Went to finalise the play-school for our little girl this morning.
The Magic Years is "designed along the Montessori guidelines and the school uses the Montessori Method of Education". And "it has 200 children from 18 countries".
Most of last two weeks, my better half has been looking for suitable playschools/day care/activity centres. Loads of such places have cropped up in the recent years to cater to the families where both parents are working.
Anand Niketan and Vasant Vihar have a fair share of such too.
There's Little Pearls, run by Pearl Fashion Limited Group. It has a colourful exterior, colourful interiors, gym, LCD TVs and other things to keep children occupied. There's Shemrock Joyland, part of the Shemrock Playschools, with similar splash of colour and activities for children. And there's Happy Feet, as well. All were readily accessible and talked about a child-centred approach and providing a creative and challenging environment. Almost all had a sizable price tag - some absurdly high - for access to this environment.
The concept of Health & Safety - yes, there I go again - is alien. Injury? None of our children have got injured. What if someone did? We have a doctor on call. What about fire? Fire? Why would a fire happen here? What would you do if a fire did break out? We have a maid? What? Will the maid take out all 50-60 kids by herself? A puzzled look.
The Magic Years was the most highly recommended and most difficult to make contact with. We couldn't get past the front gates until someone provided a number and a reference.
A few email exchanges and phone calls later, we were asked to bring along the little one to discuss the admission.
As luck would have it, she wasn't feeling too well and wanted to sleep. So, the parents headed out for the appointment and check the school out.
Once we got past the gates (a sigh of relief), the school looked good. It is built over two floors (study/activity area) and a basement (meal area) - allowing generous space for kids to enjoy painting, solving jigsaw puzzles, writing or reading.
Outside, there is sandpit, a play area and lots of space to run around. The school even offers the little green fingers an opportunity to grow their own plants.
The principal, Shirley Madhavan Kutty, is very sweet and soft-spoken and talked us through the process of admission and education. Kids have a structured way of learning and are in a wider age-group - three to a little over four, in my child's case - and can move from one group to the other.
She explained that the kids could not be taken out because of security concerns. All the staff at the Montessori are educationally qualified and also have First-Aid qualifications. A doctor on call treats cases that go beyond first aid. Anything bigger is managed at the Apollo Cliniq in Vasant Kunj. Or by a paediatrician preferred by the parents.
The mention of phonetics, reading and arithmetic had us wondering how our little girl will cope with it. Will it be too daunting? Will she feel inadequate? Will her confidence take a knock?
We'll see. The most important thing right now is to get her started in a playschool - so she gets the company of kids her age and a channel her energy positively.
30 October 2009
29 October 2009
Getting house-help in Delhi
For nearly four weeks, my better half and I had been discussing whether to have a resident house-help or not.
Ten years away means we are totally comfortable doing the household chores. It also means that we are quite used to a flat with just the three of us in it.
But the average accommodation in Delhi is much bigger than that in London or Reading. And they are made of concrete with low railings in the balcony. My ever-energetic little girl (bless her) is likely to get hurt if one of us wasn't keeping an eye on her. Also, the houses attract a lot of dust and the weekly cleaning schedule isn't good enough.
Our original plan was to hire domestic help who would come in to do household cleaning daily and, maybe, prepare a meal or two. The landlady had spoken highly of the maid working at her place and my little girl took a liking to the maid too. We thought that even if she kept an eye on our girl, we can sort out the chores ourselves.
It turned out to be just a sales pitch. Within a day of us moving in, the maid had got engaged. She didn't bother to come for work or to inform us. After two hours of waiting, it seemed easier to finish off the chores and be in control of the day. My wife did the cleaning and took the little one to the park in front. The maid was there, talking to her fiance on the mobile phone. No apologies. No Oh I forgot. No I will come later. Just a smile and on with the conversation.
The other two lasted a day each as well. Their reporting time was extendable by upto four hours, and it was much easier doing the chores ourselves. We could finish off within an hour and save three hours in the process. The maids couldn't understand the fuss, when everyone else was fine if they would just turn up.
Engaging domestic help in Delhi can be time-consuming and stressful. From my limited experience of watching my Mum and her friends, it involved keeping an eye on the maids working in friends' houses, identifying a good maid, luring her away with a better salary, trying to guard her from other friends and hoping the process didn't start again.
Like everything else in India, it is supply-side market. No matter what price you pay, the service will be less-than-acceptable. The supplier knows there is high demand and relatively little competition. The one demanding a service has to work out a way to keep the supplier suitably interested in working.
During my yearly visits, I have seen my Mum go through at least two maids. Mum would cajole, bribe and threaten them. Even made sure that the maid had a nice cuppa and something to eat when working at our house. But the maids would realise there were more people in the house - hence more work - and would suddenly feel unwell regularly.
A week of trying a non-intrusive help for household chores, and we had to give in. My wife's Mum sent someone from Lucknow to help us out with the household chores. She arrived on Wednesday and Tara took instant liking to her. She even thanked her Mum for "getting me a new sister".
It has barely been 24 hours, but the girl seems good. She sits patiently as Tara recites all the nursery rhymes - I had a little turtle, One cheeky monkey, Row row row your boat etc - and talks about her Baba, Dadi, her uncles/aunts and her cousins and anything else she would care to listen to.
And she is good with cooking too. I have home-cooked lunch for the first time since I reached Delhi.
Ten years away means we are totally comfortable doing the household chores. It also means that we are quite used to a flat with just the three of us in it.
But the average accommodation in Delhi is much bigger than that in London or Reading. And they are made of concrete with low railings in the balcony. My ever-energetic little girl (bless her) is likely to get hurt if one of us wasn't keeping an eye on her. Also, the houses attract a lot of dust and the weekly cleaning schedule isn't good enough.
Our original plan was to hire domestic help who would come in to do household cleaning daily and, maybe, prepare a meal or two. The landlady had spoken highly of the maid working at her place and my little girl took a liking to the maid too. We thought that even if she kept an eye on our girl, we can sort out the chores ourselves.
It turned out to be just a sales pitch. Within a day of us moving in, the maid had got engaged. She didn't bother to come for work or to inform us. After two hours of waiting, it seemed easier to finish off the chores and be in control of the day. My wife did the cleaning and took the little one to the park in front. The maid was there, talking to her fiance on the mobile phone. No apologies. No Oh I forgot. No I will come later. Just a smile and on with the conversation.
The other two lasted a day each as well. Their reporting time was extendable by upto four hours, and it was much easier doing the chores ourselves. We could finish off within an hour and save three hours in the process. The maids couldn't understand the fuss, when everyone else was fine if they would just turn up.
Engaging domestic help in Delhi can be time-consuming and stressful. From my limited experience of watching my Mum and her friends, it involved keeping an eye on the maids working in friends' houses, identifying a good maid, luring her away with a better salary, trying to guard her from other friends and hoping the process didn't start again.
Like everything else in India, it is supply-side market. No matter what price you pay, the service will be less-than-acceptable. The supplier knows there is high demand and relatively little competition. The one demanding a service has to work out a way to keep the supplier suitably interested in working.
During my yearly visits, I have seen my Mum go through at least two maids. Mum would cajole, bribe and threaten them. Even made sure that the maid had a nice cuppa and something to eat when working at our house. But the maids would realise there were more people in the house - hence more work - and would suddenly feel unwell regularly.
