When billionaires fall out

They do things big in India: big mountains, big buildings, big moustaches. They also do big family squabbles that, luckily, spill out into the public arena for all to enjoy.

Currently occupying India's business media, as well as a large proportion of its legal profession, is the fraternal spat between two of the country's top businessmen, the billionaire brothers Mukesh and Anil Ambani.

Put together the two practically are India. Mukesh - the elder - runs India's largest company, Reliance Industries. At heart it's an oil firm, but the conglomerate runs to selling everything from clothes to vegetables. For his part, Anil likes to dabble in a little bit of everything with his Reliance Anil Dhirubhai Ambani Group. You name it and Anil probably sells it to you - films, radio, insurance, telecommunications, energy.

It's this last one that's causing India's legal eagles to lick their lips as the two brothers go toe to toe in the Supreme Court over a family agreement the two signed when they divvied up the spoils of their late father's business empire.

Anil says the agreement promises one of his companies, Reliance Natural Resources, the right to buy gas from big bro's gas field at a price that's almost half the rate Mukesh can get elsewhere. Confronted with this by his little brother, Mukesh's response was to (and I'm paraphrasing here) raise his hands and say: "Hey bro, the government sets the price I sell at, not me. I can't do anything about it."

Anil said: "I'll see you in court."

Since then the case has been grinding its way through the torturous Indian legal system. It's already been heard by the Bombay High Court, which found that Mukesh really should be selling gas to his little brother at the agreed price.
Mukesh said: "I'll see you in the Supreme Court."

Proceedings there weren't helped any when, a few weeks into the hearing, one of the judges put up his hand and asked to be excused because he'd just learned that his daughter's law firm was an advisor to one of the parties. It seems no-one at her firm had twigged that (a) they did business with the country's biggest company and that (b) one of their staff had a Supreme Court judge for a dad. A new judge was sworn in and the hearing started over.

During all this the Indian government must have been feeling like the redheaded stepchild at a wedding because it eventually decided enough was enough and it wasn't going to let two of the country's industrial heavyweights get all the media attention. It joined the case saying it owned the gas in the first place and wasn't going to be ignored any longer.

A case that involves Ambani versus Ambani and Reliance versus Reliance can get a little confusing for even the sharpest minds. So it's probably not surprising that the government's lawyer forgot he was in India and thought he was in, say, China or Soviet Russia when he told the court recently that "private arrangements should be overwritten by government policy".

That's good to know.

Where the case will go is anyone's guess. There was talk at one stage that the brothers had got together and sorted out a new arrangement, which isn't beyond the realms of possibility. Their mother, Kokilaben, brokered the original deal and it would be fascinating to know what she thinks of the public saga.

However, even if the two brothers do reach a truce you can bet the case will still be in court if the government doesn't like the outcome.

After all, private arrangements should be overwritten by government policy.

Plenty to see and hear and feel yet in Old Delhi

Walking around Old Delhi can be like being in a Dickensian version of Ulysses. All five senses get such a constant workout that the brain’s only option is to hit record on its own organic VCR, go to sleep and hope to deal with all that shit later over several stiff drinks in a quiet bar.

Being in the area on one of India’s many festival days leaves those same senses feeling as though they’ve not only had a workout, they’ve signed up for a year-long personal training session with a sadistic prick who was thrown out of the SAS for being a little too on the crazy side of the ledger.

I knew we weren’t in Kansas anymore when a huge blue guy with a comedy beard started waving a sword about, surrounded by blokes playing drums and trumpets while an overly decorated cow gobbed a huge wad of spit at passers-by.

Meanwhile, a huge monkey with enormous teeth and even bigger balls leapt from balcony to balcony looking as though he was spoiling for a fight, although it wasn’t clear with who or what. Perhaps the cow was in for it.

The shops below were festooned with brilliantly coloured signs advertising “world’s largest fireworks”. Next to them were tacked small, hand-drawn signs pleading “No Smoking”. On the street stood buckets of sand and water - no match for the conflagration that would ensue if the monkey above decided to light up after showing the cow who was boss.

Street vendors carried enormous displays of face masks, where the Hindu monkey god Hanuman shared rack space with Mickey Mouse. Their colleagues sold whistles that sounded like babies crying, a huge hit with the hordes of children running about trying to catch the arrows being fired from another Hindu god on a passing float.

Finally, sweet relief in a side street drinking from a clay cup. Cool and calming, the sweet youghurt was sublime, and the antithesis of its surroundings. More foodstuffs, this time parathas - fried bread, really - from another street-side outlet in a smoky corner where packs of female police officers in khaki saris and berets giggled and jostled their way through the crowd. The restaurant, doing a roaring trade, was packed with young twenty-somethings who could be auditioning for a Bollywood film.

Then, a traffic jam of cycle rickshaws - the quietest and least smoggy traffic jam I’ve been in - outside a Sikh temple, where the devout were crowding to get in while two men watched the street quietly from a balcony above. Across the road a sign advertised “Guru Nanak linen”.

