results were 50-50 - four successes and four failures. The little one got through in No.1 (Shri Ram School) and No. 2 (Springdales School) schools of South-West Delhi.

Though Springdales was closer to our place, Shri Ram was where friends from the little one's play-school were. More importantly, it was "the new Harvard" according to a Delhi-based American journalist.

In about two weeks' time, my girl would finish her tenure in the school. She has enjoyed going to the school and made many friends. Her class-teachers adore her and say "she is all her class-mates' best friend".

Each week, she has made sure she carries a "Show & Tell Bag" - sometimes two or three. And if a bag can't be arranged, she needs to know words related to the alphabet she is learning.

Drawing was her favourite activity when she started school. Learning new words - dozens of them every day - is the favourite activity now.

At dinner time, she loves to play the teacher. Mum belongs to the 'Girls' Team' and Dad belongs to the 'Boys' Team'. She chooses the alphabet. The teams come up with related words. You get a point - and occasionally, a high-five - for a right answer. For speaking without raising your hand, you lose a point.

The empty chairs on the dining table are occupied by invisible classmates. Mum and Dad can't hog the answers and credit. The invisible classmates need to have their moment of glory too.

It may just be a fear of the unknown, but her new school is likely to be one that doesn't fare too well in the League Tables.

The admission process in English schools is long over, and places in all the good schools allocated. Our application will be an In-Year Admission To Primary School - which generally results in a place in schools that still have places.

For us, it could very well be Thameside Primary School. The school is within minutes of our new accommodation and has where some of the little one's playmates from Caversham have enrolled.

The Office for Standards in Education, Children’s Services and Skills or OFSTED reported in 2006 that Thameside is "situated in a relatively prosperous area of Caversham, but mainly serves pupils whose social conditions may not be favourable".

The report gave the school 3 (Satisfactory) on Overall Effectiveness, Achievements & Standards, The Quality of Provision and Leadership & Management. The only 2 (Good) it scored was on Personal Development & Well-being.

Not much has changed since then on any of those accounts. Earlier this year, The Guardian placed Thameside at 25th position (out of 34 Reading schools) in Average Point Score list and 20th on the Value Added Measure. The latter is a measure of the school's success in shaping up a pupil from Age 7 to Age 11.

A middle-of-the-table existence isn't totally bad, but then again it doesn't inspire much confidence either. The Guardian recommends we don't break into a sweat - "League tables show only part of the picture of a school. The Sats tests as a method for assessing schools have long been controversial ".

The newspaper's advice to the parents is to talk to other parents and seek more information before judging and choosing a school.

Unfortunately, we are not in a position to choose. And how Thameside shapes up the little one - and nurtures her desire to learn - is something we will have to wait and see.

As a friend remarked cheekily, "I look forward to hearing your views on moving the girl from a First-Rated School in Third World to a Third-Rated School in First World"!!

Where is the chicken in this?

2010-09-16T11:43:00.003+05:30

A few days ago, my wife happened to be in Connaught Place for some work.

With rains having cooled down Delhi, it seemed like a good opportunity to have lunch together.

I toyed with the idea of meeting up at Parikrama, a restaurant next to our office. At 240 feet, it claims to be "India's highest and Delhi's solitary revolving restaurant". Having been there twice this year, I can vouch for the breath-taking view that it provides of the city.

We landed up at Tao instead. It is located at a premises long occupied by Bercos, a popular Chinese restaurant and its promoters have "the experience of serving people since four generations".

Familiarity with group restaurants, like Zen and Chungwa, weighed heavily in our decision to visit the restaurant. Both the named restaurants serve nice Indian Chinese cuisine.

The restaurant menu described itself thus:
TAO is something elusive and evasive and yet it contains within itself, a substance.
It is a path or a road that leads you to a goal.
TAO is not the end but the means to the end.
The destination is determined by the path you adopt to reach it yet it.

As my better half looked at the menu, I looked around myself. The place seemed comfortable and spacious, though a bit more light would have helped.

The menu looked delectable and we ordered Sweet & Sour Soup, to followed by Pan Fried Chef's Special Chicken, Stir Fried Bean Curd With Vegetables Hunan Style and Vegetarian Hakka Noodles.

The soup came with a liberal sprinkling of some green leafy substance. On tasting, it turned out to be coriander leaves. I have to admit this is the first Chinese dish (yes, that includes every Indian Chinese meal I have had so far) that had coriander leaves in it.

On enquiring with the waiter, I was told "customers like an Indian taste in their dishes". He smiled when I said coriander leaves don't work with Chinese sauces.

The table next to ours was occupied by a young family. I didn't catch what they ordered, but the man suddenly screamed - "Where is the chicken in this soup? I had ordered a chicken soup? Ask the kitchen staff to get me a bowl of chicken pieces."

Quite different from our gentle query, this reaction attracted instant attention. The waiter rushed to the kitchen to order warm chicken shreds for the soup.

"And yes, make sure the main course has plenty of chicken too," the moment the waiter returned.

This customer was quite clear on what he wanted of the dish - irrespective of how the restaurant imagined it to be.

Unfortunately, it was a bit late to do anything about our order. The Pan Fried Chef's Special Chicken turned out to be spicy chicken in an onion, tomato and coriander gravy. There was nothing pan-fried or Chinese about this dish. The vegetarian dish of Hunanese origin also had to make merry with onion and tomato.

Thankfully, the Hakka noodles were along expected lines and none of the dishes tasted obviously of the flavour enhancer MSG. MSG is hard to miss in most Chinese restaurants in Delhi.

Our neighbour, meanwhile, was ordering the waiters around. "Hey, this doesn't seem to have any chili in it? And where are the vegetables in this dish?"

In the end, he didn't each much of what he ordered and asked for it to be packed. As did we.

The packing reflected the same professionalism and care that the food did. The restaurant didn't seem to have boxes, and put the leftover in cheap-looking white plastic bags.

Wish I had read the preamble a bit more carefully:

TAO is something elusive and evasive and yet it contains within itself, a substance.
It is a path or a road that leads you to a goal.
TAO is not the end but the means to the end.
The destination is determined by the path you adopt to reach it yet it.

I could have at least taken a path that avoided the restaurant completely!!

Call me 'Rosebud'

2010-09-15T10:32:00.005+05:30

"Call me Rosebud", the little one chirped yesterday.

When I asked her why, she informed me that everyone has to have a nickname. But why Rosebud?

Because this is a nice name. I like it.

The little one gets quite talkative when she goes to bed. Nudge her anytime earlier and she has forgotten what her day was like.

Not at bedtime. Then she wants to talk about who she played with, who she had a fight with and what all she learned during the day.

Her Hindi has developed remarkably in the 11 months she has spent in Delhi. Her vocabulary is quite extensive as she hears Hindi at home, with friends and in school.

Such is her confidence that I am frequently corrected when telling a bedtime story - Lion nahin Sher" (It's Sher, not Lion), "Clever nahin Chaalak" (It's Chaalak, not Clever) and Dark nahin Andhera (It's Andhera, not Dark).

People of my generation grew up caught between Hindi and English. The former was the language you grew up with; the latter you had to learn to do well in life.

Somewhere, our language turned into HinGlish - with the structure and shape of Hindi but peppered liberally with English words.

This has since taken shape of HinUrGlish, bringing Urdu into the mix as well. Hindi TV channels have been a big promoter of this. Quite often, it results in presenters using Hindi or Urdu words where they make no sense or distort the sense.

However, this hasn't dampened the enthusiasm for the language. It now is part of the popular culture, shaping some of best marketing slogans - like Youngistan Ka Wow (Pepsi), Taste Bhi Health Bhi (Nestle) and Khushiyon Ki Home Delivery (Dominos).

So how come my little one is swimming in a different direction?

Probably because at her age, the capacity to learn is immense. At school, she is being taught both Hindi and English. Phonetic English is as close as it goes to teaching Hindi. The alphabets are taught the way they are pronounced and the words come together based on sounds of individual alphabets.

For us, it was A, B, C. For her, it is Aa, Ba, Ka. Just like Hindi, where the alphabet are identified in the same way they are pronounced. So, CAT happens when the sounds Ka-Aa-T come together, not because of See, Aye and Tee.

With the structure and sound so similar, it seems her brain has created two compartments. One for Hindi and the other for English. Any unfamiliar sound, as in the use of a Hindi word in English or vice-versa, seems jarrring to her - assuming she knows the equivalent Hindi word.

An interesting side-effect is that her British English diction has nearly disappeared. It is an interesting mix of American and Indian English dictions.

I forgot to ask her whether her new nick-name will be Rose-bud or a Rrrrrrose-buuudd?

To break law, turn here

2010-09-13T14:42:00.007+05:30

If there is one successful social media experiment from the Indian government, it is the Delhi Traffic Police's Facebook page.

It is the closest police and public come to working together. The Delhi Traffic Police provides regular updates and warns motorists of traffic jams. In turn, the motorists report broken traffic signals or traffic jams they spot along their journey.

No wonder, it is quite popular. At last count, 27,729 people liked Delhi Traffic Police's Facebook page - five of them my real friends (Yes, I am still uneasy about virtual friends).

The community is rather active in establishing the rule of law, having posted some 7,075 photos so far. From illegal parking to fancy number plates to driving on the wrong side to driving a two-wheeler without helmet to driving a car with tinted windows, they provide documentary evidence of all kinds of breaches.

Every now and then, there are photos of men in uniform committing the same offences. Mostly, it is driving a two-wheeler without helmet and/or talking on a mobile phone while driving.

I guess this is what Western politicians mean when they talk about "participative democracy". And in a city with virtually no respect for traffic laws, a definite force for good - citizens working together to bring about better civic sense and respect for traffic laws among fellow-citizens.

The only problem is that even in the virtual world, Delhi Traffic Police seems unable to shed its real-life double standards.

Like on the streets, it is quick to send out penalty notices to motorists reported on Facebook. "Kind Attention ! The following vehicles/owners have been prosecuted by issuing notice on the basis of the photographs upload on Facebook DLXXXXXXXXXXXXX".

However, there is a deafening silence when it comes to prosecuting men in uniform or lawmakers.

Last week, I uploaded two photos of law-makers breaking law. The first was a Government of India car occupying a pedestrian pavement bang under a No Parking/No Stopping sign. The second was of the car of a Member of Parliament driving in the wrong lane, taken some months ago.

As expected, the photos were followed by messages of encouragement from some of Delhi Traffic Police's Facebook fans. "DTP will not take any action.....because its politician car not of a common man," said one. "Dear DTP..i understand ur incompetency in this case...but plz u can even tell this gentleman ploitician about this incident....and facebook too..and let him think......a bad message is going to public," said another.

The Delhi Traffic Police, however, kept a studied silence. Not even an acknowledgement. Maybe it was my phone, but for a brief while it was difficult to located the pages I uploaded.

It made me wonder if those issued penalty notices could challenge these on the grounds that the use of Facebook evidence was discriminatory. After all, all citizens are equal before law. And if one can be prosecuted based on evidence provided my a member of public, the other should be too.

If my journalist friends weren't too busy spreading flood panic among unsuspecting public, I would have sought their help. Or maybe requested them to put in a Right to Information request - to get a sense of how many lawmakers have been punished for their transgressions.

Or maybe this message missed out a key word - "Managing traffic in Delhi during the Commonwealth Games will be a big challange* as well as a great opportunity. Delhi Traffic Police cannot possibly succeed without the active cooperation, participation and support ofall* ordinary citizens".

AN UPDATE : The Government of India vehicle has now been issued a penalty notice. I stand corrected.

* The spellings are Delhi Traffic Police's, not mine

Delhi's newest tourist attraction

2010-09-13T12:06:00.004+05:30

Trust me, this isn't intentional. It is just coincidence that I end up posting updates to this blog on a Monday.

Rains continue to lash down the capital city, with almost the entire weekend being wet. The fearful have stayed indoors, but the faithful have found a new tourist attraction - River Yamuna.

As mentioned in a previous post, Yamuna resembles a dirty stream at most times. Over the years, it has been steadily giving way - with humans moving in with their houses, livestock and crops.

This is prime real-estate and if the occupier is willing to reconcile with the risk of flooding, he/she may end up owning a piece of fertile land.

The increasing temperatures of the past decades have shrunk the river and dissipated the risk of flood dramatically. And if all you had was a few bits of personal belonging, this place offered a chance to set up home.

Or a luxury home - with modern kitchens, furniture, shared swimming and gymnasium - if you had some cash to splash. Which is what the CWG Organising Committee thought, when it planned the Games Village. This block of flats would be worth its weight in gold after a fortnight of playing host to the athletes.

River Yamuna is having a laugh now. Record rains have forced neighbouring states to let water flow on to the national capital - allowing it to claim back the land that always belonged to it. The risk isn't distant any more.

On Sunday evening, the water level stood at 206.35 metres - nearly 1.5 metres above the danger mark. The last time Yamuna caused havoc in the city was in 1978, flooding the capital's northern and eastern districts.

While those with few personal belongings have moved upwards to safe areas, the Games Village resembles an island, surrounded by water. The rains haven't decided to move away yet, but Delhi's residents are coming in hordes to see the river in its full glory.

On most bridges across Yamuna, you can spot stationary cars, motorbikes and buses - as their owners line the edges of the bridges. It almost feels like the floods are a bigger spectator sport than anything that the CWG Organising Committee will be able to conjure up.

This is welcome relief for TV news channels too. Floods in Pakistan were a bit too distant to connect with, but floods in Delhi make wonderful televisual experience. Egged on by creative producers and news directors, young reporters have waded as deep into the river as would be safe.

Of course, it isn't an attempt at sensational or anything. Just an attempt to reflect the "concern ordinary people feel at being swept away by the might of Yamuna".

Ordinary people, meanwhile, watch bemused from the safety of over-bridges!!

Driving across the river yesterday, for my niece's birthday, and driving back - after tea/snacks at a friend's place - I didn't feel the car would suddenly turn into an amphibious vehicle. Those collecting toll at one of the expressways also didn't betray a concern at being swept away.

It was almost 10 in the night, but the tourists were still around. Their cars and bikes parked along the expressway.

Surely, this unpredictable flow of nature is far more exciting than the predictable corruption and failure involved in organising the Commonwealth Games.

You've been boxed up!

2010-09-06T14:03:00.006+05:30

As mentioned in the previous post, the first week of September turned out to be a rather short one.

Apart from public holidays, it also involved some time off to prepare for the journey back to the United Kingdom.

Packing and removal of our personal effects was the first step. This happened on Tuesday when - after six weeks of chasing, assessing, bidding and finalising - representatives of the removals company turned up at my doorstep. Nearly half-a-dozen of them. Some were in the removals company's red t-shirts. Some in plain clothes.

They brought along enough packing material - boxes, packing paper, bubble-wrap, thermocol sheets - to pack the entire house. Quite different from those who came to remove our stuff in the UK. They had to eventually borrow boxes, cello tape, newspaper and old bubble wraps from us.

But then again, there were just two of them to do everything.

In Delhi, we had a supervisor, five packers, three helpers and a driver of the removal van.

The work started at about 9.30 in the morning. Mr Supervisor could that I was nervous about the quality of their packing. "We are FIAM and FIDI certified, and have been doing this for years", he said as I kept an eye on the old man packing the fragile stuff. "In fact, our boss is based out of the United Kingdom".

We have regular work from embassies and multinational companies like P&G. Please don't worry about your stuff. It will reach UK safely."

The old man most definitely knew his stuff. He not only handled the fragile stuff well, but used the packing material liberally to cushion it. Mindful of the ongoing monsoon in Delhi, his colleague put in plastic sheets to water-proof the packed stuff.

Their work didn't betray any sense of urgency. It seemed like this was the only job for the day. Quietly and carefully, they wrapped our life in Delhi - bundle after bundle, box after box. Whenever one of them tried to cut a corner, the supervisor would gently wrap the guilt person's knuckles.

Mr Supervisor was professional, someone who seemed to have rised up the ranks. He most certainly knew packing and was quite methodical with his labelling. Each box was labelled with a summary of its contents, before being stacked up in a corner of the living room.

We had chosen a weekday so that the little one was at school while the packing was happening. But the relaxed pace of work meant she was back before the packers could finish off with the delicate stuff.

The day hadn't begun all that well. Our domestic help had managed to break a couple of glasses before the packers arrived. The packers, though, handled these well and carefully packaged and boxed it.

Like in the UK, the initial assessment turned out to be conservative. The supervisor thought all the stuff would be packed in about 60-65 boxes. In the end, it was nearly 70-odd boxes that our personal effects occupied.

It was nearly 6 in the evening when the packing got over. The driver was instructed to bring the removal van to our gate and, one by one, they started taking the boxes away.

That was when they committed their only mistake. In the rush to finish off the job, a removal guy manage to break a flowerpot of the Landlady. To be honest, I didn't feel too bad. Served her right for what she done to the little one for Janmasthami cultural function!!

After they left, the house felt like it did before our stuff arrived from UK last December. Bare walls. Bare minimum utensils. Bare minimum clothes. No TV. No music. No computer. No toys for the little one.

But I wanted to be Radha!

2010-09-06T12:48:00.007+05:30

Delhi had its own long weekend this past week.

Not an yearly one like the United Kingdom, but one that comes about only once in a long while.

On Thursday, it was Lord Krishna's birthday. This was followed by a day marked as Teachers' Day all over the country and then the regular weekend.

When we were young, Krishna Janmasthami (Lord Krishna's birthday) - was a day to look forward to. It was a day of fasting, praying and feasting.

The morning would start with a resolve to fast and to only have fruits during the day. But the moment the local halwai (sweetmaker) started making samosas, pakoras or dosa, that resolve just melted away.

In any case, it was a day of hard work. Early in the morning, some of us would set out in search of grey sand, red sand and bricks to make a model based on the life on Krishna. Almost always, this would be Krishna's father, Vasudeva - negotiating a flooded River Yamuna - to protect his newborn from the threat of Krishna's murderous uncle, Kansa.

Local shopkeepers sold models of the Vasudeva, Krishna and other key characters of this episode, but one had to put together the river, the bridge, the forest and houses around the river. And to put a baby swing, with an idol of Krishna, which people could rock before offering money or sweets.

Slightly embarrassed to admit it, but the possibility of collecting money was a big attraction for us and other kids in the locality. That could buy us new badminton rackets or cricket balls or tennis balls.

So, the different sands came in handy for landscaping and the saplings, picked up from the park, made for trees. The bricks would mark the inner sanctum of our model temple.

And praying, well, that was left to the grown-ups. After all, they were the only ones with money to back up their religious convictions.

The festival would be over at midnight, when we would get to eat all the home-made goodies prepared by our families.

One of us kept the collection, for accounting the following day. Once the costs related to the model temple were reimbursed, it was time to decide on the shopping list.

This year, the little one had an opportunity to participate in the festival. "I would be Radha. I would be Radha", she chirped from three days before.

The Landlady had asked if she was interested in being Krishna's lady love and the little one was quite excited. Her Mum got together a nice dress and ornaments for the big day.

After having spent most of the day practising dance (our Landlady seems to be Local Cultural Coordinator), the little one was ready for the evening.

Like most social functions in Delhi, this one too had a tent, microphones, loudspeakers, pedestals, chairs and a devotional band to sing praises of the Lord.

The lead singer peppered his bhajans, some based on popular Hindi film numbers, with sermons on the value of religious education to the little ones.

Apart from the old residents of the neighbourhood, most of those in attendance were parents of the kids participating in the cultural function.

The Cultural Coordinator had spent days preparing for the function. But it is the monsoon season, and you can never be completely sure. So, she had arranged for multiple Krishnas and Radhas.

Our little was surprised to see another Radha when the kids' show began. Given the build-up of the preceding days, she was heart-broken. But I wanted to be Radha. I am looking so pretty, so why do they have another Radha?, she sobbed while her Mum comforted her.

It dawned later that there were some last-minute adjustments to the cast. To keep the local residents' association is good humour, the Landlady had made the grand-daughter of the President, Krishna, and that of another office-bearer, Radha.

She did not deem it necessary to inform the other girls. So, our Radha turned into one of Radha's four mates.

But that was only a temporary setback. She was soon on her own, dancing to the Cultural Coordinator's slightly off-key music collection. Some steps she remembered from her practice. Some she made up.

The little one loves dancing. She enjoyed being in the limelight so much that she forgot the disappointment of not being Radha. With Mum and Dad busy taking pictures and video, she felt encouraged.

It was only the lure of a packet of crisps and chocolate bar that drew her away.

Happy, healthy and harmonious living

2010-08-26T16:10:00.004+05:30

By the way, I forgot to mention the celebrations on India's Independence Day.

15 August must be the only day of the year where people - young and old, and from different strata of society - come together to celebrate something.

Of course, weddings and other festivities bring people together too - but these tend to be socially-conscious celebrations.

The morning began with loudspeakers blaring patriotic songs from Hindi films. Even after decades of listening to these songs, they still generate a patriotic fervour.

My little girl was excited to see a tent pitched up in the park opposite our house. The same park where a small birthday picnic for her - earlier in the year - had caused hassles.

The tent was decorated with buntings in the Indian tricolour and the shrubs and trees all over the park had tricolour kites hanging to them. Inside, the cushioned chairs are arranged in neat rows in front of a stage.

It had rained the previous night, so the chairs were still wet. And strangely enough, the wettest chairs seemed to be those closest to the four pedestal fans. It was a tough choice, but the humid morning swung it in favour of chairs near the fan.

The programme started 15 minutes later than scheduled. Which is as good as starting on time. The opening remarks were followed by a "Cultural Function" - which involved children from the locality and those from charitable schools supported by its older residents of the locality.

Each new act was introduced with a lengthy tribute to the person "who has devoted all his energy and time on these not-so-fortunate children".

The grown-ups encouraged the acts with attention and applause, but the younger lot were distracted by Pepsi, Sprite, Fanta and other such things on the snack-counter. Even my daughter started feeling thirsty and needed a glass of Sprite urgently.

With the thirst taken care of, the kids rushed to grab the kites so neatly arranged around the park.

The brave performers, though, carried on - singing songs of national pride and dancing like the brave warriors of India's independence struggle.

Soon it was time for the speeches. Sometimes, I wonder what do these old, retired people do on the other 364 days of the year. Do they practice their speech? Or fine-tuning it? Whatever be the case, the quality of speeches hasn't improved in all the years that I have participated in such festivities.

The head of the organising committee said it was a special Independence Day, as the local Residents' Welfare Association had invited the President of its arch-rival, Residents' Housing Society, to be the chief guest.

"This is the first time in the history of our two societies that such a thing has happened. And I am so proud of this achievement.

"Before we ask the wider society and nation to live in harmony, we must bury our differences and live in harmony with the residents of this housing society".

He then went on to list all the good work that his group had done to make the locality a sought-after address in Delhi.

The Chief Guest, too, was gracious. His simple message to the residents was "Happy, healthy and harmonious living for all residents of this locality".

Both sides joined hands to unfurl the Indian tricolour, let loose the rose petals, and sing the national anthem.

The kids, meanwhile, were busy improving their collection of tricolour kites. And if it needed a nudge or a push, they were more than willing to do it.

It was only the promise of a meal-box that got them back to the tent. The box had samosa, kachori, sandwich and gulab jamun in it.

A sense of deja vu

2010-08-26T13:50:00.003+05:30

Just over a month to return to the United Kingdom, and it seems like yesterday once more.

Smarter from my experience of moving from to Delhi, I kicked off the process at the beginning of July 2010 - allowing an additional month more than the last time.

The process was the same. Me to the Manager. The Manager to the HR Person. The HR Person to the Outsourced Arm. The Outsourced Arm to their Shortlisted Removal Firms. The only additional step this time were the Indian contractors of the Shortlisted Removal Firms.

Maybe it's the time of the year or just how the process works, but the experience was exactly the same as in 2009. Nudge, nudge. No response. Nudge, nudge. We are working on it. Nudge, nudge. A lull in the process. Nudge, nudge. Yes, we are working on it. Nudge, nudge. Panic. More nudge, nudge. More panic. Finally, the packer/mover calls less than a week before the due date to confirm the job will be done.

Fortunately, this time we don't have a flight to catch the day after our stuff leaves. Unfortunately, the collision of MSC Chitra and MV Khalijia may have caused a backlog at Mumbai's Jawaharlal Nehru Port. You should allow six-to-eight weeks for it to reach destination, the removal firm's representative has told us.