A week of trying a non-intrusive help for household chores, and we had to give in. My wife's Mum sent someone from Lucknow to help us out with the household chores. She arrived on Wednesday and Tara took instant liking to her. She even thanked her Mum for "getting me a new sister".
It has barely been 24 hours, but the girl seems good. She sits patiently as Tara recites all the nursery rhymes - I had a little turtle, One cheeky monkey, Row row row your boat etc - and talks about her Baba, Dadi, her uncles/aunts and her cousins and anything else she would care to listen to.
And she is good with cooking too. I have home-cooked lunch for the first time since I reached Delhi.
28 October 2009
Smart man, I would say!
Overslept a bit today and left home a little later than usual - about 09.30 am or so.
The traffic was out on the roads in full strength and there was a long queue of vehicles. Motorcycles. Scooters. Autorickshaws. Taxis. Cars. Buses. All waiting for the space to get on to the Ring Road - which is like the M25 in London and busier.
It made sense to walk and cross the Ring Road on foot. That none of the autorickshaws were ready to go to Connaught Place, where my office is, made the decision easier.
It is just under a kilometre's walk from my flat, and where the spacious and least crowded part of Delhi begins. The area starts with flats for government officials, followed by the diplomatic/embassy area, followed by big for top politicians and party offices, followed by even bigger President's House and Parliament and finally the various government ministeries. With the residents of these areas having official vehicles, getting an auto didn't seem to be a problem.
Unfortunately, I was wrong. Even though walking was quicker, the smarter people used the traffic jam behind to hire all the autorickshaws and there was hardly an empty one coming my way. For a while, I toyed with the idea of taking a bus to work. It has been a few years since I got onto one, and don't even know what the current fare-structure is.
Then, a rickety old Maruti Omni van stopped next to me. Connaught Place. Connnaught Place. Seemed like a private hire vehicle, but it had impressive looking 'Ministry of Agriculture' stickers on it - so I hesitated. Maybe someone next to me worked for the ministry and the driver wanted him/her to hop on. Or maybe it was a car-pool for ministry workers. Hello. Do you want to go or not? came the voice again. Sure, I said, to the generous offer and hopped into the van.
There were five other people in the car, apart from the driver. The three slimmer people sat comfortably on one side. The three "healthy" people, including me, cramped on the other seat.
Where do you want to go? Katurba Gandhi Marg. I can drop you at Janpath. That's alright. It is just 5-10 minutes walk from work. Fine. That will be 15 rupees.
Aha. The enteprising government official had seen a gap in the market, and set up a nice little earner on the side. He worked for the Ministry of Agriculture and had to go towards Central Delhi anyway. Getting seven more people in vehicle would generate 75 rupees a journey or 750 rupees a week for return journeys. That would cover the weekly cost of petrol and the parking was free, courtesy the ministry.
Apart from me and another woman, all the others were regular customers. The Sikh car-owner had regular clients, regular income and, most importantly, a strong goodwill from the passengers who didn't have to spend time waiting for or haggling with autorickshaw-drivers.
As a passenger, my journey was slightly longer than usual but cost me one-fifth the usual fare. Surely, a win-win for everyone involved.
I know car pool is a western solution to a western problem. But this seems like a local solution to a local problem. A lot of people still rely on affordable public transport and there aren't that many options available.
While Delhi Metro shapes up gradually and more buses are added to the fleet of Delhi Transport Corporation, thousands of new cars get onto Delhi roads every year. If even a small percentage of these cars picked up paying passengers headed in the same direction, there will be less congestion on the road. And the auto-rickshaw drivers may become more amenable if they realised people had other options.
The traffic was out on the roads in full strength and there was a long queue of vehicles. Motorcycles. Scooters. Autorickshaws. Taxis. Cars. Buses. All waiting for the space to get on to the Ring Road - which is like the M25 in London and busier.
It made sense to walk and cross the Ring Road on foot. That none of the autorickshaws were ready to go to Connaught Place, where my office is, made the decision easier.
It is just under a kilometre's walk from my flat, and where the spacious and least crowded part of Delhi begins. The area starts with flats for government officials, followed by the diplomatic/embassy area, followed by big for top politicians and party offices, followed by even bigger President's House and Parliament and finally the various government ministeries. With the residents of these areas having official vehicles, getting an auto didn't seem to be a problem.
Unfortunately, I was wrong. Even though walking was quicker, the smarter people used the traffic jam behind to hire all the autorickshaws and there was hardly an empty one coming my way. For a while, I toyed with the idea of taking a bus to work. It has been a few years since I got onto one, and don't even know what the current fare-structure is.
Then, a rickety old Maruti Omni van stopped next to me. Connaught Place. Connnaught Place. Seemed like a private hire vehicle, but it had impressive looking 'Ministry of Agriculture' stickers on it - so I hesitated. Maybe someone next to me worked for the ministry and the driver wanted him/her to hop on. Or maybe it was a car-pool for ministry workers. Hello. Do you want to go or not? came the voice again. Sure, I said, to the generous offer and hopped into the van.
There were five other people in the car, apart from the driver. The three slimmer people sat comfortably on one side. The three "healthy" people, including me, cramped on the other seat.
Where do you want to go? Katurba Gandhi Marg. I can drop you at Janpath. That's alright. It is just 5-10 minutes walk from work. Fine. That will be 15 rupees.
Aha. The enteprising government official had seen a gap in the market, and set up a nice little earner on the side. He worked for the Ministry of Agriculture and had to go towards Central Delhi anyway. Getting seven more people in vehicle would generate 75 rupees a journey or 750 rupees a week for return journeys. That would cover the weekly cost of petrol and the parking was free, courtesy the ministry.
Apart from me and another woman, all the others were regular customers. The Sikh car-owner had regular clients, regular income and, most importantly, a strong goodwill from the passengers who didn't have to spend time waiting for or haggling with autorickshaw-drivers.
As a passenger, my journey was slightly longer than usual but cost me one-fifth the usual fare. Surely, a win-win for everyone involved.
I know car pool is a western solution to a western problem. But this seems like a local solution to a local problem. A lot of people still rely on affordable public transport and there aren't that many options available.
While Delhi Metro shapes up gradually and more buses are added to the fleet of Delhi Transport Corporation, thousands of new cars get onto Delhi roads every year. If even a small percentage of these cars picked up paying passengers headed in the same direction, there will be less congestion on the road. And the auto-rickshaw drivers may become more amenable if they realised people had other options.
27 October 2009
Don't go to the family
Bumped into an exceptionally talkative autorickshaw driver last evening.
It was all my fault. I could have got an auto from just outside my office, but it was rush hour and getting a good rate was difficult.
I can take you to Anand Niketan for 80 rupees, he said. But that is 10 rupees more than what was being quoted 10 minutes and half-a-kilometre earlier. Sir, there is a big traffic-jam near Anand Niketan at this time. There is no way I was going to settle for that rate. OK, I will take you for 70 rupees - only because I like you. Just let me finish my coffee.
No sooner had we started, he asked - Where from, sir? Bihar. Shake hands. Myself from Bihar too. Yes, I had guessed it. How? From the way you talk. You mean my personality. Thank you.
