Kishore Singh: My family and other émigrés

Three decades ago, when my parents shipped me off trunk, holdall and bed to the capital, there were few friends in the city, and no family, from whom to scavenge meals or borrow rent money. The height of influence then was knowing anyone who could get us into Ghungroo, or Number One, on the strength of an assurance that we wouldn’t get drunk, throw up or otherwise embarrass our host. We could count on the occasional hospitality of colleagues, landlords sometimes let us use their telephone and on rare occasions invited us to watch television, but mostly we were on our own. Knowing people who mattered was not assumed automatically to get us a membership to the Gymkhana, but it could result in an interview with the friend’s uncle who ran an advertising agency.
 

Each decade since has seen the migration of cousins, nephews and nieces to New Delhi intent on education, careers and a good life — not necessarily in that order. Those early refugees sought long-term bed and board, provided reluctantly by my wife during our austerity years, thereafter to be brought up in every discussion where family slander was exchanged. Did I remember my cousin who’d stayed a couple of months, had a gargantuan appetite, and refused to do his own laundry? As much, I’d acquiesce, as the cousin-in-law who purloined hidden bottles of scotch intended in those days of scarcity for a visiting parent, or the boss. The second- (or third-) hand car we’d acquired on borrowed company funds broke down frequently from all the ferrying and fetching.

The following generation didn’t require a roof over their heads as much as “connections”, hoping to bypass everything from college admissions to job applications based on our arc of influence. Surely, we knew the dean? What did we mean we couldn’t put in a word, the whole point of knowing a politician, or bureaucrat, or head of a company, was to leverage acquaintanceship for gain? “It’s called networking, bro,” exasperated relatives would say, “go on, make the call.” More domestic battles followed: how had I managed an internship for my sister’s sister-in-law’s son but not bothered to speak to the manager regarding the poor perks the company was giving her sister-in-law’s sister’s son?

The current tranche of family émigrés is better networked, dependent not so much on goodwill as graft. Buying a car? They’ll know to leverage the best discount. Need a loan? The financial consultant was a buddy’s buddy in school, don’t worry a mite. Checking out an iPhone? “Hmm, let’s see how you can avoid duty…” As a result of their networking, they’ve reduced us to mere cogs in the vast wheel of Delhi. No sooner than we let slip that a friend’s friend is a liquor importer, and you can count on them to post a demand for a case of scotch at wholesale rates, never mind that it’s probably illegal — while also spreading the good word around till everybody we know has also called with enough requests to stock a warehouse. Nor do they have any patience with my reluctance to call for favours, capable of doing it themselves on the basis of the number they’ve purloined off my mobile when I wasn’t looking. Not that they’re ungrateful. The bottle of cognac or after-shave they generously brought along when coming for dinner is probably a “reward” for a convenient “introduction”, and just as likely brought at a below-market discount from a friend in duty-free — but do I really need the details?