Given that a similar timescale for our stuff to reach India turned into nearly 12 weeks, we are keeping our fingers crossed and hoping for the best.

With the clock ticking, we are trying to make the most of our time. On Monday evening, we drove across town to Noida for dinner and pre-Rakhi celebrations at a friend's.

It was a rare weekday evening foray, but we could only brave it as the next day was a public holiday.

Rakhi isn't a festival that registers on your radar in the UK. It is very difficult to miss it here, though. The shops start selling all kinds of rakhis, the newspapers and TV are full of commercials promising lucrative Rakhi Offers. At the school too, they tell the student about the festival.

To the little one, we tie rakhis so that brothers can protect their sisters, if someone bothers them. Right? She had even picked up a song for the occasion - rakhi ka pyara yeh bandhan, rakhi ka pyara yeh bandhan.....

At the friend's place, she was excited to see the girls tying to tie rakhi to the boys. After carefully monitoring the ritual, she choose the friend's son to be her brother - tying the rakhi first, then stuffing his mouth with sweets.

The evening was a nice, spontaneous do - just like the ones we used to have. Good company. Good food. Good booze.

I missed the music though. Our earlier do's would be incomplete without songs, but I guess all of us have toned down with the arrival of kids.

On the way back, I lost the way and found myself on the Greater Noida Expressway. This speedster's paradise doesn't allow any u-turns (through underpasses or overhead bridges) and added 50 kilometres (30 miles) and 45 minutes to our journey.

It was nearly 1 in the morning, but I couldn't help wonder how do people working or staying on the other side of road, commute. I mean isn't it idiotic to expect them to cover the entire expressway twice to get to their destination.

Tuesday was Rakhi, the first time in 11 years that I was home for the festival. My sisters were really happy and looking forward to the day. And given the joys of the previous evening, the little one was pretty excited about tying the rakhi to her cousin brother.

Two of my three sisters are in town, and it was great to have rakhis tied by them.

The little one too tied rakhi to her cousin. The cousin presented her with a box of Cadbury's Celebrations chocolates (I told you about TV commercials). It didn't take long for the two of them to finish off the entire box.

Still raining in Delhi

2010-08-25T10:22:00.004+05:30

More than a month since I last wrote. In that time, it has been raining constantly in Delhi. Much worse downpour than the one mentioned in my last post.

Haven't seen this much rain in a long time in the last 15 years, a colleague remarked at this morning's editorial meeting.

River Yamuna - which resembles a dirty stream most of the time - is flowing above the danger mark. The civic infrastructure in Delhi is creaking under the pressure of nature. Flooded roads. Traffic jams. Outbreak of monsoon-related illnesses. Even in the neighbouring, millennium city of Gurgaon, the living rooms of some posh addresses have turned into paddling pools and the roads resemble dirt-tracks in some Indian village.

Even the Commonwealth Games have not been spared. Conspiracy theorists suggest it is nature's way of getting back at the reported corruption in the organising of this Games. Supporters suggest the nature is helping with rigorous quality tests for the Commonwealth Games infrastructure!!

Civil authorities are confused. If they spend time sorting out problems raised by Delhi's residents, work related to the Commonwealth Games suffers. If work related to the Games suffers, the nation's prestige takes a battering.

The other day, I took a friend for a lunch to Connaught Place. This pride of Delhi has been like a war-zone for over a year. Municipal authorities wanted to turn it into a pedestrians' paradise, but turned it into a hazard-perception game, instead.

The only missing link were subways, connecting Connaught Place to the arterial roads outside. The subways have been around for long, but used sparingly because they are dirty and provide shelter to unsavoury characters. Municipal authorities put these "under repair" too, leaving pedestrians with only one option - sprint through the traffic to get to Connaught Place.

My friend is in her sixties and doesn't have the athletic prowess to master this course. So, getting to the restaurant in Connaught Place's outer circle and then making her way to an airline office took two hours - instead of the 25 minutes or so before the municipal authorities started their work.

At home, our little daughter is enjoying Delhi rain. Unlike the all-season drizzle of the UK, rains in Delhi follow months of heat and feels nice on your skin. And the little one is making the most of it. If it is raining on a weekend, she is likely to be found drenching herself and dancing in the balcony.

Would have loved to post the pictures and videos of her in the rain, but one has to be careful with such things on the internet.

There is something endearing about her fascination and love for rains. As a child, I used to be excited about monsoons. There was something fun about reaching school soaked, getting permission to take the shoes/socks and walking barefoot in classrooms.

Not anymore. Schools expect parents to bring in their wards clean and dry. And the grown-ups just wishes that it stopped raining. Or that it rained at convenient times, like when everyone is asleep.

The trouble is there is no planning in this urban construction boom, a friend's father said over the weekend. A city like Delhi generally needs a sewage system and a network of storm drains. If you look around, storm drains in every locality have been covered up by ramps, tiny gardens or parking space. Since these drains are not visible, no one cleans or desilts them. So when it rains, the drains clog up and sewage system isn't capable of draining out a sudden and massive downpour.

The man should know. He spent his working life with Delhi's main municipal body and helped plan some of the areas.If the sanctioning authorities had their way, every conceivable inch of green space would have a building on it. And the malls - don't forget the malls - as residents in all localities seem to want them. They recently proposed that half the public park next to our house be given up for a shopping complex. It only stopped because the residents challenged it.

So what about the storm-drains? Are the local residents doing something about it? Not exactly. I am ashamed to say this, but the storm-drain even outside my own house is covered by a ramp.

Rain Rain Go Away

2010-07-13T09:32:00.005+05:30

Now that's certainly the Delhi monsoon I remember.

Got delayed at work on Monday and - as I was stepping out - a colleague mentioned "heavy rains outside".

The first instinct was of this being badly-timed humour. After three hours of drizzle that brought Delhi to its knees last week, the weather here has been really hot and humid.

The clouds have floated through and teased in several areas, but failed to oblige.

Monday was different, though. The main reception of the building was flooded and people were reluctant to step out in the heavy downpour and lashing winds.

A colleague had kindly offered me a lift, but there was one problem. The driver was waiting outside and the cops were pestering him to move the vehicle away.

In the 30 seconds it took us to reach the car, both of us were totally drenched. Thankfully, neither of us stepped into a manhole - whose cover had been removed by someone keen on allowing water a way out.

The journey back home seemed like a replay of last week. The streets were flooded and vehicles carefully lined up to navigate through the least flooded bit.

In some places, an entire tree or some of its branches had bowed down before the might of the wind. With traffic cops missing (they too are humans, after all), people jostled for space along the narrow corridors - resulting in huge jams.

Luckily, the cops' impatience with the driver proved helpful for us. We managed to make most of our journey without getting stuck anywhere.

Growing up in Delhi, monsoons would be so much fun. After a long hot summer, the arrival of clouds and rain was amazing. The soil would smell divine when the rain poured down, and the leaves on the tree looked greener.

Back then, monsoon would be a month-long affair and a massively anticipated and enjoyed time of the year. It would rain heavily very often, and the possibility of getting caught up in shower was high. Also high was the possibility of the two-wheeler stalling as water entered its exhausted on the flooded roads.

None of that was a cause of worry, though. A quick change of clothes and one was ready to savour a hot cup of tea and sizzling pakoras and contemplate one could bunk college next day and enjoy the rain.

If you are home, watching rain fall down is still fun. The soil still smells magical and the cool breeze feels wonderful against your skin. And those droplets falling from tree-leaves - hours after the rain stopped - look beautiful.

But in the intervening 10 years, the sun has become hotter, the summer longer and the rains rarer in this city of a million dreams. Hundreds and thousands of new flats have come up as the city's green cover takes cover. Hundreds and thousands of new cars have come on to the roads as the government shied away from its responsibility of providing good public transport.

Rather than curb this relentless construction or the insane growth in privately-owned vehicles, the authorities have focused on easing the movement of people and vehicles by building more flyovers - many shaped like bowls.

When it rains, the water starts collecting at the bottom of the bowls. Soon, the level starts rising - slowing down or cutting off the flow of traffic.

People blame the authorities. The authorities blame some other authorities. Those authorities then blame the pressure of Commonwealth Games. Somewhere along the line, someone says "I am sorry" and hopes the matter will come to a rest.

Which is what mostly happens. The other night, a senior Delhi minister expressed his apology - with a qualifier that it is difficult to predict which areas will be flooded, as different places get flooded every year.

If you ask the citizens of Delhi (and a rather ignorant and inarticulate one was on the panel as their representative in that TV discussion), the rains aren't that clever. They flood the same places, year after year.

But neither the TV presenter nor the representative of Delhi's people thought it was worth putting that to the minister.

It seems neither the government nor the citizens are willing to admit their complicity in making the situation what it is.

For everyone, rains bring uncomfortable questions. They have got used to the heat, with air conditioned offices, homes and cars. The Delhi government claims it is a "power surplus city". The citizens have boosted this with private power back-up.

Sounds peculiar, but of all the friends commuting back from work, only one enjoyed the rain - and he was travelling in the Delhi Metro!!

Anyway, the rain had eased by the time I got closer to home. Last week, I had to get off my auto rickshaw because someone holding a religious function had erected a tent in the middle of a service lane.

On Monday, it seemed much easier and faster to walk than negotiate the distance in the car.

The only thing I was dreading was the power supply. Last week, the electricity company had switched off our power supply for more than three hours. An automated message on their helpline said "This is for your own safety and the safety of the electrical equipment".

Thankfully, that didn't seem to be the case on Monday.

Swapping searing Delhi for cool hills

2010-06-24T09:49:00.006+05:30

Took a small four-day break in the hills last week. Actually, more like two-and-a-half days - as the rest was spent driving up the hills and coming back to Delhi.

As with most of our holidays, this too was planned at the last moment. The accommodation advice came courtesy of a friend. He recommended this estate called Sonapani, which is in the Nainital district of the northern state of Uttarakhand.

A quick search on the internet for Himalayan Village revealed an interesting destination. The website said - Situated at a height 2000 metres, Sonapani hosts an orchard of apricot, apple, plum and peach while oak, rhododendron & pine jungle surround it from all around.

The only problem was it is almost 30 minutes' walk from where the car could be parked, which could be a problem with a four-year-old.

"Don't worry. We have ponies to ferry the luggage and little ones," the owner Ashish told me over the phone. More importantly, he had a room available from Sunday. So, I booked the room for three nights, with the possibility of extending the stay if need be.

That left the issue of transport to be sorted out. Summer is a bad time for train journeys in north India. Not because of heat, but because the schools are closed for summer. There is no chance of getting reservation on any train headed anywhere. I have learned this the hard during the past month or so.

Luckily, Nainital is only 280-odd kilometres from Delhi. So, I checked with the local taxi guy if we could hire a car-with-driver. He had one available and we agreed mutually-acceptable terms.

On Saturday noon, the taxi guy called up to say his car had developed some problems. "Would you mind travelling in a smaller car?" he asked me. Of course, I did, considering the journey was likely to be more than eight hours.

A few more phone calls later, another car had been arranged and we were all set for our 4.00 am set about to Sonapani.

I was half-expecting the driver not to turn up at the agreed time and wasn't disappointed. On calling his mobile, a sleepy voice said - Sir, can you give me directions to your house? I will be there in 10 minutes. That actually meant 30 minutes and we were on our way by 4.30 am.

A little while later, I realised we were driving along the wrong highway. On checking with the driver, he said - "This highway goes to Haridwar and Rishikesh and we can make our way to Nainital from there".

I couldn't understand the logic of taking a crowded and longer route when we had a more direct and easier route available. But talking to Jat gentleman from Haryana isn't easy. It needed some strong words to get him to change the route and come to NH24, which goes past Hapur, Moradabad and Rampur before reaching Haldwani at the base of the Kumaon hills.

NH24 turned out to be quite different from the highways encountered during my earlier trips. Most of the stretch is single-lane and one particular bit, near Rampur, had a two-mile long traffic jam about 10 in the morning.

We took a small break after getting through the jam. Had some sumptuous stuffed paranthas and tea on a roadside eatery.

By 11 we were at the foothills. Ashish from Himalayan Village had asked us to call him on reaching Haldwani. "It will take you another three hours from there," he said.

The distance isn't that much but 40-odd kilometre from Haldwani is an uphill climb along really narrow road. Along the way, the little one felt mountain-sick once or twice, but did not actually throw up.

We got to Sonapani around 2.30 pm or so. Unfortunately, this was earlier than Ashish had assumed it will be, so no ponies were available. The walk to the Sonapani Estate seemed longer than usual after a nearly 10 hour road trip.

But the place was absolutely stunning. Surrounded by woods and an orchard, the property consists of eight cottages - with their own private front yard. The rooms are tastefully done and the bathrooms are equipped with gas-fired water heaters.

The guests come together in the dinning hall and the barbecue area, which are located on the same level as Ashish's house. On a clear day, you have a clear view of the snow-capped Himalayan mountain range from here.

Ashish is a natural host and enjoys entertaining people. His staff is quite well-trained and cooks some really amazing food - Indian and continental. All of them work really hard, from about 6 in the morning till midnight, but always smiling.

Almost all the stuff used in the kitched is sourced locally and the place does some really interesting concoctions for herbal tea. There is no TV and no newspapers, just natural sounds, your family and possibly a book for company.

Needless to add, we had quite a pleasant stay at the property. The little one found many girls her age to play with, while my better half and I could go for walk in the woods.

It was painful to come back to searing Delhi, but don't we all wish that vacations would last forever.

Vote C for Crap!!

2010-06-14T16:45:00.002+05:30

My phone buzzed the moment I switched it on, on Saturday morning.

It was an SMS from the World's Local Bank.

"Your feedback 200xxxxxx6 has been resolved. Please rate the complaint resolution by typing A for Good, B for Satisfactory or C for Needs Improvement to 5676717".

The invite was enticing, but I wasn't aware of what the said resolution was.

Almost two weeks ago, I had called their helpline about a particular transaction. I wasn't sure if that was my transaction, so needed more details about the vendor's location etc. The nice guy at the other end asked me to give him "a couple of days to get some more information about the transaction".

When I called later that week, I was accidentally disconnected by the helpline.

The next attempt was answered by a guy who didn't seem too helpful. With little or no chance of making any progress with him, I asked to speak to his supervisor. He expressed his inability to do so despite my repeated request, and hung up after wishing "have a nice day, Sir".

Angry, I made my way to the World's Local Bank's local branch. Now, there is something funny about this branch. On each visit - and I have made more than a dozen thus far - I have only been dealt with by women employees.

No, not because they like me or want to calm me down. The men are mostly "Wealth Managers" - and even when there are no customers wanting their wealth to be managed - they prefer to loiter about aimlessly. For as long as 30-40 minutes.

"This could be because it is girls who are mostly in the customer-facing roles," a woman employee offered an explanation. She was referring to the receptionist, the cashiers and other similar roles.

I wondered what the thinking behind this was. Every customer walking in through the main entrance is a potential customer for a Wealth Manager. The logic is simple. Like your bank, and you'll trust them more with your money.

OK, it isn't that simple, but this is generally how it goes. Not for the Wealth Manager here or even the Branch Manager.

Anyway, that wasn't my concern. My concern was finding out where that particular transaction was conducted. The nice lady provided me two A4 sheets - one to provide my feedback about the Call Centre and the other about the transaction.

I need an acknowledgement of this feedback, I said handing her the sheet. She nodded in agreement.

Within minutes, I had a photocopy of my feedback with a reference number and bank stamp.

Later that evening, the World's Local Bank sent as SMS too - "Dear Customer, we acknowledge the receipt of your feedback. Please quote feedback reference number 200xxxxxx6 for any follow-up enquiry".

That was the last message before the interactive offer received on Saturday morning.

A visit to the bank today revealed what the resolution was. A senior member of the team had a word with the member of staff at fault. Fantastic. Amazing. Original.

Hang on, didn't I ask for a written response to my feedback? They very obviously hadn't read my feedback and were banking on me getting enamoured by the option to vote A, B and C.

Guess I should respond to them saying It Needs Good Improvement to be Satisfactory. Don't you agree?

It's yesterday once more!!

2010-06-10T10:26:00.003+05:30

Bumped into a really old acquaintance at a marketing conference yesterday.

He used to head a big music label in north India, and I was fresh to journalism - reviewing music in my spare time.

Back in those days, there were only five serious players in the music business. And his company was the biggest with a massively rich catalogue. The trouble was making a mark with the current trends and music.

This is where Mr Music came in. He was very talented - and often very loud - marketeer. Through acquisition of music rights for films and bringing together artists from across the border for albums, he helped bring the company more in sync with times.

I met up with him every week to collect the week's releases for review. While the company arranged for the cassettes, Mr Music would talk about all the clever things he had done and how he was the messiah of the music industry.

On one such visit, he was quite angry. What have you written about the album of Dogri devotional songs? he thundered, as soon I walked in. Just that it was an average album, as I said. To be honest, it was much worse than that but I couldn't say that. Who do you think you are? If I had to get the music reviewed, I would have given it to someone else. That hurt but I wasn't willing to take it. I expressed awareness of the politician, but said he was a bad singer - even of devotional songs.

That was the end of my interest in reporting music and entertainment. The buzz of seeing the music industry from this close was great, but I was determined to work on my own terms. And at that time, there was simply too much compliance. For a free cassette. For a free movie ticket. For an exclusive interview. For a junket to a film shoot. For invites to parties.

So, where do you work now? he woke me up from my flashback. I mentioned my current workplace. You were too serious for that tabloid and I knew you would move on. This was the first time he was being complimentary to me. Had the man changed? Did he have some kind of transformative experience?

I was wrong. He was soon rattling off his achievements. I left that music company many years ago. Music business is doomed. Moved on to start the first Punjabi language channel. Recently, I have written coffee table books on 'Collectors of Modern and Contemporary Art' and 'Clubs of India'. You know, each of those books is worth 15,000 INR (approx £220). Soon I am starting my own publishing house.

The conference was about to start, so I walked away to my table.

By lunchtime, he was with me again. So, the lunch has been sponsored by your company? That is what the list of sponsors said, but I wasn't sure who in my company had paid the money.

Do you still write? I said that being in a managerial role meant the writing was done more for love than for work. Most of the time it is boring documents and proposals that I write.

So, did he miss the music business? Not at all. I did lots of things that were trail-blazers. I made stars out of many singers. I initiated the process to get public establishments to pay for music they played. I got my own company to come up with a competitive pricing strategy.

I am an entrepreneur. I did music. I launched and sold a TV channel. I have written and published books. Now, I am keen on starting my own publishing house. Possibly a marketing magazine and another magazine for expatriate Indians. Don't you miss writing?

I knew where this might lead, so chose to stay quiet. He continued. I don't know why these people waste time exchanging cards and networking at these events. You can call anyone and get to meet them. I have never had problems of access. The topmost industrialists and art-collectors opened the doors to their collections for my book. For my Club book, I have a rare picture of cricketer Sunil Gavaskar that even the club wasn't aware of.

There was a time when I could walk into the room of Sonia Gandhi. For those not aware, she is as close to royalty as modern India comes to. The trouble with these young guys is they have no enthusiasm. They call themselves marketeers, but don't have a rounded understanding of the business.

Thankfully, the lunch break got over soon. After attending a couple of sessions, I got out before he could catch me again.

Not monsoon yet

2010-06-08T17:15:00.008+05:30

...but the showers have cooled down Delhi.

The little one simply adores India Gate. She insisted on being taken there on Monday afternoon.

Though the water in the fountain and around was dirty, the little one and other kids and grown-ups loved being in it.

After weeks of high temperatures, who could blame them.

This morning too, a pleasant drizzle soaked Delhi in the first half of the day.

Met guys say this freak shower is because of the weakening Cyclone Phet. The sun should be out in its full glory on Wednesday.

For now though, it feels good. Here are some pictures from my Nokia E71.

Papaji refuses to budge

2010-06-07T11:14:00.002+05:30

Tried to settle the Landlord's Statement of Account on Friday evening.

The old man was wearing his hearing aid and sat down with the assured calm of a hunter ready to spear his prey.

His smile disappeared when I mentioned my disagreement with some of expenditure. Like, the servicing of air-conditioners and costs related to electrician and plumber.

Like me, he eyes were transfixed on the two-and-half grand paid for the servicing of ACs. But you are using the ACs that have been serviced.

I reminded him that the ACs were his, as were the fridge, washing machine, cooking range and fans. As a landlord myself, I understand that the responsibility of servicing the household equipment is mine. The tenant is responsible for usage costs and for making good any damage caused by his/her misuse.

Have you read the contract? the old man demanded to know. As a matter of fact, I had and it said the same thing about the Landlord and Tenant's responsibilities.

He kept mumbling about all the money he had spent. I haven't charged you for many other expenditures I have made. When there was a water-supply problem recently, I ordered a tanker at my own cost.

Throughout the conversation, the old man's grandson and a visiting grand-daughter kept flitting into the room.

You kids stay out the room, the landlady said as she walked into the room. Then she turned to me and said - Papaji is slightly hard of hearing, so you must speak loudly.

I told her of my uneasiness with shouting out at an old man. So, she parked herself next to the old man and started playing the interpreter.

The old man, still seething at having to pick up the AC servicing costs, shouted - You asked me to get the ACs upstairs checked. Now he is saying he won't pay the costs for that.

I told the landlady the same thing about a Landlord's responsibility that had been mentioned to the old man.

Papaji is not that kind of person. He is very honest and reasonable. So much so, that some of our friends - who live in England - have given Papaji the responsibility to manage their houses here. Some estate agents said he could make crores from the Power of Attorney he has, but never did.

It did sound impressive but I was here to settle the bill. My calculation showed that the amount due was about 5,000 INR.

You know we have had a fantastic relationship with all our tenants. I don't know what you feel, but this access door along the stairway is always open. All our tenants always dropped by to see us. If you'd like to see, there are emails from all of them talking positively about their experience.

For a moment, I was tempted to read emails from "French people" and "German people" she keeps talking about. But it was too late in the evening to be indulging in such pointless things.

I reminded her that the Tenancy Agreement was a contract between them and us. I wasn't there for references, but just to settle the bill. And my calculation shows that we need to pay about 5,000 INR - but only if you pay the latest electricity and water bill.

As the old man continued to mumble but I have spent money, the lady asked me write out a cheque for the amount I thought was reasonable.

The moment I opened up the cheque book, the old man was focused again. He looked at the electricity and water bills and the cheque I was writing. Then, he asked me for his file with the statement of account.

These bills add up to about 4,000 INR and the statement of account shows a deficit of another 4,000 INR. But you are only writing a cheque for about 5,000 INR.

I explained again that the AC servicing costs and some other things had been taken out of the equation. He face twisted and he threw the cheque back at me.

This is more than what I was prepared to take. As I got up to leave, the old man turned to his daughter-in-law and said with a pained expression - "You asked me to get the ACs upstairs checked. Now he is saying he won't pay the costs for that".

The lady turned to me and said - This is how old people are, in any house. Even your own grandfather would be like this. My husband keeps asking me to come and spend time with him in Kashmir, but I need to be around for Papaji. Please don't take offence at whatever he was saying.

I couldn't remember any of my grandparents being like this, but the old man is too sweet to take offence from. The issue was one of principle and responsibilities. If he wants to keep this unresolved, I will have to leave it till another day as well.

Would you like to see the gynaecologist?

2010-05-31T12:38:00.005+05:30

I was unable to write this past week, as my brother-in-law was visiting us with his family.

The visit had been long overdue, and - despite the searing heat - we wanted to make the most of it.

There were the usual Delhi attractions - Qutb Minar, Red Fort, India Gate, Shankar's International Dolls Museum, Dilli Haat and Akshardham Temple. There was the customary night-time drive through Lutyen's Delhi........And there was the visit to doctors and hospital.

No, nothing to worry about. My brother-in-law had some swelling in his feet and wanted a general medical check-up done.

Now, Preventive Health Checks are quite popular in this city. Apart from companies that sign up their employees to make sure they don't konk off one fine morning, the average man/woman also get themselves checked reasonably regularly.

There are quite a few diagnostics centres close to our house, but they aren't much use unless you know which tests to get done. So, we opted for general Preventive Health Checks offered by Apollo Hospital or Max Panchsheel.

