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.

A visit to the Rail Museum

Had an interesting weekend overall.

Met up with my friends from college at the Foreign Correspondents' Club at Mathura Road on Friday evening. The FCC has its home in one of those old Delhi bungalows - with green lawns in the front and big rooms with billiards and table tennis tables.

We meet every year, during my trips to Delhi. All of us work in different sectors and it is nice to catch up and get a sense of the broader communications industry horizon. It is also a fantastic opportunity for us to unwind and be ourselves.

In the past, I used to be the chief organiser as being on vacation would allow me more time. But working in Delhi I understand why the guys wouldn't meet up together between my two trips.

Have been planning to do one since I arrived in October, but it has been far more difficult. Work is hectic and sorting out house, house-help and other stuff has taken lots of time.

But I am glad we did get together. It was a nice evening and we parked ourselves in the front lawns. It was a lovely evening with crisp air and there was no point sitting indoors. Catching up on the months gone by and talking of our aspirations for the future, we realised that all of us - in our own different ways - have done reasonably well with our work-life balance. We have been able to spend time with our children, visited places, done things and aren't doing too badly career-wise either.

On Saturday, it was the little one's turn to be pampered. We took her to the National Rail Museum, which is very close to our house. A friend was also bringing her kids there so we arranged to meet up. The Railway Museum is a fascinating place - home to old engines, railway carriages, communication equipment and railway signals. And it attracts hundreds of children from all over Delhi.

Yet, there is little attention paid on how to involve the young ones in the long history of the world's biggest and busiest railway system in the world. Around them, there is a wealth of material with little or no explanation or illustration of its importance. Then there are all those engines and carriages - built way back in the 1850s - which are permanently locked.

Kids do climb up some of these and play the engine-drivers, but there is no one around to explain how the engine worked and why it finds a place of importance in the museum.

The only thing that does attract their attention is the toy train (unfortunately, I couldn't take its photo). Its five carriages and 10 minutes' ride excites children far more than any other thing there. Our kids also sat on the tiny carriages, waved at the others visiting the attraction and got excited when the train entered a tiny tunnel.

Quite peculiarly, the tunnel has Disney characters on it, but then that's another thing. I am sure Walt Disney would have had something to do with trains and the National Rail Museum. Far more peculiar was the space given to the various Railway Ministers and Chairmen of the Railway Board. I mean that is important, but surely the history of railways in India didn't start with the arrival of the ministers or chairmen.

Every time I visit the place, a part of me thinks how much more could be made out of the place. Children could spend an entire day, discovering and understanding the various treasures stored in the place. And each time, I am amazed that you could see every thing and get out within a couple of hours.

Earlier, the fountains little ponds had paddle-boats to spend some time in. But now these have gone away as well. As are the tables and chairs in the local cafeteria. It seems the place is geared towards quick turnover rather than attracting repeat and prolonged visits.

Sunday involved an interesting experience in acquiring booze, but I'll write about it tomorrow.

She's speaking Hindi now

The little one definitely looked better when I got home on Wednesday.

Those hardcore antibiotics seem to have had an effect. As a friend of mine said, the bugs here are hardcore and have built up a strong immunity to the regular stuff. You need hardcore treatment for them.

It was nice to hear her voice again, but a little surprise for the first words to be tum chup ho jaao (You keep quiet please). Didn't realise I was talking too much over these last few days. Thanks for letting me know, little angel.

It is interesting to see Hindi become her primary language. Suddenly, she is making entire conversations in the language - without struggling for words or phrases.

Just a week ago, she wanted to know to what chippee sadan (hidden tooth decay) meant. A toothpaste commercial had a young kid being lectured on dental hygiene and how that particular brand was best at it.

The arrival of DTH television has opened her to a world of possibilities. Suddenly, she knows all about McDonalds, Crax, Maggi, Cadburys, Alpenliebe and other such things.

Lelly Kelly Shoe, Peppa Helicopter or Play-Doh no longer interest her. McDonald's Happy Meal, Maggi Masala and Crax Corn Puffs are more thing now.

Thankfully, she has rediscovered Cbeebies which, fortunately, doesn't attract much commercial advertising. But local heroes like Tenali Rama, Chhota Bheem and Krishna and perennial favourites like Scooby Doo and Tom & Jerry attract her attention too. They are on channels like Nick, Disney and Pogo, which attract the heaviest of advertising.