Suddenly the cosy auto into a mobile gym as well. Every few minutes, the autorickshaw driver did some stretching exercises. Do you think I have strong muscles? I suppose so. You don't think I am heavy? Not exactly. How old you think I am? I thought putting an absurd number would put an end to the conversation. 24-25, I guess. No, sir. I am 36. I drink half-litre milk every morning, eat salad and only home-made food. That is really good. Keep it up.
I have three bad habits, though. Politeness demanded that I asked what. I like to be clean. I like to drink coffee. And I like to be with my family.
There is nothing wrong with that, I said. If you like cleanliness, you will feel healthy and your customers will be happy. If you drink coffee in moderation, there is no harm. And surely your family would be happy to be see you around.
He continued stretching, as he drove and talked. But we shouldn't go to family every day. If we do, then we feel like doing it regularly. I do it every other night and it makes me feel weaker.
I suddenly realised what he meant by family. You know, doing it causes all sorts of problems. It causes backache and your muscles feel weak. I know a bodybuilder who didn't go to his family for six months. When he did, he got into a fight with this guy and picked him up by the scruff of his neck. What strength!
Hmm, I mumbled, hopeful this would end soon. In fact, the other day my mother was saying. You know how mothers are. They don't say anything directly. She hinted that it is a good thing not to go to the family regularly. Then again, the family also likes to have it regularly. So, I need to do it for her as well.
The stretching continued. How do I look? Strong? I need to build those muscles. When the winter sets in, I will go to the gym. What exercises should I be doing? In fact, I also want to buy a good perfume - to use on myself and for the auto.
Looks like a bad jam, I said, trying to steer - and, possibly, end - the conversation. Yes, I told you. I generally don't take customers to East Delhi or West Delhi at this time of the day. You spend too much time waiting rather than moving. Nothing can tempt me to make these journeys. Unless the person is willing to pay me thrice the fare.
I don't want to drive autos all my life. I will buy a taxi soon. Drive it for a little bit and then buy myself a 4x4 and employ drivers. And I will change my watch. You see this watch? Expensive, but only for driving the auto. When I drive car, I will get a new watch. And goggles (sunglasses). Do you think my personality will look good in my expensive goggles and watch driving the 4x4?
That's my house. Right there. Yes, by that red car. Can you stop the auto there? Before he could say anything, I handed him the money and ran to my flat.
It was all my fault. I could have got an auto from just outside my office, but it was rush hour and getting a good rate was difficult.
I can take you to Anand Niketan for 80 rupees, he said. But that is 10 rupees more than what was being quoted 10 minutes and half-a-kilometre earlier. Sir, there is a big traffic-jam near Anand Niketan at this time. There is no way I was going to settle for that rate. OK, I will take you for 70 rupees - only because I like you. Just let me finish my coffee.
No sooner had we started, he asked - Where from, sir? Bihar. Shake hands. Myself from Bihar too. Yes, I had guessed it. How? From the way you talk. You mean my personality. Thank you.
Suddenly the cosy auto into a mobile gym as well. Every few minutes, the autorickshaw driver did some stretching exercises. Do you think I have strong muscles? I suppose so. You don't think I am heavy? Not exactly. How old you think I am? I thought putting an absurd number would put an end to the conversation. 24-25, I guess. No, sir. I am 36. I drink half-litre milk every morning, eat salad and only home-made food. That is really good. Keep it up.
I have three bad habits, though. Politeness demanded that I asked what. I like to be clean. I like to drink coffee. And I like to be with my family.
There is nothing wrong with that, I said. If you like cleanliness, you will feel healthy and your customers will be happy. If you drink coffee in moderation, there is no harm. And surely your family would be happy to be see you around.
He continued stretching, as he drove and talked. But we shouldn't go to family every day. If we do, then we feel like doing it regularly. I do it every other night and it makes me feel weaker.
I suddenly realised what he meant by family. You know, doing it causes all sorts of problems. It causes backache and your muscles feel weak. I know a bodybuilder who didn't go to his family for six months. When he did, he got into a fight with this guy and picked him up by the scruff of his neck. What strength!
Hmm, I mumbled, hopeful this would end soon. In fact, the other day my mother was saying. You know how mothers are. They don't say anything directly. She hinted that it is a good thing not to go to the family regularly. Then again, the family also likes to have it regularly. So, I need to do it for her as well.
The stretching continued. How do I look? Strong? I need to build those muscles. When the winter sets in, I will go to the gym. What exercises should I be doing? In fact, I also want to buy a good perfume - to use on myself and for the auto.
Looks like a bad jam, I said, trying to steer - and, possibly, end - the conversation. Yes, I told you. I generally don't take customers to East Delhi or West Delhi at this time of the day. You spend too much time waiting rather than moving. Nothing can tempt me to make these journeys. Unless the person is willing to pay me thrice the fare.
I don't want to drive autos all my life. I will buy a taxi soon. Drive it for a little bit and then buy myself a 4x4 and employ drivers. And I will change my watch. You see this watch? Expensive, but only for driving the auto. When I drive car, I will get a new watch. And goggles (sunglasses). Do you think my personality will look good in my expensive goggles and watch driving the 4x4?
That's my house. Right there. Yes, by that red car. Can you stop the auto there? Before he could say anything, I handed him the money and ran to my flat.
26 October 2009
Busy with chatth
You have missed your blog deadline, by the way!
This was a friend who has read (or least gives me the impression) every post I have written. Thanks, mate. You are probably the only one who does and gives me the motivation to carry on.
So, where was I the last couple of days? Not looking for play-schools, I am afraid, but at my parents' for chatth - one of the most important festivals in my native state, Bihar. For over 10 years, my Mum fasts for 36 hours during the chatth festival for the well-being of her family. But it was for first time, she had all her kids (me and my three sisters), their spouses and respective kids to help out and provide moral support.
In that time, chatth has become really big in Delhi. Most parts of the city (especially East and West Delhi) come to a halt as thousands of people from Biharis celebrate the festival. Many more come to India Gate to pray to Surya (Sun) {Here are some stunning pictures from India Gate, taken by Mayank Austen Soofi.}
It was an interesting festival to participate in, and observe. My Mum and an old lady were the only ones fasting, but there were many more who wanted to route their offerings through the two. After all, it is much easier being religious when you don't have to undertake the hard rituals that go with it. Chatth requires people to fast without food or water for 36 hours and to make offering to sun while standing almost knee-deep in water. The last bit is difficult since the weather is cold enough to numb your legs.
In its move to the big cities, the festival has adapted quite a lot. The water-sources have moved from being rivers and lakes to a boat canal at India Gate and a 4 ft x 4ft tank at one end of a housing society. But it seems heated pool are still out of bounds.
Anyway, Mum was brave as she went through the fasting. Even with all the rackets the little ones made (five of them, include two under two years), she kept a smile on her face. Helped by a couple of neighbours, she made baskets-full of goodies and other things for the festival. Like us, when we were younger, the kids wanted to eat these things immediately. Like us, they were told to be patient until the offering had been made to the sun.
Me and my sisters had got together after such a long time, so there was loads to catch up on. Every now and then, a panic would set in when one of the kids went missing. Mostly, it was my daughter. Mostly, she was found at the home of a particular Didi (elder sister). It seems the little girl has discovered a passion for aimless wandering. She can do that for hours without getting tired.
It must have been 10.30 pm when we all went off to sleep. Much earlier than usual, but we all had to bath and get ready by 5.00 am. I knocked off straightaway and don't remember much of Saturday night. However, my brother-in-law woke up around two and found Mum busy lighting the earthen lamps that were to be taken to the temple. He advised Mum to have some shut-eye as it was still some hours before sunrise, but the lack of food and water had started hitting her hard.
