The Exchange Rate

I landed in Indira Gandhi Airport’s T3 last morning, and I hadn’t gotten as far as the airport parking lot to see two taxi drivers yelling at each other over some mis-maneuver– yup, definitely in Delhi. After months of trying to plan a solo trip in Southeast Asia, I was re-routed to a tame extended weekend in NCR with my little sister to chaperone. Maybe my parents are not joking when they say they made her for exactly that. I am still grateful I got to go somewhere though; March has been rough on most people from what I hear.

As my manager says, I have started thinking like an NRI “pampered prick” already. Only after I landed did I realize that I don’t have a water bottle and cannot drink from any random tap. I forgot how massive Delhi is and how long it takes to get across places. And the SGD/INR rate means I really feel stupid haggling with the cycle-rickshaw driver for Rs. 20 off the fare. Regardless, I missed India – heat, dust, noise, lack of traffic rules and safety – all of it. The tricolor flying from every other street was a treat to watch.

My sister doesn’t have time for pleasantries – she is a president (of the LSR Dance Society, but as busy as any president). I set off to Lajpat Nagar to fulfil whatever Instagram-fueled desi aesthetic dreams I had in mind. No-where in India or outside have I seen such a wide selection of in-fashion, superbly stitched and embroidered, quality clothing. Ahmedabad’s Lal Darwaja market had a good shot, but the designs were mostly local, and jewelry was better there. Rows and alleys full of shopkeepers giving lifetime guarantees on material and color bleeding which they know no-one is going to come back to cash.

I asked the owner of Ragini Readymade on where to get chai, but Indian hospitality meant I was forced to sit there, to share a cup and a conversation. On hearing my coordinates, he beams that his daughter works in Kochi as a computer science engineer and asks me if INR 17 is the exchange rate right now (it is, for the Malaysian Ringgit). He promises me that India will also develop thanks to Modi-ji, who will be succeeded in 2029 by another BJP top brass. Our problems will all be solved by 2035 in his 10-year future blueprint, and I must admit the hypnotic sway our PM has on the average Indian is enviable.

Boarding in the GSB (i.e. Konkani) residence hall means at every meal I hear a variation of “oh and where are you from?” or “my uncle’s sister-in-law’s nephew is related to you” or “Singapore is smaller than Mangalore district, right?”. In the midst of all that nodding and smiling, I was grateful to find this little sense of community. To be spoken to in my mother tongue, to eat food that even my oldest memory can recognize.  

What exactly is a community? MBA textbook definitions aside, I feel it is culture, a set of common practices and values that defines a community – and can be any community, not just the ones you are born into. The community of cricket/ football fans, of hikers and marathon-runners, even the community of bankers. God knows I can’t follow one sentence in a group of IT specialists but can feel a Microsoft Excel keyboard shortcut joke in my soul.  Sometimes, or even most times, these communities tend to be exclusionary. As I was speaking to a Korean junior, she mentioned how it’s impossible for women to do sales in Korea. There are daily evening drinks to go to and golf to play on weekend mornings i.e. a highly involved social relationship to build that a woman (especially with family responsibilities) just won’t be able to. Even if she wants to, given how “boy’s club” the environment is likely to be, she won’t feel comfortable partaking in it. The many layers of gender-based asymmetries we face across the world, regardless of economic development.

While I only have hope and no 10-year plan on how to solve it all, I am quite happy to focus on the pretty things for now. The architectural and historical marvels, the delicious food, the gorgeous jhumkas and elegant juttis, the flowy anarkalis and of course, my sister, who decides on a classic delicacy at Haldiram’s, looks at me and goes “oh, I have to pay or what?”