Made my first ATM withdrawal today; a pretty normal transaction except for that transaction receipt. Along with the usual information like amount withdrawn it also had my remaining balance, converted into Rupees. Damn! That's a lot of digits.
When I mentioned this to someone, I learned something else - there are no ATM fees in India. Bank of America will of course charge me an arm and a leg for using a non bank ATM, give me a poor exchange rate, and then add a finance charge for the currency exchange, but for transactions within India charging an ATM is illegal. The Supreme Court (of India) made this ruling to protect consumers.
Another thing that they did was made sure that Excise tax is paid on the actual price, not the sale price. This is how it was explained to me. With consumerism coming to India in a big way, there were a lot of "deals" to be found. Ads like "90% off", "Buy 1 get 5 Free" made it difficult for the consumer to figure out what was a good value from what was just a gimmick - the manufacturer just coming up with a phoney MSRP just so that they can give these amazing looking discounts. Often these "discounted" prices were higher than the normal price from another manufacturer. Stop this bullshit said the courts and stop confusing the consumer. You can offer the ridiculous deals if you want to, but you will pay a price for it; the excise tax paid by the manufacturer will be on your inflated MSRP.
Now I am pretty sure it was not the Court that came up with this mechanism of charging excise, for that is not the role of the judiciary. The might have just made a ruling on a case brought up by the Excise department, but the nonetheless it resulted in a win for the consumer. I am not even sure that any of it is even true. However, what I found fascinating the respect and reverence for the courts. It was an optimism about the "system", that was missing a decade ago. The story, even if it was made up, reflected a belief that things are getting better.
Thursday, January 31, 2008
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
Satya to the rescuse
I was barely done with my morning run and ironing episode when a high school friend, Satya, pinged me on IM. It turns out, he and his wife were in a guest house in the same colony, just 2 streets down. I knew that he too had moved to Hyderabad a little less than a month ago, but to find him living just 2 streets away was a very pleasant surprise.
10 minutes after the IM, he was at my guest house with Matilda and Xena, who looked as healthy as ever. If anything the pups had added a little padding on their trip from San Diego; or maybe it was the Indian hospitality that had done it's magic in less than a month.
The dogs greeted me with great enthusiasm. After the initial jumping and licking, Xena went about doing her own thing and Matilda's ADD (Attention Demanding Disorder) kicked in. She'll stand perfectly still as long as you keep petting her, but heaven forbid you stop for a moment. I was really surprised to see that they recognized me. Satya brought me down to earth by telling me that they meet every stranger with the same enthusiasm. Thanks man!
We hung out again in the evening. Saw his new place, which given the lack of neighbors has definite badminton potential. Two poles and a few hydrogen lamps and I can see a lot of badminton being played here along with any other games we come up with, just like we used to when we were younger.
Upon returning to the guest house, we played pool and carrom board while we waited for his wife Nayna, who was still at work (she works too hard and something will soon need to be done about that). I was terrible at both games but I blamed the performance on the jet lag and vouched that I would soon have my revenge.
We did do to a place called Chutney (I think) for some South India food, but I don't remember much more of the evening as I was literally falling asleep. Will need to go there again to really find out how good it is.
Thus ended a long first day in Hyderabad, with Cinderella turning in well before midnight. It was an eventful, busy day and I was glad that there was at least one familiar face to see me through it. Thanks Satya!
10 minutes after the IM, he was at my guest house with Matilda and Xena, who looked as healthy as ever. If anything the pups had added a little padding on their trip from San Diego; or maybe it was the Indian hospitality that had done it's magic in less than a month.
The dogs greeted me with great enthusiasm. After the initial jumping and licking, Xena went about doing her own thing and Matilda's ADD (Attention Demanding Disorder) kicked in. She'll stand perfectly still as long as you keep petting her, but heaven forbid you stop for a moment. I was really surprised to see that they recognized me. Satya brought me down to earth by telling me that they meet every stranger with the same enthusiasm. Thanks man!
We hung out again in the evening. Saw his new place, which given the lack of neighbors has definite badminton potential. Two poles and a few hydrogen lamps and I can see a lot of badminton being played here along with any other games we come up with, just like we used to when we were younger.
Upon returning to the guest house, we played pool and carrom board while we waited for his wife Nayna, who was still at work (she works too hard and something will soon need to be done about that). I was terrible at both games but I blamed the performance on the jet lag and vouched that I would soon have my revenge.
We did do to a place called Chutney (I think) for some South India food, but I don't remember much more of the evening as I was literally falling asleep. Will need to go there again to really find out how good it is.
Thus ended a long first day in Hyderabad, with Cinderella turning in well before midnight. It was an eventful, busy day and I was glad that there was at least one familiar face to see me through it. Thanks Satya!
