Sub-Continental Despairs and Delights: Photos

A view of the back of the School from the Temple Hill (the 'school village' is just visible on the RHS)













Sunday Races in the Members- Pune Style:
Funky young things in the foreground, track workers in the background














Trackside (L-R): Eliza, Chris, Cam, Charlie, Bruce, Sally, Elspeth















A typical Indian reaction to the winner passing the post













The inaugrual Father's Day at the Races

Sub-Continental Despairs and Delights: The FRO and the PRC

How can a place be simultaneously absolutely infuriating and endearing? I have never felt compelled to laugh and cry at least on a daily, if not hourly, basis at any other stage in my life. This place….. If I was ever apprehensive about the volatile potency of India in the event it actually achieves super power status, any such concerns have long since dissipated with the dawning realization that India does indeed more closely resemble a lumbering elephant than a sprinting tiger. It is quite possible that in order to patent even the cardboard box storing the switch for a nuclear device you would need to apply for 47 separate permits each requiring 115 different stamps located in 8 unrelated offices spread over the city with official opening ‘timings’ of 2 hours and actual opening times of 30 minutes.

From the outset of our time here, we have been regularly advised by those born and bred in India that we, as westerners, will find four local tendencies particularly challenging: the lack of initiative, the lack of accountability; the lack of transparency; and the lack of incentive to work efficiently. While the absence of the first three traits in many Punites constantly tries my patience, I empathize completely with what appears to be a national consensus to achieve as little as possible with the maximum amount of people over the longest period of time available. This is a place where there will never be a shortage of labour; where wages and general working conditions are appalling by international standards; and where socializing and minding other peoples’ business take priority over all else. The average Indian labourer is never going to earn enough to ‘live it up’ during their half day off per week, so why not make work time as enjoyable as possible? Friends and family tag along to run errands or keep an eye on children and if the conditions are amenable, many bring their homes to work as well. On our school site behind the tennis courts there is a cluster of dwellings closely resembling a village with at least 60 homes, 2 general stores and what appears to be a town hall or communal meeting room. The shacks are powered by rigged up wiring systems that leach the school’s supply and a fresh water spring has been fashioned with left over rubble and building materials to provide the occupants with somewhere to bathe and wash (Okay, the locals are very good at taking initiative when the results directly benefit them and theirs). Undoubtedly many of the workers on site reside here as do their extended families. In such an oppressed society, this apparently ‘all in’ approach to work makes sense and it is an ingenious and admirable means of improving the quality of life in otherwise often intolerable circumstances.

Of course this ‘work is incidental to employment’ philosophy can only flourish when no one accepts responsibility for anything or anyone and very few are prepared to take initiative for the greater good, even in the most obvious circumstances. Should unidentified, itinerate workers and their second cousins’ brothers be living within the confines of a school that hosts boarders as young as ten years? I do not think so. But I do know there is no one at this school who would take responsibility if any of these nameless occupants proved to be a problem. ‘Well,” I hear you saying, “Why don’t some of the international staff insist on the implementation of a process wherein all occupants of this site are identified and approved?” That will not happen for two reasons, the first being that the task would need to be undertaken by an Indian because many Indians consider themselves only answerable to other Indians, preferably male Indians usually one rung above them, and therefore no workers would co-operate with the International staff, even the principal of the School that employs them. Secondly, the presence of this village was not anticipated by the employers so no Indian employed here would consider this to be their responsibility and why exercise any initiative when a) you might get into trouble for stepping outside your defined role and b) there is no direct benefit to you and yours? However, to appease the parents, there are guards at the front gate who diligently interrogate everyone who enters and exits there. Chris and I can not leave the premises with our own children unless the driver promises the guard that Mr Singh or Mr Loconda has given us permission and Jenny, one of the parents, was quizzed on 5 consecutive days about her business with the school. Of course the guards do not question any of the locals who enter via the back gate with their cows to graze in the outer grounds or the young men who jump the fence 20 meters down from the front entrance because that would require them to use their initiative and make the leap that they are actually employed to ascertain the identity of anyone who enters the grounds, not just those who use the main entrance. It would also require them to leave their radio and their friends and walk over to the intruder. Not a chance.

