Oh it all makes work...

I have a very nice apartment. It's big (way too big for me, in point of fact); it has a roof terrace; it has three bathrooms (all of which I have tried); and it's located in a spot just far enough removed from the Delhi traffic to be something approaching peaceful. However, as with many things here, you don't have to scratch very far beneath the lovely exterior to find workmanship that, well, won't be winning awards at WorldSkills any time soon. The third of the above mentioned bathrooms features an unconventional hole in the wall above the shower head; the power sockets are installed in an entertaining variety of positions and efficacy; and a number of the balcony doors have to be bolted permanently because they don't shut on their own otherwise.

I'm not too fussed about any of this. I've yet to be electrocuted, and the other things are pretty much irrelevant to my life here. Plus, the flat is so big that I've kind of got used to just inhabiting those bits of it that are more or less functional and aesthetically pleasing.

So when, on my second day in India, the door fell off one of my kitchen cupboards, I wasn't too fussed. Again, it's a big kitchen, and I could never fill all the cupboards, so I just haven't used that cupboard. Unfortunately, since then, the same thing has happened to another three cupboards. Faced with a kitchen full of lean-to detached doors, I finally gave in and got my landlord to call in the local carpenter. Re-fixing four cupboard doors, I thought. Half hour job, tops?

24 hours later, my kitchen looks like this:

Now, I'm the last to claim I have any skills in carpentry (or indeed any practical skills whatsoever) but this strikes me as a little excessive. I've been home sick today (having endured a flight back from Bangalore last night while in the midst of a raging fever, chills and sweats) and have witnessed an inordinate amount of coming and going, involving at least four people and a quite impressive amount of dust. None of the workers speak English and my Hindi is certainly not up to "um, you know you're only supposed to be replacing the doors, right?" So I've been curled up on the sofa in my dressing gown listening to the bangs and the crashes and wondering if I haven't ordered a complete re-fit by mistake. Every now and then one of the workers comes out of the kitchen and stares at me. Which is not a nice feeling, given that I feel like I've been hit by a bus right now and am even pastier than normal.

Compare and contrast: my recent discovery (I don't know how it's taken me this long) of roadside, mobile coconut stalls that, using an ingenious set of pipes, spikes and whatnots, get you from raw fruit to glass of chilled coconut water in less than 30 seconds. Efficiency is a rather selectively applied concept in India.

Update: I am chastened. It turns out that my collapsing cupboard doors were due to termites, which I had somehow failed to notice. So now half of my kitchen is being replaced, and the whole flat treated to prevent the little buggers coming back. I take it all back!

Demob Happy

Goodness, it's been a long time since my last post. I feel quite ashamed. Those heady days of daily posting in the first half of September seem like a distant memory. I hope you haven't been pining without me.

A number of factors have combined to make my blogging less prolific than in the past. It's been a hectic few weeks at work, with trips to Bangalore and Kolkata as well as my first public speaking engagement in India, which was a bit of a nerve-jangler in many ways. The Bangalore trip ended up being a good deal more stressful than it needed to be after I left my beloved Kindle on the plane on the way down (I got it back, but only after a display of tenacity and, at times, tooth-bared snarling that would make your average dog with a bone creep away in embarrassment). While all this has been going on, my colleague has been less available than normal due to some family issues, so I've spent quite a bit of time trying to do two people's jobs in half the normal working time. Not only has this eaten into the time available for blogging, it's also eaten into the time available for having experiences worth blogging about (board meetings and practicing my speech just don't really cut it).

In addition to work, my first foray into the Delhi theatre scene is underway as I've begun rehearsals for my short play, which I am directing as part of the Short + Sweet festival in November. I've missed doing theatre and I'd almost forgotten how energising it can be. So far it's going OK - it's early days but my two leads are doing great work, although I don't get to enjoy the kind of facilities you lucky London theatre types do (the festival is being staged in a conference venue rather than a theatre, and the rehearsal space is my living room). Unfortunately I've just lost my third cast member, so if anyone happens to know any actresses in Delhi interested in a small but pivotal role in a short play about neurotic shop dummies planning to take over the world, just let me know...

