The PM and the Art of Low Expectations

Today is the day of the Indian government's budget announcement for the next financial year.  Unfortunately, a new budget will do absolutely nothing to stop the following types of exchanges, which happen every day in Delhi:

A friend and I went shopping at a famous government-operated fabric store.  The three-level store sells handmade fabrics from all over India - paperthin handloom silks, textured natural cottons, shot silk in deep purples and greens.  I'm obsessed with fabric and wandered like a lost soul from aisle to aisle, stroking the fibres and exclaiming with joy, until the security guard finally overcame his inhibitions and cleared his throat in a threatening way.  We went upstairs.

I wanted to buy a sari.  Let's not debate the wisdom of this - other people have, and failed to convince me - and we spent an hour bumping around the stacks.  Right as my hands closed around the ideal fabric, though, the lights flashed.  The public announcement system stuttered.

"They must be closing," my friend said sadly.  I checked my watch - ok, my cell phone clock - just to be sure.  It was 2 pm on a weekend.

"Already?" I said, my hands already itching for the sari I would, it seemed, never own.

"Well it's a government shop," she said.

The phrase - it's really more of an excuse - "well, it's a government x," appears all over Delhi.  Indians say "well, it's a government x," with the same air of resignation that a family might say, "Well, he's been to prison," of a particularly violent or under-performing member. It's the weary resignation of people who know that the most government aid they'll see all year will come from the politician who buys their vote.

Consider the wireless.  A few days ago my Internet stopped working.  In the past, not having wireless would have struck me as a cruel joke that proved the Deist theory of the universe, which holds that God really doesn't care about people all that much.  I would have spent hours trapped in my room mulling the brutality of this.  ("Internet withdrawal:" marked by hallucinations, paranoia, and talking to no one in particular)

These days, though, I've survived more traumatic events - just last week, I tried to toast a sandwich over a candle.  In the dark.  (The power was out.)

Eventually (and I do mean eventually, long after I had rediscovered the joys of reading books, calling my family and sleeping for hours) the nearby Internet operator sent a man over to examine the router.  His appearance did not inspire confidence - he must have lost half his teeth, and he hadn't bothered to replace any of them. He turned the router over in his hands several times, as if he were checking it for hidden compartments.  Eventually he had a long chat with his boss on the phone. His boss told him that the adaptor was probably broken.  Unfortunately, the store, which gave out Internet connections, did not have any adaptors in stock.

"We should just buy one," said my roommate.  When I pointed out that buying our own adaptor was basically paying for the same thing twice, she replied, "What do you expect, it's a government shop."

There are very few things in which Indians have less faith than their government.  It's funny, but it also affects every aspect of life - from deciding not to call an ambulance when someone you love is hurt, to avoiding the cops when a crime is committed in your house, to paying a bribe to avoid a court case that will drag on for years and take much more money.

Instead of railing against this, I should probably accept it.  Isn't home the place whose contradictions you accept as the norm?  I'd spend more time thinking about this, but my Internet's back and I have TV shows to catch up on, before the power goes out.