She persisted with the task at hand and within an hour or so, others had started waking up as well. By 4.30 or so, we were all ready.
I was tasked with taking a bunch of sugarcanes to the temple, while Dad took the cane basket with all the goodies in it. Dad and Mum walked barefoot, but I chose to have footwear as I was wary of being struck by a sharp object in the dark. On walking out, it seemed a good decision as it was a rather chilly morning.
Our local priest had the temple cleaned up by the time we reached, and was getting the 4ftx4ft water-tank filled up. I don't know how the tank copes when there are more than two women, but seem to provide ample space on this occasion.
It seemed like an eternity before the sun rose, but a good-sized crowd had gather by then. I was impressed with their dedication, but realised soon it was to collect their prasada, within minutes of it being offered to the sun.
Mum was supposed to make the offering, get out of the cold water, change into a different saree, break her fast with ginger-and-jaggery and some warm water, followed by proper food. But those around would have none of it. The moment Mum stepped out of the water, they queued up to get their prasada so could get away quickly.
Everyone was taken in by the moment, apart from me. My antennas were less focused on the occasion, but more on making sure Mum was warm and had something to eat. Someone in the crowd remarked "foreign mein rahta hai to ekdum foreign hee bun gaya hai" (he stays abroad and has become a foreigner), but I couldn't care less.
If someone could be patient for 36 hours without food or water for her religious beliefs, the others could wait for 15 minutes for their's.
Or maybe I have become a foreigner in my own country!
This was a friend who has read (or least gives me the impression) every post I have written. Thanks, mate. You are probably the only one who does and gives me the motivation to carry on.
So, where was I the last couple of days? Not looking for play-schools, I am afraid, but at my parents' for chatth - one of the most important festivals in my native state, Bihar. For over 10 years, my Mum fasts for 36 hours during the chatth festival for the well-being of her family. But it was for first time, she had all her kids (me and my three sisters), their spouses and respective kids to help out and provide moral support.
In that time, chatth has become really big in Delhi. Most parts of the city (especially East and West Delhi) come to a halt as thousands of people from Biharis celebrate the festival. Many more come to India Gate to pray to Surya (Sun) {Here are some stunning pictures from India Gate, taken by Mayank Austen Soofi.}
It was an interesting festival to participate in, and observe. My Mum and an old lady were the only ones fasting, but there were many more who wanted to route their offerings through the two. After all, it is much easier being religious when you don't have to undertake the hard rituals that go with it. Chatth requires people to fast without food or water for 36 hours and to make offering to sun while standing almost knee-deep in water. The last bit is difficult since the weather is cold enough to numb your legs.
In its move to the big cities, the festival has adapted quite a lot. The water-sources have moved from being rivers and lakes to a boat canal at India Gate and a 4 ft x 4ft tank at one end of a housing society. But it seems heated pool are still out of bounds.
Anyway, Mum was brave as she went through the fasting. Even with all the rackets the little ones made (five of them, include two under two years), she kept a smile on her face. Helped by a couple of neighbours, she made baskets-full of goodies and other things for the festival. Like us, when we were younger, the kids wanted to eat these things immediately. Like us, they were told to be patient until the offering had been made to the sun.
Me and my sisters had got together after such a long time, so there was loads to catch up on. Every now and then, a panic would set in when one of the kids went missing. Mostly, it was my daughter. Mostly, she was found at the home of a particular Didi (elder sister). It seems the little girl has discovered a passion for aimless wandering. She can do that for hours without getting tired.
It must have been 10.30 pm when we all went off to sleep. Much earlier than usual, but we all had to bath and get ready by 5.00 am. I knocked off straightaway and don't remember much of Saturday night. However, my brother-in-law woke up around two and found Mum busy lighting the earthen lamps that were to be taken to the temple. He advised Mum to have some shut-eye as it was still some hours before sunrise, but the lack of food and water had started hitting her hard.
She persisted with the task at hand and within an hour or so, others had started waking up as well. By 4.30 or so, we were all ready.
I was tasked with taking a bunch of sugarcanes to the temple, while Dad took the cane basket with all the goodies in it. Dad and Mum walked barefoot, but I chose to have footwear as I was wary of being struck by a sharp object in the dark. On walking out, it seemed a good decision as it was a rather chilly morning.
Our local priest had the temple cleaned up by the time we reached, and was getting the 4ftx4ft water-tank filled up. I don't know how the tank copes when there are more than two women, but seem to provide ample space on this occasion.
It seemed like an eternity before the sun rose, but a good-sized crowd had gather by then. I was impressed with their dedication, but realised soon it was to collect their prasada, within minutes of it being offered to the sun.
Mum was supposed to make the offering, get out of the cold water, change into a different saree, break her fast with ginger-and-jaggery and some warm water, followed by proper food. But those around would have none of it. The moment Mum stepped out of the water, they queued up to get their prasada so could get away quickly.
Everyone was taken in by the moment, apart from me. My antennas were less focused on the occasion, but more on making sure Mum was warm and had something to eat. Someone in the crowd remarked "foreign mein rahta hai to ekdum foreign hee bun gaya hai" (he stays abroad and has become a foreigner), but I couldn't care less.
If someone could be patient for 36 hours without food or water for her religious beliefs, the others could wait for 15 minutes for their's.
Or maybe I have become a foreigner in my own country!
23 October 2009
How month are we going back?
"Daddy. How month are we going back to Reading?" asks my daughter every alternate day.
I start by correcting her that it is "which month" and then her it is an year-long assignment that will finish next September.
"Can we have a party when we go back to Reading and invite all my friends to it? And can we get a bouncy-castle and do face-painting?"
Sure, my angel.
They say kids are the quickest to adjust to a newer place, while grown ups can never fully adjust even at a familiar place. Both I and my wife have a history in the city, while the little one is totally alien to it.
Making new friendships will take time. Like most eastern countries, kids sleep late in India. They wake up early to go to school. Once back, they catch up on sleep and are only out and about after six in the evening.
My girl still goes to sleep at 8.00-8.30 in the night and is up and about from 7 in the morning. She wants to go out and play but there are hardly any kids about. By the time they come out to play, it is a couple of hours until bedtime for her. And then most of her games are different from those of the kids in Delhi.
She does know hide-and-seek, but isn't aware that it is called chupan-chupai in Hindi. She knows catch-me-if-you-can, but doesn't know it as pakadam-pakdaai. The kids are impressed with her English, but struggle to continue speaking in the language themselves.
The little girl definitely misses her park in Reading. And the swing. And the slide. And the booya. And the sandpit. And the paddling pool. And I miss these things too.
Delhi always was a green city. Even even with relentless contruction and ever-growing number of cars, each locality still has more than one park.
Conducive weather (lots of rain and overcast skies) keeps the parks in the UK lush green. The parks are maitained by the local council, and paid for by tax-payers. In Delhi, it is a labour of love by tax-paying residents of different localities.
Like civic amenities, security, transport and education, most public parks are also privately maintained. Local residents spend on a park to be watered. They spend on keeping it clean. They spend on keeping it well lit-up. They spennd to have a jogger's/walker's track along the periphery of the park. They spend on maintaining the swings, slides and monkey-bars for children. And one has to admit, they are doing a pretty good job of it.