Black tie in Delhi

I threw a lot of things into my backpack when I left Australia for India. Oddly, a dinner jacket was not on the packing list along with the dental floss and iPod. So when an invitation for a charity ball said "black tie" I was in a bit of a fix - the one and only suit I'd brought with me was certainly not going to cut the mustard at an event featuring the cream of Delhi's diplomatic crop. There was one caveat, which said that "national dress" was also appropriate. I stopped to think what "Australian national dress" might mean and was left with images of a beer-stained rugby jersey, shorts and flip flops. If the suit wasn't going to cut it, that outfit would get me arrested.

I needed a tuxedo.

If this wasn't India I'd simply present myself front and centre at a menswear store and hire an outfit for the night. This, however, is India so I was left with the problem of finding a thoroughly Western outfit in a thoroughly Indian city.

After a few inquiries it became clear that the only option available was to have the thing made, which would actually be cheaper than buying one back home, with the added advantage that no-one else would have done any unspeakable things in the trousers. Despite this, I was still left with the dilemma of finding an Indian tailor who was comfortable making a tuxedo.

Further enquiries turned up one name - Vaish. Ex-Savile row, decades of experience, quality service. He was the go-to man when you wanted a suit, and he did tuxedoes. Vaish was also surprisingly easy to find, despite my rather vague directions: Connaught Place, next to the cinema.

Inside was a modest store that looked like any other Indian tailor across the country, bolts of material, a few long tables and a bunch of blokes milling about. Luckily when it comes to a tuxedo your options as far as material (wool) and colour are pretty limited. Friends had advised - rather strongly - against a cream jacket a la Connery so I was left with the Henry Ford option, any colour so long as it was black.

After a quick but comprehensive measuring I was on my way, with an appointment card for a fitting in a few days. Happy that my sartorial situation was in hand I headed home, albeit with a nagging doubt that all was not quite right. Stories I'd head about Vaish didn't match with my own experience. There was no long involved process of material selection, nor was any tea offered. There were very few Italian wools on offer and there was definitely no certificates on the wall from Savile Row. I dismissed the worries out of hand.

"Come on," I said to myself, "how many tailors named Vaish can there be next to the cinema at Connaught Place?"

Two, as it turns out.

It's not uncommon in many parts of the world for someone to set up shop near a successful outlet and use a similar name. Open a successful restaurant called "Double Happy Lucky" in Hong Kong and pretty soon the street is knee-deep in restaurants named along similar lines, all hoping to cash in on clueless tourists clutching their guidebooks.

In my case I'd gone to D. Vaish next to the Regal cinema, not Vaish next to the PVR cinema. A call a few days later to the original Vaish confirmed my suspicions - Mr Vaish himself told me that they were in no way affiliated with the place I had gone to and he hoped I hadn't placed an order. He suggested I try to cancel and he would do his best to make good anything I'd lost.

It was a very generous offer but I declined as it was unfair to the original tailor and, anyway, from the first fitting I had they seemed to be doing a pretty decent job with the tuxedo. If I wasn't unhappy with their work, I could hardly complain that I hadn't done my research better.

So there you go, if you're looking for the original Vaish he's off Connaught Place next to the PVR cinema. D. Vaish is on Connaught Place next to the Regal cinema.

It's so far so good with the suit, although the final fitting and surviving the ball will be the true test - of the suit and myself.

Days with the Big B

For the past couple of months we've been enjoying the services of a fantastic driver who has been an invaluable asset, and not just for his intimate knowledge of Delhi's short cuts or his willingness to wait for us while we're at the Foreign Correspondents' Club. He's been brilliant dealing with household headaches such as getting hold of a gas bottle (a topic for later).

He normally works for another expat, but she's been away for an extended period and what started as a two-week treat for us has turned into a medium-term relationship.

Balbir and I spend a good hour or so in the car each day, which gives the two of us time to chat about the world and his hopes for his daughters and son. It also gives him the chance to regale me with dozens of anecdotes that keep me in stitches on the journey. While the stories are always fun, they can cause problems at times.

Running a little behind schedule one morning I was definitely on course to be late for work, a situation that wasn't being helped by one of Balbir's long anecdotes. When he tells a story he tends to slow down his driving, which is probably a good thing as he often uses both hands to illustrate his point - the best example being how some chefs often don't concentrate while chopping food (how we got on that topic is a long story). He demonstrated this by chopping with both hands on the steering wheel, an action that caused him to beep his horn repeatedly at the car in front. I was too busy looking for the other driver's reaction to realise the irony of not paying attention.

On this occasion, however, I couldn't bring myself to interrupt him and ask him to step on it to get to work on time, but I could only half concentrate on his story as I looked at the time and realised how late I was going to be. Not following can be tricky tho as Balbir will often throw in a quick question or two to test me.

Eventually he noticed the time. "Oh," he said, "we're late."

"Just a bit, it doesn't matter," I lied.

Balbir pursed his lips, adjusted himself in his seat and leaned on the accelerator. We were soon flying through Delhi's traffic, overtaking, undertaking and generally finding any gap in the road to squeeze through. I was at work earlier than usual.

But it's not always plain sailing.

