Why Doesn't India have an Easy Button?

Albert and I are finally moved into a flat instead of a hotel. Finding and moving into a suitable place was as much of a hassle as one might expect, but also had a certain urgency due to the fact that, by the terms of my visa, I had to be registered as a resident of someplace or other within 14 days of reaching India. Non-Pakistani foreigners with long term visas who register late pay a fine; Pakistanis have 24 hours.

With this tight schedule in mind, my first step on arriving in Delhi was to visit the American Institute of Indian Studies, where I obtained the names of two landlords who had furnished apartments to let, congratulating myself on being so far ahead of schedule.

Second full day in Delhi, I visit both flats recommended by AIIS and experience my first big wave of culture shock this trip. Now, I take a certain amount of pride in being relatively un-phased by the developing world and fairly hearty about bearing up to it. You won’t see me Purell-ing my seat on the train. But with both of the apartments I was shown that day I made the mistake of following my host into a room and then waiting patiently, not realizing that I was, in fact, standing in the space they were offering to rent me. The first apartment just wasn’t recognizably residential. For one thing, it was a room off of an NGO-office; for another, I failed to recognize that the couch type thingie was a bed. (Indians don’t tend to be 5’9”, I guess). The second flat was clearly an apartment, but it was in terrible shape: the kitchen sink and the bathroom covered in rust, broken furniture piled in corners.

At this point, I admit that I was led astray by my wimpy liberal notions of tolerance. I reasoned that my expectations about middle class real estate had been hopelessly skewed by my country of McMansions. Thus, on day 4, I agreed to take the shabby apartment and put down a small deposit. I cannot adequately explain this decision. The first apartment was really far out of the city and the second seemed like my only option. Also, I had a certain amount of Survivor: India mentality going through my head, and a kind of deluded idea that a couple of months of garret life couldn’t be that bad, just look at how it well worked out for Sarah in The Little Princess.

I owe a big shout-out to my friend Rik for talking me out of that apartment and urging me to contact a broker.

Wiser heads than mine having prevailed, I was in the situation of having burned up a week of my pre-registration deadline time in not taking an apartment. So I was feeling quite a crunch as I went into this last search-with-broker week. Things seemed like they might come together, though, when on Wednesday evening I found a place. It is actually really nice, in a very unintimidating neighborhood (we have a Benetton!) with plenty of space, a reasonably sized bed, and a general air of cleanliness. I was, and I am, very pleased with it. So I began to make arrangements to get all the papers in order so I could get myself registered by today.

Unanticipated minor wrinkle: I spoke of my faux marriage to my landlord, with the thought that this was important groundwork for passing off any future conjugal visits without scandal. But, as it turns out, when I sign a contract in India either my father or my husband has to be designated as the competent, rational, masculine persona who will be ultimately responsible for my womanly whims. Pretending to be married to your boyfriend is one thing—legally entangling him in developing world real estate markets is another. But I managed to airily write in my father’s name on the lease muttering something about my dad being my legal next of kin. At this point, I just hope my landlord is sufficiently naïve about American family law that this does not strike him as pretty darn fishy.

Unanticipated major wrinkle: I got a big discount in rent from my landlord by agreeing to pay the whole six months up front. No problem, right? I mean, we’re talking low four figures here, it is still early in the summer stipend, and I’ve been living in a backpacker hotel. All I need to do is get the cash out of my bank account. But it turns out that trying to do any form of financial transaction from India is like trying to hail a cab while wearing an “Ask me about the Crips” t-shirt. Suffice it to say, my PayPal account has been frozen, my check card shut off, my credit cards now work only intermittently, and, in case you were wondering, Western Union will not let you wire money to yourself from outside the United States. So, basically, the fraud alert systems of America agree that my spending habits are statistically impossible.

May I just mention that at some point in this perfect storm of lack of access to my money, my local cell phone got turned off? You see, to get a cell phone in India you need to fill out security screening forms and mine, apparently, have gone astray.

So, to make a long story short, this morning, still about $500 dollars short, I nonetheless convinced my landlord to hand over a copy of my lease, so that I could make the deadline (today) for registering myself. I go to the office, relieved that this whole crazy process seems to be drawing to a close, and, naturally….

(wait for it)

My registration was rejected because my lease has not been notarized. I give up!

Indian Anti-Penguin Sentiment

I have shocking, no, APPALLING news: on Monday Albert was denied admission to the Taj Mahal!!!!!

How could this happen in today’s world? Maybe a 100 years ago but, surely, humanity has progressed farther than this? This is probably the most odious case of arbitrary and cruel discrimination in the history of the sub-continent!!!! (Not counting the ones involving humans.) Yes, Albert (or “the small toy” as the security guards rudely referred to him) was forced to stay in the coat check while I gazed upon one of humanity’s greatest artistic triumphs. Albert cried all the way home from Agra and today he mentioned he might go home early since he’s not wanted here. I bought him a small Taj Mahal snow globe keychain (pictured) but we both know the fact of the discrimination hurts more than missing the sightseeing.

