‘It’s India’

I’m back in Chennai after almost two weeks in Bangalore. I hadn’t planned on staying so long in India’s tech capital. I hadn’t planned on my Mac breaking, either. I definitely hadn’t planned on Diwali.

First, the Mac. It fell. It was in a neoprene case, which was in a backpack, which tumbled to the ground when Chitra’s driver opened her car’s hatchback. I gasped, grabbed the backpack and ran upstairs to assess the damage. The laptop worked just fine. I typed and typed until the battery icon went red, and then I looked for an outlet. That’s when I noticed the dent. It was near the laptop’s power jack, which was warped. I couldn’t charge the darn thing without standing it on its side to flatten the warped bit.

Fortunately, Bangalore has an Apple service center. This may sound unremarkable to friends back home, but India is a developing country in parts of which plumbing is considered high-tech. Many of the services and products Westerners take for granted are difficult, if not impossible, to find. Maple syrup, for instance. Also Mitchum Clear Gel deodorant, which I import by the trunkful to keep Chitra happy (and dry).

So I was delighted to learn about the service center. It’s on the fifth floor of a dreary office building and bears no resemblance to the bright Apple playpens found in finer shopping centers. The laptop would be ready Monday, the technician told me. It was a Tuesday.

I begged him to aim for Friday, citing my plans to return to Chennai over the weekend. Fine, he said. I paid and asked him to call when the laptop was ready.

Friday came and went without a call. When I phoned the service center Saturday morning, a security guard answered. There was no one else in the office, he told me. It was closed for Diwali. This, the technician had failed to mention.

Diwali is the Hindu “festival of lights.” It’s several days of earsplitting, eye-popping pyrotechnics that put our Fourth of July to shame.

“So I can’t pick up my laptop until Monday?” I shrilled.

The security guard corrected me. The office would be closed on Monday. Tuesday, too.

“Can you believe it?” I whined to a friend in Chennai. “They told me it would be ready Monday, at the latest. And the office isn’t even open until Wednesday! And they never called!”

“It’s India,” came his response.

This -- or variations like “welcome to India” -- is what expats say to each other when faced with maddening inefficiencies. We say it a lot. That’s because service is as foreign a concept in India as meatloaf. A trip to the bank can take hours, with customers snaking their way toward indifferent tellers. At the Starbucks-like coffee shops that are cropping up like, well, Starbucks, you can get a frozen coffee drink that’s First World in appearance and taste. But don’t be surprised if it takes four apron-wearing baristas 15 minutes to count out your change.

“It’s India” is what you say when you go to a restaurant that has three menus for 30 tables. It’s what you say when the water tank empties midway through your shower. It’s what you say when you’re sitting on a bus that’s packed with people -- packed as in body parts dangling out windows -- and not moving from the station. Not moving for more than an hour. “It’s India” is what you say when a taxi driver takes you an hour out of your way to fill his car’s petrol tank at a friend’s house.

I know two Brits who’ve bought punching bags since moving to India. They’re not boxers; they just need to let off steam. I rarely get ruffled. That's because I’m rarely in a hurry. So, Mr. Grocery Store Clerk, you wanna gab on your cell phone while I stand here with my basket? Bring it. I have nowhere to be. The fount of my serenity is the luxury I found in India: spare time.

The friend in Chennai urged me to “get American” on the guys at the service center. Raise my voice. Demand to speak to a manager. The truth was, I didn’t mind extending my stay in Bangalore.

For one, my hair looks better there. Bangalore is cooler than Chennai and far less humid. That means corkscrew curls instead of the puff that passes for my hairdo in Chennai.

For another, you can buy a decent bottle of wine there. The Indian vintages found in Chennai make Manischewitz look good. I filled my suitcase with Rieslings and Australian Chardonnays, most of which I’d give to Scott, a Chennai friend in need of vino.

The rickshaw drivers in Bangalore are better, too. They use meters, which means no haggling and fairer rates. In Chennai, the meters are for show, and I don’t climb into a rickshaw without asking “how much?” The driver then names a ludicrous price, and I roll my eyes, make a counteroffer and start to walk away. Sometimes he lets me, and I’m left to hunt for another rickshaw.

The best thing about Bangalore is being a guest of Chitra. She has a sweet apartment with a spare bedroom, a car and fulltime driver, an impressive library of bootleg DVDs and endless patience for my questions about Indian culture. (I called her once for an explanation of the toilet situation, and she didn’t hang up on me.)

Chitty also has a huge family -- aunties and uncles up the wazoo -- who seem not to mind my infiltration. They even let me light the firecrackers.


I got my Mac back on Wednesday. I got a little American on them. Then I got out of Bangalore.