At the same time, my domestic life has become a bit more complex following the arrival of my stuff from London. Having lived for the last couple of months living, as my landlord Mr Mehandru rather disdainfully puts it, "like a Bohemian", with minimal furniture, a suitcase full of clothes and a sleeping bag, I've been unpacking and finding a home for all of this (plus a couple of extra boxes of kitchen stuff):

I have of course had some relaxation time, but (and I know this is a crap reason for not blogging, but in the spirit of honesty) over the last month quite a lot of it has been taken up by *ahem* working through the first three seasons of Angel, which a friend of mine lent me in London and which I have to give back to him very shortly. This is because - and this is a lot of the reason why my blog rate has flagged recently - I've promised to bring them with me when I head back to London on Saturday for two weeks, followed by a few days in The Hague (which feels at least as much like home to me). It's been a bit of a race against time, but I think I've just about managed it.

The closer Saturday gets, the more I notice my thoughts focusing on things like the friends I'm going to catch up with, the cafes I'm going to go back to, and the lovely lovely lovely cold British weather (I'm totally serious) that I get to enjoy. And conversely, the less I am watching out for the quirky, the beautiful or the confusing in my immediate surroundings that make for blogworthy material.

I guess this is inevitable. I have a healthy spirit of adventure, but we all need our home comforts from time to time. Basically, my body may be in Delhi but my mind is increasingly in England. I love my palak paneer and badam milk, but right now I'd kill for a decent cup of coffee and some good cheese; the monuments of Delhi are stunning but I am missing the Victorian terraces of South London. You can still keep the tube though.

No doubt when I come back in mid-October I will rediscover my zest for all that Delhi has to offer, particularly as by then it should have begun to cool down a bit. Three and a half months of Delhi summer has made me crave chilliness like never before. I wish I had more time to get under the skin of the place though. I recently read this awesome blog about people living in the ruins in Hauz Khas and I just wish I could offer you something even a fraction as fascinating or photos the tiniest bit as gorgeous. I did pop into the bit of the ruins mentioned here, but didn't have the nerve to take any photos or to speak to the inhabitants. I guess I have a long way to go as a blogger.

Anyway, I wanted to post even though I don't have any pithy observations about India to make or encounters with eccentric locals to relate. Blogging is a tricky business and like any kind of writing the most important thing is that you are doing it. Even if every now and then that means that you end up with a kind of rambling and pointless post like this one. Bear with me. I'll get better again, I promise.

Fingerprints, photos and forms

Running a country of 1.2 billion people is not an easy task. Running it as a democracy is even more complex. Managing the needs of so many citizens - citizens who have the vote so who can't easily be ignored or rolled over - would be a Herculean task even for a civil service made up entirely of Sir Humphrey Applebys (for non-Brits, apologies for the cultural reference). Little wonder then that Indian bureaucracy can be, shall we say, a wee bit challenging.

Today I had my appointment to go and register the lease on my flat with the authorities. This required me, my landlord Mr Mehandru, a witness (Mr Mehandru's driver) and the agent who secured the flat for me to trundle down to the Delhi Registration Office in the south west of the city, armed with multiple copies of the lease (printed, as required, on special government paper), my passport (remembered it this time!), my landlord's passport, and sundry other bits and bobs. I was pre-warned that it would take some time so I had let my colleagues know not to expect me.

What I wasn't warned about, however, was that when it comes to the Registration Office, the term "office" is a bit grand. It is actually a squat, one story concrete building rather smaller than the average retirement bungalow, with a sort of blue plastic verandah roof stuck on the outside. This is the only protection against the weather for the hundreds of people crammed into the space around the two tiny windows separating them from the stamp-and-sign wallahs inside. There are no seats. The only refreshment is provided by an enterprising couple of young men who wander round with an ice bucket full of bottled drinks. The whole place is seething with people battling to get to the front of the queue and have their papers seen to. Most are caught beneath the glare of the sun for the majority of their waiting time.

I have to admit I didn't expect it to be like this. Slow, yes. Bureaucratic, yes. Frustrating, yes. But I at least thought I'd be inside, in something resembling a waiting room, especially since this is an office that is regularly used by all kinds of people, including the elderly and others who might have difficulty standing around for hours. Having spent yesterday evening in a beautiful auditorium equal to anything in the UK, the difference was stark.

Mr Mehandru was in an irascible mood. He grew up partly in the UK, which has given him that same critical eye of his own country that my time overseas has given me. The experience of living elsewhere tends to put the daily frustrations and irritations of one's home into sharper relief. Or, as he puts it, "I spent my formative years in your country. That was a mistake." Anyway, having been through this procedure several times before, he was clearly losing patience with the procedure and the conditions under which it is carried out. "Does the minister ever come down here?" he asked, rhetorically.

