A peculiarly English obsession ...

England can be an utterly gorgeous place to be. The happiest, most positive space on earth, a country filled with possibility and opportunity, with smiles and great big surges of warmth. People connect, they reach out to one another and they spend hours together, whiling away the time and listening to each other’s stories.

Paradoxically, it can also be the worst spot on earth. A grey, depressing, bleak country, where people turn in upon themselves and barricade themselves into their homes. England can be a cold, soul destroying environment where even the simplest things seem impossible, and life appears to stretch endlessly into a vast chasm of future misery.

The truth is that my home country perpetually swings between these two extremes depending on one simple factor – the weather. Few other countries in the world are gripped so mercilessly by the weather gods than England – the fickle unpredictability of the climate means that nothing can be planned, that events can be ruined or made gloriously memorable depending on whether the sun decides to show its face or not and that as a result, we’re a nation obsessed by the weather barometer.

Most non Brits fail to understand our fixation with the weather. Those who live in more constant climates simply don’t get why we have to talk about it so obsessively and why it affects our lives the way it does. Essentially, it all comes down to a lack of control. Living in Mumbai, you know for sure that June to September will be wet and warm, October, March April and May will be fearsomely, blisteringly hot and humid, and November to February will be cooler and fresher, perfect months for planning outdoor parties, events and weddings. Though there are occasional surprises, when for example the temperature drops below 10 degrees celsius or when the Monsoon comes early or there’s a spatter of rain in February, but generally speaking the seasons are constant and wonderfully predictable. Mumbaikars plan their lives around the climate changes – some escape the monsoon rains for sunny European cities, others make the most of the few weeks of lush tropical landscapes which the annual downpour creates. Americans and even Parisians escape the searing summer months, and most of Southern Europe downs tools during the hot season.

England on the other hand is perpetually on the brink of indecision and arbitrary swings when it comes to the seasons. The newspapers are constantly full of headlines about snow in April, blistering heatwaves in September, and rain, always the rain, constant and about the only thing you can rely on to show its face when you least need it. England’s rain is not the warm, heavy raindrops of tropical climes. Nor is it a welcome spattering of coolness during an otherwise oppressive and sultry day. No, this kind of rain is random – it can appear suddenly even when you think the day will be bright and clear, and it can quickly turn nasty, with sheets of drizzle soaking everyone through to the bone, accompanied by a persistent wind chill which makes everything miserable. And with the rain comes the leaching of colour from the landscape, as bright hues make way for a palette of greys and muddy browns, and the country starts to scowl and eventually lose its collective temper.





Its not all bad of course. On the brief occasions where the weather is good and even great, the entire country joins in celebration, and a weird kind of camaraderie emerges, unheard of in England’s typically closed culture, where people normally shut themselves inside their houses and shy away from engaging with each other. Suddenly people are sharing spaces, crammed up against each other in parks, removing items of clothing and making casual, spontaneous conversation with strangers. And then, just when England seems on the brink of becoming a happier, more positive, friendlier country, the weather patterns shift, the sun disappears, and with it the atypical affability. Back comes the English reserve, and out come the umbrellas.

Mind you, on the rare occasions when the sun does decide to stick around, the childish delight in the warmth is soon replaced by a collective whining about the heat – we Brits generally weren’t made for warm weather, and somehow the average cool, grey climate suits our Eeyorish personalities. We need something to talk about, we crave something to bond our nation together, and that something is the weather. It’s a collective enemy which unites, and we generally prefer that its not too good to us, otherwise we lose the vital social glue of talking about the weather that we’ve come to rely on. Listen to any strangers conversing, or even on any groups of English people meeting or talking on the phone – it is virtually guaranteed that any conversation will either start with an opener about the weather, or meander on to the topic. We are a nation obsessed and in thrall to an unpredictability which those in the tropics or in perpetually cold countries don’t get. Its one of the things which makes us so sweetly eccentric I suppose, and its certainly one of the main reasons for my fleeing the country twelve years ago.

