Day: April 20, 2017

20 April 2017

I started pining for Bombay as soon as I left. Considering that for the first couple of days there I had felt like someone standing on the platform of a railway station at which the approaching express train will not be stopping, it was astonishing how rapidly this “maximum city” started to admit me. People compare it to New York (in the same breath citing Delhi as “India’s Washington DC”) but the two cities are really very different. NYC can chew you up and spit you out too, but it’s far more systematic and linear than its Indian counterpart, about a thousand times cleaner and the population, while probably more assertive, is also a lot more disciplined (the concept of no jaywalking would be greeted with hysteria in India). Mumbai on the other hand is a ship yawing on a turbulent ocean: you have no idea what’s going to happen next but somehow the whole thing stays afloat. When I got back to New Delhi it was as if I was in the Cotswolds by comparison, although it didn’t take long for the intense heat (which has been low 40s celsius for the last few days) to remind me why I’d needed the break. The level of external discomfort here at present is akin to trying to take a nap in a pizza oven, but it has been absolutely blissful to have a respite from Mumbai’s perpetual honking and the chance to nurse my ears back to health.

Being in Mumbai prompted me to reflect further on the nature of Indian commerce, something that has bewitched me since I arrived in this country, not surprisingly given the volume of the population engaged in it, and its contribution to GDP. Despite rapid economic growth and modernisation here, retailing in India – even in the cities – remains predominantly traditional rather than organised: I haven’t seen a single supermarket (in the sense of a large out-of-town Tesco or similar) since I got off the plane. They do exist I understand, but the rules on foreign investment make it difficult for them to get a foothold,  while the traditional small trader remains a protected species. In India the preference is for the quality and service provided by local stores where hours are long and established relationships bring benefits like credit and free delivery. Food in particular is invariably purchased near home and selected entirely on the basis of what’s in season and its quality. I asked the household cook here the other day if he could perhaps make some pasta sauce for that evening: “No Madam”, came the polite reply, “the tomatoes are not good enough today”. He is however, making the most of the Alphonso mangoes: they have a six-week season in India, which happily coincides with my visit.  He prepared them chopped up with watermelon: their saffron coloured flesh, delicate creamy texture and very slightly sharp sweetness is heaven on a plate.

Shopping in India is really a fascinating activity. Although I have previously described the challenge of buying alcohol, generally speaking there is no good or service, however niche, that you cannot obtain within a very short walk. In Malcha Marg market near me, there are several outlets offering “photo stats”, visa pictures and printing out of documents. Money exchangers and mobile phone accessory shops abound and there are pharmacies, vehicle repair shops, general food stores and anything else you care to name at every turn. Outlets providing similar services tend to cluster: this is particularly acute in Mumbai’s Colaba causeway, and in areas of Delhi such as Sarojini Nagar market where there are streets chock full of traders all selling very similar things especially chappels, cheap clothes, costume jewellery and of course fruit, vegetables and meat. And a chicken shop in India is precisely that: a shop (or stall), where you can buy a chicken. Live. Which you then take home to slaughter, I presume with horror. While I’ve never been happier not to eat meat, all of this activity cheek by jowl (or fowl) contributes enormously to an atmosphere of bustle and trading, and visual stimulation is provided everywhere by the variety of goods and colours on show.

But it is essential that the humble shopper knows what they want to buy because browsing is generally not part of the deal. Many goods are not touchable by the consumer and in some of the mysterious looking shops which line the road sides, not even visible either. Every outlet is fronted by a counter,  acting as a barrier between you and whatever you may be seeking to purchase, while stock is piled high in towering glass cabinets behind. This is all rather counter-intuitive for a Westerner, but I have learned that when shopping you must give the impression you mean business: approach the counter with resolve  and announce your objective, at which a bewildering array of options will be sallied forth from the depths. The consumer is absolute king here and no end of trouble will be undergone to provide what you want; shopkeepers will even charge off to another shop nearby to get your bidding if they don’t have it, thus neutralising the competition.

When I was in Mussoorie I cut my foot while on a shortish walk around the Camel’s Back Road (I am conscious that my feet are featuring in this blog more than may be seemly but when in India, they are the parts of your body of which you are the most aware!). I was wearing sandals and, because of my paranoia about infected wounds (understandable I feel, given the open sewers, and numerous wandering beasts of the field), I really wanted a plaster to put over it once I had stemmed most of the bleeding. Of course I’d purchased some during that pre-stocking operation in London, but aren’t such things always back at base when you need them? So I went up to one of the little booths in the village bearing a green cross and stated my requirements. I received a blank look in exchange (much less English is spoken outside the big cities). “Bandaid?” I ventured, gesturing at my foot, and the penny dropped.  The shop owner’s son was immediately signalled for and he advanced bearing a Tupperware box, removing  the lid to reveal hundreds of single plasters of all shapes and sizes. Naturally, I had been expecting to buy a packet, but how much more sensible is this approach? You require one plaster right now…one plaster right now will be forthcoming. They should pilot it in Boots. I ended up buying a strip of 5 for the princely sum of 2 rupees (about 0.02pence) and limped happily on my way, revelling once again in the pragmatism of the Indian sole trader.