This is not to say the guards are unpleasant to deal with, they are very polite and friendly. They are more than happy to rush over if they see me heading towards the gate with Sebastian in the pram, because the opportunity to pinch a baby’s cheek justifies even a 50 metre sprint away from post. Although apparently I am forbidden to take him past the end of the driveway. Not that anyone has actually told me I can not do this. It is just that I am always persuaded with gentle but emphatic persistence to turn the pram around as soon as driveway meets road.

I, on the other hand, can wander the length of the road to Lohagaon without discouragement, but I am offered countless lifts in cars, trucks and on bikes along the 2 kilometre stretch because Indians are incredibly charming and gracious and hospitable. If you had told me 6 months ago I would accept a lift from a complete stranger on a motorbike and proceed to ride sidesaddle and helmet less behind him clutching only the back of the seat because hand to torso contact is not appropriate, I would have giggled incredulously. However, on a hot afternoon with a backpack of fruit trudging up a road that has only one destination – the school, refusing an invitation to climb aboard from someone who clearly has business with the school seems not only senseless, it is embarrassingly impolite. Initially, I thought it wise to refuse, but I was met with such offended astonishment, I really felt I had no option but to accept. Now, if a passing motorist does not appear to be slowing as they approach, I tend to wave them down! All the same, I am looking forward to the arrival of our Honda Activa scooter and my funky purple helmet at the end of the month (hopefully). I appear to have digressed…

The British Raj introduced oily western bureaucracy to this watery eastern land and the two, while continuing to co-exist, have failed to combine with any success. Using the rock, paper, scissor analogy with the rock representing the goal, the paper representing the process and the scissors representing common sense; in India, paper wraps rock and paper wraps scissors. Whether rock blunts scissors or scissors cut rock will never be determined here because paper blocks the path of each to the other and prevails in all circumstances. To gain an immediate understanding of the all-encompassing inefficiency of this country’s processes, you need only enter a government office. We have had the misfortune of frequenting the Foreign Registration Office (FRO) in Pune on no less than 3 occasions in the past week and as I write this, we have still not accomplished what we set out to achieve. That is, the requisite registration of the children and I as foreigners. Chris’ registration was effected by the group several weeks ago but for reasons not worth exploring here, our applications remained in the drawer at the office. In any event, now we have moved to site, Chris’ application requires amendment to reflect the new address. Three other Australian staff managed what can now only be described as a miraculous achievement last weekend when they succeeded in having their registrations updated within an hour with the assistance of Mr Jossi, an ‘employee’ of the School, who was very friendly with the government staff member on duty. Despite all the crowds and confusion of the FRO, Mr Jossi bounced from counter to counter getting ticks and stamps in all the right places while scores of bewildered foreigners turned circles around the room futilely trying to join non-existent queues to unstaffed counters. Heartened by Mr Jossi’s success and apparent influence at the FRO, I immediately booked him to assist the children and I in gaining our registration. I encouraged Chris and Cameron to update theirs at the same time.

We set out one morning for the FRO having confirmed our rendezvous with Mr Jossi at 10 o’clock sharp. The FRO is only open for 2 hours between 10am and noon on weekdays and for 3 hours on Saturdays. When we arrived at 9.50am, the room was already filling with foreigners all attempting to make sense of the ancient directions on the door which describe the respective purposes of 7 counters allegedly contained therein. In truth there are not 7 counters, there are only 3 as well as an internal office where the ‘Commissioner’ sits, but the only person I ever spied in there was the cleaner. On every available shelf and on much of the floor, thousands of processed applications are haphazardly stacked, often bound in grubby calico. There are no features distinguishing one sloppy pile from the next and locating any single previously processed application must surely be impossible. I am confident if I had been minded to depart the premises with a couple of hundred applications tucked under my arm, no one would have stopped me, nor would anyone have ever missed them for that matter. At 10.25am there was still no sign of Mr Jossi, or of any FRO staff but the room kept filling with more dazed applicants. There were no visible instructions indicating how or where to proceed and as none of the counters are labeled, the occupants milled around the room hovering expectedly as they moved past each counter in the hope they would be closest to an emerging staff member when the music stopped.

