Over the top is just enough

It's just a couple hours until we leave Delhi, but there was one other set of photos I wanted to post. From a florist near my house where you can see the guys outside making flower arrangements, and they are using cans of spray paint to, quite literally, gild the lilies.

One of the things I find most striking about many Indians is that they just don't have share the NPR demographic's self-conscious, fussy, and ironic approach to public displays of consumption. It's a disarmingly sincere aesthetic.

There goes the neighborhood. Or not.

I’m moving out of New Delhi this Saturday. And though I switched rooms once, I’ve been in the same building since I arrived here last July. So this is my last opportunity to show you pictures of the abandoned car that has been sitting on my block since I arrived.

I really regret not taking a photo of it when I arrived, so I could give you some sense of the rate of decay. But last July this tan Ford Falcon was clearly abandoned, old, and beaten up, but it was largely intact. Since then, the glass has been broken, some of the seats have been torn up, and paint was dumped on the car at some point. The car has also been used as a trash can, including one person who got rid of a small oil lamp – of the kind used for festivals and temple – by sticking it in the back window. Odd. But, and this amazes me, the car hasn’t yet been hauled away or completely stripped for scrap metal. Part of the engine block is definitely still in the hood, so you’d think there’d be something there a junkyard would buy.

This car is a good illustration of what I think it means to live in a “fancy” neighborhood in New Delhi. Because, on the one hand, no one in the neighborhood is sufficiently strapped for cash to haul the car away for scrap. And/or the private security guards at the adjoining houses scare-off any attempts to blatantly appropriate the car. But, on the other hand, there is no “not-in-my-backyard” outrage at having this mini-junk yard midst these very expensive homes. There are block associations in Defence Colony, but they don’t seem to have made this car a priority.

I’m definitely going to try to come back to Defence Colony one more time before I leave, so that I can see if anything new has happened to the car. But I don’t have any idea what would finally spur someone to take charge of getting rid of the car.

About 10 minutes on Wikipedia has led me to conclude that Ford Falcons do not biodegrade. So, I guess this patch of Delhi’s sidewalk is scheduled to for clearing circa 7.5 years from now when it will be incinerated along with the rest of the planet due to the expansion of the sun. Unfortunately, on balance, I think that’s going to be tough on neighborhood property values.

Killing Time. And Windows.

Prior to these latest, nearly decisive, primaries, Barack Obama was pointing out that, in the time he’s been running for president, babies have learned to walk and talk. HA! What I wouldn’t give for a job-qualification process that short!

In the time since I started graduate school at Stanford, my niece was gestated, born, learned to walk, talk, and identify the principals from both Winnie the Pooh and Dora the Explorer. And now she is two years old and expecting the arrival of her sibling on May 31. And that baby will probably be walking and talking before I’ve actually finished writing my PhD. In fact, by the time this India project finally becomes a book, my little niece will probably be horrifying her parents by asking for precociously-sexual “tween” apparel and her own cell phone.

Which is to say: this has been a week of waiting—not without some interviews or fairly firm promises of the same, but lots of down time, nonetheless. I’m a little restless and concerned that May has turned out to be a low value-added month in the field. But, hey, minus the waiting and the dead ends and the interviewing of the entirely wrong person, what would I have done for a whole year in India, anyhow?

It’s also been a week of maintenance. Just as soon as I start writing about having perhaps underestimated the competence of the Indian service sector, events conspired to change my mind back. Our internet connection was canceled thanks to an Airtel mistake, and then reconnected only after five days and a heartbreaking series of phone calls, hours wasted on hold, totally pointless home visits, and general misdirection. A highlight: a visit from a technician to confirm that our connection had, in fact, been switched off. Because, obviously, if I were receiving internet access without an account and, thus, not paying for it, the first thing I would do is call and fraudulently complain about not having service. I also like to buy the unlimited-refill soda at fast food restaurants and then drink only one glass of Coke, just to game the system. But I’ve always been pretty edgy.