Canada's hidden depths

After a week in England’s pastoral Westcountry, which has slowly but surely soothed our frazzled nerves, our trip takes us to Canada. I’ve been here before, but as always, I’m amazed by the sprawling simplicity of this country. Somehow, it seems quietly uncomplicated, its wide, clean streets and huge boxy department stores a vast contrast from England’s higgledy piggledy streets where houses and shops squeeze together like a mouthful of crowded teeth. It is also possibly the absolute opposite of India – its calm, steady ambience diametrically opposed to a country which never seems to pause for breath.

We landed into Toronto Pearson Airport. The sun was shining, the sky was blue, and the entire place looked freshly scrubbed. The airport has free wifi which is instantly accessible without the need for passwords, laborious sign-in procedures or the exchange of cash, and to me this simple fact seems completely amazing. Mumbai has its own complicated wifi access which requires registration and passwords so that users can be monitored, and London wants your hard cash before allowing you to surf. The only slight blip on an otherwise peaceful entry was a grumpy immigration officer who asked us lots of surly questions, as if unable to believe our simple explanation that we were in Canada to visit friends and that we’d be leaving in a week. He scribbled on our immigration form in neon pink marker, and we were sent to a second stage of interrogation, during which we had to produce proof of our exiting flights and details of the professions of our hosts in Toronto. I wondered whether it had anything to do with the colour of my husband’s skin, but although the line contained a slightly higher percentage of Indians, overall there was enough white skin to suggest that this wasn’t simply about racial profiling.

Although I usually shun perfection and carefully sanitized environments preferring grittier cities with messy personalities, there’s something about Canada which I find very appealing. On the outside, it looks as bland as most of the US, but if you allow yourself to tune into the vibes which lie just below the surface, you’ll discover that a slightly more meaningful heart beats below its mild exterior. The US is all about being brash, opinionated and, dare I say it, arrogant. Most Americans actually revel in the fact that they don’t travel, considering their native country to contain everything they require for happy lives. As a result (and I am generalizing massively here to make a point, of course) the entire country, with the exception of New York and perhaps a few other random cities, has failed to temper its opinions with those of others, or allow the possibility of alternative thinking – and by alternative, I don’t mean the deliberately self-conscious embracing of Eastern philosophies, re-labelled by trendy West coast types. Perhaps because of this, Canada is quietly apologetic for its overbearing neighbour, its tourists and travellers proudly displaying its maple leaf flag to differentiate themselves from the nation that the world loves to hate. Canadians are known for their gentle demeanour, and they are just, generally, really nice people. They are helpful without being overbearing, interesting without being self-obsessed, perhaps because the policies and politics of the country are more about support and understanding than about ego and postulation. Maternity/parental leave is a jaw dropping year long (with 55% of salary paid), health care is publically funded and free, delivered according to need not ability to pay.

This is my third trip to Canada, and I’m struck once again by its sweetness and by its depth of character. If England is depressive and disapproving, and India is dramatic and expressive, then Canada is quietly cerebral and thoroughly unpretentious. If it wasn’t half a world away from Mumbai, then I could see myself here more often, if only to fuel my new found addiction to Tim Horton's French Vanilla cappuccino.

From Mumbai to Cornwall ....

I’m in Cornwall, the extreme southwest bit of England which looks like the big toe of the country, poking gingerly out into the chilly English Channel. This is one of England’s most rural areas, with 23% of people over retirement age, and a predominantly white population – 99% of Cornwall’s inhabitants are “White British” according to Wikipedia. My brown husband sticks out like a lovely sore thumb, his long black hair and beard giving him a distinctive, exotic look in this vanilla world. Tiny, pretty towns are dotted between enormous swathes of pristine countryside, which though brutally susceptible to wintry wind chills, light up in the summer months under sunlight which warms the land for up to eighteen hours a day. People here are ridiculously friendly – it’s a place where time runs incredibly slowly, and no-one is in a rush. There’s no road rage, no fury with meandering tourists (Cornwall’s second biggest source of income is tourism, after agriculture) and no snapping at strangers. I asked the ticket lady at the train station what time the train would arrive. She went online, slowly and methodically, to tell me exactly where the train was currently, did a few sums in her head and then gave me an expected arrival time with the added bonus of informing me that I should move my car to the car park on the opposite side of the tiny station, so my husband, who I was meeting, wouldn’t have to carry his suitcase over the bridge. Contrast that with the hordes of people pushing and shoving at a Mumbai rail ticket window, or the surly, grumpy response of a typical London railworker and you know you’re not in Kansas any more.

