India (60 page)

As he grew famous, he turned his home into a cross between a recording studio (reputedly the best in India) and a sacred place. It was filled with pieces of new electronic equipment, in which he took a detailed technical interest, garlands, rosaries, and charms his mother gave him. Bookshelves were lined with electronic keyboards. Much of his time was spent in prayer or alternating between prayer and composing. Visiting musicians sometimes had to wait for days before he was ready to see them. At all times, he had a candle burning in front of his console and a track of Islamic chants playing on mute. His spare time, when it happened, was used for visits to dargahs, Sufi shrines, where he would sleep on the floor alongside other pilgrims.

In 1995 his mother chose a bride for him, Saira, and after a single meeting, they married. A. R. Rahman’s mother remained the most important person in his life. Despite marriage and children, his life continued in the same devotional way.
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When this short, unexercised, slow-moving man—the “Mozart of Madras”—stood on stage to receive two Academy Awards in 2008 for
Slumdog Millionaire
, he looked as if he was in a different mental
place to anyone else in the theatre. Dressed in a casual black kurta and coat, he gave praise to god in Tamil, thanked his mother for coming all the way to America with him and told Hollywood’s finest in his casual and diffident way that he had not been so nervous since the day of marriage—a remark that would have had a completely different cultural implication for most of his audience. “All my life I’ve had a choice of hate and love,” he said. “I chose love, and I’m here. God bless.”
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To use a phrase now forbidden to historians, some traits seem like an expression of national character, and are specifically Indian. Reading the country’s often vivid press, it feels as if some things happen only in India. If you ask about this, people will say, “We are like this only”—implying everyone else should get used to it.

Take the case of the Sikh taxi driver who drives exclusively in reverse gear. It is the sort of thing anyone might do for a few minutes if their car will not engage a forward gear, but when it happened to Harpreet Singh Papoo from Bathinda, he continued.
BACK GEAR CHAMPIAN
is painted along the side of his vehicle, which he drives only backwards, despite having severe resultant neck and back pain. The local authorities in Punjab have given him a special permit to do so; he has redesigned his gearbox so as to drive at varying speeds; a flashing light and a siren sit on the roof of his car. He has become famous and wants to go to Pakistan. “An Asian champion in driving car in reverse gear at a speed of over 80 km per hour,” reported the
Tribune
newspaper, “he has already covered 13,000 km from Bathinda to various towns of North India to spread the message of peace between two countries.”
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For Harpreet Singh Papoo, driving exclusively in reverse gear is a mark of difference; it is his reputation.

Arun Pathak was another character who had no embarrassment. A man from the north who had trouble holding down a job, he found he was able to gain popularity or attention by attaching himself to public causes. When a controversial movie was being filmed in Benares, he tied a large stone to his foot and jumped into the Ganges. In a campaign to close down liquor stores near holy places, he climbed to the top of a 300-foot water tank and doused himself in gasoline, threatening to strike a light and jump. He gained a written assurance from the authorities that his campaign would be taken seriously and climbed down. He has ended up as a politician with the BSP.
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Other aspects of behaviour were bizarre and had no apparent explanation. A colour magazine called
The Pseudo Truth
was sold at bookstalls. It
had the publicity slogan “The pragmatic echo of graves” and contained articles about Norway, the law, mobile phones, “Charles Lamb—a gigantic personality” and Hezbollah. There was a feature with the headline “Zorba in Greek—new flavours of old urn’s dew.”
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Each time I read it, I felt a little more baffled. Then there was the entrepreneur who made “eye-catching furniture” from used car and tractor tyres; and the Konkan railway engines that were really Tata trucks with train carriage wheels attached; and the animal welfare board which launched legal action against Vodafone for making a pug run “fastly fastly” behind a bus during a TV advert, as if this was the worst piece of animal cruelty they could find in India.
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Another singularity was the creative forms in which language was used. Not long ago, an essay written by an applicant for the civil service in Bihar began to circulate (and he is rumoured to have passed the exam):

