The man reclining on the white art deco sofa was a picture of world-weary elegance. He had a transatlantic drawl, wore a designer shirt (Christian Dior, not Charagh Din) lived in a designer penthouse somewhere in south Mumbai, and had a designer wife who wafted around their new apartment with the corners of her scarlet mouth pulled permanently down. They had left behind a four bedroom house in the States for this 4,000 square feet, developing world duplex, you see, and the missus was still trying to get over the shock. He was Punjabi -- Delhi born, Havard educated, and a senior executive at a global asset management firm in Boston. So when the company opened an India office, the director naturally chose him to head it. "But everything here is so effing backward. You know what I mean?" I nodded as suavely as I could, while the painted mouth by his side suddenly split open and yawned. "Well, I'm turning in," she said. "Toodle loo. Try not to come to bed drunk, darling." Her husband didn't even flinch. "As I was saying," he continued, taking a swig of his second single malt. "All effing backward." At work, his employees were the same. Unprofessional. Slovenly. Downright Stupid. And they were MBAs, mind, pah! No standard at all. Now, if only those jerks had been to a good business school in the States... not the West Coast colleges of course, no self-respecting guy ever graduated from West Coast institutes. A significant pause, as he mulled deeply over the contents of his glass. "But I guess the good thing about Indians is that they have no pride. You can hire the bastards and fire them. You know what I mean?" I nodded suavely. The doorbell rang and a young man walked in. "Ah, Raj," drawled my host languidly. And to me: "Raj is the head of our marketing department... Care for a cigar?" I refused. "Oh yeah, thanks," said the newcomer eagerly, his accent hovering uncertainly between Chennai and Chicago. The boss extracted one from a slim gold case, clipped it expertly with a little gold clipper and took a deep drag before pushing both case and clipper towards the young man. "As I was saying, what people here need is good education." I glanced covertly at Raj and realised that he had no idea what he was supposed to do with that little gold gizmo. "...education and exposure. Indians need to travel around, go abroad, learn what life is all about..." Raj took a deep breath -- and clipped. Almost instantly, a gush of dark red blood oozed from his thumb and fell on the Persian carpet. Mr Global Assets looked at it coldly. "See what I mean?" he crowed triumphantly. "Can't even light an effing cigar!" When Raj left to nurse his thumb (and ego) in the 'washroom' the conversation suddenly turned towards me. "So," said our man pouring himself his eighth (nineth?) drink. "What do you do for a living?" I told him I ran a small family business in downtown Mumbai. "And are you married?" Yes. "So where is your wife?" I explained that she was laid up in bed because of a difficult pregnancy. My host looked at me and shook his heart sadly. "God!" he said at last. "That's such an effing Indian thing to do!" Nadar Parakh, an MBA himself, also contributes travel features to rediff.com illustration: Dominic Xavier.
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