There's something very strange about my surroundings. For a start, its almost silent, the only ambient sounds are the discreet tweeting of birds and the gentle trickle of fresh water. I'm used to noise, all around me, all of the time, created either by the throngs of people who constantly shove and push their way into each other's space, or by the general din and cacophony of a crowded city which believes that the only way to get ahead is to be loud. I’d also forgotten how clean the air can actually be in the English countryside. There’s no stench of diesel fumes billowing from vehicles which are hanging together by the proverbial thread. There are no smells of cooking, now that the morning’s bacon and eggs have receded into a happy memory and a pleasantly full stomach. There’s no smog, no fog and no dust. Only clear, clean air and a temperature which is just the right side of fresh. I take deep breaths and I can almost feel the unadulterated air cleaning out the debris of accumulated toxins from my lungs.

As we tucked into our loaded breakfast plates this morning, enjoying the full English Breakfast experience, my husband and I contemplated the view – ponies in the neighbouring field, chickens clucking around their heavy feet, bright green grass and a cerulean blue sky. “I can see us living somewhere like this” he said. “We’d go mad after a week” I told him. “We need the constant rush of the big city, and there’s nothing to do here once you’ve finished admiring the view over a few pints of local scrumpy cider”.

I know what I’m talking about. I spent my childhood and teenage years in the neighbouring county of Devon – an area with similarly rural qualities, yet an important step closer to London and thus slightly more connected. You can take a train to the Capital from my home-town of Exeter in two hours, if you’re lucky. Cornwall doubles the journey time, which makes London practically a foreign country for the Cornish, unless they happen to fall into the minority of Cornish millionaires who can afford to pop up to the metropolis in their helicopters for a spot of shopping. I was a bored, fractious teenager, desperate to escape the confines of a sleepy part of the world, and missing out (I thought) on the glamour and excitement of the big city. Perhaps that’s what drove me around the world in search of adventure, my eventual relocation to Mumbai a direct result of a misspent youth in a tranquil environment. What I do know is that Devon and Cornwall, though extremely pretty and wonderful to visit, are not places to settle in if you get a thrill out of a buzzy, restless big city chock full of ambition.

I wish someone had invented cars which could fly half way round the world in minutes. That way my husband and I could have our ideal solution – weekdays in the cut and thrust of Mumbai’s intoxicating dynamism, and weekends in our serene picture postcard perfect cottage in rural England. Until then, we’ll make the most of this holiday, the perfect break from the madness of a Mumbai which though addictive, saps energy levels after a while and leaves you fractious, short tempered and with frayed nerves.

Singapore changes ....

I made a 5 day business trip to Singapore this week. Singapore used to feel like my second home, thanks to the fortnightly trips I used to make to visit my clients back in 2001-3. I would shuttle between Bangkok and Singapore as though I was travelling from North to South London, and I quickly got used to the extreme levels of hygiene, the odourless air and the neatness which contrasted radically with the grimy stench of most other Asian cities, and the manufactured appearance of its controlled environment. I enjoyed my trips here, ate vast amounts of delicious food but generally got bored of the perfection very quickly. However, on this trip, made after 5 years, I found that things had changed significantly.

Singapore is of course a city, a city-state and also a country, with a population of 5.1 million – roughly the same number of people who are crammed into the tiny tip of South Mumbai. Like India, it was colonized by the British, yet has taken a very different path in terms of its development. Whereas India was left struggling to reconcile the impact left by the British with the complexities of its own systems, people and culture, Singapore, under a succession of efficient and determined governments and of course a considerably smaller, more manageable population, grew exponentially in terms of its economic might and its infrastructure. There’s a lot of negative talk about that growth, which has ultimately been achieved by controlling the emerging economy’s citizens via a set of rigid rules, and by a firm education and a harsh capital punishment system.