Albert has several theories about why India is so backward when it comes to penguins.

Low appreciation of cuteness. Have you ever noticed how there are no adorable, Hello Kitty type cartoon characters from India, even though they purport to be Asians? I don’t see how they can ever catch up to China with this attitude.

Drugs. Like in that movie Traffic where the little dolls are made of cocaine.

Taboos on dark skin. Indians favor pallor. (In fact, I have been meaning to mention that L’Oreal Paris sells a face-lightening cream here with the distressing name “White Beauty.”) North Indians are less well-pigmented than south Indians and religious minorities are lighter than Hindus: thus, skin color is both politically and socially significant. Albert, who is dark enough to blend into Tamil Nadu in summer, believes he may have fallen victim to the color prejudices of the north Indians.

Tropical chauvinism. The belief that creatures from cooler areas are highly likely to attempt to subjugate the people they meet by initially establishing trade relationships, slowly encroaching upon local political and economic independence, and finally taking direct control. Albert has no idea where these nasty rumors get started.

Rabies precautions. Most animals in India are strays, after all.

I will guiltily admit that I enjoyed seeing the Taj Mahal for a second time, nonetheless. It’s one of those few places that are better than you imagine they will be.

This is also true of the 7^th Harry Potter book, which I read over the weekend. Highly recommended.

War on Terror, India Style

I'm still living in a hotel at the moment - I picked a flat but it is not exactly move-in ready, so I've got a weekend of youth hosteling. So I thought I'd share a bit about Delhi's hotel culture.

Now, back when I was in my turn-down-the-high-thread-count-sheets-for-you hotel, I was not bothered by such unsightly blemishes as notices of the Indian state. Having moved down market, however, the first thing I saw above my new innkeeper's desk was a sign reading: "Hotel and Boarding House Owners - Use Caution when Registering Guests: THEY MAY BE TERRORISTS" That last bit is actually underlined, too, but blogspot doesn't seem to have that formatting option.

Frankly, the Indian government is fighting a war on terror that makes even that ridiculous "3 oz bottles in a 1 gallon zip lock bag" rule seem positively accommodating. Similar innkeeper signs were not in place when last I visited, which strikes me as a bit odd because there have not really been any big terrorist attacks since that time. They've also added new regulations for the insidious "Cyber Cafes" of Delhi. Not only must one submit a photo ID before using a computer, the shop must record the exact computer I use, my precise time slot on the computer, and my contact information in my own handwriting (so says the notice on the wall -- the clerk actually skipped this. He is watching a DVD, though, which I'm sure the Delhi police would understand). Oh, and in addition to all this annoyingness, as a foreigner I have to register myself with the government providing a notice from my landlord saying that I am, in fact, living where I claim. Then a clerk will come and verify that I am living at that address.

You might think that, given my interest in India's wars, I'd be more sympathetic to the notion that there might be a looming threat to the state. But all this recording of me is, as far as I can tell, at best designed to be able to find and prosecute me after the fact and at worst purely cosmetic. Because all of this info -- at the hotels, at the cyber cafe, and, I can only assume, in the back offices of the government -- gets entered by hand into these massive Bob Crachet style ledgers. Bigger than atlases and cracking at their seams, these books record row after row of visitors in largely illegible handwriting. Now what, may I ask, is the ace Delhi police force going to do with those? No doubt they are diligently filed somewhere for some poor future graduate student's coding project, but is this their plan for tracking those who might wish India harm? (Adding to the silliness is that among the acceptable IDs for these registrations is a ration card which, what with being attached to free food and all, has a fairly brisk black market circulation. Something like 80% of all circulating ration cards, in fact, are thought to be illegally obtained.)

I don't mean to make fun of the Indian state for its somewhat inadequate capacity. But this program has all the earmarks of mediocre governance: the generation of pork barrel jobs due to the program's requirement of thousands of hours of civil service time and the unassailableness of those jobs because, after all, shouldn't the state be fighting terrorism. But a nimbler program that aimed for less would almost certainly accomplish more. Stupid politics.

Not hailing a cab at Delhi airport: Priceless

To me, the single most terrifying thing about India, the "that which must not be named" of a country generally considered a bit hard on yokels to begin with, is Indira Gandhi International Airport. And this is not just because of the Indian people's weird love-hate relationship with the woman who almost turned India into a dictatorship.

No, even more terrifying than the Indira's weird karma (although possibly causally related) is trying to get transportation out of Delhi's international airport. My good friend and my sister both had deeply traumatic experiences with a taxi-for-hire and/or a prearranged pick-up that never showed. The favorite scam is the "your hotel is no good"; "your hotel is full"; or even "your hotel has burned down" line, sometimes with a pre-arranged accomplice who will answer the phone and corroborate the story when your cabby calls what is allegedly your hotel - then, they take you to a very sketchy hotel indeed, where they get a kickback.