Both of these conduct tests on all vital organs and are offer reasonably-priced packages. The trouble is they always book more people for the tests than they have capacity for.

I wasn't too pleased with my Preventive Health Check experience at Apollo, three years ago. The place was crawling with well-dressed Customer Service people, with no clue how to manage the tests. I and my parents were rushed from one room to the other.

The only two people reasonably free, back then, were the General Practitioner and the Health & Lifestyle Consultant. Both of them asked the same set of questions - Smoke/Don't Smoke, Drink/Don't Drink, Exercise/Don't Exercise etc etc - before handing over advice on how to lead a healthy life.

Max was untested, had slightly better reputation and is close to our house - so the decision wasn't too difficult. And in this heat, the "centrally air-conditioned facility providing in-house diagnostic service facilities" pitch was quite appealing.

Quite why the in-house diagnostic facilities would need four days to generate a report was beyond me, but the place was worth a try.

When my better half and her brother landed at the MedCentre, they were impressed. A token was quickly handed for "billing purposes". They were signed in and the process was soon underway.

The first few tests went fine and then the confidence started crumbling. After one of the tests, my brother-in-law found himself holding another patient's document. It seemed the doctor had seen the right guy but made observations in the wrong guy's document.

By mid-day, all the tests were done. Please come on Saturday for the report, my brother-in-law was told. Some nudging and strong words from my better half, and they could do the report for Friday.

On Thursday, that commitment ended as Dr Kalra isn't in on Friday. Dr Kalra is the General Practitioner who would have made sense of all those graphs, numbers and strange notations. Please come at 8.30 am on Saturday for your report and consultation with Dr Kalra.

At 6 in the morning on Saturday, they probably sent an SMS to say Dr Kalra won't be in that day either.

Since my brother-in-law was leaving on Sunday, there was no time to wait for Dr Kalra to come into work. Would you like to see a gynaecologist?, asked the Duty Manager helpfully. After a moment of gender-confusion, my brother-in-law refused the offer.

Our local doctor said the report did not explain the swelling in the feet. Why don't you get Thyroid and Colour Doppler Test?

The Thyroid test was quite straight-forward, but the Colour Doppler was fun. It was conducted at a Diagnostics Centre in south Delhi and involved a technician and a doctor.

The technician followed the doctor's instructions as moved the ultrasound sensor on a pregnant woman's tummy. When he was quiet, the technician quickly opened the internet browser and got about finishing her profile on jeevansathi.com - a matrimonial website.

The pregnant woman may have wanted to focus on her baby, but the technician had other things on her mind.

Thankfully, the details of the Colour Doppler and the matrimonial question didn't mix up. After an eventful day - in which my brother-in-law was offered an appointment with the gynaecologist - he was still Male, 35 and with swelling in his feet.

Papa ji's statement of account

2010-05-21T12:33:00.005+05:30

Papa ji wanted to speak with you, the landlady said I walked in to hand over the monthly rent.

It was almost 10 in the night and I wasn't expecting the old man to be awake at this hour.

He wakes up early to run the local shakha of Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh. With a flag-pole in one hand and a milk-container in the other, I have seen Papa ji go to the local park every morning. There, he is joined by other old men in khaki shorts and white shirts. They do light exercises before the old man goes to the local dairy to pick up milk.

Papa ji was saying his prayers in a shoe-cupboard-turned-temple, just by the dining table. I have prepared a statement of account, he said pointing towards the table. Please have a look.

The file reflect a lifetime spent creating and pushing files in a government department. On one side was stapled an A4 sheet detailing expenditure related to our floor, with a summary of Advance Paid, Expenditure, Money Owed and a request for Further Advance. On the other side, were bills to illustrate the statement of account.

The last line of the statement caught my attention. Almost three grand for maintenance and refilling of gas for the air-conditioners.

That work had happened earlier in the evening. When I returned home, two guys were busy washing the air-conditioners in the house. The bathroom was covered in black soot and they were asking for more water. Looks like these air-conditioners haven't been serviced for a while, one of them said. The AC in living room was was nearly out of gas and the ones in the bedrooms are so dirty.

We had suspected a problem with the living room AC. Even hours after being switched on, it would hardly cool the room.

Purely by chance, the landlady called in some guys to service her air-conditioners this week. The ACs haven't been cooling the room so we are getting them serviced, she told my better-half. On being asked if the upstairs ACs could be looked at too, the landlady reluctantly agreed.

Now the old man wanted me to pick up the tab for that. And for the electrician's effort at mending a fan that wasn't working and had sparked off following his intervention. And for the door-bell that sparked off with the malfunctioning fan. And for the new fan that replaced the old one.

Can you please explain why should I pay for the servicing of air-conditioners? Because it has run out of gas due to your use. You must be joking. An AC doesn't run out of gas after just 20-odd days of use. Since you are using the AC, you must pay for any work on it. Sorry, I am only responsible for running costs like water, gas and electricity and for mending things which malfunction because of our misuse. Then, you must talk to Krishan.

Krishan? Who the hell was Krishan? And why should I talk to him? But before I could blurt these questions out, I realised it must be Mr Raina - the pudgy son of Papa ji. The landlady always refers to him as "Mr Raina, who works out of Jammu & Kashmir".

In my eight months in this house, I have rarely interacted with Mr Raina (Krishan). Whenever he is in town, he keeps to the house - watching religious programmes on TV channels or listening to religious songs.

He may be employed with the Indian government, as his name doesn't appear on any of the leases we have signed. The rent goes in the name of Papa ji, the landlady and her college-going son. I reckon none of them have any income apart from the rent, and are extremely unlikely to be paying tax.

But back to the statement of account. As I have mentioned in earlier posts, Papa ji is a hard of hearing - more so, when questioned about his financial demands.

Take the file with you as I have the photocopies, he said. When Krishan comes, you can discuss the payments with him.

It seemed sensible as I didn't wanted to spend the night talking to an almost-deaf man.

On returning upstairs, I noticed other gems in the statement. We are supposed to pick up the water costs of the entire property, and contribute towards the costs of plumber who comes in primarily to do the landlord's work!!

That was quite rude, Mister!

2010-05-19T12:04:00.004+05:30

I was told off by my better-half over the weekend. That was quite rude.

The remark related to my phone conversation with an old friend. I had called her up on Friday evening to ask if she would like to come over for lunch. She was at a work party and promised to get back to me later in the evening.

Prior to this, I had spoken with her husband - also a good friend - who said it was fine with him, but that he would need to consult with the wife. Don't worry, I will call her myself to check, I said.

The lunch was over by the time she called up late afternoon on Saturday. My guests were still around, so I didn't pick up the phone. A part of me was also miffed.

On Sunday, my better-half's phone rang. It was my friend and she wanted to speak to me. You didn't pick up your phone on Saturday? Well, the lunch was over and I was with my guests. Yes, but you could have picked up the phone and told me you'll call later. I could have, but understood it to be a routine chat which could wait. But you didn't call me. You called me up before I could. Yes, but it is nearly a day after my call. I know, but your call also came a day after it was promised.

My friend said that I had become "combative" of late, and my better half seemed to agree. That was quite rude of you. You shouldn't have said some of the things you did.

No excuses, but the anger seem to emanate from yet another effort gone waste. This was my third or fourth attempt at inviting our friend over, and like all previous attempts this one ended in disappointment too.

Life seems to be very hectic in Delhi. The weeks go by in a flash and planning the weekend is difficult. Give people too much notice and they will commit and forget. Give them reasonable notice and they will commit and have other commitments too. Give them short notice and they will take forever to refuse or confirm the invite.

Let's get together seems to be an oft-heard resolve. But the resolve to get together seems battered by distances, traffic chaos and - in summer months - extremely warm days.

Quite different from how weekends in UK were. There was always a plan and we knew the when, where, how and for how long at least a week in advance. Spontaneous get-together happened too as we had a reasonably good idea of our spare time.

My friend did mention that she may need to go somewhere, but it would have been helpful to hear either YES or NO. In the absence of either, we were left wondering if they were on or not.

Which is what probably blew my fuse. Should have exercised restraint, but the heat eventually gets to you.

Bye Bye TV, Welcome Music

2010-05-13T09:17:00.003+05:30

We have been thinking a long time about buying a music system.

Our last music system died before we packed up from Hounslow to move to Reading, three years ago. Since then, the DVD Player/PC doubled up as music players while we decided which music system to buy.

Bose had always been a clear favourite. We visited its various showrooms in London, Oxford and Delhi to look at the models available. The trend is digital, so it was always the iPod dock that appealed to us. But the Bose guys would always create a doubt with their sound and theatre systems.

We had almost made up our mind to go in for an iPod dock when the India thing happened. So, we decided to pick one up when we got to Delhi. Seven months on, we were still researching - wondering what happens when/if we return to the UK? Surely, 50,000 INR is a sizable expense considering we would have to buy an iPod as well.

What made our decision easier was the television in India. At best, it is vaguely interesting. At worst, it is idiotic. Despite the hundreds of news channels, there is hardly anything worth watching as they are either itching for a war with Pakistan or China or are busy pushing a news agenda that is more about crime, sports, films and godmen than about anything of substance.

Of course, the little one is glued to kids' channel, Pogo - with its local superhits like Chhota Bheem and New Adventures of Hanuman and international superhits like Tom & Jerry, Pink Panther and Animated Mr Bean. Summer months have meant that she had been watching more TV than she used to. And watching more TV means watching more commercials - Coke, Maggi, Cadburys, McDonalds, KFC etc etc.

On Friday, I went and picked up a Sony Micro Hi-Fi. It is very much like our old music system and is just the right size for our lounge/dining area. It plays CD, cassettes (you never know when you need it) and even music from a USB device

Life has been very different since then. The little one keeps listening to her perennial favourites - Rock On, Delhi 6, Ishqiya and 3 Idiots - while I and my better half are rediscovering western music. The best of Snow Patrol, Madonna, Michael Jackson, Rod Stewart, Robbie Williams and the recent albums of Alicia Keys, Amy Winehouse and Lady Gaga are occupying about 1.2GB on the 4GB USB device at the moment.

The TV hasn't been switched on all of this week. The little one did use it to watch Pogo over the weekend, but it is nice to hear her say "Can you play my music, Dad" as against "Can you switch the TV on, Dad" that she used to say before.

That reminds me. I still need to get her the soundtrack of the film, Kites.

A birthday party

2010-05-12T11:48:00.008+05:30

It was my better half's birthday over the weekend.

Had been planning for quite a while for a surprise birthday party. Before you ask, NO, she hasn't reached a milestone age. It was just an effort to mark the day a bit differently.

After years of entering the day with just a Birthday Card in hand and no concrete plan, it was time to make amends. A leisurely afternoon in the company of close friends seemed like a good idea, so I set about planning one.

Delhi has many north Indian restaurants selling Chinese cuisine, and many Chinese restaurants selling north Indian cuisine. In fact, those are the main cuisines you will find wherever you go - around the country, in your city, in your neighbourhood and in people's home. You can't miss that Gobhi Manchurian and Chilli Paneer sit comfortably with Mutter Paneer and Chicken Curry on offer.

A quick search on the internet brought up restaurants in south Delhi offering other international cuisines - Japanese, Russian, Italian, Mediterranean and even Korean. The menus of Japanese and Korean restaurants looked frighteningly like that of a Chinese restaurant. Unless one was willing to shell out the dollars for an authentic experience in one of the five-star hotels. The Russian cuisine didn't look too appetising and the Italian lacked imagination.

So, it was Mediterranean cuisine that I settled on. Shalom had a nice website and declared proudly that it had won the Best Lebanese Restaurant in Delhi award for four years running. The photographs indicated an informal decor and the menu was interesting. Though the prices were on the high side, it was the most important day in the life of one of the most important people in my life.

Further searches revealed positive experience of those who had visited the restaurant. Friends too had good things to say about Shalom. It may be sensible to book a table as it is a popular restaurant.

I followed the advice and booked a table for 10. Friends had confirmed they would reach the restaurant by 12.30 and one even volunteered to pick up the birthday cake on her way in.

Call it my fear or the fear of getting bugged by me, they did actually start early from their homes. By the time we reached Shalom, it was almost 1 pm. The little one accompanied us too, and was quite excited about the party.

The place did have an informal feel too it. Our friends had occupied a nice little corner, with thick mattresses for seating and colourful cushions to support the back. Low-lying tables provided space to put glasses and plate.

The thing about Delhi that I had forgotten in the past decade is that the day starts late and ends late. So, quite a few had skipped breakfast to reach the venue in time. We ordered some beers and starters immediately.

The Veg Mezze Platter had nice and warm Falafel, Spinach Stick, Cheese Samosas and Pitta Bread, but the Babaganoush, Hummus and Tabbouleh were slightly thickset. The Shish Kebabs were better and sat on a combination of spicy pastes. Shalom definitely isn't the Sofra's of Covent Garden, but it is most definitely different.

For main course, a combination of Vegetable Moussaka, Grilled Fish With Orange Chilli Sauce, Chicken With Paprika and Morrocan Lamb Stew With Wild Rice. Paprika Chicken was the best dish of the lot, with some nice grilled vegetables with it.

The one big disappointment was the Service at the restaurant. It seemed to have borrowed the informality of the place. As we ordered beers and food, the tiny tables became clogged - but the staff wouldn't clear them unless asked specifically to do so.

When it was time for the cake, the staff brought the box out, took out the cake from it, opened the box of candles and started putting the candles one by one. All in the full view of my better half. No effort at even pretending to surprise the birthday girl.

Before the cake could reach our table, the little one had extinguished all the candles and was ready to slice the cake. Dad. On your birthday, we will get a different cake. Right?

Some friends had other commitments, so they excused themselves. By about 2.15 or so, everyone had left and the lunch was over. There was no point sitting by ourselves, so I asked for the bill.

Conscious that the birthday party had ended before it started, we hatched another plan. After putting the little one to sleep in the evening, we went off to Greater Kailash-2 in south Delhi. A friend suggested had Chungwa, an old and established Chinese Restaurant. They offer booze at reasonable prices and since you have already had dinner, it is a much better option.

Pakistan were playing New Zealand in T20 Cricket Match and all the tables around the bar were occupied. Well-fed Punjabi uncles, aunties and enjoying Chinese food and the cricket match. There was still some time to go before the match would end, and they were in no hurry to leave.

So, we ordered a couple of Mojitos and parked ourselves a cosy little table. Soon we were joined by some of our other friends.

We stayed at Chungwa until well past midnight and even managed to work our way through Chilli Chicken Dry. Needless to add, the dish was well prepared and was delicious.

I guess it is always a better idea to stick to north Indian and Chinese cuisine when in Delhi.

Missing my Nokia E71

2010-05-06T11:46:00.005+05:30

I have been missing my Nokia E71. It allowed me to illustrate my blog with pictures or just to capture those unmissable moments of my little girl's growing years.

For six months, it had been a loyal and able gadget. It allowed me to make calls and send SMSes, take pictures and videos, keep notes and reminders and then go off to sleep around 9.00 or so in the night. At 7.30 or so next morning, it would wake up again.

I suspect it was hearing my conversations with friends. I couldn't get through to you last night? The phone was switched off. Why do you do that? Why do you keep your phone on all the time? What if someone is trying to reach you? People from work can wait until the next morning. What about friends or relatives? They are aware that I have a landline and can reach me anytime on that number.

A week ago, the Nokia E71 it fell out of my hands. When I picked it up, it seemed like a different phone. It would refuse to go to sleep. Whenever the red button on the top was pushed, it would reboot itself. It would take a quick nap when I pulled the battery out. Then it would wake up with a start when the battery went back in.

Serves you right, my closest friend remarked. Now you can't switch the phone off. I panicked like someone would if their phone died suddenly. There is no way it can be switched on always. There is no way I can allow people to intrude on my family time.

It would only take a day or two to set the problem right, said my office IT guy. That seemed like no time at all. Surely I could survive that time without my contact numbers and reminders and notes and camera and sound recorder and.........

It has been a week since and there is no sign of the phone coming back to me.

It would have been wonderful to have it handy on Wednesday evening. The little one wanted to have "pizza" for dinner and made us visit the Pizza Hut in Vasant Vihar. The place looks like any other Pizza Hut around the world, but has its own local touch.

The sour-cream that comes with the Potato Wedges is so diluted that it could technically qualify as sour-sauce. The mustard is neither British nor French. Heck, it isn't even a concoction of the two. The Potato Wedges barely cover the bottom of the bowl it comes in and the Pepperoni Pizza is more like "Cheese Pizza with Sprinkled Pepperoni"!!

But these aren't things that bother the little one. She was just excited being out. Kicking off her Crocs, she perched herself on the cushioned chair. Given the low level of the chairs, this gave her the flexibility to stand up to reach her drink and pizza.

She surveyed the area around her, had a good look at the menu and then set about describing how her day went. She was in a talkative mood and I would have loved to capture some of that on the camera.

I want see a picture now, she said after the meal. Her Mum said the hall wasn't screening a kids' movie, but a grown up one. Don't worry. I can see a grown-up movie tonight. So, what about school tomorrow. Oh, I will see the film and then sleep. Tomorrow I will wake up and go to school.

I so wish the E71 was back with me. It has videos from our Kerala trip, her birthday, when she was locked in a park and her pretending to read a colouring book. Each video shows how much she has grown in our time here. Each video is a reminder how quickly the time is passing.

With friends like these

2010-05-05T12:22:00.004+05:30

Had just walked into my house the other day when I heard a little girl crying.

At first, it sound like my own. But when I walked into the room, it was one of the girls of the local ironing lady.

Komal is what her name means, delicate. She is stick-thin with a pale skin, unkempt hair, sad eyes but a lovely smile. Komal and her older sister, Sunaina, have been my little girl's friends since we moved into this accommodation.

At first, a big attraction for the girls was chocolates or sweets or fruits. But over days and weeks, they started enjoyed playing with each other.

Sunaina is street-smart and goes to school. Komal spends the day either in the small shack, that her Mum operates out of, or in the park behind it. She is joined by her sister in the park when she returns from school.

On this evening, the two sisters were playing in the park with my little one. As it started getting darker, both sets of Mums asked the girls to come back home. In her rush to come back quickly, Komal tripped on a boy's legs - who, in turn, fell over her.

Her shoulder turned around in an instant and she started wailing. My better half rushed Komal to her Mum, who was busy wrapping up for the day. She looked to her grandma, who said: "Go away. You keep injuring yourself every few days".

The girl was probably just looking for a cuddle. Or a show of concern. But neither Mum nor Grandmum had time for her. You need to take her to a doctor, my better half said. Neither said a word. Where is her Dad? He is still stuck at work and can't come anytime soon.

Do you want to come upstairs? my better half asked. Komal didn't say a word or stop crying, but held her hands and walked up.

She was still in a lot of discomfort. It's hurting quite a bit. It is hurting quite a bit. I don't want the doctor to give me an injection. I don't want the doctor to give me an injection.

To distract her from the pain, my better half asked if Komal wanted milk. Yes. Did she want a toast or biscuit? Biscuit. She was quite obviously hungry and finished off her snack very quickly. Every now and then, she would cry out - It's hurting quite a bit. I don't want the doctor to give me injection.

Sunaina didn't know what to do. You know? When someone moves her hand, it hurts her. She is not careful. She gets hurt very often.

It was a bit sad to see little Komal lying in someone else's house with an injury. Her family works really hard to earn a living. Dad is a driver, but helps out with the ironing when he is not busy. But the little girls spend their time without any adult supervision.

Despite two lovely daughters, Komal's Mum is pregnant with her third child. I so wish it is a boy this time around, Komal's Grandma keeps saying. When asked if Komal could be provided medication, Grandma shot back: What is the point in buying medicines? She will waste our money and hurt herself again. Even her Mum said she wanted Vitamins and hasn't had even one tablet until now.

Once Dad returned from work, he took Komal and Sunaina with him.

The next day I saw Komal, she was quiet and sad. She didn't say a word when I asked how she felt. It was Grandma again: We took her to a wrestler who knows how to adjust bones. He had pulled the shoulder back in the socket and put on a bandage. He feels there might be a fracture in the collar bone but that it might heal.

For days that followed, she kept sitting quietly on one of the benches her Mum uses to keep ironed clothed. Any attempt to talk to her or find out how she was feeling went unresponded.

Until Tuesday evening, that is. Uncle, can we come up to play? she asked me as I returned home.

It was nice to see her smiling again - even though it was a feeble and weak smile.

Settling into the Delhi NCR groove

2010-05-05T10:38:00.004+05:30

Looks like we are slowly settling into the Delhi (or Delhi NCR) groove.

On Saturday, six of us from college had planned to meet up along with wives and kids. The day started out fine, but thunderstorms in the evening - followed by rain and drizzle in some parts - resulted in the last-minute cancellation of the plan.

So, what is your plan for the evening? a friend called to ask. I told him my only plan had just been cancelled and the evening didn't look too promising. Why don't you come over to Noida? I am going to RP's. I asked if RP knew that we would be coming. Don't worry, I call him up just now. This was nearly six in the evening.

RP is an old and common friend of ours and we have spent many evenings at his house. He used to be a journalist; then got interested in politics; then developed an interest in psephology; then caught the travel bug and visited different parts of India; then tried his hands at journalism again before shacking up with a political party's strategy unit.

He told me and the other friends - at this impromptu dinner - many interesting stories. Like this bunch of Tibetans who have been settled on a a plateau in Chattisgarh which is miles away from anywhere. Or this tribe that lives in the middle of the Gir Lion Sanctuary and is credited by some as playing an important role in the survival of the big beast there.

The stories were as fascinating as the ones I got to hear from my better half recently. She had gone to the border of Andhra Pradesh-Chhattisgarh on a mentoring project. The place is affected by the Maoist insurgency and she got to experience the "other India" from really up close - an India messed about with by those who govern and by those who claim to fight for the people.

Unfortunately, India media doesn't have much time for such stories. Neither the advertisers nor the marketers are interested. If TV News=TRP, News Programme Schedule = Sleaze, Sex, Crime. It is difficult to imagine the plight of those working in 50-plus degrees of temperature from the cool confines of 20-plus degrees TV studio. But then again, India is never in short supply of tantalising stories - Sania-Shoaib Wedding, Trouble At The Indian Premier League and now the Honour Killing Of A Young Journalist.

Anyway, that is a bit of digression. RP's house is undergoing renovation, but he made space wherever possible. The kids took over the only functional bedroom with TV. Some of us took over the functional part of the living. Some went over to the balcony and the rest to the functional part of the roof.

It was a thoroughly enjoyable evening and we left RP's house nearly half past midnight.

Sunday brought another unplanned do. This time, my friend invited us to his house. He is my closest friend and we speak almost every day. We have met quite frequently but, in my seven months in Delhi, I haven't been to his house once. This would have never happened on my annual visit.

So, what are you up to today? he asked me. On hearing something that sounded like nothing much, he invited us over. I will call NR as well. He has a young girl and your little one can play with her.

The little one was excited by another day in the company of a kid. Because of her poor health, most of her last week was spent at home. And that does get really boring after a while.

Unfortunately, the friend could not make it till later in the day. So, the little one had to spend a couple of hours playing Bubble Breaker on my phone or watching kids' television.

As for us, we spoke on a range of things - including including domestic help. We would have four or five people working for us, my friend said. One maid does the cooking and cleaning. One maid dusts and mops up the house. Another maid comes to do the laundry and a guy comes to collect the clothes for ironing. Then there are handymen who I pay something extra to come in at short notice and do a good job.

The multiplicity of domestic help is obvious elsewhere in Delhi too. At any social function or on a trip to a park or a mall, families are always accompanied by maid/maids. At the school one morning, one of the Mums was asking another Mum: Why have you got two maids with you? The Mum replied: Oh, they will come on alternate days to pick up my kid. So, I need them to know the drill."

As more and more people join the workforce in India, time has become scarce and money comes in abundance. Apart from the usual housing and transportation costs, there is still enough left to engage individuals who could take the everyday pressures of life off you.

NR arrived with his wife later in the afternoon. Sorry, I couldn't get my daughter along as she was sleeping. The little one was crestfallen. You lied to me again. It was back to Bubble Breaker and kids TV for her as we got busy talking. Finding kids to play with is a much bigger problem in Delhi than it ever was in London/Reading.

