Papaji is so charitable

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shall we play Commonwealth Games?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It does say, however, that victory should be attained by playing with passion and within rules.

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

This morning too, she came, gave me a hug and said: "Daddy, shall we play Commonwealth Games?" Today being a weekday, another day of sporting events was not possible.

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

The dilemma of schooling

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Where is the chicken in this?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wish I had read the preamble a bit more carefully:

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

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

Call me 'Rosebud'

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

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

Because this is a nice name. I like it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To break law, turn here

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Delhi's newest tourist attraction

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You've been boxed up!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But I wanted to be Radha!

Delhi had its own long weekend this past week.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy, healthy and harmonious living

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A sense of deja vu

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Still raining in Delhi

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rain Rain Go Away

Now that's certainly the Delhi monsoon I remember.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Swapping searing Delhi for cool hills

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Vote C for Crap!!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's yesterday once more!!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not monsoon yet

...but the showers have cooled down Delhi.

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

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

After weeks of high temperatures, who could blame them.

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

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

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

Papaji refuses to budge

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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