Sideways on a Scooter by Miranda Kennedy

Author:Miranda Kennedy [Kennedy, Miranda]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-0-679-60455-6
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Published: 2011-04-25T16:00:00+00:00

During my first years in Delhi, I rarely caught more than a glimpse of the air-conditioned, generator-supported world of the elite. Because I’d shown up in India without a foreign correspondent’s salary or contacts, I didn’t meet the kind of people most of my colleagues socialized with—industrialists, government officials, film stars. Over time, I found myself scheduling interviews at five-star hotels and dining out at the aptly named Diva restaurant. I had to force myself to put it out of my mind that I was blowing the equivalent of Radha’s monthly earnings on a plate of pasta and a glass of wine. In fact, I learned to celebrate how far my paltry public radio salary would stretch in India. It seemed amusing that my servants considered me the epitome of wealth, but in a way, I was. Having secured a steady job and salary, I could even have moved into one of Delhi’s luxurious gated enclaves, but I found them to be disturbing reminders of class and clout in the status-obsessed political capital.

When I began shambling after the five-star denizens I was forced to learn a whole new set of Delhi rules—starting with the vehicle I was seen in. If I took a rattling taxi to an interview with a government official or an important businessman, I’d have to hope that he wouldn’t catch sight of me climbing out of it in front of the building—because if he did, I knew it would be a struggle to be taken seriously. As for rickshaws, they aren’t even permitted inside the gate of most Indian hotels and government buildings. I’d often been dumped at the bottom of a hotel driveway and forced to approach the entrance on foot—undoubtedly the least classy way to arrive at an appointment in a city where no one other than beggars and dogs walks between destinations. The hotel porter would gingerly hold open the door for this sweaty, uncouth feringhee, his mustache twitching disdainfully.

One of the best things about hiring K.K. was being able to turn over to him the stress of dealing with my vehicle status. I’d call the taxi stand in the morning and describe my day’s appointments, and he’d choose a car accordingly. Having driven Delhi’s elite for fifteen years, K.K. was better qualified than just about anyone to be a vehicle snob. As co-owner of Nizamuddin Taxi Stand, K.K. liked to remind me, he had access to “all many kinds of top-class cars.” On important days, he’d show up in a Honda City, because foreign-made vehicles confer the greatest status on their passengers. No matter what appointment I had, though, K.K. outright refused to drive an Ambassador, the classic Indian car, first made in England but manufactured in India since 1948. Like the flowing white kurta uniform, the Ambassador remains an essential accessory of Indian government ministers. But to K.K., as to many of the aspirational classes, the car was nothing more than an unwelcome reminder of India’s shoddy socialist days, when the best way to acquire wealth was to bribe a corrupt government bureaucrat.

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