Thankfully, the friend's daughter woke up reasonably quickly and was carted in. She is here, she is here - the little one chirped. There was finally someone to play with her. Helped by the grown-ups, the two girls played hide-and-seek for a little while.

The next day was Monday and we had planned to get back home early. As it turned out, the lunch invitation extended into a dinner invitation as well. My friend ordered some Chinese takeaway as NR got busy making a cocktail of Martini and Scotch.

It was nearly 10 or so in the night when we got back home.

This account makes no statement!

2010-05-03T09:50:00.002+05:30

OK. I admit there hasn't been much activity on this blog. After 7 posts each in January and February, only 3 came through in March and 1 in April.

What is more shocking, though, is not even the most loyal of my readers (and there are quite a few of you) nudged me about it.

So, here is my revenge - a second post of the day. Aw'right, I admit that the first one only contained pictures from the recent trip along the Indian highways....but it is something!

The little one has been going to school for almost two weeks now. It should have been three, but she wasn't well all of last week. A chance visit to a swimming pool resulted in an infection that needed antibiotics.

Before you ask, yes, she is fine now. Dropped her off at school on my way to work.

In case I haven't mentioned already, the little one managed to secure a place in Shri Ram School. It is a good school and quite a few her mates from her Montessori are there as well. It is quite expensive too - 45,000 INR at the time of admission, and another 22,000 INR top-up fee as "school fees may be subject to change". That'll be almost 4000 INR a day, considering the little one will only have 20 days of school in the first term!

Quite pricey, some would say. But remember this is a different Delhi we are talking about. This kind of money doesn't make people break a sweat, definitely not at this school. Heck, some parents thought I was whingeing too much when the topic of top-up fee was brought up.

The notice to pay up had come in an Account Statement. No letter. No explanation. Just a request to pay the said amount by the said date.

It would have been helpful to know the reasons for a hike - considering it was a 50% hike. The inflation rate in India is currently 11%, so surely that wasn't the reason. And as far as I know, good teachers and educational material hasn't seen a sudden surge in prices.

The little one's school diary did mention that we should "let a child's imagination soar", but even she couldn't work up a reasonable explanation for this. Sorry, that was a bad joke!

As I mentioned above, fellow parents didn't an issue being made of just a missing explanation. We were all waiting in a queue outside the school uniform shop. The shop only had socks and t-shirts, but didn't have any shorts. Even the socks and t-shirts were in short supply.

Parents with other kids in the school said this had been happening for years. I wondered if this said something about the school's attitude towards parents' time. Nothing at all, a Mum emphatically told me. They are very good with feedback. They listen to everything you have to say.

I told her that accepting criticism is the best disarming tactic in the book. The key thing is whether something has been done to resolve the problem.

The Mum was startled by my petulance. They do a lot of good stuff. They reach out to less privileged kids. They allow kids from poorer backgrounds to study in the school. They have modern teaching methods and they are very good with kids. I told her this was impressive but it still didn't sort out the supply of uniforms or an explanation for a fee hike.

I got the look that is very familiar to me from my childhood days. You spend too much time asking needless questions. Why don't you spend some of that time studying properly and getting good marks? I hear you, Mum. I hear you.

I still don't know why the fee was raised. The little one, though, is very happy at the school. Every day, she is excited about going to school. Every day, she wants to play a bit longer at the school. Every day, she is reminiscing what she did at the school.

Pictures from Indian Highways

2010-05-03T09:10:00.003+05:30

As promised, a selection of pictures from my work trip along the Indian highways. Would like to put up some more, but that totally depends on the mood of my internet connection:

And....I am back

2010-04-22T11:11:00.007+05:30

In the months since my move to Delhi, some of you have remarked that I rarely mention work. Others call it my 'never-ending vacation'.

Before that impression gains ground, let me assure you that I do work. Sometimes so hard that it doesn't give me time on social media. The last month or so have been spent travelling the highways in India.

Why? To understand how road construction is shaping the India of tomorrow.

Why now? The country's Highways Minister is aiming to deliver 20 kilometres of road every day, starting 1 June 2010. If successful, this will be one of the biggest infrastructure delivery project in India (and probably, the world) in a long time.

Road construction isn't new to the country. It got a big thrust almost a decade back, when the government took on the task of four-laning the Golden Quadrilateral. In case you aren't aware, it is the network of highways connecting Delhi, Kolkata, Chennai and Mumbai.

Our trip was kicked off from Varanasi (Benares) on 21 March 2010 and involved 3000 kilometres of travel by road - passing through Uttar Pradesh, Bihar, West Bengal, Tamil Nadu, Karnataka and Maharashtra - before ending in Mumbai on 9 April 2010.

Apart from an exciting journalistic opportunity, the project allowed me to experience India and generate/showcase content generated for Radio, TV, Web and Print. You can access some of the content here. A word of warning, though - you need to know Hindi.

Before we set out, one of the suggestions was to do a 'Food Map' of sorts - see how the cuisine changes during our journey. Reality hit soon after. Mindful of the heat and risk of an upset tummy, most meals on the road consisted of the following - daal, fried potato, egg bhurji and tandoori roti. Why? Those were the only things cooked on order. The rest may have been sitting in the containers for hours, possibly days.

There is still no concept of motels along the highways, so we stayed in cities along the highway - including the "only air-conditioned hotel between Varanasi and Gaya". This hotel in Dehri-on-Sone was patronised by the officials of the National Highways Agency of India (NHAI) and has seen a boost in business with better roads.

The highways themselves totally impressed me. When planning the trip, Google Maps kept calculating a travel time of 60 kilometres an hour. I kept reducing this to 35-40 kilometres an hour. In reality, we were gliding at 90 kilometres an hour or more. No potholes. No hold-ups. No slow-downs.

Even in Bihar - the state where I was born and seen as one of the laggard states in India - the roads were good. It is another thing that the two toll plazas we passed through can't do business without threat from either Maoists or local toughmen. As luck would have it, the first one had been looted by Maoists just a day before we reached it. The second one was attacked by local toughmen a few days before.

In Jharkhand, carved out of Bihar, we had the best view. The highway snaking through a valley, which was covered in bright-red flowers. As a colleague remarked, "this could be Boston".

The landscape along the highways is absolutely stunning. From Varanasi to Kolkata and from Chennai to Mumbai. Surrounded by lush green fields with paddy crop or sugarcane or some other crop. Houses along the highways are coloured in red and yellow of telecom companies Airtel, Vodafone, Idea and Tata Indicom.

There are stark differences too. Varanasi to Kolkata had about five toll plazas. Chennai to Mumbai probably had nearly 25 plazas. Just the Pune-Mumbai Expressway had three toll plazas. The northern corridor (Varanasi-Kolkata) had hardly any overbridges. The southern corridor (Chennai-Mumbai) had one every few kilometres. Those along the southern corridor were better-off financially, compared to those along the northern corridor.

My two key learning from the trip? India is driven by its people - the common man/woman, eager to make good any opportunity that shows up. Examples of this were people selling coconut oil, sugarcane juice, watermelon juice, car and truck decorations or other such things along the highways. Or the guy who set up an STD, Fax and Internet business, just a few yards from a State Transport check-point. He knows that hundreds of truckers pass through the check-point and likely to be missing a crucial bit of documentation. Fax allows these truckers to escape bribing the cops and a scanned copy through email completely nails it.

The other is the conflict over land. For the lakhs who have known farming as the only activity, the acquisition of land for roads and factories and other industrial units is unsettling. If you are marginal farmer, there is nothing to sustain your family once the land goes. Your next generation isn't interesting in agriculture and its dependence on the vagaries of nature. So even if you have the land, there aren't very many to work on it.

The project involved 21 consecutive days of travelling, working, staying the night and moving on. We returned last weekend and I have been taking some rest and spending time with the little one.

About that, in the next post.............hopefully, not after a break of five weeks ;-)

PS: Will add photos to this post later!!

The trip to Agra

2010-03-18T09:39:00.005+05:30

Apologies that 'tomorrow' has turned into five days.

I am busy planning the logistics of a three-week road-trip, starting this Sunday. The project aims to understand how roads are shaping India and will involve a team of journalists travelling from Varanasi to Kolkata and Chennai to Mumbai by road.

Indian highway network has changed dramatically over the last 10 years. During the last six months, I have had an opportunity to travel on some of these roads in both south and north of India and have been suitably impressed.

The most recent excursion was last weekend, on a sight-seeing trip to Agra with a friend visiting from the UK. Agra is home to the famous Taj Mahal and situated about 210 kilometres from Delhi. It is located on the same National Highway 2 (NH2) that we will be taking for the first leg of our journey.

The journey to Agra began at 5.30 in the morning. Delhi is nice and cool at that time of the day and, thankfully, most of its car-loving people are still asleep. An early start would help avoid potential gridlocks along the Ring Road (read, Delhi's M25), Badarpur and Faridabad (located in neighbouring Haryana, but part of Delhi National Capital Region). The journey is hardly 30 or so kilometres but can easily take a couple of hours.

As we zipped through these areas, I was reminded of my childhood. Cars were rare in those days and if you were lucky enough to be in one (in our case, it would mostly be Dad's office car), negotiating Delhi's roads would be smooth and quick.

Once we crossed Faridabad, we had left the last bit of Delhi NCR's commuter-belt behind. The taxi suddenly picked up pace, with the speedometer touching 100-plus kilometres an hour - something that would have been a dream only a decade ago.

Unfortunately, NH2 - like many other national highways - passes through densely populated areas. And those living in these areas suddenly find themselves separated from their family or land by these fast lanes.

The taxi driver had to brake frequently to avoid hitting those crossing the road. Unfortunately, not everyone was lucky. Along the way, we saw the small Maruti Suzuki 800 that had run into a big truck. The stationary ambulance indicated that the driver of the car hadn't survived, but our driver thought otherwise - Generally the steering wheel caves in towards the driver's seat, which causes serious injuries. The steering on this car seemed fine, even though the accident looks bad.

Not exactly reassuring, but the man seem to know the route. I come to Agra between three-five times a month. Trucks are fine as they'll move slowly on the fastest lane, but it is the animals, pedestrians, tractors and cars you need to avoid. It is always better to overtake from the left.

We were in Agra just before 9 in the morning. The car had covered 210 kilometres in just under 3.5 hours, an average of 60 kilometres an hour.

So, Google was right all along. While planning our India Highways project, Google Maps kept calculating journey times at 60 kilometres an hour and I kept disregarding it - choosing to calculate 30 kilometres an hour instead!!

But then again, Agra is no Aurangabad - a district in my home-state Bihar, which is affected by Maoist problem. Agra sees hundreds and thousands of visitors every day and the authorities are even building a super-fast Yamuna Expressway Corridor, which will cut the journey time to about two hours.

Anyway, I digress. The taxi had to stop a kilometre away from Taj Mahal, and the tourist trade converged on us straightaway. Sir, there is a two-hour long queue outside the ticket window. Hop on to my electric rickshaw and I'll take you there in minutes. Sir, you don't want to spend two hours walking up to the monuments and various queues. Hop on to this camel cart and you'll be there quickly. Sir, I am a recognised Tourist Guide. You need my services to understand what the monument is about.........

My guest was fine with walking, so we made our way to the Taj Mahal. Some salesman pursued us but gave up after a few minutes. We were at the ticket-window in just 15 minutes, and there were hardly three people in front of us.

Foreign visitors are expected to pay 750 INR (about £11) and get a free 500 ml of packaged drinking water and disposable shoe-covers. Indians pay 20 INR (20 p) and have to carry their own water.

Getting through the security was a breeze but I got stopped at the entrance to Taj Mahal. Can we see your identification? Sure, I said, pulling out my driving licence. This is a driving licence. Where is your Tourist Guide Licence? I asked them to clarify their question. You are with a foreign tourist. Where is your Tourist Guide Licence?

I was allowed to enter once it was established that the white guy with me was a friend.

Taj Mahal is awesome. This was only my second trip to the monument, but the moment you enter through the main - you are captivated by the magnificence of this structure.

The friend and I spent a couple of hours walking around and marvelling the monument. It looks different from different angles, and the friend's favourite was Taj Mahal through the branches of a tree in the compound.

Lunch was a rushed affair. The driver took us to a "good restaurant" where the only other customers were eating a slightly burnt dosa. We ordered the bare minimum - paneer, daal and rotis - and bottles of pesticides (sorry, Coke, Pepsi and 7Up) to wash that down.

Agra Fort was our next stop. It was my first visit there and I found it more amazing than the Taj Mahal. As our guide said, you only ever get to see 25% of the area covered, as the other 75% has been an army cantonment for hundreds of years.

The fort was a seat of power much before the Mughals came to India. The first mention of it comes in the year 1080 AD, and the third Mughal emperor - Jalaluddin Mohammmad Akbar - turned this brick fort into a fort made of red sandstone.

The first five generations of Mughals - Babur, Humayun, Akbar, Jehangir, Shah Jahan and Aurangzeb - all lived and ruled from here.

Shah Jahan, who built Taj Mahal in memory of his wife, Mumtaz Mahal, is credited with how the Agra Fort looks now. Unlike grand-father Akbar, who loved red sandstone, Shah Jahan preferred white marble.

As a result some parts of this fort are constructed in white marble. Some other parts have been covered in plaster of paris, to give them a white facade. Shah Jahan did live a privileged life, with a huge aquarium in the newer part of the fort to play games with his beloved wife and another area to play a version of Chinese checkers with his mistresses.

Apart from three wives, Shah Jahan had more than 300 mistresses in his harem. If one of them misbehaved or fought with another mistress, there was a prison beneath the harem. There was even a sheesh-mahal (a hall of thousands of mirrors) for dancers to showcase their skill.

Two of the marble structures were meant to house his two daughters, Jahan Ara and Alam Ara, and have a stunning view of the Taj Mahal. If the cost of modification to the Agra Fort and construction of Taj Mahal are included, it would run into billions of rupees in today's money.

Legend has it that Shah Jahan wanted to build a black Taj Mahal, before he was put under house arrest by his son, Aurangzeb.

One the first things Aurangzeb did was fill up the aquarium with soil and turn it into a lawn. He also created an additional moat around the fort, with crocodiles and other deadly reptiles in it. That is assuming someone was not using the main gate. If they were, the main access has a ramp through which big boulders could be rolled down. And if that wasn't discouraging enough, hot oil could be poured down specially-designed crevices in the wall.

Holi Hai.....in Basantpur!

2010-03-11T18:35:00.005+05:30

Basantpur is a typical north Indian village.

Most of its residents depend on agriculture and there are long periods of inactivity as they wait for the seeds of their toil to deliver a good harvest.

February to April is one such period. Hundreds of acres are covered in lush green crop of wheat, mustard and lentil. While forces of nature nurture these small plants, there isn't much a farmer or his/her family can do.

Despite the 8-9% of growth in India in the last few years, the only evidence of it in these parts is the mobile phone, consumer products and rising inflation.

The rare household may have a DTH connection, but most homes don't even have a television. Watching a film means driving 60 kilometres to Gorakhpur, and there generally isn't a vehicle or financial means to do this.

So, Holi comes as a nice distraction at this time. Apart from the dash of colours, the festival sees traditional faag singers go around the village and regale listeners with traditional songs.

My brother-in-law in the Village Headman and Holi is an important occasion to nurture the constituency. From the night before, his wife and servants were busy making preparations for the visitors.

Big carpets were laid out in the front lawn to accommodate the visitors, and there were dry colours and snacks on the table.

The first visitors turned up at about 7 in the morning. Quite obviously, they had started much earlier as they were covered in colour by the time they walked in.

Each visitor walked in, applied colour on my brother-in-law's forehead, touched his feet and sat down. Young or old. Man or woman. All followed this ritual.

Later in the morning, we all went for a walk around our bit of the village. Every person wanted the Village Headman (and by default, yours truly) at their house. It was a matter of great pride for them.

It was also deeply offending if the Village Headman didn't come in. The latent sentiments of caste and religion could come out in the open. Especially, as most men were quite drunk on the day.

My brother-in-law is quite sensible and dealt with sentiments rather well. At every house, he had something to eat and a glass of water to drink. Even at the houses of those who are locked in legal disputes with the family for generations.

By the time we came back home, he must have drunk about 10 litres of water or more and a large amount to eat.

At most houses, the men only applied dry colours while women and kids soaked many of us in coloured water. Strange thought, but I was suddenly distracted by how the colour would be taken off my Levi's!

The faag singers had arrived and were sitting in the veranda. For me, it was the first time of listening live to faag and felt duty-bound to capture it for the readers of this blog. Here is the second sample.

By 2 or so in the afternoon, I was totally knackered. But my brother-in-law's day was far from over. The village consists of five tolas (localities), spread over six kilometres, and he still had political and social obligations to take care of.

I chose the more familiar Holi routine. Excused myself, scrubbed and cleaned myself, had some lovely traditional food and went off to catch some shut-eye. The little one was already asleep having soaked herself and her cousins in wet colour and chanting 'Holi Hai' (It's Holi).

She had been in Basantpur for Holi last year too and was familiar with the festival. From the morning, she wanted to fill up her pichkaari (Water Gun) and soak people with it. But she had to make do with the dry colour put out on the table. Only after we went for a walk about the village that the girls got an opportunity to play proper Holi.

It was shouting and screaming that woke me up. My brother-in-law was back but still hadn't had a chance to bath.

A bunch of villagers had broken into a fight in their drunken stupor.......and the Village Headman was needed urgently to make peace.

Tomorrow, the Village Headman's attempt at making peace.

At home for Holi

2010-03-11T15:13:00.005+05:30

Holi. It must have been a long time since I participated in this festival of colours.

In London, you can feel the festival approaching - as shops in Southall and other Asian areas start selling coloured powder - but don't see it happening.

During my first few years in the city, a colleague and dear friend would always invite me and my flatmate home on Holi. The ritual was simple. Just a sprinkle of coloured powder on the forehead, followed by snacks, drinks and dinner.

Nothing like how I remembered it growing up in Delhi. Preparations would begin days in advance, with all the kids filling up water-balloons to soak the passers-by. A couple of days before Holi, the water would be coloured with a dash of red or green or purple or some other colour.

On the day itself, we would wake early in the morning (Delhi had timed water supply then) and fill up buckets-full of water-balloons, mix up wet colours to ensure that it won't disappear off the face and hands of those at the receiving end.

The revelry would last a few hours as we chased friends and applied colour to their faces or pour coloured water on them, then hop onto a friend's car and play Holi with friends across the city.

By later afternoon, we would be back home. After a good scrub and bath, we would sit down for a traditional meal followed by a good couple of hours of sleep. I am not sure whether it was the dry colour in our eyes or hours of being out, but the sleep was good.

For days after that, people and streets retained the colours of Holi.

But that was 10 years ago.

This year, we decided to celebrate Holi in my wife's ancestral village. Her oldest brother still lives there with his family and had been inviting us over for months. Holi seemed like the right opportunity to take a week away from the madness of city.

As always, we left it till late to firm up the plan. Till a couple of hours before our train left New Delhi Railway Station on 27 February, we weren't sure of reserved seats. But thanks to an influential colleague, the seats were confirmed.

The platform, from which our train was due to leave, was choc-a-bloc with people. It seemed everyone was leaving Delhi to celebrate Holi in some other part of Delhi. There were people with no luggage. There were people with loads of luggage. There was a man carrying a tricyle for his little child. There was a man carrying kitchen utensils for his wife. Everyone was jostling with someone to get on the train - some choosing to punch their way into an over-crowded compartment.

Our train was running more than an hour late. By the time it got into the platform, the train on the other side had left. As had those hundreds of people occupying the platform.

We got on to the train, ate our packed dinner, put the bedding on and spread out on the allocated berths.

The little one was very excited about being on a train. After a full day of "Why aren't we going by plane?" she loved being able to climb up to the upper berth, then jump down to the lower berth and then climb up again.

In the morning, the train was full of voices selling hot tea, breakfast, newspapers and other things. But it seemed too early for any of that.

By the time we got up, none of that was available and the train was running three hours late - with the scheduled arrival time in Gorakhpur Junction being 1.30 pm as against the original 10.10 am.

My brother-in-law was standing at the platform, when the train got in. He took us to his car and drove us to the Basantpur Village - which is about two hours away.

Tomorrow, Holi in India and two exclusive videos

Locked in the park

2010-02-23T15:20:00.003+05:30

Hi. Do you know the number to call the police in Delhi? It was my wife at the other end.

I wondered if someone had got away with my Dad's car, that we are borrowing currently. Or maybe broke into our house.

It was something more serious. My wife and the little one were locked in the park near our house. Three Iranian kids were also trapped inside the park.

The park is owned by the Municipal Corporation of Delhi (MCD) and they generally don't lock up their parks. In fact, they have never locked their parks - for years, allowing ready access to men, women, children, cats, dogs, cows, buffaloes.....some of them even choosing to s**t on the not-so-green lawns!!

The park is surrounded by spike-grills, so climbing over and escaping was not an option. With darkness setting in, spending the night seemed a realistic possibility unless someone could open or break the lock.

But no one around seemed to know who had the lock - and, more importantly, the key - to the park. They could only smile at the predicament of the five individuals trapped in the park.

An old man, passing through, suddenly remembered. Mr Kapoor.....in Number 51.....he has the key to the park. Mr Kapoor happened to live several houses away from the park and had taken ownership of the park. If someone wanted to use the park, he held the key.......But Mr Kapoor wouldn't respond to the ringing bell. In fact, he let loose his dogs fearing he was under attack.

That is something so interesting about Delhi and India. Almost everyone accepts things on face-value. If someone challenges this thinking, they smile or laugh at his/her idiocy. Worse still, they advise him/her against turning a non-issue into an issue. But if this challenge is successful in changing things, they applaud and lament why more people don't stand up more often and fight.

When my wife raised her voice, one of guards - smiling all this while - remembered where the key was. He had borrowed it from Mr Kapoor for his employer's kids to play in the park. He went inside the house and got the key.

Why did you lock the park? my wife thundered. Ignoring the question, he said: I am now opening the park, aren't I? Do you want to come out or stay inside? My wife said the police were on their way and maybe he should wait until then. The guard laughed at what he saw as an empty threat and turned around.

Suddenly, as it happens in films, the cops arrived with the siren blazing. The guard's face went white. His employer suddenly found the time to come out as well.

Mr Kapoor was still safely inside the house. His dogs were still barking at the top of their voice.

Who locked the park? one of the cops demanded to know. The employer said: Sir, the park is locked to make sure that no unsavoury characters come into the park. The cops seemed satisfied with the answer......Until my wife asked: Isn't this a public park? How can someone own it and put it under a lock and key?

Yes, you must at least put a notice - the cop helpfully suggested. My wife clarified that that wasn't the point. The point was that there were five people in the park and the person locking the park hadn't bothered to inform them. If those kids weren't trying to get out, we wouldn't even have found out that we haven't been locked.

The three Iranian kids were in the 7-10 year range and probably belonged to family working at the Iranian Embassy. When the cops were reminded that this such things would not only damage the country's reputation but could blow into something bigger, they were a bit more serious.

Mr Kapoor would still not come out of his house to explain the situation. And his dogs were barking harder.

The cop worked out what the solution was. I am taking away this lock. He then suggested that my wife forget and forgive the incident.

My wife was in no mood to forgive. And rightly so. The aged/retired owners of the houses in Anand Niketan love the money/prestige that the young foreign tenants bring - but would like them to be restricted to just the house. The parks are for older folk to soak in the sunshine and socialise. After all, what need does a kid have for a park?

The little one was excited by the action around her. Mum, we must teach them a lesson. She had heard her Mum saying she'll teach the perpetrators a lesson.

The employer explained the situation. The local residents have only recently invested 40,000 INR (£550) in the swings and the rides. We don't want these destroyed by older kids.

My wife wondered whether this was a serious comment or a comment made in jest, as a much older maid - accompanying the kids of the employer - was enjoying the swing without posing any risk to its stability.

The employer opened up a bit further. Those kids have come here before and had to be discouraged from using the park. So, the guard locked the gate and walked away.

Then, as if he was doing a big favour, said: What can I do for the time you spent trapped? I have already said sorry.

My wife blew a fuse: What do you mean by sorry? First you say this was done on purpose. Then, your guard sat here acting as if he didn't know who locked the park or had the key. You yourself only come out when the police arrived. This is a public park, and if only to prove a point, I will bring my child to play here all this week. Just try locking the gate again.