Behaving in a spectacular way in order to draw attention to a cause was respectable. In 2006 I was driving from Delhi to Alwar in Rajasthan when the traffic stopped. I walked past buses which had disgorged their
passengers on to the road, and lorries packed with gigantic wheat-filled sacks which burst out at the top like muffins. Finally at the head of the line of traffic, I saw the obstruction: a jagged line of tractor tyres set across the highway and weighed down with flat stones, around which sat about a hundred women in close formation, each woman dressed traditionally in a long skirt, with the ghungat, or veil, pulled demurely over her head. To the side stood men and boys, idlers, chatting, scuffling and joking. The women would not move until the state government reconnected their electricity supply, which had been cut off because the village had not paid its bill. The police arrived, full of swagger, wearing metal helmets, only to realize it was women alone around the tyres and stones, and that it would be culturally impossible to drag them away. After a couple of hours, the additional district magistrate arrived, a young man in jeans and wraparound shades who looked out of his depth; he read various petitions and agreed to reconnect the power.

Dr. K. Chaudhry, a 76-year-old retired medical practitioner, became a global Internet sensation by singing 1,400 cover versions of famous songs and posting them on YouTube. With a backdrop of a dingy curtain and a strip light, he could be seen performing “Hotel California” and “Dil Deke Dekho,” sometimes accompanied by his grandchildren sitting on his lap. His most popular song was “Beat It,” which had gone viral with an alternative title given to it by a viewer: “The Real Killer of Michael Jackson—(he was surfing the Internet late at night and this song killed him).” He had appeared via a webcam link on TV channels around the world, and a Dr. K fan club had started in the United States. At the inaugural dinner, he appeared live on screen and told his fans: “That cannot be described just as a sentimental relationship between a man in Delhi and some hundreds in America. That is a carry-forward relationship from some past lives.” In his lack of pretension, his industry and his refusal to be fazed, Dr. K was an Indian type. The technology writer Sree Sreenivasan has suggested that Indians approach social media sites “with great passion” because they allow them “to do two things they love: Tell everyone what they are doing; and stick their noses into other people’s business.”
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“I am never satisfied with the status quo,” Dr. K told me, sitting in the living-room of his house on the outskirts of Delhi. He had an old Dell computer, with a separate speaker topped by a webcam. “I get the lyrics on the screen, put the speaker between myself and the lyrics and start to sing.” He showed me how he did it. “I can record twelve songs a day. I’ve translated Mike Jackson into Hindi. Until I had a legal problem, ‘Beat It’
was getting 3,000 hits a day in Hindi and English on YouTube. After I went on G4 TV, I had 400 comments and fifty phone calls in a single day. That was the busiest day of my life. I had to do so many interviews. Most of my fans are in Canada and Pakistan. I have a dozen clubs in America. At first I called myself Dr. Krishen Chaudhry, then I was told my name was too long for marketing, so I am ‘Dr. K.’ I have one fan club in Singapore. They are all airline pilots, and most are Indian.” As well as singing, he had created astrology software and written medical textbooks. “I also have an Internet mall, selling many things, which makes me $300–400 a month.”

“Do you want hot or cold?” asked his son Kapil, who had joined us. I opted for cold. He turned on a fan. Since Dr. K’s retirement from medical practice, another of his sidelines—the selling of diagnostic equipment—had been taken over by Kapil. “He revolutionized blood-testing techniques,” said the son, taking a ballpoint pen from his shirt’s top pocket while inspecting his mobile phone. “We manufactured one calorimeter using Fotodiox—a new kind of sensor—rather than a photovoltaic cell, which converts light to distilled voltage. It was done for the first time by us, here in India. We have had more than 10,000 installations. That’s why I’m surprised to see his diversification from that line to this.” He indicated his father and the webcam. “He has had success abroad with his singing, but neighbours don’t praise him.”

“When I was eleven,” said Dr. K, “I wrote a lyric and sang it in the temple. I’ve always liked to sing, but I was told my singing was bad. Neighbours don’t praise me.”

