The professional do-gooder

Delhi used to be a village before it binged on steroids to become a megapolis which, some say, still isn’t cosmopolitan, and no one exemplifies this more than the “connected” Dilliwalla. This is the Delhi boy who went to school in Delhi, whose buddies are now bureaucrats, or heads of companies, or hotels, who’s familiar with every nook and cranny of the city and not just its posh parts, and who can help to move stuck files, get club memberships, or open doors. He’s the one hogging conversations at friends’ homes, stuck to the bar in the institute, unmindful of the queue in the sarkari office, and runs his business from his car. He knows the land rates for most colonies, can produce sources to help with emergency visas, and is the person you want to sit next to in a shaadi to ensure whisky-on-tap. 

To mistake him for a wheeler-dealer would be an injustice for he’s socially networked. He probably played football in school and was captain of the cricket team in college. He’s kept up that camaraderie and is a fund of stories about names and faces in the public space. He’s likely to have set up a factory — now defunct — in a remote part of the country where a school pal’s father is a political bigwig. He’ll know the top cop, his “best friend’s best friend” will have the inner view on upcoming projects and developments, and it’s a cinch that he deals in real estate.

We don’t always acknowledge our need for people who help us negotiate the corridors of power, calling on them only in our hour of need, but they don’t seem to overly-much mind it. They appear magically by your side just when you’re stuck over some senseless government notification, or with an overzealous babu. But they’re no touts and will be insulted if you offer them “a little token” for services rendered. What they prefer is gratitude, and the power that wields over you so you’re eager to return the favour by helping out through rendering a perfectly legitimate, ethical service. 

Maybe it’s my imagination but recent times seem to have seen a spike in their public appearance. Here’s a hint that elections are round the corner, deals need to be made, old favours called. Most of them seem to lead a decent enough family life with wives who are at least as social, and children who’re — surprisingly — likely to be professionals rather than living off their apparently rich dads. That they’re genuinely well-meaning guys who seem to care about getting things done may be less far-fetched than it at first seems. I know someone who handled my paperwork for a complicated real-estate service where the papers were lost, involving standing in queues, monitoring the legalese, and ensuring the arrival of the final clearances, with absolutely no regard for gratification. Nor did he accept any payment when everything was sorted and done.

You’d expect them to mock our vulnerabilities, our inability to get our own paperwork done, our withdrawal when faced with the imponderables of the mighty state. But they’ll stand beside you like a rock, making demands only when required. There’s a downside though. They can drink, and drink like fish. Having recently spent a few evenings in their august company, entertained by their indulgence over Patiala-pegs that disappear before each anecdote is recited, I’m recusing myself from the party circuit for a while. Keeping up with professional do-gooders is exhausting for my health.