The little one beamed seeing her Mum shut up a "naughty uncle". And related the entire story to whoever she spoke to - in the evening - and to me when I got home.

She was certainly proud of her Mum. And I am too.

Mr Kapoor? Well, he was still shielded by those barking dogs and the main door.

Delhi's dash of red and Mughal Gardens

2010-02-22T16:27:00.005+05:30

The swelling has gone but the little one seems addicted to the nasal drops.

The recommended dose was a couple of drops three times a day, but she insists on a top-up every couple of hours. Daddy, can you please put the drops in my nose? After a week of convincing how big girls are not scared of nasal drops, Daddy has to now dissuade her from using the nasal drops too often.

Thankfully, the antibiotics were neither administered nor needed. The nasal drops cleared out the blood clots and the pain was gone within a few days.

Eager to make the most of a weekend that didn't involve a birthday party or a visit to the hospital, we paid the Andhra Bhawan another visit on Saturday.

Yes, the same Andhra Bhawan that serves yummy thali and biryani. But this time, on a friend's recommendation, we went upstairs. What's so special about it? You don't have to buy coupons and queue up here.

The friend said it is meant for residents, politicians, government functionaries or other important people. We didn't fit any of these categories, but the manager was maybe fooled by our confidence in walking in while many people waited downstairs.

The food wasn't as exciting as our previous outing to this place. On offer were fried potatoes, curried okra and mashed bottle-gourd, apart from the usual fare of pooris, rice, rasam, sambar, daal and yogurt. But it was fresh and hot and offered a nice break from the usual fare one gets eating out in Delhi.

The plan was to follow this up with a visit to Children's Park (the same drill as last time). But the circle around India Gate was choc-a-bloc with buses ferrying kids on a day out. Winter is almost on its way out and everyone is eager to make the most of the sun while it is bearable. The rides were teeming with kids and there is no way our little one would have got a go.

So, we headed out to my wife's alma mater, Jamia Millia Islamia. It is our friend's alma mater too and he stays just behind the university. He has recently acquired two doves - Martha and Lead - and the little one wanted to play with them.

In the five or so months that we have been in Delhi, we had never passed through Jamia during the day. My wife remarked that the place was looking different. The area has benefited from all the work being carried out for the Commonwealth Games, explained the friend. That Sports Centre will be a practice venue for the athletes and obviously if they come here, the surrounding buildings need to look nice too.

Like the rest of central and south Delhi, Jamia also has a liberal dash of red. The reason? Key historical structures in Delhi are made of red stone and it seems the municipal authorities want to bring all the structures in sync with the red stone structures.

Once we got to the friend's place, I chose to take a quick nap while my little one terrorised the two doves. They hid themselves wherever they could until they were found.

Sunday was spent at Mughal Gardens in the President's House. Developed by Sir Edwin Lutyens, it is spread over 15 acres and includes all kinds of herbs and flowers.

Every year, it is opened to public for a month. As probably the only free public attractions in Delhi, it brings in thousands of people. Bus-loads of school-children and tourists come from Delhi and neighbouring states to visit the garden - especially over the weekend.

I had visited the Mughal Garden many times as a kid, but Delhi has changed dramatically since. There is lot more security and the construction of Delhi Metro means getting to Gate 35 of the President's Estate - which has the main entry to the Mughal Garden - takes a while.

As we were parking the car, we could hear the loudspeakers warning against taking bags, mobile phones, cameras, water bottles and eatables inside. For some reason, there were more men visiting the garden than women. So, my better half and little one were inside within minutes.

I was at the back of long queue which took its time moving as the policeman felt up each visitor at leisure to ensure that no flower was put to risk. Either side of the queue were a lot of discarded pens, tobacco sachets, medicines and toffees. When my turn came, the policeman raised an objection. Your car-key has a remote. It is not allowed inside.

It was time to queue up in a different place. The policemen looked at me with disdain as I held out my car and home keys. After a few minutes of ignoring me and taking stuff from other people, he said: Wait for your turn. I told him that was precisely what I was doing as he entertained those jumping the queue. So, you have to stop people from jumping the queue. Isn't that your responsibility? No, my responsibility is to take stuff and store it.

Before I could say anything more, the other cop said: Why don't you shut up or else Sir won't even take your key. That was enough to make me fall in line.

That said, the Mughal Garden is beautiful. It has many varieties of roses - red, white, orange and pink - dahlias, tulips, marigolds and other colourful flowers. The flowers are in full bloom around this time and a sight to be enjoyed.

However, with hundreds of people - young and old - jostling for the narrow walkway, the tour was over within an hour.

Just outside the Garden, the President's Estate has put up a stall to exhibit its vegetable produce. Sab rang ke laga diya hai (They have coloured before putting it on display), a visitor standing next to me remarked.

Another one remarked to his friend, "Itne saare phool dekhein hain. Inmein se ek ka bhi naam yaad rahega tujhe? (You have seen so many flowers. Will you remember the name if even one?)".

Amidst all this, one person was happy. She was hopping about and trying to balance herself on the edge of the footpath. Careful, I said. You remember what happened last........She was flat on her face before I could complete my sentence.

Thankfully, there were no injuries or bruises this time.

She's feeling better now

2010-02-17T15:52:00.003+05:30

The little one is on the mend, though the swelling will take some time to heal.

Had to take her to Moolchand on Tuesday evening, as the swelling had gotten worse. There were blue marks under the eye and on the nose.

The doctor said this wasn't an emergency, so we should come to the regular Outpatients Department.

Moolchand is a very different hospital to what it used to be. Plush interiors, shiny floors, leather chairs, well-equipped clinics and smartly-dressed staff. And yes, Khairatiram sounds too old-fashioned for a modern hospital - so the hospital is officially Moolchand rather than the Moolchand Khairatiram Hospital that we knew it as.

The one thing still missing is politeness. The male receptionist was busy playing 'Park Your Car' (or some such game), and couldn't be bothered with the patients or their kins. So, it was down to his female counterpart who was obviously feeling the pressure.

"Patient's name? 450 rupees." were the two phrases she uttered while checking us in.

The doctor hadn't arrived yet, so we were asked to occupy the seats in front of his room. One things that has definitely changed since we have been here is forcing our way through a queue. After spending months being polite, we have realised what a waste of time and effort it is.

So, the moment my better half spotted the doctor, we rushed into his room. He hadn't switched on the light or put his bag on the desk when we occupied the chairs.

Looks OK to me. The swelling will take a few more days to go. He wrote another cocktail of antibiotics, pain-killer and nasal drops. But she had antibiotics just a few months back, my wife said. How does that matter? This is to make sure that any blood clots inside the nasal passage don't turn into an infection.

The appointment was over within 10 minutes. It took considerably more time to get to the hospital and back than the doctor spent on the little girl.

An eventful week!

2010-02-15T14:48:00.005+05:30

Been missing from this blog for almost a week now.

No, it isn't about flagging interest or lack of things to write on.

The school admission process has been tiring. The proof of residence. The certificates. The affidavits. Dealing with the guards, who are the new front-office of various schools. Dealing with semi-literate clerks, if you get through the gates. Dealing with more questions regarding our status - settled or newly-moved? Dealing with a process whereby schools offer and charge for a Prospectus only after admission has been secured.

During the last few months, friends have often asked "If you have to go in September, why endure all this hassle?" They have a point. Up until July, the little one will only have a month in the school. After that, another three months before it is time to pack up and leave.

But the dilemma for us has been - what if something changes in that time? Six months is a long time and she will lose a year, if something does change. And if nothing changes, four months in a Delhi school will set her on the path to GCSEs in four years' time!!

The school admissions process is also an effort to test ourselves. How do we rate as parents in India? Can we secure admission in a good school for our little one?

The final score stood thus. Four Successes. Four failures. The little one got through in No.1 (Shri Ram School) and No. 2 (Springdales School) schools of South-West Delhi. Carmel Convent and Tagore International were the other successes. After completing the formalities, which includes a 45,000 INR (£620) fee, the No. 1 school has taken her in.

In the meantime, her playschool has started the drill for a proper school. Parents have to leave their ward at the gate and the little one then works his/her way to the classroom. Teachers are around to lend a helping hand, but it's a big step in the journey to self-reliance for these young individuals.

The admissions process has been tough on the little one too. She hasn't got the attention and time she is used to. So, once the admission was sorted out, we planned to spend the entire weekend with her.

On Saturday, we took her to the The Garden of Five Senses in Saket. More familiar to locals as the Said-ul-Ajaib, the 20-acre park "was conceptualised to answer the city's need for leisure space for the public, for people to socialise and unwind" (Delhi Tourism website).

Inaugurated in 2003, it has become an important part of the greenery that defines Delhi. The park brings together people of different ages and backgrounds. Senior citizens meet each other for a game of Bingo and lunch. Young families meet here for picnic with friends. And those younger and single meet up for canoodling.

Call it the dilemma of being a parent, but I spent most of my time wondering which areas to avoid. Not with much success, though. Almost every route took us past couples wanting to avoid prying eyes. Thankfully, the look wasn't one of contempt but more of "what is this idiot thinking walking around with his wife and little kid?"

The visit was over with 30 minutes, and we made our way to Select City Walk mall in Saket - probably the kind of place where people with young families are seen more these days.

On Sunday, the little one was invited to a birthday party. After Saturday's misadventure, she was quite excited about being in company of other kids. Too much excitement, perhaps. One moment, she was dancing. The next moment, her nose was bleeding. She had jumped and fallen on the concrete floor.

The nose and the lips swelled up soon and she was in considerable pain. So, we took her to the Moolchand Hospital in Lajpat Nagar in south Delhi. After looking at her, the doctor concluded that it just a bad fall and not a fracture. He recommended the familiar cocktail of pain-killer, antibiotics and nose-drops.

This certainly wasn't how we wanted the weekend to end. But it was a better situation than the parents whose girl had put beads and thermocol balls in her ears. Or the girl who had put something up her nose and was having trouble breathing.

Another day, another affidavit

2010-02-04T11:31:00.004+05:30

Looks like the need for the affidavits isn't over yet.

Among the documents requested by Shri Ram School is an affidavit stating my address, the name of my daughter, that she is my first and only child and the date we moved to India.

Thankfully, they have provided a set proforma for the same - which I took to the Patiala House district courts on Wednesday.

My usual lawyer wasn't there, but his typist and office boy were.

The office boy recognised me straightaway. You did take four or five of these recently, didn't you? I nodded. No problems, we can do this for you. It'll cost you 300 rupees. I reminded him that this wasn't a Magistrate's Affidavit and in any case had paid 200 rupees the last time. Don't worry about the price, Sir. Tell me what needs to be done.

I didn't want to wait and asked when the lawyer would come. You don't need him for the affidavit, the typist said. So who will notarise the affidavit? There are many others around who can do it. And he will charge you much more than I would.

And what exactly would the standard affidavit cost me? 100 rupees. I asked him if the word IDIOT was writ large on my face. Why? I reminded him that the lawyer had charged me 80 rupees only. OK, just give me 70 rupees, he said as he started typing the affidavit.

Even though I had seen the set-up before, it impressed me. The main machine was a laptop with Windows Vista on it. This was wirelessly connected to a keyboard and a printer. Months (probably, years) of practice meant the words were flowing quickly.

Unfortunately, the language wasn't as effortless. The typos I could live with, but seeing "for the 2010-2011 academic session" into "for the 2010-2011 academic secession" frightened me a bit. I am not a revolutionary, sir, and have no intentions of breaking up the school. They are the only school to have offered a seat to my daughter.

Thankfully, I read and understand what those words meant. Imagine the plight of an uneducated individual, who is already struggling to make sense of charges against him/her, putting their signature (or more probably, their thumb impression) to:

"I am ____ s/0, d/o, w/o _________ r/o ________ do hereby solemnly affirm and state as follows:

*That I will make myself available at the next secession of the court.

I have read and understood the contents of this Affidavit, which
has been drafted by me / under my instructions and I say that the
contents thereof are true and correct to my knowledge."

Is Shri Ram School the new Harvard?

2010-02-02T10:09:00.005+05:30

One of the talking points at work on Monday was Bad of luck, parents - an article written by Kate Darnton.

"It is just a rant from a woman unable to get her kids into Shri Ram School," someone said. "What exactly is she trying to say? That the guards at Shri Ram School didn't let her past the gate and that her emails to the school were ignored," someone else remarked.

Some were aghast that the article had found a place of prominence on the Op-Ed page of The Hindustan Times - one of the biggest newspapers in Delhi. This is not even proper journalism. Some Googled to find out who this woman was. Looks like she works for the Boston Globe.

The reason for all this excitement was the release of shortlist for admission to Delhi schools. Actually, that should be admission to Delhi's private schools.

The process that kicked off nearly six weeks - and involved filling up forms, writing essays, arranging legal documents and engaging in informal interactions about parenting and education - had come to fruition.

Kate Darnton's point was straight-forward. If you live in South Delhi, you constantly hear of just two schools - Vasant Valley and Shri Ram School. Both of these adhere to modern teaching methods, focus on all-round development of children and aren't shy (i.e., dismissive) of taking in special needs children.

There's Sanskriti too, but it is a school run by spouses of top government officials, for the kids of top government officials or those high enough in the echelons of power. And then there are long-standing successes like Delhi Public School and Modern School - whose primary focus is academic success.

Kate's argument was that you had a better chance of getting into Harvard than in Shri Ram School - "Over the past few weeks, the school’s website has listed 1,575 three-year-old candidates competing for 112 spots, including 40 spots reserved for the EWS (‘Economically Weaker Section’), staff, and management. With only 72 remaining seats, that leaves each regular candidate a 4.7 per cent chance of getting in. Last year’s acceptance rate at Harvard College was 7.1 per cent".

It is a day of elation and self-congratulation for a select few. A day of disappointment and self-doubt for many."

I am not sure about the critics of Kate's piece, but I was travelling in the same boat as her.

Soon after getting into work, I started checking the websites of the various schools we had applied to. Vasant Valley? Yippee, I can see a matching name. Hang on, the surname doesn't match. And the mother's name is different too. DPS Vasant Kunj? No matching name there. Banyan Tree School? No matching name there either.

Then the phone rang. It was my better half. I am just outside Modern School. The little one's name isn't there. And Springdales School won't release their list until 6 February.

Suddenly, a glimmer of hope. I can see the right child/mother name combination on the shortlist for Tagore International School. Not our first choice, but it is an established educational institution.

What about Shri Ram School? I was still on the phone with my wife. They will be releasing the list around 4.00 in the evening - as they want to put it out on web at the same time as school's notice-board.

So that is what our six-week effort had come to. Four failures. One Success. Two suspended animations.

It most certainly wasn't a good beginning to the week. Like Kate, we had eavesdropped into numerous conversations on strategies and connections that may be brought to use to secure admission into Vasant Valley or Shri Ram School. Like her, we didn't get past the guards in many places. Like her, we spent considerable effort in making the right impression on the schools we applied to.

Thankfully, the evening brought some cheer to us. When Shri Ram School made its list of successful candidates online, it had our little one's name in it. The list didn't have the parents' name, so we can't be 100% sure - but then one has to be really unlucky to have another child by the same name, applying to the same school and being successful.

A letter from the school should be in the post soon, settling this doubt. After that, the school needs to verify the documents - including an affidavit that the little one is our first and a girl child - and the fee to be paid.

Fingers crossed and hope there are no nasty surprises lurking around the corner!!

Two birthdays and three birthday parties!

2010-02-01T10:33:00.004+05:30

Apologies for missing from this blog for almost a week. I had been busy with two birthdays and three birthday parties.

My little one was born three years and a day after one of her cousins. So, the festivities started on Thursday with the cousin's birthday. It was a weekday, so we opted to attend the friends-and-family do on Saturday.

Friday was the little one's birthday. I had planned to take the day off, but she had a party at her play-school. We (actually my wife) decided to have a little dinner for parents in the evening where all of us could get together.

As luck would have it, an interview request I had put in for an IT major came through on Friday evening. Unfortunately, he can only do this time and then he is off for three weeks. Don't worry, we will start at 6.30 pm and wrap up by 7.00 pm. For sure.

Braving the peak-hour traffic between Delhi and Gurgaon (which is one of the Indian home of the big IT majors), we got to the venue on time. He is on an important conference call. Do you want to set up your equipment and he'll join you soon. Soon turned out to be almost an hour late.

The interview jokingly suggested that I make a dart-board with his picture on it. You can tell your daughter that this is the man who delayed your Dad. But his spin-doctor had other ideas. Here is a little something from us. The little something was a USB Storage Device, just the kind of thing you would give a four-year-old.

Thankfully, the little one was still awake when I got in around 8.45 pm. We got to spend some time together and celebrate the occasion.

Saturday was the cousin's birthday party in Gurgaon. It was scheduled for 12.00 pm and we were there 20 or so minutes late. Yet again, we were the first guests to arrive. Most guests started floating in around 1.00-1.30 pm - with one coming around 3.00 pm.

On our way back, I had a unique experience. I was driving on the fastest lane on the NH-8, which connects Gurgaon and Delhi. Suddenly, the red brake lights of the car in front of me flashed. I braked immediately to avoid running into that car.

There were about six or seven cars in front of me, all having braked with a feet or less of each other. Worried that someone had had a bad accident, I inched forward carefully.

It was nothing of the sort. A man had missed one of exits on the 80 km per hour motorway and wanted to reverse 200 hundred yards to get to the exit. You could have killed someone with your stupidity, I told the man. He was totally unperturbed and busy reversing his car.

Sunday was our 'party in the park' for the little one. She wanted a Nemo Cake and Pizzas at her party. Delhi weather has improved in the last few days and it seemed like an idea we could deliver on. After toying with Nehru Park and Lodhi Gardens, we settled on the park in the front of our house.

Notices displayed all over the park warn against gambling, drinking, throwing garbage and ball games but don't say anything about get-together. And it has a lot of benches for people to sit and enjoy the sun on.

To my surprise, the guests started arriving well before the schedule start time of 12.00. After taking them to the corner we had identified for the party, I headed off to pick up the Nemo cake. While I was away, my wife got summoned by an elderly neighbour - Organising parties in the park is not allowed. Ever since some foreigners did it, the environment has been spoiled.

No, the foreigners didn't leave any toxic waste in the park. They had a get-together with friends for a kid's birthday. They left the park in the same condition they found it, didn't talk loudly, didn't organise loud music that blared late into the night and didn't take up parking lots allocated to the residents.

Isn't that what parks are meant for? For use by residents who pay for and care for the park and aren't fond of putting up tents and offer matar-paneer, daal makhani, pulao and naan to celebrate something?

Luckily, my better half took the more sensible route out of this - by playing the we are new to this locality card.

The elderly lady chose not to take the matter any further. It was a lovely sunny day and my better half had organised face-painting, pass the parcel, bubble-makers and a balloon-seller for the party. The first three were a hit but the last one didn't attract too much interest.

The pizzas arrived at 1.30, as did a couple of small bottles of Coke - to mess up our no-fizzy-drinks resolve. The little one soon discovered it, as did some grown-ups. I had to give in and get a big bottle to allow some refills.

Some considerate guests and the eager gardener helped us return the park to its original self within minutes. The remaining guests moved upstairs to our house to continue the party.

I haven't bumped into the elderly lady yet, but am sure stories are going around about the foreigners who are spoiling the environment!!

An impromptu performance

2010-01-25T15:25:00.006+05:30

Had an interesting weekend.

With the little one's 4th birthday fast approaching, we had loads to do for a proper celebration.

Friends have been alerted, but a venue wasn't finalised and the cakes hadn't been ordered. Yes, the use of 'cakes' is intentional. The little one will have two celebrations - one at the playschool and another one for family and their friends.

After ordering one of the cakes on Sunday morning, we headed off to Lajpat Nagar in south Delhi to buy return gifts for the family celebration. These days, return gifts aren't an alien concept to traditional shop-keepers and they stock everything - balloons, party masks, party hats, party crackers, tissues, paper plates, little toys, photo frames, merchandise from Ben10, Hannah Montana and Disney, t-shirts and scarves of prominent English Premier League Clubs etc etc.

So, we stocked up on all the things we needed and set off to one of our friends - who stays locally.

The friend had a surprise for us. While welcoming us in, he spotted a man walking about with his harmonium in the locality. Like most indigenous instruments, the harmonium is gradually disappearing from the musical scene in India - replaced by the mighty synthesiser. And even rarer is the sight of a musician trawling the streets of a well-heeled locality.

Our curious friend invited the musician over and requested an impromptu performance.

The musician, Deep Chand, comes from India's western state of Rajasthan.

He moved to Delhi when he was young and learned singing by listening to cassettes of famous musicians. He may not know all the words - especially some complex Urdu words - correctly, but sang rather well.

As the friend remarked, he didn't have the false enthusiasm and high-decibel delivery of musicians who sing at religious functions. It was a pleasure listening to him.

He said he doesn't get regular work - only once or twice a week - so supplements it by taking his art to the residential localities of south Delhi.

During the performance, he handed a visiting card and put in a pitch for his son - who is learning dholak (drums), but is also good at putting henna on people's hands. The mobile number is on the business card, if you need to get in touch.

Travels in the south of India - concluding part

2010-01-21T14:38:00.005+05:30

Despite our numerous pleadings, the hotel in Yercaud asked us and our friends to check out at 10.30 am on 1 January 2010.

That certainly wasn't our plan. Our train wasn't due until 8.15 in the evening and Salem isn't a city where you can easily spend time. Growing up, we knew it only as a steel city. But it is also home to traditional silver jewellery and textile, automotive and poultry industries. The city has a lot of cinema halls too, including some big multiplexes like Big Cinemas and ARRS.

The friends suggested we go to Salem and watch a film there, but it didn't seem too appealing with a heavy piece of luggage and an energetic three-year-old. So, we requested them to head off to Bangalore while we spent the day at the hotel. "It has a clean toilet, ready access to food and an area for the little one to play" we reasoned.

By the time we got to Salem, both our tickets on the Trivandrum Express were confirmed. We quickly had our dinner and waited for the train to arrive. It was only 15 minutes late, and once we got on - we went straight to sleep.

The train was already at Trivandrum Junction when we woke up. A representative of the travel agency - we had engaged for the Kerala leg - was at the platform. He had booked us at a guest-house in Kovalam, which was a quick 10-minute walk to the Samudra Beach. Kovalam, Hawa and Lighthouse beaches weren't too far either.

The only problem was that the guest-house didn't offer breakfast. "There is a country club, just round the corner," the representative said. "They serve good breakfast and allow outsiders to eat there".

The day seemed too hot, so we hired a parasol and deck-chairs as soon as we got to the Samudra Beach. It must have been probably the first day we actually lounged about. All our previous excursions to the sea had been to just walk on the beach or splash about. This day, it was only the little one who was splashing about.

The sea-front at Kovalam comes alive after sunset. Restaurants put on display different kinds of fishes, prawns and lobsters for patrons, who can then choose and get their preferred sea creature cooked.

We chose half a kilo of Tiger Prawns to be cooked in south India curry. With a couple of bottles of beer and some rice, the bill came to about 1,200 INR (£15).

The country club turned out to be pleasant surprise. The manager insisted on offering us food on the house. He even refused to charge us for dinner in the evening. I have spoken to the people at our Spa. You can go and have a free treatment if you want. And if the little one wants to splash about in our pool, she can do that too.

The next destination was Alleppey, a picturesque town known for its backwaters. We were picked up from the guest-house by a driver, who was to be with us for the rest of our trip. The journey from Kovalam to Alleppey was about four hours and the house-boat was ready when we got there.

It was a two-roomed boat, an upper deck and a cook exclusively at our service. Even though we had heard so much about Kerala backwaters, we were struck by its beauty. Totally awesome.

The journey started at 12. After floating in water for an hour or so, we docked to have lunch - which had just been cooked. Fish, rice, sambar, mix vegetables and fried beans. Nudged by the house-boat driver, the little one wanted ice-cream too. The ice-cream vendor suggested we buy prawns too, but we politely declined.

After a little while, we were back floating in the water. Despite being home to almost 600 houseboats, the backwaters have huge stretches with no other houseboat around. The driver would hand over the controls to our little one on these stretches. Needless to add, her excitement knew no bounds.