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
I found my 'jugaar'
As I opened my suitcase (piece 1 of 2 according to the customs officer), it was evident that my clothes, having traveled some 10,000 miles, were showing sign of fatigue that is to be expected after such a long and arduous journey. They were is no shape to go out like this. What they needed was a quick ironing.
The guest house does provide a free laundry and ironing service, and while this was clearly the way to go in the long run, the turn around time of two days did create a dilemma for day one and two. The staff, equipped for every eventuality but a guest wanting to do his own ironing, scurried around in search of an iron, and 10 minutes later produced a pretty impressive looking Black and Decker steam press.
The turban of the day, a sickly blue from years of washing, was folded into multiple layers and then spread over the computer desk to form the ironing board. The steam press worked like a charm, until that is, it started leaving large spots of water behind. My iron had a sprung a leak. Did I say leak, it was in fact more like it's anagram, a lake, that better describes the collection of water right around the spot where the iron was resting on the table while I tended to the fashion emergency.
As I used the heat to get rid of one water stain, a larger one started to form approximately one iron length away. Within minutes my khaki had been transformed. Large water spots all over the pants would not only leave the wearer soaked to his bone, but also convince any observer that I had had an accident. I could already picture myself standing in the middle of the street, shouting out my defense that no one was interested in; "It's no accident this. It was the iron, I swear."
Just when it seemed that all was lost, my Indian-ness returned to me. The Hussain Sagar Lake that had formed on the table was quickly soaked up by the bathroom towel and the lake's source was headed straight towards the bathroom. There, in the sink, as every last drop of water was being drained from it, a word came to my mind - jugaar. In India, nothing is ever broken, it just needs a jugaar (a fix). If the iron has sprung a leak, you don't buy a new iron, you find a way around it; you find a jugaar. There was still enough water left in those pants and as long as this iron no longer had any water, I could still use it as a steam press. I had just found a juggar.
The guest house does provide a free laundry and ironing service, and while this was clearly the way to go in the long run, the turn around time of two days did create a dilemma for day one and two. The staff, equipped for every eventuality but a guest wanting to do his own ironing, scurried around in search of an iron, and 10 minutes later produced a pretty impressive looking Black and Decker steam press.
The turban of the day, a sickly blue from years of washing, was folded into multiple layers and then spread over the computer desk to form the ironing board. The steam press worked like a charm, until that is, it started leaving large spots of water behind. My iron had a sprung a leak. Did I say leak, it was in fact more like it's anagram, a lake, that better describes the collection of water right around the spot where the iron was resting on the table while I tended to the fashion emergency.
As I used the heat to get rid of one water stain, a larger one started to form approximately one iron length away. Within minutes my khaki had been transformed. Large water spots all over the pants would not only leave the wearer soaked to his bone, but also convince any observer that I had had an accident. I could already picture myself standing in the middle of the street, shouting out my defense that no one was interested in; "It's no accident this. It was the iron, I swear."
Just when it seemed that all was lost, my Indian-ness returned to me. The Hussain Sagar Lake that had formed on the table was quickly soaked up by the bathroom towel and the lake's source was headed straight towards the bathroom. There, in the sink, as every last drop of water was being drained from it, a word came to my mind - jugaar. In India, nothing is ever broken, it just needs a jugaar (a fix). If the iron has sprung a leak, you don't buy a new iron, you find a way around it; you find a jugaar. There was still enough water left in those pants and as long as this iron no longer had any water, I could still use it as a steam press. I had just found a juggar.
Never ask an Indian for directions (or distance)
The first morning in Hyderabad came with the realization that I had forgotten a lot about India and there was a lot of relearning that would happen over the next few weeks. I woke up, still jet lagged, around 6 in the morning. Buoyed by the fact that I had managed to get 4 hours of sleep, I decided to get some exercise. After 10 minutes of trying to plug-in the stationary bike at the guest house gym, I ended the futility by deciding to go for a run.
It was a beautiful, warm morning, and not a spot of cloud in the sky. I was out in a T-shirt and shorts towards the end of January; why in the world had I wanted to run indoors. As I headed out the iron gates of the guest house, I asked our security guard, a teddy bear of a man called Sri, if there was a park around. His answer was the traditional South Indian head bob followed the words "Yes sir, 500 meters, straight sir"
About the only essential I had decided to carry with me rather than get it shipped from the US, my white running shoes, started pounding the paved road with the confidence. Clearly this pair knew what it was doing; they somehow knew these roads, this must be their hometown. The only thing that cast a doubt over this shoes from Hyderabad theory was the fact the blue Nike symbol matched perfectly with my blue "Ithaca is Gorges" T-shirt, which RJ had picked up for me on his last recruiting trip to Ithaca. But honestly how many people here know that and who was paying that much attention anyway.