But 10 years of Health & Safety have taken away the spirit of 25 years of rough and tumble. As children, we would always have cuts and bruises. And before these could heal, we would pick up newer bruises.
Not my own child. It was one thing letting her go on the monkey-bars and see her fall on loose sand in the park at Caversham. A big cry, a few tears, a cuddle and she would be back to playing again. A fall here would be on hardened soil and that is bound to leave a bruise.
There are also the screws protruding out of the slides. And the swing looks a bit rusty......OK, now I am talking like a paranoid parent!
Being a labour of love, Delhi parks miss the variety my little one was used to in Caversham. She could play on the swings or let her imagination flow in the sand or just take a dip in the paddling pool, if the day was warm. In Delhi, you'll mostly get a monkey-bar, a swing and a slide.
The parks also reflect an interesting change in India. In middle-class localities, children (as young as three) run around for hours without any adult keeping an eye. In well-off areas, the maids and drivers bring the children to play in an air-conditioned car. The parents are completely missing from the scene, with strict instructions that their kids should not be mixing with unknown people or kids.
In the park in front of our flat, there are only three kids supervised by their parents. My daughter and the two girls of an ironing lady who works by the park. Komal and Didi are my little girl's best friends at the moment.
She is yet to figure out Delhi (or, shall I say, the general inequalities of life). Mum, my friends' house isn't very nice - it is broken. Mum, their Mum forgot to put their shoes on. Mum, their clothes are dirty and broken. Why don't they wear nice clothes?
Every morning, she heads straight to the balcony to check whether Komal and Didi have come. She wants to share her sweets, snacks and toys with the girls. She thinks they are good girls and don't do her tang (bother her).
But will this friendship last once she starts going to nursery/childcare?
A posting on our (more specifically, my wife's) search for a nursery tomorrow.
I start by correcting her that it is "which month" and then her it is an year-long assignment that will finish next September.
"Can we have a party when we go back to Reading and invite all my friends to it? And can we get a bouncy-castle and do face-painting?"
Sure, my angel.
They say kids are the quickest to adjust to a newer place, while grown ups can never fully adjust even at a familiar place. Both I and my wife have a history in the city, while the little one is totally alien to it.
Making new friendships will take time. Like most eastern countries, kids sleep late in India. They wake up early to go to school. Once back, they catch up on sleep and are only out and about after six in the evening.
My girl still goes to sleep at 8.00-8.30 in the night and is up and about from 7 in the morning. She wants to go out and play but there are hardly any kids about. By the time they come out to play, it is a couple of hours until bedtime for her. And then most of her games are different from those of the kids in Delhi.
She does know hide-and-seek, but isn't aware that it is called chupan-chupai in Hindi. She knows catch-me-if-you-can, but doesn't know it as pakadam-pakdaai. The kids are impressed with her English, but struggle to continue speaking in the language themselves.
The little girl definitely misses her park in Reading. And the swing. And the slide. And the booya. And the sandpit. And the paddling pool. And I miss these things too.
Delhi always was a green city. Even even with relentless contruction and ever-growing number of cars, each locality still has more than one park.
Conducive weather (lots of rain and overcast skies) keeps the parks in the UK lush green. The parks are maitained by the local council, and paid for by tax-payers. In Delhi, it is a labour of love by tax-paying residents of different localities.
Like civic amenities, security, transport and education, most public parks are also privately maintained. Local residents spend on a park to be watered. They spend on keeping it clean. They spend on keeping it well lit-up. They spennd to have a jogger's/walker's track along the periphery of the park. They spend on maintaining the swings, slides and monkey-bars for children. And one has to admit, they are doing a pretty good job of it.
But 10 years of Health & Safety have taken away the spirit of 25 years of rough and tumble. As children, we would always have cuts and bruises. And before these could heal, we would pick up newer bruises.
Not my own child. It was one thing letting her go on the monkey-bars and see her fall on loose sand in the park at Caversham. A big cry, a few tears, a cuddle and she would be back to playing again. A fall here would be on hardened soil and that is bound to leave a bruise.
There are also the screws protruding out of the slides. And the swing looks a bit rusty......OK, now I am talking like a paranoid parent!
Being a labour of love, Delhi parks miss the variety my little one was used to in Caversham. She could play on the swings or let her imagination flow in the sand or just take a dip in the paddling pool, if the day was warm. In Delhi, you'll mostly get a monkey-bar, a swing and a slide.
The parks also reflect an interesting change in India. In middle-class localities, children (as young as three) run around for hours without any adult keeping an eye. In well-off areas, the maids and drivers bring the children to play in an air-conditioned car. The parents are completely missing from the scene, with strict instructions that their kids should not be mixing with unknown people or kids.
In the park in front of our flat, there are only three kids supervised by their parents. My daughter and the two girls of an ironing lady who works by the park. Komal and Didi are my little girl's best friends at the moment.
She is yet to figure out Delhi (or, shall I say, the general inequalities of life). Mum, my friends' house isn't very nice - it is broken. Mum, their Mum forgot to put their shoes on. Mum, their clothes are dirty and broken. Why don't they wear nice clothes?
Every morning, she heads straight to the balcony to check whether Komal and Didi have come. She wants to share her sweets, snacks and toys with the girls. She thinks they are good girls and don't do her tang (bother her).
But will this friendship last once she starts going to nursery/childcare?
A posting on our (more specifically, my wife's) search for a nursery tomorrow.
22 October 2009
House-hunting in Delhi
Finding accommodation in Delhi was one of our first tasks.
Before leaving the UK, we had arranged to visit a flat in Nizamuddin East rented for a long time by the organisation. The landlord was keen that the tradition continue. He is based in the US and feels safer with the flat being used by a proper person with a proper job in a proper organisation.
The flat was nice and the landlord seemed more than willing to accommodate us. You want the third room too? No problem. A place to put boxes that may not be opened? No problem, I have a room upstairs. Want to move into the flat quickly? No problem.
When the office accountant called up to finalise the deal, the landlord mentioned the terms. Not only did he want a higher rent, but that the organisation pick up his tax liability and provide accommodation as the third room was used by him - once or twice a year, for a couple of nights - during his trips from US to Kashmir and back.
It seemed totally unreasonable and we started proper house-hunting straightaway. Friends suggested some estate agents, and the phone started buzzing immediately. Where do you want to live, Sir? Nizamuddin East, Defence Colony, Panchsheel Park. And you want a furnished accommodation? We would prefer that. OK, Sir. We will call back soon.
One of the first flats we saw was recently done up unfurnished accommodation in Nizamuddin East. The landlady asked how long we wanted to rent the flat for. "One year," both me and my wife said. The landlady went silent. When we stepped out, the agent said, "Sir, aapne game bigaad diya" (You spoilt the game). You should have told her you need the house for two years. Once you had the house, you could have left it at one month's notice". All our protestations about being honest in the transaction didn't work. "This won't work here, sir".
There were two other houses in the same place. The first one was nice and furnished and the landlord was a Sikh gentleman. The rent seemed affordable and we were keen to sign up quickly. "I would need the two months' advance and rent in cash," he said. So what proof do I have of the deposit or of paying you a rent? "You have to trust my word". Trust your word with so much money?