We docked again at 5.30 pm to see the sunset. It seemed a bit early and the other houseboats were still in water. "Fishermen ply these waters after six and the houseboats are not allowed to move in the waters" the driver told us.

It was definitely a great spot to watch the sun set, but after that we realised that we were the only ones there. All the other boats were nearly a kilometre from us.

After dinner, which included chicken, daal, okra and beetroot-and-potato, we retired to our room for the night.

When we woke up, the houseboats were back floating in the water, but our's was still stationary. The cook was busy preparing breakfast but the driver and his flunky were taking it easy - swimming in the water. Eager to get a bit more for our money, I insisted that they take the boat back in the water. It worked. With a sudden sense of urgency, the staff got ready and took the boat away from the bank.

We were back at the jetty by 10.00 am and in our taxi straightaway, to head towards Kochi (Cochin). The company had booked us in Hotel Killians in the Fort Kochi area - which counts amongst its attractions Chinese fishing nets, the oldest Jewish Synagogue in the Commonwealth nations and an Indo-Portuguese Museum. These attract tourists from all over the world, which means that the restaurants are jumping over each other to attract their custom. Some to such a worrying extent that they totally ignore visitors from within India.

On our only night there, one of the restaurants could not spare even one of its six-or-so waiting staff to take our order for almost 20 minutes. The other hurriedly brought out Reserved signs to put on a few vacant tables as we were waiting to be seated!!

Given the relaxing pace of our excursions in the south, it only seemed fitting that we reached airport just 35 minutes before the flight was due to take off. The driver was totally lost and only asked for directions when there was just an hour left for the flight.

Thankfully, Kochi Airport isn't a very busy airport and we were able to get the baggage x-rayed, check-in, go through the security and board the aircraft within 20 minutes.

Visit to South India - continued

2010-01-19T09:51:00.006+05:30

Apologies the promised update about the Yercaud visit took a week rather than a day, but here I go.

Yercaud is about 230 kilometres from Pondicherry and there are two ways of getting there. The first is taking a State Transport Corporation bus to Salem and then another bus up the hill to Yercaud. The other is to do the entire journey in a taxi. You have probably guessed which option I chosen.

The taxi was supposed to pick us up at 0700 in the morning and we got up around 0615 or so, packed our bag and stepped out of our room in Residence Shalimar to have breakfast.

This morning, there was another guest waiting at the table. An Iranian-American, she has been coming to Pondicherry for many years to discover spirituality and yoga. The lady is obviously fascinated by such deep faith in India and got talking to us about spirituality.

I knew this was going to be a long discussion, so I slipped away to check up on the taxi. Sir, the driver who was supposed to take you to Yercaud returned late last night. He will be with you by 0800. So why wasn't I informed? I tried your number at 10.30 last night but it was switched off. There, another one chides me for switching my mobile phone off after 09.00 pm.

After my lame attempt with "people have so much faith in God because there is little to believe in - as Government, Police, Bureaucracy and Society have all failed them" my better half did a better job articulating the ancient culture and the belief of its people in that Lord Almighty. Maybe I was distracted by the Starbucks coffee bag that the Iranian-American was carrying. She loved the yoga and spirituality of India, but the coffee will have to be American.

The taxi arrived at 0800. It was nice and spacious Ambassador, which is still the best car to negotiate India's motorways with. It is tough and rarely breaks down. The driver apologised for the delay. He had been on a six-day visit to Goa and Karnataka and got back in late.

The journey to Salem takes one through the NH-45 (or National Highway 45), one of those toll roads built under the 'build-operate-transfer' scheme by private operators. Such roads are well-maintained and have cut the travel time to major cities by hours.

Unfortunately, Salem requires a detour through NH-68, a motorway still being developed. Some stretches are good, but others are pretty bad. Traffic from both sides flows on just one side of the road and the regulars - like our driver - drive cautiously.

Somewhere along the road, an elephant came along. In return for some coins, he put his trunk in through one of the windows to bless our little girl. She was too excited by this and wanted us to give some more coins. But we decided to push ahead with our journey.

It took over five hours to get to the top of the hill and to our hotel, Grand Palace. The hotel had lovely views of the valley, a nice play-area for younger kids, another play area for older children with table-tennis, chess and computer games. For adults, there was a spa advertised through a woman lying in a jacuzzi with loads of rose petals.

This was 30 December and many other guests - with similar plans of welcoming 2010 in Yercaud - had started coming in. The fliers around the hotel promised 'Fun-filled party with party-games, mind-blowing music and a buffet of 50 international and national dishes'. The Cloud 9 pub at the hotel went a step ahead, promise a third drink 'absaloutly free' if you bought two small drinks.

Our friends from London, we were supposed to meet, were headed to Yercaud from Bangalore. Even though the road is much better (NH-7), it took them much longer to get there. A famous Kannada actor died that morning and his fans were out on the streets to mourn the death and to break or set fire to a few vehicles. Then, their luxury Volvo bus broke down in the middle of the motorway and a replacement bus had to come from Bangalore to bring them to Salem. It was nearly 11 in the night when they got there.

On new year's eve, we hired a cab to take us to the local attractions. Like any hill station, Yercaud had many good viewing points, an old temple, an old business in natural essences, a lake with paddling boats and loads of monkeys - including some really fond of drinking Mirinda.

We spent a fair bit of time in the local botanical garden, which had many varieties of orchids and plants, including a fly-eater - kept away from people in a cage. As with other monuments or places of public interest, the botanical garden also had a mark of some visitors - scratched on a leaf.

By the time we returned to the hotel, there were cops all over. It seemed to be the usual security check, unless one of them mentioned that a threat had been received about blowing the hotel up. All rooms were being checked to ensure that such a nefarious plan didn't succeed.

A further dampener for us was the main function, which was some party-games followed by extremely loud - and very often, bad, music. Of the 50-dish buffet too, the only things edible were roomali roti, daal, chicken biryani and some desserts.

After trying to watch a film in our room for a little while, we came out. It seemed too boring a way to welcome the new year. Thankfully, the hotel had arranged a bonfire outside and we sat around it until the clock struck 12.

Then, it was time to sleep and prepare for the next day. Our friends were returning to Bangalore and we were going to Salem - to catch an overnight train to Trivandrum.

Interactive school and dishonest godmen

2010-01-18T14:45:00.004+05:30

Had an interesting weekend.

On Saturday, we were invited to an Interactive Session at one of the schools we have applied for the admission of the little one.

Along with the other parents scheduled for this 11.00 pm interactivity, we were taken to the school's auditorium.

The auditorium had chairs arranged in six semi-circles. Based on some magic formula (which I couldn't crack, obviously), we were made to sit in one of those semi-circles.

In front of us was the big stage and I was worried they may ask the parents to debate Modern parents and schooling or How schools shape societies or some such topic. I have always been crap at debating, but a failure here could affect the future of my child.

But then again, they could ask parents to sing or dance or come up with an interesting or convincing act. You know, a show like This Dad's Got Talent or Mum's X Factor.

Fortunately neither happened. The parents were taken to different rooms (based on the semi-circle they were sitting in) with tiny chairs and tables.

The task was answering the following questions. What do you think about reading to children and why? What value would you like the child to learn at school? What do you do at home to teach child responsibility? List your child's hobbies. What made you choose School X for your child?

There was no time-frame, but you clearly had 30 minutes or so - considering that the interactivity sessions were scheduled every hour and it would take 10 minutes either side of a session. So I got to it straightaway.

Soon, we were joined by a young Ma'am who had the responsibility to verify our documents. It didn't matter that she didn't know the difference between an original and the photocopy. She was the one holding an important document and the pen to mark on it. A few ticks on a sheet and she was off.

Another Ma'am joined soonafter, this time to find out about our little one. A quick pitch and some pleasant smiles later, she had moved too. All around us, we could hear parents talking about their child being "musical" or "creative" or "talented". No one was saying "my child watches TV the whole time and I would be glad to have him out of the house as soon as possible". Or that "I hope you are impressed with my answers. I am a bit nervous about that look".

Anyway, that was too much of distraction. I focused on the task at hand - writing a tome about a creative and talented child, who loves reading and is taught responsibility through small tasks and would benefit if the school taught her the virtues of hard work and empathy.

I didn't have any more original thoughts to share, so handed over my worksheet and walked out of the school - hoping and praying that I hadn't let down my little one.

On Sunday, we had planned to take a friend to see Old Delhi and Jama Masjid. The friend was visiting from London and we wanted her to see as much of Delhi as possible.

Though the day was grim - foggy, grey and cold (like winter in South-East England) - we decide to stick to the plan.

With Delhi preparing for the Republic Day, there were too many cops on the road. Something I hadn't noticed during my auto-rickshaw rides during weekdays, but was quite conscious of while driving myself. Most roads leading to the President's House to India Gate stretch were closed too for the practice of Republic Day parade.

Thankfully, the roads were empty and we were in Rajiv Chowk (known better as Connaught Place) soon. A trip in Delhi Metro was also part of the plan, and it is always a more sensible (and less stressful) way to get to Old Delhi.

Even though it was almost midday, Old Delhi hadn't woken up. Most shops had their shutters down. Some people were getting groomed or having a bath by the street-side. Some were burning plastic bags or papers to keep themselves warm. Some others were waiting outside food stalls to eat freshly-prepared poori-subzi.

Jama Masjid had closed for prayers by the time we reached it. So, a decision was taken to go to Karim's and have our lunch first. For those who don't know, Karim's is nearly a century old in existence and many centuries old in terms of the cuisine it offers. Time magazine has even rated it as among the top restaurants of Asia.

We ordered Chicken Burra, Mutton Korma, Chicken Jehagiri, Seekh Kabab and three different types of breads - Sheermal, Naan and Roomali Roti. All of it was yummy and we probably overate ;-)

Jama Masjid was, as usual, majestic. We have been there countless times and it never ceases to impress me. Its three domes and two minarets are beautiful and the courtyard can hold up to 25,000 worshippers. On a regular day like Sunday, though, the only permanent occupants of the courtyard are hundreds of pigeons.

The only thing that stood out was foreigners clad in strange, multi-coloured and ill-fitting gowns. It dawned later that the people manning a particular gate use it as an easy way of making money. Even though the women tourists are covered appropriately, they are told it is mandatory to wear the gowns before entering the mosque. The charge of "borrowing" one is 200 INR (£3) or more.

I walked up to one of those guys to protest that this wasn't right. You are making a fool of someone who is respecting your culture and sentiments. The mute guy was very angry with me, threatening to cut off my neck and asking me to leave the mosque. I knew he had no right to do, but it didn't sensible to pick up a fight.

The cops of duty down the stairs seem aware of this racket. They are the Imam's (Grand Priest) men. Have you seen the mosque? You can go in through one of the other gates.

Getting the first-born certified

2010-01-15T12:25:00.004+05:30

As you would have guessed, I was busy with school admissions and rectifying the mistake on my telephone bill on Thursday.

While all the Online Forms had been submitted before we went on leave, the paper-forms were awaiting our attention once we were back. It was only on Wednesday that I was able to give this attention.

One of the forms insisted on a Magistrate's Affidavit for the First-born to be submitted along with the other documents.

At first, I was confused. How would a Magistrate know who my first-born was, when the only person likely to have that information is me? Did the government insert a secret chip in me, when I was born, which was monitoring my activities all this while? Or something more sinister and secretive?

But it was nothing of the sort. Seems like the schools want to put the fear of God in parents. If you lie under oath to a Magistrate, the consequences would not be pleasant. So better tell the truth!

It worked. Suddenly, those memories of standing outside the Principal's room on a hot summer day came alive. You are meant to wear white shoes on Friday. Your shoes don't look anything like that. They are more the colour of soil. Stand outside the Principal's room till lunch-time. And we will give you a letter that your father has to sign.

So, I went to the Patiala House Courts - near the office - to find a Notary Public. The place is full of lawyers and if you have money, they have the right affidavit. I walked into a lawyer's office, who quoted 200 INR for a Magistrate's Affidavit. If you want a personal affidavit for residence proof, that will be 80 INR.

I needed two of each and asked for some rebate. You are already getting a rebate because you have a girl. It is difficult to catch a Magistrate and get them to sign a document. Plus this guy has to go towards East Delhi and get the signature.

I asked if a Magistrate at the local court was available. They are too busy hearing the cases. We will get a Magistrate's signature for you. But you will only get it tomorrow morning. I paid the money and the lawyer sent off his sidekick to get the 10 INR Non-Judicial Stamp-paper.

It was only when the Magistrate's Affidavit was being printed that I realised how sure a footing this all had. The stamp-paper was signed for in my wife's name, by the side-kick. The actual affidavit was in her name as well and I had to sign for her. And the Magistrate would see neither me nor my wife, but confirm that the contents of the Affidavit were true. Just put the money there, please!

Anyway, what is important is that I got what I wanted, the school got what it wanted and the lawyer got what he wanted. My contribution to the mountain of paperwork, that the school admission forms are, was duly accepted this morning without as much as a glance at it.

As for rectifying the mistake on the telephone bill, it is still in the works. After two calls and a visit, my file was finally traced. The form and all the supporting documents had my name spelt correctly.

So where did the mistake happen? The data-entry guy must have made it. When is it likely to be sorted out? You can see that I have traced the file. This will now be put up to the Assistant General Manager for his approval, who is not in today. Once he approves the change, it will go to the relevant department for the correction to be made. Any idea how long this will take? Four or five days. Can it be done any earlier? Here's your file. Take it and get it done earlier if you want.

So until next week, I will let him be. Then, another phone call and possibly, another visit.

That's my identity you are rolling!

2010-01-13T17:48:00.004+05:30

Details of the journey to Yercaud will have to wait another day.

For the past couple of days I have been busy with my efforts to re-establish (or create) an identity in India. But before I tell you more, a word of advice. If any of you is contemplating a return after a prolonged stay abroad, open an account with the public-sector State Bank of India and get a phone from public-sector Mahanagar Telephone Nigam Limited as soon as you can.

You may not like the services either of these offer, but they still hold the magical key to getting an identity in India.

An MTNL phone is still seen as a valid proof of residence as is an SBI bank passbook/statement. If you have any of these, it will be relatively less hassle acquiring a Permanent Account Number (PAN) Card and a Driving License - which then gives you a proper official identity.

In my case, it is also an important part of the jigsaw to secure school admission for my daughter.

On Monday, I went to the local Transport Office in south Delhi to update my driving licence. The licence still has the address it was issued to, about 17 years ago. In that time, my parents have moved three homes and all my sisters and I have moved out and have our families and homes.

Part of the reason it didn't get updated was that I have been away. Part of it is the process is quite scary. None of the tens of forms that the Enquiry Office issues relates to the change of address on a driving licence. What one has to use instead is Duplicate/Lost Licence form.

On filling this up, I realised the importance of SBI and MTNL. A proof of residence was needed and if you didn't have an Indian Passport, Voter's Identity Card, Ration Card or a Registered Tenancy Agreement, these two would still be good.

Unfortunately, I am working to a tight timescale and don't have time to open an SBI account and wait for it to be operational. So, I went to the MTNL office near my home and got a duplicate copy of my phone bill.

Another visit and about half-an-hour in the queue and the form was deposited. Since I had an old licence, physical records had to be checked and verified before they did anything. That would take at least a week and after that it could be another week (if all goes well) for the licence to start making its way to me.

Fortunately, I bumped into a Transport official known to me through my Dad. Needless to add, the wonders of having friends in high places was suddenly obvious. Two-week process was now a couple of hours' worth of effort as I sipped a hot cuppa in the office of my acquaintance.

The licence could be on its way to me had a crucial piece of kit not gone for some kind of "recharging". Which means that I won't have it handy for the "Document Verification" that some schools have called us for this week.

I still had the MTNL bill, I thought. But that confidence was short lived. When I got home in the evening, the monthly bill from the telephone utility had arrived with a different surname. This despite a couple of documents and a hand-filled form with the name and surname written in capital letters!!

So, this morning I went to get the mistake rectified. The drill was something I was well acquainted with but had forgotten in the last 10 years. Sorry it can't be done at this office. You will have to go to the office that booked the phone for you. You may need to write an application. They will then check your records and make the changes in our different systems.

An auto-rickshaw ride and 30 minutes later, I was in the office that booked my phone. It was nearly 10.30 am and none of the senior officials had arrived for the 10.00 am start. One of the officers appeared around 10.40 and said You can write a letter saying 'Dear Sir, I had booked my phone in such and such name and the bill has come with such and such name. Can the mistake be please rectified at the earliest'?

I asked where the form had to be deposited. You have to go three floors below to our Commercial Section. I had been there and explained the situation but the clerks there wouldn't help. This is the best I can offer. You can maybe request them to provide you a letter saying that a correction has been made.

The clerk downstairs asked for a copy of the PAN card to be attached to the letter. I asked where the photocopier was. You will have to go outside and look for one in the market. We don't have a photocopying machine here. I must mention that this is one of India's biggest telecoms companies we are talking about.

Then one of the other guys had mercy and said the copy of PAN is not needed. It would be in the original application. OK, then. Leave your number and I'll give you a call once this is done said the guy as he rolled my letter in his hands.

A part of me wanted to scream - Be careful with that, Mister. That's my identity that you are rolling in your hands. But as any of you who have dealt with lower-level government staff in India would know, they can definitely mess your situation even if they cannot solve it.

Back from the break

2010-01-12T13:58:00.011+05:30

Apologies for the prolonged absence from this blog, but I was busy fulfilling a resolution from 2009.

My better half and I had planned to see more of India while we are here, but hadn't done much about it until the last week of December. As you are aware, getting the house furnished, fixing the leaking taps, waiting for our stuff to arrive from London and sorting out a playschool for the little one had taken most of our time.

A nudge from one of our friends from London resulted in a plan to meet up and welcome 2010 in Yercaud, a hill station in the southern state of Tamil Nadu. After spending some time on Google Maps, we decided to visit Mamallapuram and Pondicherry on the way to Yercaud.

If we are travelling all the way to Tamil Nadu, why not go to Kerala as well? reasoned my better half. It sounded like a good idea and we did a bit more research. A friend helpfully planned a rough itinerary from Kochi (Cochin) to Trivandrum and passed it on to a travel agent to provide a quote.

The question was how to get from Yercaud to Kochi? Both taxis and air journeys were too costly, and no trains ply between Salem (the station closest to Yercaud) and Kochi. Salem does have a good rail connection with Trivandrum, but the trains were all booked out because of the tourist season. After much dilly-dallying, we picked up a confirmed return air-ticket from Kochi to Delhi and a waiting list train ticket from Salem to Trivandrum.

When we boarded the aircraft from Delhi to Chennai (Madras) on 24 December, the only confirmed things we had was the hotel in Yercaud and the return flight from Kochi.

Mamallapuram is about an hour's drive from Chennai, on the East Coast Road. Like most well-maintained motorways, this one is a tolled road. It runs along the Tamil Nadu coast goes all the way to Pondicherry and beyond.

I had been to the city nearly 12 years ago, while visiting Chennai for the wedding of a close friend's brother. Back then, Mamallapuram was a dusty little town with a lovely beach.

All that has changed now. The East Coast Road is now dotted with resorts. My friend suggested checking into one of these resorts, but we booked ourselves in this quaint little place called Hotel Mahabs. It turned out to be a nice clean hotel, with a swimming pool, rooms with balcony and its own collection of exotic birds. The beach and the historic temples were all within walking distance.

As luck would have it, Mamallapuram's month-long Indian Dance Festival also opened the same day we reached there. With Arjuna's Penance, a 7th century temple, as the background and under the neon-lit gaze of the Tamil Nadu's Chief Minister and his deputy and son, dancers from different parts of the country displayed their skills.

With the temperature in the 30s, we chose to spend the afternoons by the swimming pool and mornings and evenings visiting the beach the temples.

During a day-time visit to Arjuna's Penance, I had an interesting experience. A woman came by with a thin stick in her hand. She offered some fortune-telling, which I refused. Have some mercy in the house of God, she said, showing her eczema-affected feet. Within minutes the pleading had turned into a threat to see me destroyed. And she had been talking for barely five minutes.

Another interesting change in Mamallapuram was the availability of good south India food. A lot more restaurants now sell tandoori and Chinese food than those selling dosas (rice pancakes) and idlis (rice cakes). This Indian & Chinese food is cooked the south Indian way - involving curry leaves, other local condiments and coconut. However, the cooks only occasionally get the preparation right.

While in Mamallapuram, we were told that Pondicherry is well-connected by bus. So, on 27 December, we checked out of the hotel and walked to the East Coast Road. We boarded the first bus that came along, and it turned out to be a State Transport Corporation bus. There was no room to sit and the little one was suddenly feeling sleepy. Thankfully, some people got off soon and we had seats.

As the bus meandered through the really green countryside, the success of Indian telecom sector was obvious. Apart from the ATMs of India's biggest public-sector bank, the only other common signs along the route were billboards of mobile phone companies Airtel, Aircel, Vodafone, Tata Docomo and MTS.

It took about two hours and a total of 83 Indian Rupees (about £1) to reach Pondicherry - a former French colony.

Our accommodation in Pondicherry (booked from Mamallapuram) was a guest-house run by a French woman and a Kashmiri man. The website promised an interesting confluence of French cuisine and Kashmiri Wazwan, but on reaching there we found out that the only thing on offer there was toast and tea/coffee in the morning.

The French woman had been in India for nearly 15 years. She had travelled to different parts before making Pondicherry her home. Most of the time, she would stay behind thick iron grills accompanied by her three dogs. The only time the grills opened was for the advance to be paid for the room.

The Kashmiri husband was charged with serving breakfast, cleaning the rooms and making conversations with the guests.

For lunch or dinner, one had to go to the restaurants along the Auroville road. Pondicherry town itself had many more restaurant options, but was almost six kilometres away from the guest-house.

Don't know whether it was this or something else, but I wasn't too excited about Pondicherry. It seemed like a good place to spend a day or two, but we probably spent a day more.

Tomorrow, the journey to Yercaud.

Banking out of recession!!

2009-12-21T10:04:00.004+05:30

I have a new theory on how India escaped recession. It's the banking system which should get the credit.

No, not the international banking system which spent all our money (and more) in the belief that even bad debt is a good investment.

It's the banking system in India - the federal Reserve Bank of India, the state banks and private banks - which ensure a strong capital base by actively discouraging customers from spending their money.

The first inkling came last week. I was trying to pay for a hotel we had booked on New Year's eve and the internet portal of World's Local Bank told me "Cannot transfer this amount as you have exceeded your limit".

I wondered how an expenditure of 9,000 INR rupees could have exceed my limit. More importantly, I was outraged (even embarrassed) with myself for having taken such a stupid limit on my transactions.

Called up the "Happy to help you" call centre and was told that the limit has to be set up before any electronic transactions could happen. Don't worry, you put in a request and it'll be done within 3-4 days. But this is my own money. Why do I need permission from you to spend a very small bit of it? Sir, this is for your own security. But isn't the security ensured when I come in through a login, a password and a random number generated by my very own unique ID device? It is, sir. But it is possible that someone could get their hands on these details and try to steal your money. But isn't it logical that if someone was so determined, he would put a gun to my head and march me to an ATM? Sir, I can't talk about that. We are doing this for your own security.

In the end, I had to walk into the World's Local Bank's Not So Busy Local Branch and wait for 30 minutes before someone took my request for a transfer limit. Do you want this facility set up over the phone too? Why would I want to do that? Isn't that a risky option? The lady smiled and offered another form to make an immediate transfer of 9000 INR to the hotel concerned.

The hotel done, I got busy booking the flights to my destination and back. The budget airline was really efficient and allowed me to hold three seats at my preferred fare for 24 hours, over the phone. However, the guy on the other side could only accept payment from a credit card. Don't worry, you can get on to our site and use your Debit Card there.

At the first opportunity, I got on to the internet and tried to confirm the booking. After filling in the relevant details and submitting the form, a message appeared: "Unfortunately, the transaction has been declined by your bank". I took it as a one-off failure of the system and tried to pay again. It came back with the same message.

Happy to help you call-centre guy told me this was because the Reserve Bank of India doesn't allow internet payments by Debit Card. So what do I do, I asked him. The best suggestion was withdrawing cash and paying for the flight in cash. But all the ATMs around me only allow a maximum transaction of 12,000 INR a day when I need to pay nearly 50,000 INR.

