Nothing Works the Same

Really, if you come to India and expect anything to be similar to the UK, then you are in for a big surprise.  There is no logic to anything.  No consistency.  You never know what you are going to get, how much you are going to get or how much it will cost.  The "system" is not a system.  It's an interpretation of a set of loose guidelines, masquerading as bureaucracy; and they do love bureaucracy!

Take for example the simple posting of a package.

The story begins with my receipt of a legal text book from Amazon in the post.  Nothing controversial here, just that I was remiss in ordering the wrong edition.  A simple matter of returning the item for a full refund of around £12.

Or so would be the case if you happened to find yourself in any other country apart from India.

I followed the Amazon guidelines, printed out their barcoded address label, put the book in the original packaging and stuck the label over the original address, and off I went to the post office. 

You see, you already have an image in your mind's eye of what the post office is like.

Wrong!

It is a dark and unwelcoming government building, with hordes of people and no discernible queuing system.

They have a pen for public use! (but it doesn't work)

You can't buy envelopes here, but you do get a pot of glue to stick down the flap.

The pot of glue doesn't have a brush.  It has a twig.  Evidently, every morning it is the job of some lowly post office worker to go outside to break off a suitably formed twig from the nearest tree for the glue pot.

Gluepottwigwallah  they probably call him.  That's probably all he does.  He will have some sort of uniform that has a twig badge on the arm - more than likely stuck on with the very twig he lovingly selected that morning.  What a proud moment!

OK. So I arrived at the post office with my package in hand (careful!). It is not exactly near to the villa.  It's about a fifteen minute walk uphill, along the main road.  Not too many people there as it was still early - about 9-45.  I eventually got served by one of the jobsworth staff (there were two jobsworths serving the queues of public, but about another eight not serving any other useful purpose whatsoever apart from distracting the public facing jobsworths from facing the public in anticipation of receiving some compliment on their latest henna hand design, or their new motorcycle helmet that had been clearly fashioned out of the hulk of an un-ripened watermelon).

I got the male jobsworth, and proffered my package to him (again, careful please!).  He examined it in every detail.

 "No.  Cannot post",  he quipped almost triumphantly.

"Why not?"

"Package used before"

"Why is that a problem?"

"It has custom stamp"

"OK. Give it back"

At this point I borrow a pen and completely obliterate the customs stamp from the package and hand it back to him.

"No good.  Cannot post"

"Why not?"

"Package used before"

"But nobody will know! You cannot tell!"

"But I know".

Feck! Aerse biscuits! (as we say in Ireland).  I take the package back and walk about half a mile to the nearest stationery shop.  I buy an envelope from the envelope shop,  find a pen shop to buy a pen and a sticky tape shop for the sticky tape, as I can't rely on the glue-stick arrangement.

I walk the half mile back to the post office, go in, fill out the envelope,  put the package into it, have a go with the glue twig thing and the sticky tape.

Unsurprisingly for me at this stage, the sticky tape is not what you expect.  It is obviously a cunning trick, arranged by an Indian mystic, as there is no end to it.  In my frustration I bite the whole roll in half, and manage to get just enough to reinforce the flap which is now leaking glue and bits of twig.

By this time there is a veritable throng of people at the not queuing disorganised counter.  I admit defeat for today and walk home - somewhat dejected.

Next morning I make an effort and get up early to beat the queue.  I walk back to the post office with my newly packaged item and give it to the male jobsworth again.  He spends about two minutes examining it for flaws, but can't find any.  

I am chuffed.

"Export form"  He says handing me a small A5 slip.  OK.  I go to fill it out.  No pen.  The non-operational pen is still on the table from yesterday.  I manage to borrow a pen from some kindly gentleman, and fill in the form, and give him his pen back with thanks.  I hand the form to jobsworth.  He opened it up. 

"Two copies please"  

It wasn't carbonated, and I was quite pissed off at this stage. 

"Why no carbon paper?" I said.  

"Not an original" was the reply.  "I need an original".  

I debated the possibility of explaining the legal precidents set around carbon paper and original copies, but decided against it.

I again sourced a pen from a kindly local and filled in the form again and handed it back.  He seemed satisfied. 

"How much?" I asked

"600 Rupees (£9) for registered post"

"That's a bit much.  How much for ordinary parcel post?

"547 Rupees (£8)"

It really wasn't worth it for a book that's only worth £12, with no guarantee of it actually getting back to Amazon.  

"Never mind" I said.  The book is still sitting on my bookshelf.

Nothing works the same in India.