“It’s a little bit like our diagnostic products,” said Kapil grimly. “They can be easier to sell in southern cities than in Delhi.”

Was Dr. K upset by the negative comments that were posted on his web videos? “I say this: praises please me and abuses amuse me. Without taking criticism, you can’t improve. They spend some time with my songs. Using rude language is their culture.”

“Vulgar language is worldwide,” said Kapil.

The house was in a residential suburb of Punjabi Bagh, an area allocated to migrants from Pakistan after partition. Over time it had become prosperous, as the refugees did well. Dr. K had been forced to leave Pakistan when he was three years old. “Since childhood, I have been working seventeen to twenty-one hours a day. I can remember the refugee camp, I can remember a diver holding a pitcher of water. My father died of diarrhoea in the camp. He had four wives, because he had property and needed an heir. We were given a little land, and I had to walk to school, with no guardian.”

He gestured out at the street, indicating the neighbourhood. “These Punjabis, they worked very hard after partition.”
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Dr. K had no fear of failure. On one of his websites, he had written: “I am known across the globe for multiple diverse activities. If one becomes a total flop, I have others to boast of.”

In the past, singular stories from India—dabbawallas, reverse-gear driving, Dr. K—had only entertainment value or a local relevance, but Indian methods were now extending to other parts of the globe. Nandan Nilekani, who was the inspiration for Thomas Friedman’s
The World Is Flat
, spoke of “the Indian way of working.” He was referring specifically to the software industry and to the practices developed at Infosys, but the concept extended to other industries too. “This means breaking down big software projects into chunks that can be tackled simultaneously by many groups worldwide, and then drawing them back together to create a single product.”
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The notion of innumerable people working together towards a common purpose corresponded with what the dabbawallas were doing. It depended on a high level of cooperation, cohesion and assumption—assumption that your remote colleagues were not thinking or acting in a way that conflicted with your own work. With many Indians now working in foreign countries, and particularly the U.S., cultural methods were transferring. Unlike the Chinese, Indians were experienced at dealing with people with different cultures and languages. Even in remote parts of the country, you expected to interact and do business with those who followed different customs.

Although India is home to a higher number of illiterate people than any other country in the world, which is in part the consequence of having more than a billion citizens, many of those who travel overseas are well-educated and highly motivated. It is estimated that Indians are responsible for one in six Silicon Valley startups, and that 30,000 graduates of the Indian Institutes of Technology live and work in the U.S.
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Across diverse fields in North America, people of Indian descent were achieving prominence. During the banking crisis, Neel Kashkari at the Office of Financial Stability helped to clear up some of the problems created by Vikram Pandit of Citigroup. In Louisiana, Piyush “Bobby” Jindal became governor. (Asked on radio what he thought of “the
Slumdog Millionaire
governor,” a fellow Republican said he was himself “givin’ some slum love out to my buddy guv. Bobby Jindal is doing a friggin’ awesome job in his state.”
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) Nikki Haley—born Nimrata Randhawa—wowed Tea
Party crowds while running for governor of South Carolina: “I was the daughter of immigrant parents that reminded us every day how glad they were to live in this country.”
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Vinod Khosla co-founded Sun Microsystems, Sabeer Bhatia started Hotmail and Ajay Bhatt became a rock star. Technically, Bhatt was the architect of Universal Serial Bus, or USB, the most successful interface in the history of computing, which has saved millions of hours by enabling people to plug keyboards and printers into computers without them freezing, shutting down or generally taking over the day. Playing on the contemporary kudos of the geek, Intel put out a television advert of him walking into an office against epic music and an inspiring blue background: women swooned and screamed, everyone stopped what they were doing, he poured some coffee, winked, signed an autograph and the line came up on the screen: “Ajay Bhatt, co-inventor of the USB … Our rock stars aren’t like your rock stars.” (In the video he was played by the actor Sunil Narkar, who looked a bit more Bollywood; Bhatt’s photo on the company website shows a stiff man in spectacles wearing a Ralph Lauren shirt with button-down collars.)