I asked to speak to the supervisor, and she was the usual pleasant-mannered but unhelpful sort. Her standard line was Reserve Bank of India does not allow electronic transactions and we have to abide by it. As I ranted about how there was nothing international about this bank, I could picture her filing her nails and making faces at her colleagues. My sad tale of inconvenience only got lonng bits of silence from her. Maybe we can offer you a credit card? Why would I ever be interested in another card from you, when the first two are causing so much misery? In any case, that will take its own sweet time and doesn't solve my problem.

For a moment, I thought of asking friends-with-credit-cards for a favour. But not many of them have 50,000 INR knocking about after mortgage, car loans and other expenditure. So, the best option seemed to be to go to Delhi's Local but Quite Busy airport to pay for my tickets. The card is accepted at merchant terminals, the bank had told me.

But just like a six-year-old told off by the trustees for going way beyond his usual candy-and-soda allowance from the well-resourced trust fund, I wanted to be sure. This time the happy to help you girl told me one of my accounts allowed a maximum daily transaction of 40,000 INR and the other 50,000 INR. Which meant I would have to split the payments between my two cards.

As I drove to the airport, I wondered what made the Reserve Bank of India come up with such a brilliant idea. It stops the good guys from spending their own hard-earned money. The bad guys continue to use cash liberally to buy services with coming under the radar. It was only a few months ago that a story appeared of an associated of a tainted political depositing 6,400,000,000 INR in a Mumbai bank branch. Neither the Reserve Bank of India, nor its stringent policies of monitoring cash flows, seemed to skip a heartbeat at this transaction.

But then again, this guy was depositing money into the system and not attempting to take it out. And with that kind of cash flows, the worst of economic recession can seem like just a minor inconvenience.

My phone from the government-owned utility arrived, by the way. The guys were working on Saturday and even though they arrived at 1500 hrs (as against the promised 1000-1200 hrs), the installation was smooth and the phone is still working.

Meet the Principal

2009-12-18T11:12:00.006+05:30

A friend helpfully passed on the mobile number of the Principal of a well-known Delhi school. "Talk to him. He is new in his job and he may be more receptive to a personal contact."

This followed advice from other friends about choosing the face-to-face contact route. The trouble is every one's scared of the Directorate of Education directive, and insists on no contact until the admission process is over.

The Principal also tried to point me towards the school's website, but did ultimately agree to meet. Come to the school at 11.

Me and my better-half reached there sharp at 11 and were pointed towards the school's Administrator. He is the one who sees anyone with an admission query. The gentleman looked at us like a plague-affected ship, which should be burnt soon. And he got to the task straightaway. You don't have a Registered Deed? Then we can't do anything about it. But this is an 11-month lease, which doesn't need to be registered. Who are you telling this? I live in a rented accommodation myself and it is registered. Then he got busy on his cellphone - a signal for us to get out.

We wondered if this is the kind of person our little one will turn out. Not a bone of politeness, but will every blood vessel bubbling with acid.

Thankfully, some others weren't this bad. They asked us to sit down as the Principal was showing a visitor around.

After a few apologies and sending a school clerk, the Principal appeared. He was a nice and courteous guy and asked us into his room. As we were exchanging business cards, he also called the Administrator in. The Administrator started to bark straightaway, but the Principal said: Listen to what they have to say first. We can then decide what we can or cannot do in this case. I was impressed with his political sense!

We presented our case : recently moved from the UK, less than two months in our own accommodation, no Indian government identity documents - but really interested in sending our daughter to this particular school.

The Principal listened to us patiently and courteously. Then he started: I do understand what you are saying, but you still don't have much of a chance. Staying the locality doesn't mean a lot of points. Having a sibling here and a father/mother for alumni fetches much higher points. Plus we are in an area surrounded by government employees, so they will get a strong consideration as well.

He told us our daughter was a bit old for Nursery (What? Old for nursery at just 4?) and that we should try and send her to Preparatory class. But she hasn't been to a proper school, we said. The Administrator jumped in - Nursery is our school is all play as well, no studies.

The Principal suggested that we get our little one admitted to another school this year. By April, I may know what the situation in my school is. Also, we won't be bound by Directorate of Education's rules. But we want our daughter to start in his school and this year. I really can't do anything, sir. We are bound by the rulings of honourable High Court and Supreme Court and the directives of the Directorate of Education.

Then he suddenly turned to the Administrator: We have to do everything by the book this time, right? Any digression and we will get into serious trouble. The plague-killer nodded in agreement.

The media has done a very good thing. People can seek information through the Right to Information act and we have to be fair and balanced in our shortlisting. I wish you the best of luck in your effort to secure admission for your daughter.

That seemed to be his cue for us to leave the room. But my better-half was determined. She put in another attempt at convincing the Principal to help us: I do understand what you are trying to do, and am respectful of that. But ours must surely not be that extremely rare case. This is totally unfair to our young daughter.

The Principal did not take the bait. He repeated how his hands were tied by the Honourable High Court and Supreme Court and the Directorate of Education. Then he had a bright idea. Why don't you send her to the British School? We told him that the session in that school begins in September, which might be a bit late for our little one.

He tried to assure us that everything will be fine, but without telling us how exactly. If the technicality has been defined by the Directorate of Education, how would it differ for any other school?

After another few minutes of conversation, the Principal got restless. He started talking to a senior police officer, who was patiently sitting through our conversation. It was impossible to ignore this, so me and my better half stepped out of the room after expressing our gratitude for his time.

Our effort wasted, I chose to focus on that one thing that friends say definitely works - a phone supplied by the government utility company.

I got the Estate Agent to get the Lease Deed notarised, got the landlord to provide the last paid electricity bill and got a photocopy of my own PAN (tax) card.

Took the relevant documents to the utility company's local office. It hasn't changed in the last 10 years. The corridors were as dark and damp as ever. Most of the rooms had files piled up to the ceiling and the files' carer taking an afternoon siesta. The ladies, who deal with new connections, were having their lunch and nudged me to the next room.

The guy in the next room was helpful. He asked me to fill up a yellow form, confirmed the documents and sent me back to the ladies (who thankfully had finished their lunch now) to take the deposit and kick-off the process.

I had to choose a phone number (which I did) and pay the deposit (which I did). After a few notations on the form, I was handed an acknowledgement slip and asked to wait for the linesman to arrive and hook up the phone.

Get to the school, quick!

2009-12-15T17:02:00.004+05:30

The school admission season has begun in Delhi.

Unlike past years, when different schools had their own schedule, this year all the schools have to adhere to the schedule charted by the Department of Education. This means the parents aren't choking the only telephone line the school has or making endless trips there to check if the process has begun.

December 15 was the day the process kicked off and I reached the closest school at 8 in the morning. The idea was to get in and grab a form before the crowds arrived. Unfortunately, another 30-odd parents were thinking the same and had already reached the school-gate.

During my stay in Hounslow (London) and Caversham (Reading), the key factor was being reasonably close to a good school. But in Delhi, even that isn't good enough. We are within 3-4 kilometers of six of the best schools in Delhi, but will probably need to fill in the applications for all of them. Still there is no guarantee that the application will be successful.

For starters, there is the issue of the proof of residence. A Rent Deed/Agreement isn't accepted as a proof of residence. The rare school that accepts it, wants you to be staying at the address for at least six months before making the application. In an increasingly liberalised India, the proof of residence is still the Voter ID Card, Driving License, National Food Distribution Card, a Phone/Electricity Bill issued by the government-owned utility company. Having been away from India for 10 years, and in our own accommodation for less than two months, we are in a tricky situation.

Admission in Delhi schools is based on a points-system. Being a girl is good. Being a first-born is also good. Staying locally is helpful. Having a single parent is also helpful. But a sibling studying in the same school or a parent who is an alumni is super-good.

Some schools allocate points on crisp, considered and well-articulated views on education, education in a particular school and education with kids from different walks of life.

The educational and professional achievements of the parents don't attract any points, but are to be mentioned in the forms. And a couple of schools even want the parents' photos to be submitted with the application.

In keeping with the times, some schools facilitate the submission of form electronically. But as I have discovered of late, school sites seem to attract frequent malware attacks. So, the search engines and browsers stop you from accessing the sites with a message "this site may be harmful to your computer".

Looks like it'll have to be a paper application and that dreaded feeling of being marked on your responses. They better be good otherwise your parents (in the current scenario, wife and child) won't be happy. No wonder then that this dread of exams make me take the first escape-hatch out of education.

Right now, the biggest issue is proving I actually live in the house that I say I do. Making amendments to the Electricity Bill means supplying a No Objection Certificate prepared by a Notary, photocopy of the ownership, last paid bill, two photos and a proof of identity. That would be fun with a hard-of-hearing landlord, who is suspicious of any requests for help.

Getting a new telephone connection requires a proof of identity too. The proof could be Voter ID Card, Driving License or National Food Distribution Card, and a copy of the Rent Deed. Hang on, is the rent deed an Agreement or a Registered document?

Missing in Kolkata

2009-12-15T13:39:00.008+05:30

Apologies for the slightly prolonged absence from this blog.

I was in the eastern Indian city of Kolkata on a work assignment.

It wasn't a planned visit, unlike my last and only trip to the city. That was almost 13 years ago and I was travelling with three of my closest friends.

All three have their origins in West Bengal and reasonably familiar with its capital, Calcutta (as the city was known then). My first memory of that trip is getting out of the Howrah Station and into a sea of traffic. It took quite a while to get to the Howrah Bridge, but the journey became faster as we got closer to Dum Dum – where we had found affordable accommodation.

The four of us had made a pact on not eating anything vegetarian. Only creatures that live on land or swim in sea. And wash that down with loads of drinks.

Each day, we would take the Metro (India's oldest underground transport system) and go Park Street to have kathi rolls. For those of you who do not know, a kathi roll is made of thin bread with delicious chicken or lamb filling.

The rest of our time was spent discovering the other culinary options in the city - with the occasional bit of sight-seeing. Victoria Memorial is the only place that stuck to memory from that trip.

On the way back to Howrah Station, our taxi got stuck in traffic again – and we had to rely on a ferry to catch our train back to Delhi.

This trip was different in every way. For starters, I was flying from Delhi to Kolkata. Delhi's new domestic airport is quite impressive. The check-in happened in a flash and there were loads of options for window-shopping.

The flight landed towards Dum Dum and we had to make our way into the city, where our hotel was.

Along the way, there were hoardings selling brand-new housing development, telecom services or cosmetics. The Hindi language seemed to have muscled its way into the market, sitting proudly amidst English and Bangla. So had names like South City, which probably took roots in the real-estate book in the Delhi NCR (National Capital Region). Retailers like Big Bazaar are establishing themselves quickly, and shops selling mobile services can be found everywhere.

Like the other big Indian cities, Kolkata has also seen a rapid rise in car ownership. And this rise has been followed by construction of flyovers and other such structures to ease the movement of cars along the city.

An early morning excursion (and trust me that's the only time you'd like to be in a car) to the Howrah Wholesale Fish Market exposed me to another interesting dimension. Most parks were full of boys playing cricket, football or volleyball. The Maidan - a huge park in front of Victoria Memorial - had many middle-aged men and women out to get some exercise.

Like in Delhi or Mumbai, they came in their swank cars - many driven by chauffers and parked by the memorial - to get a breath of fresh air.

Yet, Kolkata feels much smaller than Delhi or Mumbai. It still gives impression of a city that had a glorious past, but is trying hard to catch up with an exciting present and even more exciting future. Apart from those numerous colonial-era buildings, it also has its hand-drawn rickshaws and the bright yellow taxis.

In my six days in Kolkata, I saw the city largely through the windows of a hired car. There was little time to eat, so we had our meals either at the hotel or in our local bureau. The bureau had a stunning view of the Victoria Memorial - and that is what will stay with me again.

Unfortunately, I can't share it here as the office was on the 11th floor, the window was too dirty and it seemed too risky to hang out of the window for the sake of a photo - when loads of them, in much better quality, exist on the web!!

The shipment has arrived!

2009-12-01T14:23:00.004+05:30

After two months of waiting in a UK warehouse, floating through the oceans and travelling through the roads in India, our stuff has finally reached home.

"Can you please come to the Inland Container Depot in Patparganj on Monday," the local shipping agent told me at the end of last week. "I will meet you there at 11 am".

The ICD is one of three around Delhi - the others being in Tughlakabad and Loni (in the neighbouring state of Haryana). "Just take a turn towards Anand Vihar from National Highway-24 and you'll see lots of containers on your right hand side. That is where the ICD is," he told me on Monday morning. "I will see you there at 11".

Getting to the depot wasn't a problem. I did see the containers from quite a distance and was there by 11. "On my way, sir - be there soon," said the agent. "I will get one of our guys to come and pick you up".

The guy was a stickly thin but street smart clearing agent, who helps people get their stuff out quickly and with as little custom duty paid as possible. He is well-versed in the drill - the forms that needed to be filled, the officials that needed to be dealt with, the signatures and notations required on various forms and the palms that need to be greased along the way.

"Let us get your stuff out of the container first," he said. "Have you got any wine, whisky etc?". I replied in negative. "What about electronics? What gadgets have you got from there?" A microwave oven. A computer. A DVD player. And, yes, an LCD TV. "An LCD TV? I don't have any TV on my list."

I was stunned. There definitely was a TV before the packers came into my home. There definitely was a TV that they packed. And there most definitely was a TV that they took into their van. What had happened since? Did the UK customs seize it under the "exotic things" category or did it catch the fancy of Somali pirates?

It was nothing of the sort. The clearing agent was working with "Page-1 of 3" and "Page-3 of 3". Thankfully, I was carrying my copy of the packing list and pointed him towards Package-67 on the list. "Right," he said, as he called the local agent and gave him an earful for not providing the correct papers.

The clock had reach 12.00 pm, so I asked where our man was. "He has reached Akshardham Temple, so should be with us in 10-15 minutes."

The clearing agent nudged me to walk towards the Customs Office, as he took my passport and tried to put together the estimated prices of all the electronic items I was bring in. The Customs Office is a two-storeyed structure sitting amidst piles of containers. It is like many other government offices - dark corridors, doors with strings instead of door-handles, blue linoleum floor, sparse seating, steel cupboards with additional locks, files stacked up along the corridor and big waste-bins where everyone spits.

There were the regular signs too. Thookna mana hai (Spitting prohibited), Dhoomrapaan nishedh (Smoking prohibited), Bharatiyata ka naam Hindi hai (Being India is speaking Hindi), Ganmanya atithi ka haardik abhinandan (Heartiest welcome to the esteemed visitor).......An enterprising (or maybe cheesed-off) soul had distorted the first sign to read Thakna mana hai (Getting tired prohibited)!!

The office would have seen good days and the promise for a better future. A sign asked visitors to use the "Touch Screen below" to check the status of your request. The touch screen was long gone, leaving behind a commemorative plaque and a sign warning people not to import exotic birds or animals.

"The computers hardly work here," complained one of the officials. He was too busy to inspect my stuff, but warmed up on hearing I was a media-person from his home state. "How many computers you see here?" he asked me, offering biscuits and other snacks. Two. "Only one works. And do you think this looks like a working space?" It most certainly didn't. The room was about 7 feet by 7 feet, with two occupants and a huge big single-seater sofa for "esteemed visitors" to the office.

Agent after agent walked into the room. Armed with with sheaves of papers, they convinced him why he should put his sought-after signature on the file. The official knew the rules and the procedures and wanted more documents. I am certain I heard kal aana (come tomorrow) a few times.

He had threatend to look at all the electronic items personally, but with the other official dealing with a Right to Information query - spent most of the time inside the room. My clearing agent ran around the office, trying to get the necessary signatures and notations for him to put his signature on the file.

Around 12.30, the local agent finally arrived. "There was too much traffic on the roads, sir," as I came out to speak with him. He set his co-workers on locating and taking out the electronic items from the four cartons that my stuff had arrived in.

By the time they located and took out the stuff, another agent was yelling at them to move my cartons away. "You have blocked my container? Move the stuff away or I will throw it," he threatened. I didn't want any harm coming to my beloved TV - especially after it had been located - so I personally oversaw the shifting of boxes.

Eventually, the official didn't have time to inspect my stuff and decided to trust me on my word. "We just need to deposit the customs duty now," the clearing agent said. "Then you can go away and we'll get the stuff checked out of the depot".

My joy at finally being able to get out of the place was short-lived. It was 2 and the bank had its lunch-time. "Come back at 3," the bank clerk announced. With nothing better to do, I tried to make sense of my surroundings.

The Inland Container Depot seems like a well-oiled system. It has a functional community of clearing agents. Most of them carry black bags, which are dropped at the entrance to the office. They know each other, try and help each other, mentor the newer agents and advice the hopeless ones to try out another career. As they have to spend the entire day there, they come armed with newspapers, lunch, snacks and ........a lot of patience.

At 3, I was able to pay the customs duty and take control of my passport. Before I could walk away, the agent said, "Is it possible to borrow 1600 rupees from you? We need to pay the depot storage charges for the duration the container was here. The ATM here is not working, otherwise I would have paid it myself."

Not paying wasn't an option. The depot wouldn't allow the stuff to be taken out without the storage charge being paid. And I had waited too long to see my stuff.

A visit to the Children's Park

2009-11-27T15:26:00.007+05:30

A friend remarked today - "Do you plan on keeping busy with the landlady, washing machine and PAN card or will you have other social interactions as well?"

He is an old and dear friend, who has seen more of me in Delhi through this blog than in flesh and blood.

My apologies if I have given that impression. Even though all the above have taken a lot of my time, we have still had time to invite friends or go over to their places.

As of this weekend, we started acquainting ourselves with the family-friendly Delhi.

The first stop, on Sunday was the Children's Park. Located next to India Gate, it is definitely ones of most well-resourced and spacious park for children in Delhi.

It has been a big draw for the city's children. The lure of spending some time running around in the park, having a go on the swings and slides, followed by a picnic on the India Gate Lawns has been too strong.

I hadn't been there for more than two decades, but thought it would be a good place to introduce the little one to.

At the turn of the millennium the maintenance of the park was overtaken by a major Indian automobile manufacturer. It has modernised an upgraded the park - including an amphitheatre, a library, a science centre and other new additions like musical fountains and theme-based water works on the Jungle Book.......And it still doesn't cost anything to enter and use the park.

My Mum-in-law, who is visiting us these days, decided to take a siesta in the park, while the little one and I went ahead to explore the park.

The little one has always preferred the swing. It requires minimum effort on her part and doesn't involve the unpleasantness of jostling for space on a slide or monkey bar or climbing frame. The latter being very important on the day as busloads of school-kids had come to enjoy the park.

It was both sad and overwhelming to see the excitement these kids had about the park. Sad because even after all these years, Children's Park is the only free option for kids from different parts of Delhi. Overwhelming because kids love being outdoors given an option.

For a few hours, the park resembled a dust bowl as kids ran from swings to slides to monkey-bars to climbing frames in search of excitement. They did what kids do - push others to have a go on their favourite thing; tug at each others' shirts and trousers to scare each other and wanting to use every second of their time in the park productively.

Amidst all this, the little one retained firm control of the swing as her mother and I took turns at pushing her.

After a few hours of play, it was time for lunch. We hadn't brought along picnic, so the next best option seemed to be Andhra Bhawan. It is walking distance from the Children's Park and has a fantastic canteen.

The canteen offers eat-as-much-as-you-can lunch on the table for 80 rupees (or one British Pound). The food is fresh, tasty and filling and the place attracts strong patronage. Even India's prime-minister-in-waiting Rahul Gandhi is believed to be fan.

It being a weekend day, we had to wait for a little while before a table got free. But the food was well worth it. My little one couldn't get her favourite 'idli' (steamed rice-flour cakes), but did enjoy the fresh yogurt and rice - while we devoured the lentils, vegetables, sambar, rasam, pooris, rice, pickles and sweets.

We haven't decided where we'll go this weekend, but I'll keep you posted.

Nothing comes for free

2009-11-26T09:05:00.005+05:30

Nothing comes for free. Not even smaller denomination notes for a bigger currency note.

In the last couple of months, I have had to buy cauliflowers, radishes, cooking oil and breakfast cereals to get change. But almost always, the problem was that the minimum denomination I had was a 500-rupee note.

A 100-rupee note has always been within a few tenners of any transaction.....Until this morning.

On reaching my work, the autorickshaw driver said - "I don't have a rupee. So, you will have to pay me the exact amount".

The meter showed 62.50 rupees, but it seemed too much hassle to organise that kind of change. It would be far easier organising 70 rupees.

Thankfully, the local panwaadi (betel-leaf seller) was there. In the past, he has made me buy biscuits, candies, mouth fresheners and mineral water before providing change.

He hadn't opened his shop yet, and was helping a customer top-up his mobile (yes, he deals in mobile phones too)!!

"Haan, sir. Yeh phone pakdo aur ek number lagaao," he said. The command was to help him dial a number on the mobile phone. This phone was weather-beaten and keypad hardly visible. But as my better-half would have said, my obsession with mobile phones means I can work out most mobile phones. "Number hai 9999........," the panwaadi started off. Once I was done, the phone asked me to put the number again. I did. The numbers don't match, the phone informed me.

"Aapne galat number daal diya na," the panwaadi told me off. No, I put in the number you asked me to. Aap sun nahin rahe the, varna galat kaise hota. No , I was listening but you missed out a digit in the number you told me.

The autorickshaw driver was still waiting to be paid.

Meri baat rahne do. Yeh screen dekho aur ismein jo number hai wahi milana. Yes, sir. I will be careful with the number this time around.

Thankfully, the sequence went fine this time. Once the screen asked for a PIN number, the panwaadi took the phone off me and put in the number carefully - hiding it from the customer and me.

Haan, ab bataao kya chaahiye aapko? I only want some smaller denomination notes to pay the auto. Abhi meri dukaan khuli nahin hai aur na hi meri bohni hui hai. I do understand but maybe I can pick up the biscuits or mouth-freshners later. Theek hai.

The wads of cash that he pulled out would have put a bank-teller to shame. There they were - 500-rupee notes, 100-rupee notes, 50-rupee notes, 20-rupee notes, 10-rupee notes and even some of those rare 5-rupee notes.

I got the combination required to pay off the autorickshaw driver.

As I walked off, the panwaadi said - Sir. Biscuit lena mat bhoolna (Sir, don't forget to buy the biscuits)

Banking in Delhi

2009-11-25T17:07:00.003+05:30

"It was so much simpler in the old days," a colleague remarked this morning. "You would go to the bank. Wait for an hour or so before someone would speak with you. They would get you to fill up multiple copies of a form for any request. And you'd be able to get the passbook updated with most recent transactions".

He was fuming at his bank unilaterally deciding to send him an electronic statement, "following a request from you". The request had never been made, but the bank could charge Rs 200 for the privilege.

Banking has never been a pleasant experience in Delhi, but it has gotten worse with the arrival of private banks.

They have nicely dressed individuals and very open and welcoming feel to their branches. But they are far more clueless and almost as reluctant to help as government banks of the olden days. At least that is what my impression has been.

Before I reached Delhi, there were all kinds of stories about bank. You sign up to a different minimum balance and within months it is a much higher amount. They penalise you for everything - often creating excuses to do that. They lost track of a bank transfer and it required days of effort to trace the money.

I researched and deliberated on which bank to go with, eventually ignoring a convenient relationship that my bank had for a new bank.

The initial experience wasn't too great. The first two times that I walked into their branch, someone was calling upon the sisters or mothers of the employees and threatening to do bad things. On the first occasions, the man was escorted out of the branch. On the second occasion, the man was very close to being shoved out.

I decided to go back to the familiar territory of managing my money over the internet. The less interaction you have with people, the less irritated you are likely to be.

But this morning, I had to go to my bank. Opening an account through work has been a long haul. For over a month, it has been happening today or tomorrow or the day after. I didn't feel like waiting any more.

Don't know whether being the first one (apart from the staff that is) at the bank did the trick, but it was such a smooth sailing that I couldn't believe it. Bank account? Yes, that can be done. How much time will it take? Shouldn't be more than 30 minutes. Can you do it now? Yes, sir. Do you need identity documents? No, we have those - just need the PAN Card. Will it be operational straightaway. Of course, it will be. How much time will the Debit Card, Cheque Book etc will take? About 7-10 working days. Can it be delivered to my parents' house? Most certainly.