Knowing about these scams in advance, one would suppose that it would require only sufficient strength of will to get out of the predicament: just demand to be taken where you said you were going. My excuses for my inability to do this are threefold: (1) Sometimes the cabbies yell, and I feel suddenly very alone and very female. I don't think any of them would ever throw me out into the Delhi streets, but who knows? (2) Flights into Delhi from the US often arrive after 8 pm. So it's all dark and scary out. (3) The cabby is able to prey on the spirit-crushing effects of Delhi's weather. It was 98 degrees F when we landed - in that weather, I'd agree to almost anything to get back inside.

(An aside: today it topped out at 104. What absolutely baffles me about this place is that is has known continuous human settlement for millenia. And not just scattered pueblo outposts, like the Hopis in the American SW, but a really pretty big city. How is that even possible???)

All this by way of saying, I'm a bit embarrassed by my initial digs. Because even though lots of hotels offer airport transport, there is always a good chance nobody will show, as happened to my sister. So, I went high end for the sake of a really, really reliable airport pick-up, with my name printed on a signboard and everything. In my defence: it wasn't that expensive. Less than one would pay for a hotel in Manhattan, for example. Not in my defence: this is the most ridiculously solicitous hotel I have ever stayed in. As in, someone meets you at the car and shows you directly to your room lest you be too fatigued after your long (probably business class) flight to stand in front of a reception desk and sign your name. And a little mango pots de creme in your room as a welcome!

Don't worry, though. I am moving to a normal hotel tomorrow and, hopefully, within a few days into some respectably shabby flat with patchy electricity and a really short bed. Just as the field work gods intended.

Finally, an interesting note. The hotel here had a problem that dogged me last time, too: for whatever reason, they switched my first and last names. This has now happened to me enough times that I think it is basically a 50/50 shot in the average Hindi-speaker's mind which of these two silly words would be a first name.

FAQ: Why Am I Doing This?

Hello from en route – have left Chicago, am in Newark, next stop: Delhi. I have been meaning to write some kind of summary of what I will be doing in India, particularly for my parents, who are somewhat resistant to the idea that a job could involve absolutely no structured tasks.

In rough order of anticipated use of time: sweating, asking myself questions about what the *%&$! I am doing in India, attempting to trick bureaucrats into doing their jobs, and working on my dissertation.

When I am working on my dissertation, what I will be trying to figure out is “when does the Indian government give the ‘okay’ to the creation of new states?” This is a little piece of a bigger puzzle, which is: “When do governments give into violence?” which is, in turn, a piece of a more important puzzle: “What kind of dissertation would get me a job and allow me to recycle my many existing literature reviews on political violence?”

A useful analogy: perhaps some of you know that in my home state of Michigan the Upper Peninsula of the state periodically threatens to secede from the rest of the state. The roughly 583 people in the Upper Peninsula would then go on to form the 51^st state of the Union, which they would name “Superior.” Similar things happen a lot in India. For example, the city of Mumbai (nee Bombay) is in the state of Maharashtra (don’t worry, there won’t be a quiz) but it was once the capital of a much bigger state. Then the Marathi people got sick of the rest of the people in the state and kicked the other part of the state out. Which, frankly, is what the Upper Peninsula deserves.

To continue the analogy, the Upper Peninsula wants to secede from the rest of Michigan because the people in the Lower Peninsula (the “trolls”) periodically attempt to restrict bear trapping. In much the same way, groups in India tend to want their own states when they feel their unique cultural heritage is under threat from the callous, non-bear trapping majority. Also, if the Upper Peninsula were its own state, the politicians in its capital (which would be Calumet, the city where the baking soda in a red tin with a Native American on the front is made) would get money directly from the federal government instead of having to deal with the odious Lansing middlemen.

Now, I really have no idea what the procedure for splitting Michigan in the US would be, but in India the procedure is that the federal government just has to decide to do it. So, my question is, when do they give in? And, most importantly, when do they give in after a couple of protests and when do they wait until after some mild rioting and when do they wait until after things get blown up and when do things get blown up but the government still never gives in?

I don’t know the answer to this question. What I am going to do to try to figure that out is to talk to a bunch of Indian politicians and newspaper reporters and bureaucrats and other members of the chatting class. My fears are two-fold. First, what if everyone offers answers that are obviously really dumb? Should I just make something up? Second, what if the right answer turns out to be something totally idiosyncratic (like, the Prime Minister’s favorite number is 25, so he decided India really needed another state) or really hard to measure (like, bear trapping is not as important as civil war, and that is why there is a West Virginia but no Superior)? Because, if it can’t be measured then there will be no chance to do statistics or experiments in my dissertation. And that is really bad for going on the job market because if there are no charts and graphs in your work people have to read the prose, and what hiring committee has time for that kind of crap?

Still, I’d like to know what the answer to my question is, so I’m glad I’m going. Ciao!