He says he doesn’t use phrases like ‘of course’, ‘unacceptable’ and ‘how can he.’ much these days. It was some time late last year. An acquaintance from a leading EU-member nation was looking for a house in Delhi. Or NCR, to begin with. His office was in Gurgaon, so living there would be convenient, he first thought. But after a few rounds with a prattling relocation agent and a fibbing property dealer, he found the sub-city a dangerous place, even if it was not all dug up. Gurgaon is an urban monstrosity but it is better than south Delhi, I told him. He agreed with the condemnation so much we became sort of friends. But he still wanted to live in Delhi.So a gang of housing agents was consulted. Based on the early briefing from the expat, there was a general pitch from the agents that neighbourhoods like Vasant Vihar and Panchsheel were the most “happening”. He saw a dozen houses. Or floors. But soon found that a lot was not “happening” with those very expensive, ill-built places. The thought that for Rs 1.5 lakh ($4,000) a month he could rent an apartment in Manhattan was hard to bear. Even more unbearable was the suggestion that he would need power back-up. “Power back-up?” he asked. “Generator, you know,” said the relocation twit. “Generator?” he asked. “Because inverters can’t run ACs,” she said. “Inverters?” he asked. And then asked many more invalid questions. What hurt his soft First-Worldness the most, however, was the need for a security guard. Three floors, three guards. Armed only with a whistle and a vacant grin. He wanted India explained. But it’s been a good life since. He is a better man now, he says. He has curtailed his addiction to reason. He also accepts a leaking roof, muddy water from the tap and the fact that school buses jump red lights.He is confident and peaceful to the extent that he thinks he can entertain some burglars during an early morning visit. But has he come to believe in afterlife, just in case.?“I am getting there, friend,” he says. “I drive here.”