There is a vast amount of evidence of that control – not only in the clean streets and the manicured foliage which lines them, but also in the behaviour and reactions of the locals. I wanted to change my hotel booking and leave a day earlier than planned. I informed the front desk of my schedule change on my arrival. Apparently I couldn’t just tell them that I wanted to check out early, I’d have to go online and make the change. The system wouldn’t allow me to amend my booking, so I called the booking centre, where I was robotically informed that it was hotel policy not to cancel bookings unless the cancellation was made 48 hours before arriving. But I hadn’t known then that I would need to cancel my last night’s stay, I argued. In fact, I said (melodramatically and somewhat dishonestly) I had been called back by my doctor for an emergency checkup because I’m 6 months pregnant. I piled on the emotional pressure, and then added a business motivation for good measure - I was on the lookout for a good mid priced hotel as we were setting up an office in Singapore (true) and though I wanted to use this particular hotel I wouldn’t be able to unless some flexibility were extended. All of this met with silence and the repetition of the fact that “Madam it is hotel policy”. I changed from pleading to anger. I told them that I’d blacklist the hotel, blog and tweet and Facebook and leave negative reviews on Trip Advisor. More silence. “Don’t tell me that its policy. Listen to what I am saying and respond according to my situation, please” I begged the robot. “Send mail to booking centre with your reasons” came the response. Eventually, and on the back of a long, flowery and passive aggressive e mail, my final night’s stay was cancelled. But boy was it hard work.

In India, I would probably have faced the same kind of stubborn refusal to deviate from policy, but I’d have spoken to the manager and probably the emotional pressure would have done it. Singaporeans are literally unable to think outside the box. Unlike Indians who are resourceful lateral thinkers who will use ingenious methods to achieve their results, Singaporeans have been taught not to question authority, not to deviate from process, not to question policy. It was an infuriating insight into a country’s psyche. And next time, I’ll be more careful before I book.

I hadn’t been to Singapore for at least 5 years, and I was struck by the changes. What is still squeaky clean, shiny and flawless has been enhanced by a different undertone than I’ve encountered previously. Put simply, the energy of the city has changed. Not only are there more shiny buildings, towering edifices which soar over the city in what look like architecturally impossible shapes, but there is an entirely new undercurrent – of hope, possibility, success and dare I say it, creativity. I went for drinks with a friend on the freshly emerging Robertson Quay, lined with new watering holes and fancy restaurants, and walked back to my river facing hotel over a fancy pedestrianized bridge which was packed with small groups of local kids, sitting around bottles of hard liquor, drinking and being as rowdy as any drunken teenagers I’d seen on the streets of England, where drinking is a national pastime. They were loud, drunk and having a great time. I couldn’t reconcile this picture of unruly teens with the controlled, restricted Singapore which I’d come to expect. The bridge was lined with large green rubbish bins – according to my friend, the police had tried to crack down on this subversive behaviour initially by trying to move the kids away, and had eventually given up and decided that if they couldn’t ban underage drinking in public, they could at least ensure the place remained tidy. A bizarrely Singaporean resolution to a situation.

So the kids are rebelling, and no doubt Singapore’s art and creative scene will develop and grow and provide a much needed antidote to the suppression and the conformity as a result. One downside of this though is the emergence of a generational gap which has never before been seen – whereas previously, kids were subservient to the state and to their parents, now they are defying authority, and turning to themselves to create self sufficient groups. The concept of the family is under threat, so much so that the Singaporean government is apparently looking for strategies to rebuild communities and ensure that older people are looked after in their dotage, as has traditionally been the case, otherwise their care will require massive state handouts which the government cannot afford. These abandoned parents are now also taking on menial jobs to survive, and this is evidenced by the sheer number of older men and women driving taxis and working as public toilet attendants and serving in restaurants. When a rainy morning meant that I couldn’t get a taxi and was late for my meeting, a local friend explained to me that the majority of taxis are now driven by older people who get scared to drive in the rain, and so they simply stay off the streets when there’s a downpour.

I love Singapore’s new energy, and its clearly attracting others – multinationals are now focusing their regional hubs in the city and expats are flocking in. Procter & Gamble is moving its global headquarters from Cincinnati to Singapore, an unprecedented move which feels like a huge endorsement of Asia’s superiority in the global mix. That change is also driving prices up – the cost of living has already risen several times as foreigners flood into the city and the competition for apartments increases. It will be interesting to see how Singapore metamorphoses in the future. I for one am glad that its finding some kind of soul, the lack of which has always been my personal bugbear when it came to spending time there. I only hope that it manages to keep a balance, and that core values remain intact alongside the progressive change.