At 10.30am, a staff member nonchalantly strolled across the room to the counter where we had propped ourselves (having been there on the previous Saturday, I had noted this was where most of the action was, and took a punt and stood there from the outset, much to the annoyance of the virgin applicants who would know better next time, because there always is a next time). The staff member casually wiped down his desk and re-arranged his stamps and pencils, never looking up. After a while I started to explain to him why we were there, he glanced up and upon observing my fistful of applications he apparently concluded I was going to bring too much work and said, “Come back at 4.30pm and I will do it then” which was clearly untrue as the office would be shut. When I queried why he couldn’t do it then, he held his phone to his ear for 3 seconds and then said, “I have spoken to my boss, he will be down to see you in a minute, take a seat”. While it occurred to me 10 seconds later that he had only pretended to make a phone call and that leaving that counter was a huge mistake, I am in the habit of taking people at their word which is ridiculously naïve in India.

After a while, Chris decided to join the end of what could have been a queue back to the counter, all the while earnestly dialing Mr Jossi who was refusing to answer his phone. Of course, it was not a queue, it was merely a line of wet-eared foreigners who had not yet realized that the only way to be served at the counter was to push your way to the front, shove your documents under the staff member’s nose and speak over the top of whoever was attempting to be served. An American sitting opposite me said, “Tell him, there is no point in lining up, he will never get served.” He then added in a slightly agitated squeak, “I am trying to get my visa extended and this is my 8^th trip back.” Chris later said that if we were in a cartoon, the American would have been the guy in the corner covered in cobwebs.

The ever optimistic Cameron swaggered over to the first counter where a second member of staff was now sitting reading a newspaper. In any other office in any other part of the world it is highly likely that Cam’s laconic charm may have held some sway, but not here. His, “G’day, I was wondering if you could help me?” did not even result in an upward glance from the FRO employee who was thoroughly engrossed in the ‘matrimonials’ section of his paper. Not deterred, Cameron dropped his application onto the page occupying the officer’s attention only to have it handed straight back to him accompanied by a dismissive grunt directing Cam to the rural office because of the location of the school. Mr Jossi appeared at this point, only 45 minutes late and mumbling something about bad traffic. He quickly intervened telling the officer that on the previous Saturday he had gone to Mr X who had changed the forms immediately without requiring anyone to attend the rural office. The FRO employee agreed that Mr Jossi’s friend Mr X had been working the previous Saturday and he did not appear surprised that Mr X had altered the other applications without fuss. However he was not prepared to do the same, even though the requisite stamp was sitting right in front of him because technically we should utilize the identical stamp located at the rural office. To his credit, Mr Jossi persisted with both staff members for some time but he ultimately failed to exercise any influence on our behalf. He advised we would need to go to the rural office which for some inexplicable reason was neither located rurally nor anywhere near this main FRO. The rural FRO was located on the other side of town, at least an hour of potholes away, and by this stage it was 11.30am and Chris and Cameron were both supposed to be at work. Mr Jossi took the matter in hand and advised he would call us once he knew what was going on.

Chris called Mr Jossi the following day and discovered that we needed to go back to the main FRO, apparently not the rural FRO after all, and this time present the children. Mr Jossi indicated he had made an appointment for us with the Commissioner at 9.30am the following morning. We arrived at the FRO at 9.30am with our 4 children and discovered a completely empty office. By 10.40am, the two staff members who manned the counters were at their desks reading film reviews and the room was throbbing with countless frustrated foreigners, most of whom we were now on first name terms with. We all exchanged knowing glances as fresh faced internationals searched in vain for queues and procedures. At 11.00am, Mr Jossi appeared only 90 minutes late and mumbling something about a tyre puncture while desperately trying to raise a smile from our slumped, bored children. The Commissioner never emerged and as Mr Jossi held each of our children in turn at the counter, the FRO officer stubbornly refused to look up from an expose on Preity Zinta. Rather than dragging our children out of class and home, we might have easily crossed the road to Nucleus Mall and rounded up any 4 western children to pass as our own for all the notice that was taken of them. Mr Jossi then sent us on our way and we wait in hope…..