She is also hearing lot more Hindi around her. During the illness, something clicked - almost as if the Hindi switch got turned on. Humko doctor ke pass nahin jaana hai. Humko dawa nahin khaani hai. Yeh kharaab hai (I don't want to go to the doctor. I don't like the medicine. It is bad).

Soon, it was Humne dawaayee kha lee. Thodi kadvee thee, par humne kha lee. Humne daal bhee khaayee (I had my medicine. It was a bit bitter, but I had it. I had lentils too).

Along the way, she has also picked up hum tumko maarenge (I'll hit you) or hum tumko bund kar denge (I'l lock you). But then, you can't be selective about a language. It is made of both good and bad elements - the judgement on which elements to use comes later in life.

Give her water. It is very important!

A correction to my post on Monday. The neighbourhood vendor in the health sector isn't being muscled out. He or she has been co-opted by the healthcare biggies.

During the day, they work for a big hospital. In the evening, they run private clinics at home. Like the one we took our little one to, last evening.

She seemed lethargic, had a runny stomach, wasn't eating well and ran high temperature the previous night.

There was a small queue at the clinic. The kid before was a "healthy" boy, who needed an injection or something. His huge howls weren't the reassurance that our girl wanted. Even in her state, she was curious to check out "why the big boy was crying".

She has only ever heard such howls in 'Finding Nemo' when the dentist (P. Sherman) is struggling to get Nigel, the Pelican out of his room.

In her exposures to the National Health Service in the UK, it was the nurses who wielded the injection. They took time to settle her down and then dispense the vaccine/medication when she was distracted. The only visible thing would be a tiny droplet of blood, which was quickly sealed up.

The paediatrician was swift in her diagnosis. Viral hai (It's viral fever). We need to get her on to antibiotics. Ten minutes later, we were out of the clinic with a prescription in our hands.

If it were the NHS, that would be it. You would have haggled an appointment after spending lots of time over the phone. Then, after waiting patiently in the waiting area, see the only doctor who had time/space to see you.

But this is India. You are spoilt for choices here, and - curiously enough - it doesn't cost too much to consult two, or even three of such doctors. The standard fee, per consultation, is between 100-200 Indian Rupees (or 1.40-2.80 British Pounds). The most expensive it gets is 400 Indian Rupees (or 8 British Pounds).

Yes, I know what you are thinking. It isn't too expensive for the average Delhiwalla either. You would get a butter chicken in a decent restaurant for the most expensive consultation fee.

So, we went off to another doctor recommended by the landlady and another local.

"Paani (Water)," said the elderly Sikh doctor. "Paani bahut zaroori hai. Isse paani do. Zyada nahin. Thoda, thoda (Water is important. You must give her water. Not too much. Just a little by very often)". He asked if the little one had had enough water. No, she hadn't as she was asleep most of the day. "Paani bahut zaroori hai. Agar shareer mein paani kum hoga to aadmi kamzor mehsoos karega. Aur agar aap kamzor honge, to aapko beemari pakad legi. (Water is very important. If you don't have enough water, you will feel weak. And if you feel weak, the ailment will take control).

His diagnosis was similar. The little one had viral, made worse by a throat infection. We had to get her started on the antibiotics, but could continue with Calpol and Benilyn to tackle fever and cough. Aur paani do. Paani bahut zaroori hai. Thoda. Thoda.

During all this time, our little girl barely uttered a word. The throat infection had subdued her voice completely.

The moment we gave her antibiotics, she screamed. Yeh accha nahin hai. Yeh kharaab hai (This is not good. This is bad). We tried convincing her that it was good. That it'll make her feel better soon. But she only conceded when told the "cough monster" story and how it had to be defeated before she could visit my workplace.

The medicine was so bitter, she threw it out straightaway. Then, of her own choice, she put some water in her mouth to dilute the bitter medicine. It took three go's to finish off a 5ml dose.

Her temperature did go up during the night, but she slept better. By this morning, the stomach was better and her voice had returned.

The doctor saw her again in the morning. She is looking good. She may have fever this evening as well. If she doesn't, well and good. But tomorrow she will feel better.

We hope so too. She definitely looks better running around and making a mess.