Sort your basics, Gen Y

I’m sorry people. I’m probably going to piss you off and sound like your grandmother. And given that I’m in my fourth decade (just!) I suppose that you could arguably assume that I’m over the hill, disconnected, out of touch, practically a dinosaur, too geriatric to tweet, completely uncool etc. But I can’t keep quiet any longer about some basic stuff which is really just bugging me.

As a schoolgirl, when mobile phones were only seen frequenting the sets of Star Trek, and doing research meant a trek to a dusty library rather than the click of a mouse, I was taught “proper” grammar. I hated the endless repetition of tenses, the ancient teacher who it seemed hailed from a different era, the mind numbing dry subject matter which required discipline and endless patience to get right. Who cared about errant apostrophes or whether it should be whom instead of who? Why would I ever need this stuff? My spoken and written English was pretty good, life is short and I really couldn’t see the need for it.

As a result of my very proper, old school grammar training, I’ve become a bit of a grammar nazi, but you know what? I write well, and I sound intelligent when I put pen to paper. I can’t stand sloppy grammar and spelling, and whilst I appreciate that some people struggle with spelling, and others don’t learn English as a first language, the combination of a lack of attention to the rigours of correct grammar, as well as sheer laziness are contributing to a complete decline into slothful communication. Since when is it OK, ever, to write “wen” instead of “when”? “Plz” instead of “please”? “Da” instead of “the” and my particular personal irritant– “gud” or “cud” instead of “good” and “could”? I appreciate that this is the Twitter generation my friends, and that you have to work within 140 characters, very often .. but why not just write less, and at least make yourself appear less idiotic?

OK so fair enough, I’ll let you off the grammatically correct Tweets. Tweet away with your codespeak, (codspeak?). Go for it. But don’t send me resumes and covering letters for jobs filled with spelling and grammatical errors. And then wonder why I don’t call you for an interview. And please don’t post shit on my Facebook timeline that makes the grammar obsessive inside me cringe, and spoil my morning.

Whilst I’m at it I might as well air my second bone of contention. Why oh why can’t you people be on time? OK I appreciate that the inability to be anywhere at a specified time isn’t strictly a Gen Y affliction, but I really don’t accept that you can’t be on time for a meeting which starts at noon. And that potential job seekers think its OK to be late for an interview and that an under the breath mumbled “couldn’t find your office” will make it all OK. Googlemaps, people, Googlemaps. What could be easier? Especially as you can search on your lovely smartphones whilst you are literally standing on the street.

There ends my rant. I never thought I’d end up sounding like my mother. But you know what, I just think you Gen Y guys have it too easy. You expect everything, now, and you want to take the easiest route from point A to point B.

Now flame me, shame me, call me old. But at least my grammatical integrity is intact, and I’m never late for meetings.

Disclaimer : There are obvious exceptions to the above. But I’m making a point.

Curry for breakfast?

The development of the palate is a well documented phenomenon for foreigners who spend any length of time in India. On initially landing in India, there’s usually a fierce desire to eat only local food - the more ‘street’ (and thus apparently more genuine) the better. New arrivals trade diarrhea and vomiting tales, and pride themselves on their enhanced tolerance levels for dubious hygiene. There are some on the other hand (the ‘bubble wrapped’ expats) who actively avoid local cuisine, either for reasons of palate preference, or because they are paranoid about germs and hygiene, cooking everything in bottled water and eating from only 5 star hotels (ironically all my instances of food poisoning and upset stomach in India have originated from eating in hotel restaurants, where the food is cooked in huge batches and often left to collect germs). Curry cravings are rampant, the food choices awesome and low priced and the ‘curry for breakfast, lunch and dinner’ habit kicks in. There’s a feeling of bonding with the locals as cornflakes and cold milk are replaced by steaming hot idlis and spicy sambal sauce, toast and marmalade by spicy potatoes and fluffy puris. Indian food is truly delicious and though it bears little resemblance to its british counterpart, which is mainly served up by Bangladeshi migrants and features a whole host of different flavours, spices and sauces, eating local food is a big part of the settling in experience.