True to her word, she crossed off the bits that I didn't need to fill up. I provided information that was needed, while she took photocopy of my PAN card. Then, she disappeared for 15-minutes or so and was back with an account number and asked for the initial deposit.

The deposit made, I had a new bank account which would facilitate deposits made in Indian currency. I felt like kicking myself. Why didn't I do this weeks ago? Up until I visited the branch, I didn't realise that even if you don't have a PAN card, you can put in a self-declaration that you don't have tax liabilities in India.

So, based on today's experience - I am a bit more positive about private banks. And to sweeten the taste in my mouth, the bank was even offering candies - which I couldn't help helping myself to.

Up until the next time, then. Hope I am not the one to be chucked out next time.

Sod's law and jugaad

2009-11-24T17:23:00.005+05:30

Right. I know you have been missing my posts - but were too shy to tell me ;-)

I have been really busy for the past couple of days. We had scheduled a Live Chat on Monday morning, and realised that Murphy's Law (or Sod's Law) was alive and kicking.

Despite a week of testing, a crucial link in the chain suddenly developed a fault. That the problem needed technical intervention in London didn't help much. That we have a 5 hr 30 minute ahead of London was a worry too. That we had scheduled the chat at 10 GMT made me sweat.

But thanks to my colleagues (especially one, whom I have woken up previously in the middle of the night for such problems) things were fine and working as originally planned.

On the personal front, the washing machine is still in need of attention.

After tens of calls, "one Mr Saleem, our Senior Engineer" visited our house on Saturday. He looked at the washing machine and decided it was beyond repair. The Chinese manufacturer had put in the weakest bit of plastic to support a button that has to be pressed to open the lid.

It has been pressed a few hundred times (depending on my landlady's assertion that the machine is a year or two old) or more than a thousand times (depending on our view that it must be at least four years old). Whatever be the case, the solution is the replacement of the entire front panel - and the company doesn't make such panels any more.

Mr Saleem looked at it studiously and then suggested he make a jugaad (temporary fix).

The jugaad is a piece of electric wire, which needs tugging at for the pull mechanism to open the main lid. "This will work fine till I make a more permanent arrangement," Mr Saleem said. I asked if he was sure this would survive the dual pressures of cheap Chinese manufacturing and untrained hands managing the jugaad. "Don't worry, Sir. This will last till Monday or Tuesday, when I will come to make the more permanent arrangement".

A few practice tugs from Mr Saleem, me and my better half assured us that it seems like a good working arrangement and that we can wear some clean clothes for a while.

The first washing cycle and the machine started spewing soapy water. The second attempt at washing and the jugaad came off.

Unsurprisingly, there is no sign of Mr Saleem and the machine is back to the state it was before Saturday.

"Sir, a Mr Sanjeev Arora will come tomorrow and fix the problem," the Helpline guy said. Is there no way I can get Mr Saleem? "No, sir. It will have to be Mr Sanjeev Arora." Does he know what needs to be done? "Yes, sir. He will be able to deal with it".

The good news is my PAN Card was delivered without any further problems. My Dad had to wait an entire day, plus a few hours more - but the delivery guy didn't insist on the identification checks that I was warned of.

Poor guy must be smarting under the loud behenchod (motherfu***r) that his boss said when he lied about my parents not being around when he came to deliver the package. He most certainly hadn't, but didn't bargain for a pissed off customer and an agitated boss.

The shipment seems to be on the move too. After writing to people and complaining of utter incompetence, the company "decided to not wait for the train and move my container by road instead". It should arrive sometime this week, I am assured - and should reach my house sometime early next week.

Gotta run now. I have started learning the ways of Delhi. Had told a colleague about 50 minutes ago that I will see her "in 10 minutes".

Maybe I spoke too soon

2009-11-20T15:08:00.004+05:30

Maybe I spoke too soon. Destiny is most definitely conspiring to keep us stressed out.

The day started with me trying to track a package that a courier company was trying to deliver at my Dad's address yesterday.

I suspected it was my Permanent Account Number (PAN) Card - a card bearing 10-digit alphanumeric number issued by the Income Tax Department.

During the last 10 years, it has become one of the most important documents in the country. Banks need it to open an account and no financial transaction can happen without it. Sorry, no legal financial transaction can happen without it.

I remembered having requested one while working in India. My Dad remembered receiving my PAN card through the post. When he located it, there was a surprise. The PAN card had my name as MMMM RRRR SINHA. Someone probably wanted to write Mr. Sinha, then decided that that was my name.

This was as good as not having a card. For almost a fortnight, I have been busy reclaiming my name and my identity. But even in modern India, nothing moves without the signature of a Gazetted Officer. So, I had to get one such senior government official to vouch for my identity and that I wasn't tricking the government into believing that my real name wasn't MMMM RRRR SINHA.

An SMS informed me that the documents had been received and gave me a reference number to check the status of my request online. I was impressed.

A few days later, another SMS. This time, it was to inform me that the declaration from the Gazetted Officer hadn't reached the "processing unit". The "application acceptance unit" hadn't sent it through to them. Luckily, my Chartered Accountant had kept a copy - which had to be scanned and emailed to the "processing unit".

The next SMS said that the application was being processed, and the one after that said a new card had been despatched.

Unfortunately, my parents were out when the delivery company guy came to deliver the card on Thursday. I'll come between 12 pm-1 pm on Friday to deliver it.

When it was nearly 4 pm today, I called up the company to check what was happening. Sir, the guy is out since 9.30 am and should get to your house soon. Thanks. That is reassuring. Does your father have any identity document of yours? Err, no. You didn't say that the recepient needed to show one. Sir, the guy who delivers doesn't know about these things. But he does ask for such documents, looks at them and confirms the identity of the recepient? Yes, he does - but he doesn't know that these documents are needed. Alright, even though I don't see the logic in it.

Even as I was trying to cool myself down over this, the local agent of my UK movers called up. Sir, there is a lot of congestion in Nhavashiva port in Mumbai and your stuff won't be put on a train until 28 November. What? It had left my home on 28 October 2009, and was supposed to get to me within 6-8 weeks. I know, sir. But we can't do anything about the shipping company. We are only responsible once the shipment reaches Delhi. So where does the 6-8 weeks estimate come from? It is just a tentative timescale, which can change depending on the circumstances. You mean, you can make it up as you go along? No, sir. The shipping company operates on its own timescale and schedule.

If only I had kept my own company away from helping me "relocate". A colleague, who moved a fortnight after me, has been in receipt of his stuff for nearly a fortnight now. Others before him also got their stuff within a month or so. I will soon be into my third month in India, still waiting for my stuff to arrive.

Thankfully, the landlady was sweet this morning. She called up my better half twice to find out how things were, if she could do anything to help and how my Mum-in-law was finding Delhi. Even wanted to invite the Mum-in-law for tea one of these days.

Wish I could see it as a genuine show of love/concern, but the rent was due on 19 November and she definitely knows it!!

A tale of two protests

2009-11-19T17:14:00.004+05:30

Went with a colleague to cover a protest against the Dow Chemical Company.

Dow is the parent company of Union Carbide, whose pesticide plant in Bhopal was responsible for the deaths of almost four thousand people in 1984.

Nearly 25 years on, 390 tonnes of toxic chemicals abandoned at the Union Carbide plant continue to pollute the ground water in the region and affects thousands residents of Bhopal who depend on it.

"To remind Dow of its responsibility to clean up the toxic contamination and pay for the consequent health damage," almost 150 men, women and children from Bhopal had come down to Delhi.

The plan was simple. Get off the bus. Walk into the Dow chemical building. Unfurl banners and posters. Shout slogans. Burn an effigy of Dow. Get on the bus and get back home.

Given the strong sentiments and the involvement of a big multinational, we were expecting a heavy police presence and a serious attempt to hold back the protestors.

But things are different now. Dow is miles away from central Delhi, in a quiet little corner of Noida (part of Delhi National Capital Region). There are no obvious signs leading you to their building and it took us quite an effort to finally get there.

Not for the protestors. They knew precisely where the building was, which floor the Dow Chemicals office was and were well-versed with the drill. They told the security guards that they were there for a meeting. Once in, they took out the cardboard banners and shouted for Dow to 'Quit India'.

An enterprising protestor had even brought in an effigy, which was duly set on fire.

"Uncle mazaa aa gaya (Uncle., it was fun)," one of the young kids remarked when he got out of the building.

Some of the others also showed the adrenaline rush that their quick protest had generated. Luckily for them, both APTN and BBC were there to cover their protest - even if the Dow Chemicals officials or policemen weren't.

On the way back, we got into a more serious protest. This time, it was thousands of sugarcane farmers from the neighbouring state of Uttar Pradesh, protesting against the new pricing and procurement policy of the Indian government.

These guys were closer to central Delhi and close to the Indian Parliament. Needless to add, there were many more cops on the streets keeping these protesters under control.

They were having a fun day out as well, enjoying the banter with those caught up in traffic jams that their slow movement had created. Some were holding a single sugarcane to remind people why they were out on the streets.

It took us nearly 30 minutes to cover a distance of two kilometres. We eventually decided to walk the last 300 metres on the foot as there was no way the car would have moved anywhere.

Sounds oddly like London

2009-11-18T13:27:00.006+05:30

"How are things in the sunny New Delhi (or whatever it is called these days)?" asked a friend from London.

Life is good, I said. "The little one has started going to a local play-school. We keep worrying about loads of things that the landlady needs to get fixed. The landlady is not interested in doing any of that. And I am trying to deal with the excitement at home and at work, without being partial to either".

Sounds oddly like Britain, he said.

It made me think. If you are the worrying type, the world seems exactly the same wherever you are looking from it. As in London, the landlords in New Delhi are straight-faced lairs too. As in London, the flats are prone to developing problems. As in London, companies have call-centres where staff uses too much of "thank you" and "sorry" without doing anything to sort out your problems.

Maybe it is easier for me to deal with this because I step out to work every morning and don't get in until late evening. But for my better half, the ritual is tiring. Spot a problem. Call the landlady. The landlady's hard-of-hearing father-in-law picks up the phone. The father-in-law can't remember having a tenant on the first floor. Some more reminding and he promises to get the landlady to call back. The landlady does not call back. Panic. Will have to do this all over again tomorrow and hope no other problem shows up in the meantime. More panic.

We complete a month of this ritual on Thursday. It would be painful handing over another huge monthly rent (divided into four separate cheques, so that the landlady can save on tax) with the house still not in perfect working order.

The most painful bit is the washing-machine. After throwing up soapy water through a washing cycle (bl**dy Chinese. Their branded products are so inferior), its door seized up. When an attempt was made to open the door (pushing a button, deep into its hole) the button got stuck too.

The landlady seemed aghast. "It is a new machine (she bought it two years ago)," she said. With her Korean-brand machine working smoothly she didn't seem too bothered about the laundry basket filling up upstairs.

Being new to domestic help management, we feel awful asking the domestic help to wash the clothes. There isn't that much for her to do at home, but washing clothes by hand is hard work. And the dust and grime ensures that you have a sizable laundry basket to deal with every week.

To add to the problem, the weather has been exceptionally wet this past week. And the bathroom drain started filling up this morning.

"We must have a chat with the landlady," the better-half suggested. I agreed. "But then, such things will continue to happen," I said. "We cannot let them pull us down. Let us identify what the big problems are and make sure she is working on sorting those out."

"As for the small problems, we need to relax. Rather than route it through the landlady, we can get a plumber or electrician to sort it out ourselves. It will save us time and unnecessary anger and stress. "

Otherwise, it'll feel like we are still in London (or Reading, as the case might be)!

A visit to the police station

2009-11-16T17:20:00.002+05:30

Paid my first visit to a police station and a cinema since I have been back in Delhi.

The visit to the police station was for the Tenant Verification Form. This is filled by the Landlord (or his/her Estate Agent) with the details of the rented property and that of an individual known to the tenant and staying locally.

The Delhi Police (motto: Citizens First) is then supposed to verify the tenants' details within a week.

Unfortunately, that doesn't happen often - sometimes with a not-so-pleasant outcome. In 2008, police sat on similar forms related to a property in Batla House in South Delhi for more than a month. The tenants were later alleged to have been involved in bomb blasts in Delhi and gunned down by the police.

That encounter followed deep soul-searching and a strong commitment to follow the procedures more rigorously........A year later, that continues to be only a commitment.

My visit to the police station explained why. For about 20 minutes or so, I moved between Register Office, Record Office and Duty Office without anyone willing to look at the form.

My 87-year-old landlord had told me the cops couldn't find any contact address in the copy of my passport and wanted me to come in.

The Duty Office finally relented and looked at the form. "This doesn't have a residence proof?" Sir, I have returned from the UK after 10 years - so there are no phone bills or water bills or any other local identity.

"Then, how will we search you?," he asked. Maybe this can help, I said, showing him my Overseas Citizen of India (OCI) card. "This has the UK address. We cannot be expected to go to the UK looking for you".

I then told him about my Dad's address, which was provided in the form. "Get a copy of his Voter's Identity Card or Ration Card then. That should be fine".

On trying to find out why a tenancy that involved me needed to have my Dad's documents attached to it. "Surely, a lot of people must be coming in who do not have a city connection. What do you do then?" I asked

The cop said that such people have to get their embassy to fill up a form and submit it to the police.

I didn't want to say it but all that the cops seemed to focus on was a person to hang upside down and beat the hell out of, should something happen. If there was a serious intent in verifying a tenant, the cops would come to the house and confirm the details.

They didn't seem to be in a hurry and couldn't convince me either I should bother.

So, I decided to spend the rest of day at the DLF Mall in Vasant Kunj. The mall is home to DLF Emporio, which calls itself Asia's Finest Luxury Destination with brands like Armani, Gucci, Hugo Boss, Jimmy Choo, Dolce & Gabbana, Chopard, DKNY and Burberry displaying their wares in it. It also has a cineplex which was a screening a decent choice of films.

Unfortunately, tickets for the film we wanted to see was not available at this cineplex. So, we spent some time looking around before moving closer home to the single-screen PVR Priya.

When I was in college, PVR Priya was one of the first cinemas to modernise - with a state-of-art sound system, cleaner interiors and good popcorn. It is still reasonably good but screens different films at different times.

We chose to watch Ajab Prem Ki Ghazab Kahani - directed by Rajkumar Santoshi, who has directed one of my favourite comedies, Andaz Apna Apna. The film has had a good opening week and was getting loads of laughs yesterday as well.

But both me and my better half were not impressed. It has too many cheap jokes, too many bad actors and too flimsy a narrative. The songs were a saving grace, but couldn't entice you for the film's three hours' duration.

As for my daughter, she was chanting "Papa, ghar chalo" (Daddy, let's go home) within the first 30 minutes!

What irks you the most?

2009-11-12T18:09:00.000+05:30

I have been asked this question quite often in the last month or so.

Having spent almost a decade away from India, one can find a zillion things to complain about India. But there needs to be a clarity of perspective. There is no point comparing a 62-year-old country to those that have existed as nations for hundreds of years.

Their institutions and public conduct have shaped up over many centuries, while India is quite early in that journey.

Why are the politicians so corrupt? Why is the judiciary too keen on green vehicles and clean drains when there is hundreds of years of backlog in their own work? Why don't the bureaucrats plan for the countries future? Why does media plant products and panic in public pysche instead of informing/educating them? Why do the companies charge western prices for pretty poor services? Questions like these arise in my mind, but don't bother me much.

Despite the problems, India is a thriving democracy; has independent and active judiciary; has a growing economy; a super-competitive media market and companies creating local products that can match up to their interational competitors.

But the one thing that bothers me - and others in a similar situation too - is a lack of straight-forwardness. Or too much politeness, according to my friends.

The other evening a family friend had come to my parents' place. In the course of the conversation, she said, "It is my grand-daughter's birthday this evening. All of you must come".

My instant reaction was, "No, aunty. I have already committed to someone in the evening. I won't be able to make it".

She seemed to ignore my response. "They are saying they'll try to come to the party," she told her husband.

I felt bad. Maybe I was too rude. Maybe I should have just said, "I will try, but cannot be sure".

That's how interactions are here. My landlady promised a furnished house "with whatever stuff you like". But when we moved, in a week later, the house was bare. "I was waiting for you to come and specify what you wanted". But we did tell you what we wanted. A double-bed for us to sleep in. Another one for family or friends visiting us. A sofa to seat people in the living room. "Don't worry. Everything will be done this week".

A week later. "What to do? There is a strike in Kashmir. No transporters are bringing any stuff from there". No, there is no state-wide strike. The strike only affects a small town which isn't where you said the stuff was coming from.

Two weeks later. "I haven't been able to speak to the supplier. You know they have banned mobile phones in Kashmir". No, they haven't. They have only banned the issuing of new pre-paid mobile connections.

The same applies for hired help. A promise to "take the measurements"or "check the washing machine" or "sort out the leak" at 10.00 am turns into a day-long wait. "What to do, sir? Lots of traffic on the road today. And there was an accident that held everyone up".

Sure, but you do carry a mobile phone and could have called up. "I could. But then, I didn't think it would take this long". What? For a full two-hours after your promised arrival?

At the bank, "the cashier has gone to the toilet" and "will be back in five minutes". But there is no sign of him/her for a good half-hour.

Friends too are "just 10 minutes away", when actually they would have just set out on the hour-long drive to your place.

Sometimes, we think it is unreasonable to get irked about these things. But then there is almost no value of time - either your's or the other person's. To a lot of such people, it just seems like what the fuss is all about. What is a few hours in a day? And what is a few days in a week?

But add up those hours and days and suddenly you reach a frightening number. The concept of Indian Stretchable Time is good as a joke, but by God it expects you to pay a big price if you practice it.

The cost of a wife

2009-11-11T11:21:00.000+05:30

Had another interesting conversation with an auto-rickshaw driver this morning.

He picked me up from Vasant Vihar, where my daughter's play-school is. I asked him why were the auto-rickshaw drivers reluctant to go towards Connaught Place. "There are too many traffic lights and too much traffic jam. The kind of money I will make with a passenger going there can be made in half the time if I restricted myself to South Delhi".

In a way, he is right. It is difficult to get autos to go short distances and they can charge whatever amount they deem fit for their efforts.The fare for longer distances is more predictable. You could be within 10 or 20 Indian rupees of what it costs on that rare occasion that someone actually uses the auto-rickshaw meter.

On the way to Connaught Place, he kept complaining about the traffic on Delhi roads. About 10 or so years ago, we used to only stop at big traffic intersections. We didn't care about the small traffic lights. Now the traffic wouldn't let you move even if the light is greeen.

Somehow the conversation moved to Kiran Bedi. She was the first woman officer of the Indian Police Service. In the early 80s, she used to be Delhi's Traffic Commissioner. And a tough one at that. Her claim to fame was towing away of then prime minister Indira Gandhi's staff car in 1983. In her own words, “My sub-inspector Nirmal Singh had challenged a wrongly parked Ambassador car in Connaught Place. The driver came and warned the sub-inspector that this car belonged to the prime minister’s office. Without bothering about the threat, my sub-inspector told the driver that he will have to pay the fine come what may. There was a bit of a riot there, but nothing serious happened."

Such instances of following the rules are so rare in this city, that people still recall it. "She was a very good cop," the auto-driver said. "Once I was coming from north Delhi and her team stopped my auto. She asked for my papers and my driving license. They were in order. So, she asked me if I had something to drink. I was carrying some foreigners and had a small beer with them. So, she asked her colleagues to breathalyse me. It didn't show much, but she asked me to hold my ears and do 10 squats".

"After that, I was stopped by her at different places, three or four times. She would always say 'His papers are in order, just breathalyse him'. But I never drank after the first time and there was never any trouble. She was a good cop - an honest one. She even gave me a salute once after the breathalyser test came negative.

He said his reason for not drinking was it would interfere with the upbringing of his children. In any case, those who would drink and keep multiple partners had to be rich.

You know how much it costs to keep a wife? I was intrigued. It costs five thousand rupees, which means you need to be earning about ten thousand rupees. So, if I had two wives, it will need me to earn twenty thousand rupees. Who can earn that kind of money driving autos?

I get my high earning the daily bread. Occasionally, when I am happy or in the mood - I smoke a cigarette or chew a pan. But drinking, never.

Like those Confessions of a Blackcab Driver or Confessions of a Yellowcab Driver that you see on TV in the west, he had his own Confessions of an Autorickshaw Driver. "You know once this teenager was sitting in my auto and telling her mother that her 'boyfriend was very nice'. I turned around and asked her if she knew what a boyfriend was. It was all friend and no touch".

But these days, there is no boyfriend. There is aashiq (lover). You must be stepping out and seeing how young children behave these days. They will say I need to take this subject again rather than I have failed an examination. I see all kinds of things in my auto.

As usual with such interesting conversations, we had run out of time. The driver did know all the short-cuts that help one bypass all the traffic jams and had got me to work reasonably quickly.

Buying booze in Delhi

2009-11-10T09:26:00.007+05:30

Had invited some friends over on Sunday, but had no booze to offer.

So, accompanied by my three-year-old, I got out to buy a few beers. My first stop was the local market. Asked the guy at a General Store, and he said "Mere ghar mil saktee hai" (You can find beer at my place) with a wink.

Then he felt pity for a man who was so desperate for a beer at 11 am that he didn't mind dragging his young daughter along. Anand Niketan Club khul gaya hoga. Wahan aapko bar mein beer mil jaayegi. (The Anand Niketan Club would be open. You can get a beer at their bar).

I explained to him that the beer was to be taken home for friends. He thought for a moment, consulted his Dad, and said "Phir to Vasant Vihar chale jaayeeye" (Go to Vasant Vihar then).

Vasant Vihar is barely a kilometre from my place but the construction of flyovers and heavy traffic on the roads usually discourages me from driving in that direction.

But it would be impolite not to offer a drink, so we made our way to Vasant Vihar.

The supply of booze in Delhi is controlled by the local Excise Department. According to its website, "The prime job of Excise Department is to regulate import and supply of liquor, intoxicants and narcotics (for medicinal purposes), the statutory powers for which are discharged under the Punjab Excise Act, 1914 and Medicinal and Toilet Preparation Act 1955. The Department grants L-1 Licences to Distilleries/Bottling Plants for the wholesale supply of IMFL and Beer in Delhi, while retail liquor trade in Delhi is mainly in the hands of the Government Undertakings for which a separate licence in form L-2 is granted".

Now don't ask me why the 1914 Act originated in Punjab or what has Toilet Preparation Act got to do with distributing liquor. I am as foxed as you are on the discovery, but will try and dig more over the course of the year.

At present, mainly four government undertakings retail liquor in different parts of Delhi - Delhi Tourism and Transportation Development Corporation, Delhi State Civil Supplies Corporation, Delhi State Industrial and Infrastructure Development Corporation and Delhi Consumer Co-operative Wholesale Store.

I am not sure which one of these owned the store I went to, but it bore the familiar signs of "Angrezi sharaab ki dukaan" (store selling English liquor) and "Chilled Beer Available" to attract punters. The opening time was 12:00, but the crowd had started forming since 11:15. All of them wanted a fix asap, but the contractors wanted people to wait until the stock was arranged, the store cleaned and the clock announced the arrival of mid-day.

My little girl seemed excited about coming booze-shopping with me. What will you have, Daddy? You like beer, don't you? And Mum likes red wine. What does Pervaiz drink?

The totally male crowd was both amazed and shocked at a three-year-old talk so knowledgeably about booze. Barah baj gaye na? (Isn't it 12?), someone asked. The others helpfully suggested that that was the case. "Nahin, abhi teen minute baaki hain" one of the workers at the store clarified. The three minutes passed, but they would still not start the sale.

That the competition in the sale of liquor is limited is quite obvious. But the returns must be too good for these guys not to risk their licences. With every minute that passed, the crowd was getting more impatient. Sir, kab khulegi dukaan? (When will the shop open?) they asked in turn, stepping over each other's feet to be first on the counter.

When the slowest clock in the store moved both the pointers to 1200, the counter opened. People jumped over each other to hand over cash and get their favourite tipple. There was no way I was risking my little girl in this mad rush, so we stepped aside and continued to talk about her visit to the Rail Museum.

The crowd was gone in 10 minutes. With no desire to endure this anytime soon, I got a dozen or so bottles and made my way home.