(The discerning and knowing reader may have noticed that some people's name have been changed. After all this is public domain and using alternate names will not only help protected their identity but also provide me with the luxury of shamelessly crossing the boundaries between fact and fiction. I'll be using alternate names for most people, but you know who you are. I just hope I keep it all straight.)
But I digress; back to the story. Having run for what must have been about a kilometer, I realized there was still no sign of the park. The road was getting wider and busier, and it merged into an even bigger roadway. This should have been a warning sign but my brain, still reeling from the effects of the jet lag, was determined to find the damn park. The legs were starting to mumble something under their breath but the captain disregarded all concerns and decided to plow on through.
A little farther in the run, I passed by a place with a huge Tex-Mex sign. Day one and I was already craving Mexican food. The place looked pretty run down though. Whether this was an attempt at authenticity or an added flavor of the old West, I don't know, but I wasn't going to find out on day one; a couple of weeks later maybe, after my stomach is a bit more acclimatised.
With still no sign of the park, the captain too was starting to get worried. After all there is only so much the crew will take before land must be sighted. A stop was made to ask for directions and distance. Another head bob and another 500 meters came the prompt reply. Two more inquiries later the captain was beginning to lose control, rebellion seemed imminent. This time however, I decided to ask a more reliable source. A man, sweating, presumably from running, was a much better source than the idiots I had asked for directions so far. He increased the distance to the park to 1 kilometer, which I was more inclined to believe, if for no other reason than the fact that it was not 500 meters.
A parking lot, a gate, and then a red clay pathway soon made an appearance. I was finally on the right track and off the main road. People, of mostly the rotund variety, were out for their morning walk. Well, walk is a bit of an exaggeration, it was more of a gentle amble. Why exert yourself seemed to be the motto here. There were aunties in white sneakers and ornate saris which was a clear indication that they were on their way to a wedding ceremony -- the park just happened to be on the way; a few youngsters in branded jogging suits who clearly knew what they were doing; and surprisingly no dogs. Note to self: Need to find out why there were no dogs - this is South India not South Korea.
I decided to follow the most interesting character of the lot - the man in the monkey cap. I was soon rewarded for my decision with a sign that read "KBR Park, Main Entrance, 800 meters". 800 meters later and almost out of gas, I arrived at the grand entrance of the park, which I discovered, to my great surprise, is also a National Park. It said so on the board - Kasu B-something Reddy National Park. Just as my excitement had reached it's peak, a blue sign dashed my dream in an instant. There was a membership fee to get into this park. 600 Rupees for 6 months and 200 for a monthly pass. I didn't have my wallet on me, coz honestly, how often are you asked to pay toll on a run. This running expedition was over.
I ambled back to the guest house as fast as my tired and unmotivated legs would carry me, gave the guard a dirty look on arrival, and went upstairs to get ready for work, armed with a valuable lesson - never ask a man on the street for how far some place is. The answer will invariably be a work of fiction or a wildly inaccurate approximation.
It was a beautiful, warm morning, and not a spot of cloud in the sky. I was out in a T-shirt and shorts towards the end of January; why in the world had I wanted to run indoors. As I headed out the iron gates of the guest house, I asked our security guard, a teddy bear of a man called Sri, if there was a park around. His answer was the traditional South Indian head bob followed the words "Yes sir, 500 meters, straight sir"
About the only essential I had decided to carry with me rather than get it shipped from the US, my white running shoes, started pounding the paved road with the confidence. Clearly this pair knew what it was doing; they somehow knew these roads, this must be their hometown. The only thing that cast a doubt over this shoes from Hyderabad theory was the fact the blue Nike symbol matched perfectly with my blue "Ithaca is Gorges" T-shirt, which RJ had picked up for me on his last recruiting trip to Ithaca. But honestly how many people here know that and who was paying that much attention anyway.
(The discerning and knowing reader may have noticed that some people's name have been changed. After all this is public domain and using alternate names will not only help protected their identity but also provide me with the luxury of shamelessly crossing the boundaries between fact and fiction. I'll be using alternate names for most people, but you know who you are. I just hope I keep it all straight.)
But I digress; back to the story. Having run for what must have been about a kilometer, I realized there was still no sign of the park. The road was getting wider and busier, and it merged into an even bigger roadway. This should have been a warning sign but my brain, still reeling from the effects of the jet lag, was determined to find the damn park. The legs were starting to mumble something under their breath but the captain disregarded all concerns and decided to plow on through.