When I first arrived in Mumbai, I craved Indian food day and night, my tastebuds perpetually tantalised by the waves of spicy aromas flooding from every corner of this foodie city. After a few weeks on a constant diet of chapatis, rice, daal, aloo gobi and various meaty curries, with poha for breakfast (flakes of yellow flattened rice served with the ubiquitous coconut chutney) and samosas or masala dosa at snack time, I realised that my waistline as well as my health was suffering, along with my over spiced tastebuds and digestive system. After about 8 months of this constant bombardment of Indian food, my body started craving bland, western food and in particular English style pies, sandwiches and mashed potato, pizza, spaghetti and even McDonald’s – a fast food which I wouldn’t have touched in the UK given my snobbish revulsion for the junk food of the masses. Suddenly the filet of fish in its plasticky bun with fake cheese on top seemed tantalising, and the crisp, salty fries were to die for. Though the only burgers available at an Indian McDonalds are chicken, fish or veggie given the country’s sensitivity to beef and pork, the and the majority of menu items have been customised for India with local flavourings and twists (eg the McAloo Tikki), the sensation of cramming a great soft white bun with mayonnaise into my mouth, with no lingering spicy aftertaste was sometimes too much to resist and I found myself standing relatively often in the McDonalds queue actually salivating over the menu items and wishing that I could order a Big Beef Mac instead of a McChicken meal. Similarly, I began to hunt out places where I could purchase the foodstuffs of my dreams – cheddar cheese, ham, decent brown bread and proper mayonnaise.

If you know where to go in Mumbai, it’s perfectly possible to find this kind of deli food, but it comes at a price. There are tiny delis like Sante in Mumbai’s expat rich suburb of Bandra which sell a relatively huge range of cheeses and hams, but at extortionate prices. Their shelves are also lined with great British and American sauces and condiments, desserts, tins of custard, and a fridge packed full of yoghurt and butter imported from France, mozzarella cheese and marscapone and various other tantalising delights for the palate jaded by masala overkill. Every time I ‘pop in’ to this culinary treasure trove, especially if I’m hungry, I come out with a couple of small bags and a dent in my wallet to the tune of at least three thousand rupees – equivalent to a couple weeks salary for the boys in my office, for example. I’m always shocked and feel faintly guilty at this kind of excess, but I do return time and time again for my fix of bland, and judging by the number of expats I meet in this tiny corner of deli paradise, this is a highly lucrative business and a taste of home for many. I also ask all my visitors from the UK or US to bring “sausages, ham, cheese and bacon”, and though some are too squeamish to navigate the “no foodstuffs” customs declaration, others breeze confidently through to give me a fortnight of absolute joy in the form of bacon sandwiches for breakfast, with lashings of HP sauce.

Recently, and following the acquisition of a built in "proper" oven, I've started baking again. I lived without an oven in Asia for 7 years, was given a tiny but functional oven by friends in 2009 and now finally have upgraded to oven English style, i.e. big enough to cook a roast dinner and apple pie at the same time. I've been cooking for expats and Indians alike, and they are all raving about my beef and ale pies and quiches, mince pies and cakes. I'm creating a daily calorie fest from my kitchen and probably a whole new following for simple English cuisine.

Dealing with India .... #1

A wise friend gave me the following piece of advice when I first told him I was moving to India ; “don’t try and change India. Let it change you, but above all don’t try and change it. You’ll only go mad’. Truer words were never spoken. Surviving and learning to love India is all about the ability to embrace rather than criticise, to learn to love the craziness rather than be sucked under by it, to maintain a sense of calm detachment and rationale when all about you seem to be losing their heads.