(As a post script to our FRO adventure, I was reading in the paper the other day that many foreign students have to bribe the FRO officers to have their applications processed. In hindsight, perhaps I was invited to ‘unofficially’ attend the office at 4.30pm with an open mind and an open wallet, but this opportunity to bribe the staff member was wasted on me, I didn’t get it!)

This country is a land of extremes so in a week when we were very close to throwing up our hands and heading home we should not have been surprised by the complete about face we experienced after a day at the races. The racing season commenced in Pune several weeks ago and we had received good reports from those of us who had attended earlier meetings. All the same, we had driven past the Pune Race Course (PRC) many times in the hotter months and saw only a dusty dirty track used regularly by the locals for their early morning constitutionals. We expected to arrive at a shabby, tired country course and were delighted to discover Flemington, circa 1920, albeit on a smaller scale. We were readily admitted to the members’ enclosure with the only requirements being a shirt and tie for Chris. We paid the equivalent of $5 for each adult and 70 cents for each child. If we had gone into the outer we would have been out of pocket to the tune of $2 in total.

The Pune Race Course is a well maintained venue clearly finding its origins in the period of British occupancy. The layout is so reminiscent of Flemington that I did double take as we passed the gate to the public enclosure. The spacious public grandstand is situated immediately in front of the winning post. The sturdy white timber structure comprises ample seating and shade for all while providing an unobstructed view of the straight. Next to the stand is the gate to the members and having passed under a hedged arch, we were greeted by a lovely stretch of emerald lawn lounging elegantly between the railings and the refreshment terrace. Umbrellaed tables are dotted over the lawn with distinguished waiters in black tie moving gracefully between them attending to the gastronomical requirements of the patrons. There are also ‘Tote Runners’ replete with gold sashes who ensure punters do not have to leave their seats to place a bet or collect. The terrace provides further, more formal seating as well as a bar, bistro and Tote. Even the toilets, sorry “cloakrooms” bespoke the charms of a bygone era coyly providing visitors with option of ‘Indian style’ or conventional conveniences. Between each race, the track is inspected and attended to by track walkers who mallet and tread divots of grass back into position, strolling casually towards the post in a manner reminiscent of a gentile game of croquet, remaining immaculate all the while in their saris and kurtas.

It is a curious matter to us that the races are not more patronized by the locals. There are few lovelier places in Pune and while adult admission to the members’ is pretty steep at 160 rupees, it is significantly less that the 250 rupees an adult would pay to enter a local water park. More surprising is the general lack of vigor displayed by those locals who do attend. The public patrons cheer with reservation as the winners past the post and the members do not move from their doilied tables in the terrace. In a country where cricket is worshipped with religious fervour, horse racing appears to be afforded officious respect and restraint. Even when we attended the auspicious Panchshil Million Meet on Father’s Day, an event where everyone who was anyone in Pune was present, a subdued atmosphere hung over the exclusive, fully catered, glamorous model filled, invitational function.

Nonetheless, racing at Pune is sublime and we absolutely love it. We have all backed a few winners and are beginning to master the often incomprehensible racing guides that provide detailed accounts of how often a horse was whipped in the straight in its last run but interestingly not where it placed. The atmosphere is friendly and we often run into parents from the school, so we justify our frequent attendance as necessary networking. The special Sunday meetings are well attended by the funky young set who abandon traditional attire for floaty, short skirts and skinny suits (although I have only spotted one hat – which is not surprising because most Indians favour flowing hair over any type of hat in all circumstances). Our children remain content for hours with fizzy drinks, tasty treats and flutters on their favorite horses. Chris argues he is teaching them a valuable lesson in responsible betting like his father taught him! Pearls such as, “Never throw good money after bad” and “Only bet what you can afford to lose” are liberally dispensed. They are certainly realizing that when you hand over rupees at a race track, you rarely see them again. Sebastian is happy to potter in the soft grass and suck on salty chips in between cuddles from middle-class Indian matrons. The members’ enclosure is neatly contained and small enough that we never lose sight of our relatively fair-headed offspring and to date, Charlie has found no holes to disappear through. Such was our enjoyment last Sunday, we have decided upon a new family tradition of attending a race meeting every Father’s Day hereafter.