I wish I could tell you what the procedure is, but I have no idea. I was like a child who has been taken in to work by its parents for the day and is watching all these things happening without the first idea what they are all about. I just did what I was told. I handed over my passport, signed my name no fewer than 17 times, had my photo taken against the wall of the compound, and had my fingerprints taken. Yup, all five of my left hand finger prints are now on record with the Indian government (as are my landlord's), and one of my half-decent shirts has an ink smudge on it. This is just something you have to do to be able to rent a flat in India.

I didn't have to do this to get a mortgage with the RBS.

After the form signing, photos and printing were done, we had about a two hour wait, so Mr Mehandru and I took ourselves (and our matching inky fingers) off to a local cafe, where he put the world to rights and I nodded along and discreetly checked my work emails. When we finally got the call to come back, we fought our way to the front of the queue, when I was told by the agent in highly serious tones that when asked for my age, I should tell them my age.

They asked for my age.

I told them my age.

Whereupon I was escorted into a back office where all four of us had to stand against a red curtain to have some more photos taken, no doubt looking like some awkwardly posed studio shot from the 19th century (actually, there was a bit in between when they told us that the photo of the witness was "blurry" and that we'd have to wait another two hours, but the agent magically managed to get us past that. Somehow). Then there was one final signature, for luck. And that was finally it.

Job done, in just over a half a day. Now, I know there are reasons why the procedures are so difficult. India has a big problem with people overstaying their leases and effectively squatting in rented apartments, and the legal system is so slow landlords can end up with people staying in their homes for free for years. I know these things are just necessary sometimes, trying though they are.

But I have to admit I shared Mr Mehandru's view about the office itself. India is not a rich country, but if it can build modern urban rail systems and world class stadiums then it surely should be able to provide basic facilities at a public office used every day by hundreds of ordinary citizens. If they have to cover themselves in ink and give themselves form-induced RSI to be able to live somewhere, at least they should be able to do it indoors.

The unbearable loveliness of things

I'm not normally the most materialistic of people, but today I made the mistake of wandering into an art and furniture shop in Hauz Khas village, a lovely little enclave in South Delhi built around the ruins of a 14th century Madrassa (theological college) and surrounded by a huge deer park. Oh, such a mistake. If there's one thing that India knows how to do, it's make objects of such loveliness that one's wallet practically leaps out of one's pocket of its own accord.

The thing is, I currently live in a rather large and very empty apartment. When I look at that exquisitely carved and painted wooden seat for somewhat less than the price you'd pay for one of IKEA's less nice sofas, I actually have a spot where it would work. That huge, beautifully painted panel? I have the wall spot for it. That delicately enamelled screen? Perfect to separate off my dining space. You would not believe the sheer number of lovely things and the number of arguments I had to have with myself to stop me buying them. There was even a swinging wooden double seat, complete with wooden frame carved in the form of various animals, that would fit beautifully in my living room. But, of course, it and all the other lovely, lovely things were entirely impractical.

Because the big empty apartment is a mirage. Anything I buy here would need to be shipped back to the UK, probably costing about as much as I paid for it. And of course, back in London I don't have a great big empty apartment. I have a tiny (but much-loved) flat that is already pretty much stuffed to the gills with furniture. So I am going to have to do a lot of resisting for the next couple of years.

But oh, lord, there were some lovely things. And my apartment really is very bare...

On moving slowly and buying clothes

I tend to have two speeds: stationary and manic. It's been my general approach to life to spend half of it bumming around and half of it being the proverbial blue-arsed fly, and while it might not be conducive to controlling stress levels, it's generally got me through.

Well, I'm going to learn how to do things differently. It's increasingly clear that until the weather cools down a bit my speed setting is going to be stuck on slow. Walking down the street of necessity becomes a gentle amble, and I still get to my destination dripping. Lists of tasks that need to be done are stripped down to the most basic priorities, because the running-around-doing-30-things-in-a-day trick just isn't going to work here.

On the one hand this is a bit frustrating. Suddenly I have to plan properly, because last minute whirlwinds of activity are out of the question. On the other hand, having to move at a slow pace does a funny thing to you: it kind of makes things seem less urgent, and so less stress-inducing. Maybe I will come back in a few years doing everything on Indian time (in which case God help you if we have an appointment).