Take the FRRO (Foreigners Regional Registration Office). I’ve been visiting the same office for 7 years. Since I started going there on my annual pilgrimage to get my employment visa renewed (before the wondrous PIO card was granted to me), I’ve seen the same faces working there, and have built up a relationship with them to the point where they raise an eyebrow when I sit in front of them to submit my (ever more complex) paperwork. I’ve even managed to crack a smile out of one of them. But, when I stopped and thought about WHY these government officers were SO very inflexible and so very difficult to deal with, I started to become aware of the frustrations which they themselves must be facing, day in and day out. Take the simple issue of money and the principle of fairness of distribution of wealth. Now each of these FRRO officers probably earns in the region of 4000-9000 rupees per month, if they’re lucky (USD$100-200). That money has to support an extended (joint family) of kids, uncles, aunties and aged parents. And they are made to scrutinise the tax returns and employment letters of foreigners who are earning say 200 times that per month ( a monthly salary of an expat in Mumbai will probably hit the one million rupees a month, or USD20,000. Even the ‘poorest’ expats will easily clear three or four times the monthly salary of these officials. So don’t you think they deserve to be cut just a little bit of slack? What can be worse than dealing with a bunch of whining foreigners day in and day out, who are trying to extend visas with incorrect paperwork, shouting and ranting incoherently and shoving their goddamned huge fat salaries in front of your nose, when you’re struggling to make ends meet, have a respectable if lowly paid job, you’re up at 4am to prepare breakfast for your extended family of in-laws and children and demanding husband, AND you’re also tired of saying the same thing to someone who you can hardly understand as they’re talking AT you and very fast. I kind of understand where these guys are coming from, at least when I’m in a more forgiving mood. Some of them clearly see their jobs as their own private vengeance against the days of the Raj, and yes that can be stressful, exhausting and frustrating but others are simply following their orders, and in India that means everything.


Systems of bureaucracy and order in India are key to balancing the chaos which threatens to engulf everything. The roads, the legal system, the politics, the workplace, the transport. All seem to be teetering on the brink of an anarchic abyss, bound together in the absence of reason or logic, yet everything seems, somehow, to work. Everyone goes to bed, and gets up in the morning and the day repeats itself and life (for most) goes on. Most visitors cannot understand how this can happen, but fail to understand that it’s the small and seemingly irrational rules and regulations which glue together the madness, creating order from disorder. No-one really knows why many of these rules exist, and to challenge or question them will only result in a blank response. “Why?” or “what’s the logic for that?” will only confuse – for the logic is buried so deep below the rule, as to be completely unconnected.

Often the rules are there only to manage the hordes of people who are gainfully employed in seemingly meaningless tasks, but in a country with 100 million people living in the 8 major metros alone, and a further billion spread across smaller towns and villages, there are a lot of people available for employment. So when in a store it takes 5 people to deliver your goods to you, including one to take your items, one to tap in the prices, another to wrap, another to stamp the receipt and yet another to hand you your goods, all being scrutinised by a further 5 hangers on …. there’s no point asking why the receipt has to be given and stamped. It just does. That’s also another reason why the concept of the supermarket has never taken off in India, despite the attempts of the Tescos and Walmarts of the world to come in with their high end supermarket and hypermarket concepts. Though supermarkets do exist (there are apparently 1023 supermarkets in India according to the website yellowpages.com, vs almost 5000 Tesco stores in the UK alone), they are few and far between, and usually only within mall type centres which are springing up all over the suburban metros.