New Car

After much discussion we decided to buy a car.  We have had our chauffeur now for six weeks, and he has been invaluable.  Nevertheless, this arrangement is a bit constrictive.  We feel that we lack independence, and want to be able to survive on our own.  Some ex-pats here love the idea of being driven around wherever they want, but it is clear that this is more ego related than for the sake of convenience.

We thought about a secondhand car, but strangely, it is not that much more expensive to buy a new car here.  The depreciation seems to really hit when selling from second to third owner.  We thought about a Suzuki which are popular here, but had a real fall out with a guy in the garage.  We were in the final stages of making a purchase, and were sitting at the (actually on the) colour display stand.  Some ignorant member of staff basically ordered us to take a seat at a desk some distance away.  We explained that we were in the process of buying a car from another salesman and were choosing a colour.  He went all fascist on us with "I request you to take a seat here" pointing at the table some way away.  OK. we thought.  Took a seat there and when our salesman returned, told him we were leaving, after explaining what had happened.  I then led him to the man in question and said  "Yes.  It's him.  Because he was so rude to us we are going somewhere else and you are losing the sale".  We then walked out.

In the end we went to the Hyundai garage and got a much better car for only a little more money.  Here it is.

 

It's really just for Jen to get to work and back, as I hope to get a motorcycle license by bribing some official soon.  Good luck to her driving in the Bangalore nightmare traffic.  This will be the one and only time we see this car in this condition!

Comparisons

I came across this narrative today and drew some interesting comparisons.

It was written by G.O. Trevlyan (1866) as cited in NYAR P.K., "Days of the Raj. Life and Leisure in British India"  Penguin 2009.

"Good novels are in limited number, and it is too much to expect that a lady should read history and poetry for six hours every day.  What well regulated female can dress an object in a society of a dozen people, who know her rank to a title, and her income to a pice; or music, when her audience consists of a Punkah-wallah and a Portuguese Ayah?  Some ladies as a matter of conscience go very closely into the details of household affairs; but after a time they come to the conclusion that it is better to allow the servants to cheat within a certain margin, for the sake of peace and quietness; for cheat they will, do what you may. Oh! The dreariness of that hour in the middle of the long day, when the children are asleep, and your husband has gone to tiffin with the judge, and the book-club has nothing but Latham's 'Nationalities of Europe'...and the English post has come in yesterday, with nothing but a letter from your old governess, congratulating you for being settled among the associations of the Mahommedan conquerors of India, and asking you to take some notice of her nephew, who is in the office of the Accountant-General of Bombay.  It is very uphill work for a lady out here to keep up her spirits and pluck, and her interest in general subjects."

This passage may be compared to Baillie-Stewart G.,  "Bangalore Life"  Blogspot.com 2011

"Good novels are in limited number, and it is too much to expect that a chap should read Law with the University of London for six hours every day.  What well regulated chap can dress an object in a society of a dozen people, who knew his rank in his career, and his income to a pice; or bagpipes, when his audience consists of a three cats and an Israeli next door neighbour?  Some chaps as a matter of conscience go very closely into the details of their gardener's affairs; but after a time they come to the conclusion that it is better to allow him to steal the neighbours' horticulture  within a certain margin, for the sake of peace and quietness; for steal he will, do what you may. Oh! The dreariness of that hour in the middle of the long day, when the cats are asleep, and your wife has gone to an ex-patriot tax meeting with the company partner and won't answer her mobile, and the book-club has nothing but old copies of "People's Friend"...and the English post has come in yesterday, with nothing but a letter from your old Mother, criticising you for being settled so far away, and asking you to take some notice of the difference in the weather between here and home and the comparative price of goods.   It is very uphill work for a chap out here to keep up his spirits and pluck, and his interest in general subjects."

Ask No Questions

Further to the last post about our non-English speaking gardener who removed our entire garden, part two goes something like this:

I thought the best thing to do was to take Jennifer around the complex and have a look at the rest of the gardens so we could choose what kinds of plant to put into our now "desert garden".  We duely did this and a couple of days later I saw our gardener.

I took him around the relevant gardens and pointed out the  plants we had liked.  I then brought him back to our garden and showed him where I wanted each type of plant to be located.  I offered to drive him to the nursery to get the plants (using my best internationally recognised symbols for "driving" etc).  He used less formally recognised symbols for "No need, old chap. I shall obtain the requisite horticulture personally".  I also offered him some money but he too declined this offer.

The next day amazingly he arrived with the plants we had chosen, and quickly planted them and then disappeared. 

Still no request for money. 

How strange.

The next day I happened to be walking past the gardens I had pointed out to him, only to notice some suspicious looking gaps in the rows of plants I had selected.

Probably best not to ask too many questions.