Anyway, today took me (eventually) to SouthEx to check out those clothing stores. I didn't pack very cleverly - I have tons of shirts but only a few pairs of trousers, the rest being en route and due to arrive some time in August - and I was in desperate need of a couple of new suits.

I always find buying clothes overseas interesting, because it says a lot about the local culture. In Seoul it was impossible to get the shop assistants to stop shoving items of clothing under your nose every five seconds when you were trying to have a quiet browse, which resulted in me walking out more often than not. In Holland it was sometimes hard to get them to acknowledge your existence at all.

In Delhi, a small gaggle of them appear as soon as you enter the shop and then follow you doggedly around, rarely making any sound and only occasionally showing any interest in the clothes on display. Once in a while one will offer commentary on some item you have picked up, such as "this is trousers". Eventually when you have decided to buy something they will spring into action, usually consisting of one of them taking the item from you and giving it to another of them, while another goes and gets a bag and gives it to another, and a fifth runs to the checkout to tell a sixth how much it is...you get the idea.

I exaggerate slightly. The truth is that the service is rather good, if delivered by three times more people than necessary. And in most of the higher end places a senior bod will appear, usually with perfect English, who will provide just the right mixture of helpfulness, expertise and reticence to make the whole experience quite pleasurable. And everyone is so damn nice it's quite impossible to get annoyed even when they are being useless.

Plus they don't get annoyed about ridiculously sweaty westerners trying on their nice clean suits, for which I could only be extremely grateful.

Arriving

So I finally made it to India. I've been here for two and a half days now, which has been just enough time to get an internet connection sorted and start to find my way around Defence Colony, the little, green corner of Delhi I now call home.

The beginning was not auspicious. Having slept dreadfully on the plane, I arrived at about 10.30 on Friday morning with a strong desire to check into a five star hotel, have a long bath and book a masseur. Unfortunately I had instead to go to my new apartment, which was likely to be scantily furnished if at all and which would certainly lack a masseur. However, before I could do so, I had to find it.

The Delhi street address system resembles the Seoul street address system in the following way: they are both insane. As in Seoul, Delhi neighbourhoods are divided up into sub-units, within which houses are numbered. As in Seoul, there is no discernable logic in the way in which this is done, meaning that if you don't happen to know exactly where unit C413 is, you could spend a good hour driving round before you hit upon it.

My driver did not know where unit C413 was.

Another thing about India is that if you ask someone for directions, they will give them to you whether or not they have the first clue where the place is.

My driver asked for directions about 15 times.

Altogether I was quite proud of myself for staying calm and using the time to think about how I would amusingly convey the experience in the present blog post. We made it eventually, and I was happy to find that my apartment did in fact have furniture (albeit with a touch of the 1970s about it) and functioning bathrooms (albeit with one mysteriously missing toilet seat).

It's hot. Seriously hot. It's pre-monsoon here, so the height of summer has yet to be broken by the rains (though we have had a couple of storms which in the UK would be thought significant). The problem with heat is that it slows you down, which when you have a thousand and one things to do on arriving in a new country is a bit of a problem. I've developed a pattern over the last couple of days of doing two or three things, then stopping for a juice or a coffee. Fortunately there is an excellent market near me with a couple of nice air conditioned cafes that don't object to sweaty westerners visiting every couple of hours.

So far I've done pretty well in terms of getting essentials sorted. Groceries are expensive, at least in Defence Colony, so I need to work out a better place to go shopping. And I haven't quite figure out how to attach the toilet seat (which eventually turned up) to the toilet. On the plus side, I don't need to worry about ironing, because there is a man with an ironing board who stands on the corner by my local park and does shirts for 5 rupees each (about 7 p).

Words can't really express how glad I am that this man exists.

The rhythms of Indian life are so totally different. I doubt I will ever get used to the existence of "servants" or be comfortable with the way in which such relationships are conducted here. I already knew this of course, and knew I would have to put aside my liberal prejudices and accept certain roles to which I am not accustomed. But this is going to take practice. When I leave my flat, for instance, it's quite clear that I am not to latch the gate behind me. This is one of the many diverse duties of Santosh, who is for want of a better term the security guard. Invariably as I emerge from the gate, Santosh is already trotting towards it to close it behind me. When I insisted on closing it myself my reward was a look made up of equal parts reproach and hurt.

I have not closed it myself again since.

Anyway, I don't want to start all this off with an enormous post so I will save the rest of the long, rambling discussion I have in mind for future entries. Love to all back home...

Chris