There are a few reasons for the abject failure of the supermarket chains to enter India – the most often cited being the cost of real estate. Contrary to popular belief, ie those who think that everything in India must be as cheap as the beers on the Goan beaches and the cost of a ‘real’ curry on the streets of Mumbai, the cost of housing and land in the major metros, especially Mumbai and Delhi, is prohibitively high. In the case of Mumbai, whose 18 million inhabitants (50% of whom occupy illegal slum areas and pavements) are crammed onto approximately 26 square miles of land, much of it reclaimed and thus vulnerable to flooding during the annual monsoons, space is at an absolute premium. Add to that the rapidly increasing wealth which is flooding into India’s uppermost social echelons, there is enormous pressure on the limited amount of residential properties, resulting in huge inflation (despite the recession) and prohibitively high rental and purchase costs for any residential or commercial property in Mumbai “proper”. Renting and purchasing commercial and residential square footage costs less in the suburban areas by far, hence the proliferation of malls and so called supermarkets in the northern suburbs of Mumbai. So supermarkets don’t line the streets of Mumbai for the reasons of cost efficiency but more fundamentally their absence is linked to the role of the Mom and Pop stores as social lubricants and even more critically, employment for many of the masses. Large supermarkets and hypermarkets are all about providing efficiencies of scale – and thus reducing costs. Fewer workers, more automation and centralised stock keeping means that the consumer is generally happier once the transition is made from old the new school, and the supermarket owner is of course able to reap the rewards of selling in bulk. This also defines an entirely new consumer behaviour – consisting of a ‘weekly shop’, refrigeration and planning meals in advance. For the Indian housewife, on the other hand, the daily trip to the market for fresh produce, and the purchase of individual items from mom and pop stores, a behaviour reminiscent of England in the 1950’s and 60’s, is unlikely to yield to the convenience orientated approach of the Western world. Though fast changing, the middle class indian housewife is defined by a myriad of complex values, customs and traditions which make her very different from her western counterpart. She is likely to be at home, raising children and living in a ‘joint family’ – a peculiarly Indian concept which revolves around in-laws, children, grandchildren and other assorted relatives living and staying together in a highly communal and supportive network, which may not lend much to the concept of privacy but which provides a valuable social security system in the absence of formal state support. The typical housewife therefore looks forward to her daily visits to the market as an opportunity not only to escape from the hordes of family members who are likely to be occupying a relatively small space but also to catch up with the gossip and tales from friends and acquaintances. This is her alternative support network, and allows her important ‘me’ time in a culture which does not often respect privacy or solitude. She gets to choose the ingredients for the meals for the household, and whilst these are largely cooked with help from a maid (even middle class Indian families keep domestic help – another vital form of employment for a large population), she makes the choice of how to feed her family. A supermarket shop would render this important role somewhat less significant, a pleasurable, personal experience reduced to a more mechanical interaction.

The final and most persuasive reason for the proliferation of tiny shops stocked full to bursting with dusty sacks of rice and daal, and which sell only vegetarian food (meat and eggs must be purchased elsewhere) is the need to provide labour for the masses. Every shopping experience in India has, for the expat, a completely old fashioned flavour, reminiscent of the days of local British grocery stores vs the out of town hypermarkets which now dominate. There’s a lot of friendly banter (especially for the expat who has a few words of hindi) and a lot of fun to be had in searching the dusty shelves for treasures imported from Dubai or Singapore - random sauces, sweets and biscuits which have not been seen on British supermarket shelves for years but which have ended up somewhat incongruously in the tiny Gujarati shop in Mumbai. The entire shopping experience is enchanting if you’re not in a hurry and infuriating if you are – it takes an age to get the bill written up, make a separate payment to an entirely different counter, receive the goods and the bill, and all the while politely negotiating the shopkeeper’s attempts to force various arbitrary imported items into the basket which he thinks will please the foreign palate. All that, under close scrutiny from the hordes of boys who are there to fetch items down from dusty top shelves and cupboards, pack your bags and even carry your shopping home. Not surprising that after a few weeks in Mumbai, the average foreigner craves the sterile anonymous comfort of the faceless western supermarket. There’s a pretty decent ‘hypermarket’ in the suburbs of Mumbai, which houses a small section of Waitrose products at heart stopping prices. I have paid the equivalent of five pounds there for a jar of pickled onions. But boy they were worth it.

The best place to shop for your household essentials if you’re in Mumbai and looking for a bargain, is Crawford Market. Located in a 140 year old building, by now rather ramshackle yet filled with charm, the market provides a wonderful source of all manner of foodstuffs, from fruit and vegetables to dried fruits and nuts to weird and wonderful imported delights and copycat products. You’ll definitely get charged a ‘white tax’ and can expect to be charged double for many items so bargaining is a pre-requisite, as is dodging the hordes of bony malnourished kittens who prowl around the dark interiors of the market searching for scraps. The best part is that the market is chock full of porters who carry your goods behind you in wide wicker baskets placed on their heads, without a hint of a wobble. So much easier than pushing a shopping trolley around Sainsbury’s. The market is a fascinating study in contradictions – ancient tiny men sit perched high behind piles of carrots, bananas or onions, whilst next door shelves are stacked with gleaming rows of rather random products – from Betty Crocker cake mixes to Ribena, Nutella and shiny tins of Quality Street, all loving polished every few minutes by the shopkeeper.