Banking out of recession!!

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

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!

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

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!

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

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

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

"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

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

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

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

"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

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?

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

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

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.