The next one was still under construction. It had one of those big medical storage refrigerators apart from loads of sawdust and construction-workers around. "This flat isn't ready, is it" we asked. This one is, but the upper floors are still being constructed. And how long do you think this will take? Can't tell you, but can check with the landlord.
Thereafter, started a longer hop-on hop-off house-hunting trip across South Delhi - most of it done by my wife. She saw a house which seemed to have borrowed its furniture from wedding organisers. The furniture had thick decorative golden edges, red-black upholstery and a throne-like structure to it. Another house was opened to her for inspection by the landlord - unaware that his wife was sitting stark naked on the toilet. My wife ran straight out.
Another landlord asked what her caste was. A "furnished house" just had a refrigerator and a few chairs in it. Where are the beds? To which the estate agent, said - "Don't worry, madam. That can be organised for a little more money. Just look at this place as an accommodation". Yes, that is precisely what I am looking at this as.
A house in Nizamuddin West seemed newly-built. "We have the ground floor and second floor flat available for rent," the care-taker said. The ground floor seemed nice and spacious but wasn't furnished. "The second-floor flat is furnished". As we walk to the stairs, the care-taker insisted, "Please take the lift". When the doors closed, it was completely dark. There was no light in the lift. Reaching the second floor seemed to take forever, especially with a scared three-year old.
The second floor looked good too. So we asked to see the landlord. He is on his way. 15 minutes later. He is on his way. 25 minutes later. He is on his way. What does he do? He works. Where does he work? He works in different places. Who does he work for? Can't tell you.
Then one of the agents called up excitedly - Does it suit you to have an accommodation near Khan Market or Jantar Mantar? Of course, it does. "Shall we meet at the first property by 3.00 pm? Sure. Half-an-hour of waiting and no one turns up. The estate agent is as clueless as me. We got the reference through another broker. He said the care-taker would be here. Do you want to see the other flat? Yes. But are you sure that isn't locked as well? Absolutely sure, sir.
Not exactly. After waiting for 10 minutes, I couldn't take any more. As I turned to go, the caretaker magically arrived. The flat was bang in the heart of Delhi - just 15 minutes' walk from the office. There was just one problem. It was being used as an office in the past and the main bathroom had a series of men's urinals. I mean, at one level it looks really cool. A bathroom like no one else's. But you surely can't invite families to a flat like that.
It wasn't looking promising. So, we decided to push ahead with our really short shorlist of two houses - shown to us by the only "professional" estate agent. She arranged for us to see the landlords and we decided to go for Anand Niketan. It is just across the road from the best parts of Delhi, has some really good schools around it and is not too far away from my parents.
More importantly, and so I hear, the locality has some Israeli nationals living there. "So there are a lot of plain-clothes Mossad men keeping an eye," a journalist friend whispered to us.
The place sure has a lot of guards, hired by individual house-owners - but I am yet to come across a Mossad man.
Before leaving the UK, we had arranged to visit a flat in Nizamuddin East rented for a long time by the organisation. The landlord was keen that the tradition continue. He is based in the US and feels safer with the flat being used by a proper person with a proper job in a proper organisation.
The flat was nice and the landlord seemed more than willing to accommodate us. You want the third room too? No problem. A place to put boxes that may not be opened? No problem, I have a room upstairs. Want to move into the flat quickly? No problem.
When the office accountant called up to finalise the deal, the landlord mentioned the terms. Not only did he want a higher rent, but that the organisation pick up his tax liability and provide accommodation as the third room was used by him - once or twice a year, for a couple of nights - during his trips from US to Kashmir and back.
It seemed totally unreasonable and we started proper house-hunting straightaway. Friends suggested some estate agents, and the phone started buzzing immediately. Where do you want to live, Sir? Nizamuddin East, Defence Colony, Panchsheel Park. And you want a furnished accommodation? We would prefer that. OK, Sir. We will call back soon.
One of the first flats we saw was recently done up unfurnished accommodation in Nizamuddin East. The landlady asked how long we wanted to rent the flat for. "One year," both me and my wife said. The landlady went silent. When we stepped out, the agent said, "Sir, aapne game bigaad diya" (You spoilt the game). You should have told her you need the house for two years. Once you had the house, you could have left it at one month's notice". All our protestations about being honest in the transaction didn't work. "This won't work here, sir".
There were two other houses in the same place. The first one was nice and furnished and the landlord was a Sikh gentleman. The rent seemed affordable and we were keen to sign up quickly. "I would need the two months' advance and rent in cash," he said. So what proof do I have of the deposit or of paying you a rent? "You have to trust my word". Trust your word with so much money?
The next one was still under construction. It had one of those big medical storage refrigerators apart from loads of sawdust and construction-workers around. "This flat isn't ready, is it" we asked. This one is, but the upper floors are still being constructed. And how long do you think this will take? Can't tell you, but can check with the landlord.
Thereafter, started a longer hop-on hop-off house-hunting trip across South Delhi - most of it done by my wife. She saw a house which seemed to have borrowed its furniture from wedding organisers. The furniture had thick decorative golden edges, red-black upholstery and a throne-like structure to it. Another house was opened to her for inspection by the landlord - unaware that his wife was sitting stark naked on the toilet. My wife ran straight out.
Another landlord asked what her caste was. A "furnished house" just had a refrigerator and a few chairs in it. Where are the beds? To which the estate agent, said - "Don't worry, madam. That can be organised for a little more money. Just look at this place as an accommodation". Yes, that is precisely what I am looking at this as.
A house in Nizamuddin West seemed newly-built. "We have the ground floor and second floor flat available for rent," the care-taker said. The ground floor seemed nice and spacious but wasn't furnished. "The second-floor flat is furnished". As we walk to the stairs, the care-taker insisted, "Please take the lift". When the doors closed, it was completely dark. There was no light in the lift. Reaching the second floor seemed to take forever, especially with a scared three-year old.
The second floor looked good too. So we asked to see the landlord. He is on his way. 15 minutes later. He is on his way. 25 minutes later. He is on his way. What does he do? He works. Where does he work? He works in different places. Who does he work for? Can't tell you.
Then one of the agents called up excitedly - Does it suit you to have an accommodation near Khan Market or Jantar Mantar? Of course, it does. "Shall we meet at the first property by 3.00 pm? Sure. Half-an-hour of waiting and no one turns up. The estate agent is as clueless as me. We got the reference through another broker. He said the care-taker would be here. Do you want to see the other flat? Yes. But are you sure that isn't locked as well? Absolutely sure, sir.
Not exactly. After waiting for 10 minutes, I couldn't take any more. As I turned to go, the caretaker magically arrived. The flat was bang in the heart of Delhi - just 15 minutes' walk from the office. There was just one problem. It was being used as an office in the past and the main bathroom had a series of men's urinals. I mean, at one level it looks really cool. A bathroom like no one else's. But you surely can't invite families to a flat like that.
It wasn't looking promising. So, we decided to push ahead with our really short shorlist of two houses - shown to us by the only "professional" estate agent. She arranged for us to see the landlords and we decided to go for Anand Niketan. It is just across the road from the best parts of Delhi, has some really good schools around it and is not too far away from my parents.
More importantly, and so I hear, the locality has some Israeli nationals living there. "So there are a lot of plain-clothes Mossad men keeping an eye," a journalist friend whispered to us.
The place sure has a lot of guards, hired by individual house-owners - but I am yet to come across a Mossad man.