A little farther in the run, I passed by a place with a huge Tex-Mex sign. Day one and I was already craving Mexican food. The place looked pretty run down though. Whether this was an attempt at authenticity or an added flavor of the old West, I don't know, but I wasn't going to find out on day one; a couple of weeks later maybe, after my stomach is a bit more acclimatised.
With still no sign of the park, the captain too was starting to get worried. After all there is only so much the crew will take before land must be sighted. A stop was made to ask for directions and distance. Another head bob and another 500 meters came the prompt reply. Two more inquiries later the captain was beginning to lose control, rebellion seemed imminent. This time however, I decided to ask a more reliable source. A man, sweating, presumably from running, was a much better source than the idiots I had asked for directions so far. He increased the distance to the park to 1 kilometer, which I was more inclined to believe, if for no other reason than the fact that it was not 500 meters.
A parking lot, a gate, and then a red clay pathway soon made an appearance. I was finally on the right track and off the main road. People, of mostly the rotund variety, were out for their morning walk. Well, walk is a bit of an exaggeration, it was more of a gentle amble. Why exert yourself seemed to be the motto here. There were aunties in white sneakers and ornate saris which was a clear indication that they were on their way to a wedding ceremony -- the park just happened to be on the way; a few youngsters in branded jogging suits who clearly knew what they were doing; and surprisingly no dogs. Note to self: Need to find out why there were no dogs - this is South India not South Korea.
I decided to follow the most interesting character of the lot - the man in the monkey cap. I was soon rewarded for my decision with a sign that read "KBR Park, Main Entrance, 800 meters". 800 meters later and almost out of gas, I arrived at the grand entrance of the park, which I discovered, to my great surprise, is also a National Park. It said so on the board - Kasu B-something Reddy National Park. Just as my excitement had reached it's peak, a blue sign dashed my dream in an instant. There was a membership fee to get into this park. 600 Rupees for 6 months and 200 for a monthly pass. I didn't have my wallet on me, coz honestly, how often are you asked to pay toll on a run. This running expedition was over.
I ambled back to the guest house as fast as my tired and unmotivated legs would carry me, gave the guard a dirty look on arrival, and went upstairs to get ready for work, armed with a valuable lesson - never ask a man on the street for how far some place is. The answer will invariably be a work of fiction or a wildly inaccurate approximation.
Customs on arrival was a joke
My first reaction on arriving at Hyderabad International Airport, "Oh God, I took the wrong flight from Frankfurt. I think this is Kampala -- in the 1980s". Agreed, I was never in Uganda in the 1980s, but I am pretty sure this is what it would have felt like. For a city know for high tech, the airport was as low tech as it gets. The advertisment for Satyam being the official IT partner of the FIFA world cup was the only sign that I was in the right city.
Having said all that, the arrival into Hyderabad was fairly smooth, with none of the problems people had warned me about. The customs official looked at me, then at my passport, then my bags and commented "Sardarji, come from US in 1 piece, but baggage 2 piece". I obliged with a a hearty laugh, and he returned the favor by waving me though the green channel. That was Lesson No. 1 - laughing at jokes by customs officials makes for a much easier time through the green channel.
My driver, a soft spoken young man named Zameer, was already waiting for me. I tried to help him load my bags, but he would have none of it. I felt a little guilty about letting this scrawny little man lift these bags that I had some 24 hours earlier filled with all the rocks I could find in the Bay Area, but I was too tired to protest and my back was too thankful that he was there to load them into the car.
It took us 20 minutes to get to the lovely guest house (more on that later). Disguised as discussions about accommodations in the city, a flyover accident last year, and his Urdu medium education, I brushed up on my Hindi conversation skills. As I hit the pillow, still thinking about our conversation, I cold hear a voice in my head say "Yup, still got it".
Having said all that, the arrival into Hyderabad was fairly smooth, with none of the problems people had warned me about. The customs official looked at me, then at my passport, then my bags and commented "Sardarji, come from US in 1 piece, but baggage 2 piece". I obliged with a a hearty laugh, and he returned the favor by waving me though the green channel. That was Lesson No. 1 - laughing at jokes by customs officials makes for a much easier time through the green channel.
My driver, a soft spoken young man named Zameer, was already waiting for me. I tried to help him load my bags, but he would have none of it. I felt a little guilty about letting this scrawny little man lift these bags that I had some 24 hours earlier filled with all the rocks I could find in the Bay Area, but I was too tired to protest and my back was too thankful that he was there to load them into the car.
It took us 20 minutes to get to the lovely guest house (more on that later). Disguised as discussions about accommodations in the city, a flyover accident last year, and his Urdu medium education, I brushed up on my Hindi conversation skills. As I hit the pillow, still thinking about our conversation, I cold hear a voice in my head say "Yup, still got it".
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