Although, as it turns out, Marie Antoinette’s famoussaying was actually a rumour perpetuated by the revolutionaries to feed theanimosity that French peasants had for their rulers, these four words bestepitomize the callous indifference of those in any position of wealth or power(the haves) towards their fellow citizens who cannot afford bread, let alonemunch on cake (the have nots). And, when people ask me about my impressions ofIndia after returning from the US following twelve long years spent livingabroad, although generally positive, time and again I am reminded of these fourwords. Presumably, being able to afford a nice apartment in a secure, gatedcomplex with a gym and a swimming pool, I’m a "have" and a chillruns down my spine imagining if someday my head will roll off the sharp blade ofa guillotine.
But India is prospering, they tell me. Double-digit growth. Low cost techcapital of the world. Business process outsourcing leader. Largest democracy.Multi-ethnic vibrant society. Strong secular credentials. Superb banking andfinancial institutions. Rising rupee. IT parks. Biotech boom. Special EconomicZones…. The list is endless, they reassure me.
It warms my heart and a thrill runs down my spine whenever I revise thislist. I want to believe in it. I want to raise my hands and congratulate mybillion plus brothers and sisters that they’re part of a miracle. Butcongratulating them would be congratulating… I, me, myself. Congratulating the"haves" who’ve always had. They just have more now. Moreoften than not, when I’ve turned to congratulate a "have-not" I’vehad to withdraw my hand and hang my head in shame, praying he’ll ignore theirony of my outstretched hand and forget both--the incident as well as the partabout being in the middle of economic betterment. Their lives are improvingrapidly, aren’t they?
One incident occurred when we bought a washing machineand refrigerator from a swanky electronics store in a beautiful mall in theheart of the city. When I had left India, I didn’t know what a mall was. Now,standing in the middle of a three storied architectural marvel of glass andsteel, as I admired the polished floors, the smooth escalators, the capsuleelevators and the gleaming storefronts, I felt confident; India was on the rise.Inside the store my wife an I were treated like royalty, attended to by a flockof smartly dressed young men and women, serving us tea and coffee liberally,answering our questions with certainty and reassuring us that delivery would befree of cost and within 48hours. And lo and behold, within 48 hours there was atelephone call from the security gate in the apartment complex to inform me thatsome men had come to deliver our washing machine and the 260-litre refrigerator.
I opened the front door slightly and waited. And waited. Five minutes rolledinto ten and then into twenty. I peeked outside a couple of times to ensure thatthe elevators up to our apartment on the sixth floor were working. They were…and when no one showed up to deliver anything after forty-five minutes had flownby, a vein of irritation began to buzz in my head.
Then there was a light knock on the door and a young man, younger and thinnerthan me, stood outside, panting, wondering if he had the right address todeliver two appliances. On that hot, humid July afternoon, he stood sweatinglike he had just stepped out of a shower. His perspiration made his tawdryclothes stick to his body as though they were painted on him, and the firstthing he asked me after I confirmed that he indeed had the right address waswhether he could have a glass of water for himself and his friend, stillstruggling up the stairs, lugging the washing machine on his back.
I was shocked. Why hadn’t he used the elevator, I asked him.
The security guards downstairs wouldn’t allow it, he informed mematter-of-factly, as though the error was in his unreasonable request not in theguard’s denial.
I was flabbergasted. Using the elevator to ferry a couple of heavy objects upsix floors was a privilege… not a right? What if we had lived on thethirteenth floor? What if we had bought a 300-liter refrigerator?
Anger welled up inside me and I felt tears of outrage sting my eyes. Imarched down to the security office and demanded an explanation from the firstperson I met. The guard informed me that he had simply followed the estatemanager’s rules.
Rules? There was a rule saying that people couldn’t transportheavy appliances on elevators? I’d forgive a rule insisting that heavyobject may only be transported on an elevator as the product of abureaucratic mind with too much idle time on their hands.
Yes, the guard informed me with a serious face, there were rules foreverything. He justified his concern by stating that heavy objects likeappliances tend to have sharp edges that could scratch the paint or dent theelevator walls.
I had to shake my head to dispel any doubts that I wasn’t in the midst of astrange dream or trapped by some Seinfeldian fantasy in "bizarro"land. Meanwhile, the estate manager showed up, and, after a quick exchange ofconspiratorial whispers, was brought up to speed on the situation by the guard.
What if the man had twisted his ankle while hauling up the heavy luggage orworse, broken his leg, I asked the big, burly estate manager. The man’sresponse was a casual shrug. By now I had begun absorbing shock well. What ifthe refrigerator had fallen on him and crushed him, I asked. The estate managerfrowned, missed my point completely and informed me that the company wouldsurely replace the damaged goods to my apartment free of cost. This is the newIndia, he smiled and informed me, where customer is king. Thedeliveryman, damn it! Don’t worry, he reassured me, the company would findten more people like him to complete the job.
I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
I argued with the man, trying to educate him on the basics of humanity,humility and human rights. But it was just not done, he informed me. Why? Iasked, and offered to take responsibility for any dents and scratches that mightdisfigure the elevators. My proposal wouldn’t influence the man. Why? Ipestered him… Why? After a few moments of dodging my pointed questions he saidthat other tenants of this upscale apartment complex might take offence tosharing elevators with sweaty delivery boys and smelly milkmen.
And that’s when visions of murderous crowds with hatchets and spears bayingfor bourgeois blood begin to fill my head.
Upstairs, my wife was feeling equally sorry for the deliverymen. When Ireturned, I found them sitting under the fan in one corner of our living room,munching on something. The men were hungry, my wife informed me, and, since wedidn’t have any bread, she had given them some left over cake.
Anirban Bose's debut novel BombayRains, Bombay Girls is due out in May.