21 October 2009
Changing name doesn't change mind
"You can change your name, but you can't change your mind" observed my three-year-old.
She was talking about her cousin, whose parents had decided to change the little girl's name just as people were getting used to it.
But the same could be said of Delhi (now Delhi NCR, and spreading deep into Uttar Pradesh and Haryana). It has grown in size and stature, but it still the same old Delhi - chaotic, frustrating, irritating but endearing nevertheless.
And that impression starts to form right at the airport. It feels like a city under seige. A city either threatend by or grappling with a major pandemic.
All around you, there are masked officials and a few body heat scanners - to which people react in the same way as they did when they first came across CCTV camera. How do I look in this? Do I look better if I stick my tongue out? Or put the thumb on my nose?
The threat is indeed serious. Five months and mountains of paperwork later, the airport is still diligently putting together Swine Flu information about every passenger who flies into Delhi.
Most travellers answer NO to every question asked (and some have all the NOs ticked by the helpful health workers). A signature is then put on the form and a counterfoil given to present to the immigration officer.
Making my way through the Swine Flu queue, I imagined a situation where someone actually reports to a hospital with the case of Swine Flu. The Government Committee on Safe Public Health (remember I'm imagining this) asks for quick information on the flight this person arrived on and the passengers who were seated close to him/her on the flight. "This pandemic must be controlled quickly and the patient's co-passengers located immediately."
Delhi International Airport Limited puts the number of passengers that passed through the airport last year at 22.84 million. That comes to about 1.9 million (19 Lakh) passengers a month, or about 9.5 million (95 Lakh) passengers over five months.
This is where my imagination stops. How would one look through 9.5 million forms to get to the one that related to the scare-creator. Maybe it is all catalogued nicely in some big warehouse. But that isn't the impression one gets at the airport. The impression is more like as long as we can prove that the information was originally collected, the process is working. Organising the information and making it easily searchable is someone else's responsibility!
This is something I have found hard to understand over the years. For a country that prides itself in processing and mining data all over the world, our approach to public information is quite low-tech. More so, considering that the contract for this "health screening" would have gone to a private firm - in all probability.
Anyway, I digress. It was a bit more comforting stepping out of the airport. I know the drill here and it has worked perfectly every time. Go to a Pre-paid Taxi counter, get a voucher and make your way to the taxi queue.
It didn't take much time to get a taxi, but the driver a hitch as he reached the Delhi Traffic Police's check-out desk (yes, it is physical desk in the middle of a road).
A jovial, but stern cop wouldn't let the taxi driver pass. They seemed to know each other and the taxi driver rolled up a 100-rupee note and tried to shake hands with the cop. After a few feeble protests, the cop shook hands.
"What exactly was that?" I enquired as taxi moved away.
"Sir, I don't have a driving licence and the cop knows it," the taxi-driver said. "So every now and then he stops me to get money."
What? My family is travelling in a taxi driven by an unlicenced driver? So, what was that elaborate cop-issues-the-voucher-cop-checks-the-taxi-out ritual? Wasn't it meant to protect me or other visitors to the city from such risky situations?
It was about to get more interesting. Just a kilometre from the airport, the taxi stalled. "You will have to wait some time, sir. Another guy will take the taxi from here to your house".
"But we have had a long journey and it is getting hotter by the minute. In any case, why did you pick us up if you didn't want to drive to our house."
"Sir, we have divided the tasks. I wait at the airport and drive the taxis out of it. Then someone else takes over and takes the passengers home".
Right. Sounds just like the kind of situation that makes it to the newspapers. 'NRI FAMILY ROBBED, BEATEN UP NEAR AIRPORT. DELHI POLICE ORDERS CRACKDOWN'
God, that is such an old and unimaginative headline. But that is the reality of Delhi.
Even as Delhi NCR, it functions like Delhi of 10 years ago. Contractors earn lakhs of rupees printing Swine Flu forms, supplying Protective Masks and providing 'Health Workers' at the airport. Traffic Police officials shake hands and roll taxis in and out of the airport without a bother about who drives these or how safe they are.
Don't know whether my little girl meant this precisely, but changing the name doesn't change the thinking or the mindset.
If she did, that was sharp observation, my dear!
She was talking about her cousin, whose parents had decided to change the little girl's name just as people were getting used to it.
But the same could be said of Delhi (now Delhi NCR, and spreading deep into Uttar Pradesh and Haryana). It has grown in size and stature, but it still the same old Delhi - chaotic, frustrating, irritating but endearing nevertheless.
And that impression starts to form right at the airport. It feels like a city under seige. A city either threatend by or grappling with a major pandemic.
All around you, there are masked officials and a few body heat scanners - to which people react in the same way as they did when they first came across CCTV camera. How do I look in this? Do I look better if I stick my tongue out? Or put the thumb on my nose?
The threat is indeed serious. Five months and mountains of paperwork later, the airport is still diligently putting together Swine Flu information about every passenger who flies into Delhi.
Most travellers answer NO to every question asked (and some have all the NOs ticked by the helpful health workers). A signature is then put on the form and a counterfoil given to present to the immigration officer.
Making my way through the Swine Flu queue, I imagined a situation where someone actually reports to a hospital with the case of Swine Flu. The Government Committee on Safe Public Health (remember I'm imagining this) asks for quick information on the flight this person arrived on and the passengers who were seated close to him/her on the flight. "This pandemic must be controlled quickly and the patient's co-passengers located immediately."
Delhi International Airport Limited puts the number of passengers that passed through the airport last year at 22.84 million. That comes to about 1.9 million (19 Lakh) passengers a month, or about 9.5 million (95 Lakh) passengers over five months.
This is where my imagination stops. How would one look through 9.5 million forms to get to the one that related to the scare-creator. Maybe it is all catalogued nicely in some big warehouse. But that isn't the impression one gets at the airport. The impression is more like as long as we can prove that the information was originally collected, the process is working. Organising the information and making it easily searchable is someone else's responsibility!
This is something I have found hard to understand over the years. For a country that prides itself in processing and mining data all over the world, our approach to public information is quite low-tech. More so, considering that the contract for this "health screening" would have gone to a private firm - in all probability.
Anyway, I digress. It was a bit more comforting stepping out of the airport. I know the drill here and it has worked perfectly every time. Go to a Pre-paid Taxi counter, get a voucher and make your way to the taxi queue.
It didn't take much time to get a taxi, but the driver a hitch as he reached the Delhi Traffic Police's check-out desk (yes, it is physical desk in the middle of a road).
A jovial, but stern cop wouldn't let the taxi driver pass. They seemed to know each other and the taxi driver rolled up a 100-rupee note and tried to shake hands with the cop. After a few feeble protests, the cop shook hands.
"What exactly was that?" I enquired as taxi moved away.
"Sir, I don't have a driving licence and the cop knows it," the taxi-driver said. "So every now and then he stops me to get money."
What? My family is travelling in a taxi driven by an unlicenced driver? So, what was that elaborate cop-issues-the-voucher-cop-checks-the-taxi-out ritual? Wasn't it meant to protect me or other visitors to the city from such risky situations?
It was about to get more interesting. Just a kilometre from the airport, the taxi stalled. "You will have to wait some time, sir. Another guy will take the taxi from here to your house".
"But we have had a long journey and it is getting hotter by the minute. In any case, why did you pick us up if you didn't want to drive to our house."
