Delhi, 3.may.99

Although in general I do adore big cities, I really only came to Delhi for
one reason:  to visit the Reserve Bank of India, with the goal of
obtaining one complete set of pristine, crisp, freshly minted rupee notes.
And lest you find it extreme that I journey so far to accomplish this
purpose, let me assure you:  nowhere else in this entire enormous nation
am I likely to find clean notes for my collection.  The condition of
Indian currency is typically apalling, often no more than tatters and
tape, icons and images degraded to the point of unrecognizability from
passing through a billion hands and pockets, proving the representative,
rather than intrinsic, value of banknotes as a species.  More than a few
times I've stood waiting at some restaurant or shop counter while the
proprietor has gone fishing in his pockets and drawers for the other half
of a five rupee note he intends to give me as change.  I've heard people
in other countries refer to coins as "shrapnel," but here the lower notes,
which are being slowly supplanted by newly minted coins, appear to be the
victims of shrapnel attack in the physical sense as well.

And so, this early afternoon after my morning coffee, I applied myself to
this quest and caught a rickshaw (driven by a septuagenarian seikh, and
with "I LOVE TEQUILA" painted in florid letters on the back) to the bank.
I beeped as i passed through that institution's gateway metal detector.
"Camera?" asked the guard.  "No camera," I told him.  "And no revolver?"
he demanded.  "No revolver," I replied.  "OK," he said, and I was in.
From that point on it was all relatively simple.  I approcahed the first
open window and explained my business, and the woman there directed me to
the appropriate counter.  Crossing to it and again explaining what I
sought, I was again directed to a different "appropriate counter."  Six
appropriate counters and explainations later, at, in fact, the third
counter I had already visited (which existed for the sole purpose of
exchanging damaged notes for newer ones), I found myself in possession of
a complete mint set of the paper of the realm.  I may be the only person
in all of India who has such an item.  I fetished it for a moment,
carefully tucked it betwen the pages of a thick book I had with me, and
headed back out into the bright day.

Finding another rickshaw driver, I asked to be taken home.  "30 rupees,"
he said.  This I was ready for.  "You say 30 rupees, I say 20 rupees, 25
rupees,"  I told him.  He smiled and in I climbed.  That was easy:  often
i need to walk away before he calls me back and says OK, for which service
I deduct 5 rupees from my offer, receiving a resigned nod of acceptance
from the driver, or else walking away again.  I charge for arguing.  It's
part of the game.  20 rupees is still more than the locals would pay, and
the conversion math never even enters the picture.  After the fact, 5
rupees isn't worth arguing over, but before, during the negotiation, I'd
stake the world on no money at all.

There are other games, too.  "Sorry, no change, I owe you one rupee next
time, "the man says.  Yeah right.  I smile at him knowingly.  He grins.  I
walk away.  Of course I'm being ripped off, but I'm being ripped off for
really no money at all.  But this gives me the opportunity to gloat
magnanimously and feel above it, it gives him one rupee he didn't earn,
and everyone is therefore satisfied:  at this rate I get to gloat in
superiority 42 times for one dollar:  a bargain indeed.  I'm owed one
rupee all over town.

Because the fact is that by any tourist standard, India is cheap.  It's
truly difficult to spend big money here.  Never doing much math, I simply
argue over every non-pre-printed price, only pausing to convert to dollars
when the amounts get over a few hundred rupees... which they rarely do.
This is a country where cheap approcahes free.  Free to take any item off
any shelf.  Free to go wherever i choose.  Free.  And at the end of the
day, "wow, I spent five dollars"  -- freely.  And paying, often, inflated
prices as well.  Everybody's happy.

Except the beggars, that is.  That's a trick situation.  There are simply
too many to give to all of them, and reports that in the big cities you'd
only be giving to the mafias that farm the beggars are reasonably well
substantiated.  In smaller villages the disabled are often cared for by
their families or the community, so how do you decide where to give?  Not
in tourist areas, that's for sure:  those people are professionals.  But
if a beggar is clearly not a high-volume pro, how can you expect just a
rupee or two to make much difference?  In these cases it seems better to
give enough for a simple meal, or even better, I sometimes give away
bananas or oranges to people who ask me for money.  I've even toyed with
the idea of picking one worthy-looking soul, and giving 500 rupees in one
go, a huge sum by local standards, easily enough for a month... but I
haven't taken that plunge yet.  But I do think it's good to choose one
mendicant from the crowd and give him a little money every day, as long as
I remain in town.  It seems nicer that way to me, a sort of relationship,
more personal, and human.  But you must be careful who you pick.  In one
memorable instance, a boy approached to pseudo-beg, that is, trying to
sell us something of no value, in that case a small bag of mothballs for
which he wanted five rupees.  We said no, upon which he burst, quite
tragically, into tears.  He was maybe ten years old.  But we had said no,
and stuck to no, surprised at his emotion... after all, he must be turned
down all the time.  Still, it bothered us afterwards.  A few days later we
encountered him again.  He didn't recognize us, offered us his mothballs
again, and then AGAIN burst out crying.  Tears on tap!  This time it made
us angry, his attempt at manipulation.  You've got to be careful.  I
wonder how much he makes that way.

Money is strange.  It can be a blessing, a weapon, a curse, a tool.  It
can separate people, or bring them togetrher.  It is at its best a
representation of effort, at worst the spoils of abuse.  In itself it
seems a purely ethereal asset, supervening on the physical world in so
many ways, but but still more gaseous than liquid, and rarely if ever
solid.  And here in India, so little becomes so much.  Its flexibility
staggers the mind.  And now, from India, I have a complete set which
suddenly ceases to be money at all, but only beautiful paper in a
collection.  I am happy.  (And so is my rickshaw driver.)