Parmanu

Images of India - 2: People at work

In the evening of our first day in Hyderabad we visit a nearby internet browsing centre. (The internet connection at home has stopped working; our complaint is number 18 in the "queue"). The lady at the reception appears busy working on a computer; we wait. When she does not pay attention for a while, I ask her if we could use a machine to browse. Without looking up she shakes her head - No systems free, come after half an hour. We can wait, I reply, and enquire if they have any facilities to send faxes. She continues to look at her screen, smiling occassionally while typing short keystrokes; when I repeat my question she shakes her head again - No fax here.

We take a seat. Her lack of alertness is disturbing, but Wife shrugs it off:  spend a few more days here, she says, and you'll get used to it.

Five minutes later the lady looks up from her computer and asks us to take cabin number 4 inside. No one has left the place, so how did a free computer materialise? I ask Wife. We've got what we wanted, she replies, so just walk in and occupy it before she changes her mind.

* * *

A few days later I visit an optical shop. There are no other customers inside, and the shop appears to have just opened:  a woman is sweeping the floor on the far side, and some sections are still dark. The clock on the wall reads a half past eleven.

I approach the lady behind a counter and ask if they offer an eye-test service. We do, she replies, but our optometrist is not yet here; she will come at half past twelve.

I tell her that I'll come back in the afternoon half.

On my next visit the optometrist is in but the eye test cannot happen as there is no electricity. When is it expected - is it a scheduled cut ? They do not know. Fine, I'd like to purchase some frames at least - do they accept credit cards ? They do, but the credit-card machine will not work since there is no electricity.

I thank them and leave.

* * *

A week later someone from BSNL comes home to check our internet connection. He is a middle-aged man, dressed plainly in an over-sized half-sleeve shirt, and is accompanied by another man who, by his subservient attitude, appears to be his assistant. This person is carrying a laptop bag. The senior technician switches on our computer and verifies the internet connection. When it does not work he asks his assistant to open his laptop - the assitant pulls it out of the bag, places it on the table and starts it. The technician then copies an installation program into our computer, and starts an installation. After that, as if by magic, the connection works.

He gives me his number to call in case there are any further issues. I thank him, and before he leaves I ask if I can offer him something. To my surprise, he refuses. At the gate I ask again, and he says if I want to give something I should give it to his assistant. I offer my tip to the assistant, who pockets it without even giving it a glance.

* * *

I'm at Cochin airport, standing in the queue for security check. It occurs to me that security has been rather relaxed this time: all checks I've passed through have been mere formalities, and I'm glad it is so. It makes me feel good about the general feeling of peace and safety that prevails here, which is such a contrast to the insecurity that drives all the checks and interrogations at U.S airports.

After passing through the metal scanner I stand in front of an officer who runs the detector from shoulder to toe. He is chatting with a colleague while he does this, but I've stopped being surprised at the casual attitude of these security check personnel. He stamps my boarding card and returns it.  As I bend forward to gather my hand-luggage, I pick up one last bit of his conversation in Hindi: "...you know, I just got back from a vacation, and after a vacation one simply does not feel like working."

I collect my bag and turn away quickly, before my smile turns into laughter.

Images of India - 1: Flying in

It begins at the gate.

I'm at Gate 39 in Frankfurt airport, sitting amongst other passengers, glancing occasionally at the newspaper on my lap, and staring, at other times, through the glass panel at the dull-colored airplane blending into a backdrop of grey sky. An announcement over the loudspeaker instantly triggers some people to stand up and walk towards the entrance; it turns out not to be a boarding announcement, but the people - all Asians, it seems to me at this distance - do not return to their seats. A few minutes later another announcement requests everyone to be seated: the boarding will not begin for at least another ten minutes. No one budges. After fifteen minutes or so we are asked to board in the order of our seat numbers; the rear of the aircraft is to be filled first. A long queue gathers behind this crowd already standing there. There is no room for those holding the appropriate seat numbers as the ones in front do not make way. The next section of the aircraft is now asked to board; more people queue up, but since the entrance is blocked few can make it into the aircraft. I find my irritation growing, but the Europeans around me are calm and polite: they simply wait. The situation lasts for a while. It takes much longer than usual to board the plane.

Inside the aircraft, just as we are about to settle into our seats next to the window, a lady from the middle section asks if we could let her have the window seat; it would help her baby, she says, else the baby would disturb everyone around. My wife, who loves the window seat and requests one for each flight, is upset. After a bit of indecision she agrees to the exchange, and we move into the middle section. We talk about it for a while, and both of us cannot understand what problems the baby would've had sitting where we were now. We should not give in so easily, wife tells me. I tell her that she would be feeling worse if she had refused the seat.

After the take-off entertainment channels are turned on. There are movies in the several languages, a few TV serials and documentaries. I choose a channel and push my seat back.

Hey! Hey! What are you doing?!! Move your seat up - I cannot see anything on my screen!!

It is a lady behind me, with a thick Bengali accent. Her assault has me dumbstruck - without thinking, I pull up my seat. It takes me a few seconds to realize that she can push back her seat as well, to maintain her distance from the screen. Before I can decide on how to tell her this, she taps me on my shoulder and asks me to move over to the empty seat a little away where there is no-one sitting behind. I can stand it no longer - I push my seat back and tell her that if she wants to look at the screen she should do the same.

I think back to Gate 39, and muse over how things changed after that.  Europe - in its essence, attitude and behavior - ends at the gate; the India experience starts well before you cross its physical boundaries.

This is just the beginning, I tell myself.