"Sir, we have divided the tasks. I wait at the airport and drive the taxis out of it. Then someone else takes over and takes the passengers home".
Right. Sounds just like the kind of situation that makes it to the newspapers. 'NRI FAMILY ROBBED, BEATEN UP NEAR AIRPORT. DELHI POLICE ORDERS CRACKDOWN'
God, that is such an old and unimaginative headline. But that is the reality of Delhi.
Even as Delhi NCR, it functions like Delhi of 10 years ago. Contractors earn lakhs of rupees printing Swine Flu forms, supplying Protective Masks and providing 'Health Workers' at the airport. Traffic Police officials shake hands and roll taxis in and out of the airport without a bother about who drives these or how safe they are.
Don't know whether my little girl meant this precisely, but changing the name doesn't change the thinking or the mindset.
If she did, that was sharp observation, my dear!
20 October 2009
Return to Delhi - Prologue
So, what does it feel like coming back to live and work in India (or more specifically, Delhi) after 10 years?
Normal? Exciting? Exhilarating? Strange? Puzzling? Shocking?
I would say it is a bit of everything.....and more.
But before I explain why, a bit of the background for those who don't know.
For the last 10 years, United Kingdom has been home to me and my wife. It was there that we set up our first home together and it was there that our daughter was born.
We visited India at least once every year, but it was more as a tourist than someone living here. We were taking time off work, while everyone else was leading their regular life.
Each visit highlighted each visit reminded us how separate our lives have become from people who we used to be best mates with. Apart from a handful of friends, most of our time in India was spent in the company of our parents or siblings.
That is the India our little daughter has seen. Each trip has been an endless series of introductions to numerous "Daadis" (Grandmas), "Babas" (Grandpas), "Naanis" (Grannies), "Buas" (Dad's sisters), "Mamas" (Mum's brothers) "Mausis" (Mum's sisters) and their offsprings.
Just to set the record straight, there aren't that many parents or siblings I or my wife have. My parents live in a housing society where people have long-standing associations and are treated as part of the family.
To a little one, used to first name associations, trying to work out why both genuine and fake (okay, make-believe!) Grandpas were called the same thing must have been puzzling. No wonder all that she would remember - after each of these trips - was that she had visited "Eendeea" and a few names that stuck.
For me and my wife, there was always a strong desire to come and work in India. So, when the opportunity presented itself in July 2009, I and my wife laboured over whether to take it up or not. Our biggest concern was for the little one. "Will we be forcing our choice on her? How will she cope with this change? Will she miss her friends at the nursery? Will she find new friends in Delhi? What kind of school should we send her to?"
Even after the decision was made, we took time to tell her that we will be moving to India for a year.
To our shock, she took it rather well. Within days, all her mates and the nursery staff knew of the move.
Even her favourite "Cooker" (the nursery chef) got to hear her "I am going to Eendeea......I am going to Eendeea" recitation.
Planning the move took nearly two months - most of it sorting out official paperwork and arrangements to ship some of our stuff.
We used the time to research two key questions facing us. Where do we stay in Delhi? And does this place have decent schools reasonably close by?
The first thing we reached out to was the internet. And it was soon obvious that like pornographers, estate agents have taken whole-heartedly to the internet.
After all, that's where the money is. The expats aren't walking the streets and into estate agents' office. They are treading the information highway and will pay a premium to anybody who can show the way.
So, armed with an email address, a mobile number and some good contacts in desirable neighbourhoods - a lot of people have become estate agents. And they are savvy enough to post the same property every day to make sure it features prominently on property-related websites.....even emerging ones like Craiglist (yes, it is relatively new in India)
To us, Nizamuddin East seemed a like good area - green, spacious and very close to work in Connaught place. It also had Delhi Public School, Modern School, Sardar Patel Vidyalaya and Air Force Bal Bharati in the catchment area.
So, guided by the assuring arm of Sage Internet, I made contact with an Estate Agent who had advertised a few properties in the area. To my carefully crafted email, came a single-line email - "What is your budget?"
When I told him the budget, he doubled that up as the going rent in the area. I wrote back, "You must be joking! Best of luck finding the person who will pay you that kind of money"
His response was immediate - "If you get something in your budget, let me know!"
Normal? Exciting? Exhilarating? Strange? Puzzling? Shocking?
I would say it is a bit of everything.....and more.
But before I explain why, a bit of the background for those who don't know.
For the last 10 years, United Kingdom has been home to me and my wife. It was there that we set up our first home together and it was there that our daughter was born.
We visited India at least once every year, but it was more as a tourist than someone living here. We were taking time off work, while everyone else was leading their regular life.
Each visit highlighted each visit reminded us how separate our lives have become from people who we used to be best mates with. Apart from a handful of friends, most of our time in India was spent in the company of our parents or siblings.
That is the India our little daughter has seen. Each trip has been an endless series of introductions to numerous "Daadis" (Grandmas), "Babas" (Grandpas), "Naanis" (Grannies), "Buas" (Dad's sisters), "Mamas" (Mum's brothers) "Mausis" (Mum's sisters) and their offsprings.
Just to set the record straight, there aren't that many parents or siblings I or my wife have. My parents live in a housing society where people have long-standing associations and are treated as part of the family.
To a little one, used to first name associations, trying to work out why both genuine and fake (okay, make-believe!) Grandpas were called the same thing must have been puzzling. No wonder all that she would remember - after each of these trips - was that she had visited "Eendeea" and a few names that stuck.
For me and my wife, there was always a strong desire to come and work in India. So, when the opportunity presented itself in July 2009, I and my wife laboured over whether to take it up or not. Our biggest concern was for the little one. "Will we be forcing our choice on her? How will she cope with this change? Will she miss her friends at the nursery? Will she find new friends in Delhi? What kind of school should we send her to?"
Even after the decision was made, we took time to tell her that we will be moving to India for a year.
To our shock, she took it rather well. Within days, all her mates and the nursery staff knew of the move.
Even her favourite "Cooker" (the nursery chef) got to hear her "I am going to Eendeea......I am going to Eendeea" recitation.
Planning the move took nearly two months - most of it sorting out official paperwork and arrangements to ship some of our stuff.
We used the time to research two key questions facing us. Where do we stay in Delhi? And does this place have decent schools reasonably close by?
The first thing we reached out to was the internet. And it was soon obvious that like pornographers, estate agents have taken whole-heartedly to the internet.
After all, that's where the money is. The expats aren't walking the streets and into estate agents' office. They are treading the information highway and will pay a premium to anybody who can show the way.
So, armed with an email address, a mobile number and some good contacts in desirable neighbourhoods - a lot of people have become estate agents. And they are savvy enough to post the same property every day to make sure it features prominently on property-related websites.....even emerging ones like Craiglist (yes, it is relatively new in India)
To us, Nizamuddin East seemed a like good area - green, spacious and very close to work in Connaught place. It also had Delhi Public School, Modern School, Sardar Patel Vidyalaya and Air Force Bal Bharati in the catchment area.
So, guided by the assuring arm of Sage Internet, I made contact with an Estate Agent who had advertised a few properties in the area. To my carefully crafted email, came a single-line email - "What is your budget?"
When I told him the budget, he doubled that up as the going rent in the area. I wrote back, "You must be joking! Best of luck finding the person who will pay you that kind of money"
His response was immediate - "If you get something in your budget, let me know!"
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