Also in the “are you !@#$-ing kidding me?” category of high quality workmanship is my landlord’s house. Because two days ago I put my hand through the glass in my extremely poorly made window. (I only got a little scratch, no problem.) The window, which opens outward, was sticking against the sill and so I was banging against the frame to get it open. And the heel of my palm rapped the glass. Which mustered all the resistance of a crème brulee. Actually, I think the reason that I didn’t cut myself is that I didn’t put my hand through the window at all. I gave it a smart tap. And the glass could apparently only repel force = f <>

This is definitely not a case of not knowing my own strength. (I am totally up to date on my “not much” status in that respect). Because two of Merideth’s windows broke the same night when they were banged shut by the wind. Terrible.

I like him even more than Christian Soriano

The ultimate aim of this fieldwork is to provide the raw material for the presentation that will, hopefully, win me a job in a few years. I’ve decided to define that mandate broadly, so I can pick up some custom made business attire. To look snazzy when giving my job talks, you know?

I started thinking in the fall that I should buy a suit over Christmas break and then bring it back to India and have it copied. I mentioned this plan to a history graduate student here, and she had heartily endorsed buying an article of clothing in the US so that I could get exactly the same thing made in India. She, apparently, had no luck trying to take pictures and measurements to a tailor. Now, because she is a historian, full of advanced language skills and nuanced local knowledge, I took very seriously her account of what it was like to go to an Indian tailor. And I was very determined to find a suit that could be copied without any flexibility on the part of the Indian tailor; I even made sure my suit was all wool so that the fit would not depend on synthetic fabrics he might not have available.

In retrospect, the social scientist in me is ashamed to have been overawed by the humanities. (Extrapolating from an n of 1 – what would my committee say?!?) Because when I went to the fabric store/tailoring establishment (Delhi Cloth House & Garg Brothers Tailoring, in Khan Market, as recommended by Lonely Planet) they were just so entirely not overawed by the task I was requesting. The suit came out perfectly, probably to the point of constituting some kind of intellectual properties violation. Frankly, I am downgrading my opinion of the quality of the workmanship on Project Runway – and did I mention they use foot pedal style machines at this place?

When I showed them a dress shirt, the first thing the fabric seller says, without even touching the shirt, is that it looks like it has Lycra in it. And directed the fabric-bolt-fetching-assistants (that seems to be their main job) to fetch some poly/cotton blends. And here I was thinking I might not be able to get anything other than pure wool in Delhi – I guess it’s good that I at least knew they wouldn’t be raising the sheep out back.

Actually, Mr. Garg, the tailor, has been very patient with my naiveté regarding Delhi garment making. After I picked my suit up, we returned to the tailors and Merideth ordered a suit jacket and skirt – mind you, Merideth aren’t the same size and we have no pattern for a skirt, so this is a complete abandonment of the idea that one could only get exact replicas of existing clothes. While having lunch in the restaurant around the corner, we started to wonder if she should have asked for the skirt to be lined. You know, because women here don’t really wear skirts, so maybe the tailor wouldn’t realize that’s a part of Western business attire. And I convinced her to go back and ask. The tailor, with the munificence that is so becoming of the truly gifted, patiently said “Yes, of course, a skirt won’t work unless it’s lined.”

My experience at the tailor has prompted two things. First, extensive daydreaming about further clothes it would be fun to have made while I’m here. And, second, a bit of soul searching on the lines of “the soft bigotry of low expectations.” Being able to make something as well as these guys is impressive no matter where you are from. But I also think that over the course of the time I’ve spent here, I’ve drifted into assuming that many people in this city aren’t very good at their jobs, and kind of bracing myself for hassle and disappointment before any business interaction.

Of course, many of the holdups in navigating India involve differences of opinion about what doing a good job constitutes. For example, I would prefer to arrive at my destination in one piece, but the rickshaw walla would prefer to arrive there fast. So, I can’t fairly claim that he isn’t talented at driving his rickshaw even though I didn’t enjoy the ride.

Still, it seems like at most jobs—apart from the small businesses where the proprietor is always on site—hiring and incentives just aren’t particularly related to qualifications or even to effort. And who would bother to learn a job well under those conditions? To put it another way: there is a car dealership in Delhi which is named Competent. They sell a lot of cars, and so I think that name must resonate.

On a related note, I’ve become a bit slow with writing on this blog because I’ve had trouble coming up with topics. I hesitate to keep posting on the theme of the sublimely ridiculous or very weird aspects of India – I don’t want to be a hater. So this post is my salute to the small businesses of India, and my tailor in particular. They're kind of a big deal.