For some unfathomable reason Balbir was supporting England throughout the recent Ashes campaign. To say I found this distressing, and a little puzzling, is to put a rather mild spin on things. With the Australians imploding on the field I would wait for Balbir to turn up, knowing what was coming. Often he would leave it a while, either forgetting that the cricket was on or waiting until he thought I'd been held in suspense long enough.

"England winning the cricket!" is how it usually began. Although, like a good bowler, he would sometimes alter his delivery and ask me if I knew what was happening in the cricket. As if he didn't know.

From there on it was a case of wicket-by-wicket replays of the day's events, each one causing me more distress as his delight become ever more obvious. It was bad enough having to suffer the slings and arrows of my English friends on Facebook and Twitter as Australia's batsmen gave away their wickets or the bowlers conceded runs by the dozen. It was doubly worse having to be on the receiving end on my commute - and paying for the privilege.

At first I put it down to Balbir perhaps thinking I was English and he just wanted to be on my side, but then I recalled numerous conversations about Australia and where my family live and other such minutiae. Surely he hadn't forgotten. After the fifth and deciding Test I finally asked him why he supported England.

It turned out a previous employer, an English guy, had thrown a party and invited Balbir along. So impressed was Balbir with the food, drink and hospitality that he decided he'd pray for England whenever they played.

"Maybe if you give me a party, I'll pray for Australia," he smiled.

If only I'd known that for the sake of a few beers and a BBQ Australia may still hold the Ashes.

Sorry guys.

Heart and soul of the nation

Television commercials really can sum up a country.

In Australia it’s beer ads where beefy blokes - or more likely these days, moisturised metrosexuals - enjoy life to the full on a diet of lager and sport. To be Australian is to be male and like a beer. In the UK I remember confectionary ads featuring a grandfather and his golden-haired grandson in an overly backlit and foggy-lensed world. The commercials were cloying, but people loved them anyway as they were a tradition. To be English was to be bound to you past, and like it.

In India, the commercials paint a somewhat different picture.

Odd as it may seem - and it seemed extremely odd to me when I first arrived - one of the country’s highest-selling products is a skin-whitening cream. While I come from a culture that abhors the pasty and celebrates the dark of skin, here the point is to be as pale as possible. Not only do commercials advertise the effective whitening properties of their creams, some come with their very own calibration card - you can measure your whiteness day by day.

Next to skin whiteners on the pharmacist’s shelf are hair strengthening solutions. I’m no hair dresser but it appears that Indian women have a particular problem with thinning hair. Watch television for more than a few minutes and you’ll see countless Indian women looking despondently at their brushes.

Along with dark skin and thinning hair, the third major worry of Indian women - according to advertising executives - is unexpectedly finding yourself in a family way. Take a moment to think how you might sell a morning-after pill. Go on, have a think. I’ll open another bottle and pop back when you’re done.

Now, you probably thought something along the lines of: “Morning after pill, eh? Bit of a sensitive one that. Perhaps best go with something a bit subtle where you don’t mention the product or what it does, just hint at it. Like a tampon ad.”

You probably didn’t think: “We put a man and woman in a hospital looking distraught, perhaps a close relative has just died or whatever she has is terminal. The woman drifts off into thoughts of the life she once knew: smiling, joking with friends, skiing. Back to reality and the inevitable, crushing news that they have just received. Enter the packet of morning after pills. Smiles break out, knowing nods are exchanged and we cut to a scene of the couple merrily schussing along.”

As Dave Barry would say: no, I am not making this up.

Clearly, if you’re a middle class Indian woman your biggest concerns in life are being dark, having thin hair and not being able to ski because your boyfriend was too cheap to buy the good condoms. And if these ads are anything to go by, the après-ski bars of the nation are full of pale, hirsute women with very relieved boyfriends.

Fun as these ads are to watch, I can’t really relate as I’m neither dark-skinned, thin-haired nor likely to find myself knocked up.

One that does hit home features a family somewhere in rural India sitting around doing rural Indian family-type stuff when suddenly the power goes out. Now, you don’t need to travel to the heart of India to find yourself without electricity, just spend a day in the capital city and you’ll enjoy the wonder that is 45º Celsius with no fans or air conditioning.

Upon the cessation of all electrical activities the protagonist of the commercial - variously a young boy or girl (there are a number of versions) - has an idea. A lightbulb probably should switch on over their head, but as there’s no power . . .

Sprinting out of the house and across India the child ends up on a hill overlooking a vast power station. Inside he (or she) meets a rather jolly, somewhat portly, mustachioed worker who listens to the child’s pleas, smiles knowingly and turns to throw a switch. A sort of Tinkerbell-esque ball of light emerges and jumps into our benevolent worker’s hands, which he then passes to the child.

Literally energised, our hero (or heroine) races back across country - holding the glowing ball of power - to the darkened house where Tinkerbell is released into the wiring to light up the place, much to the joy of the long-suffering inhabitants.

This commercial would be just another hackneyed collection of cliches if it didn’t carry one intriguing note. As the child stands on the hill, looking down upon the massive power station, a line of text appears at the bottom of the screen: “Artist’s impression”.

Of all the aspects of the commercial - the cross-country sprint, the friendly utilities worker, carrying electricity in your hands - I would think a view of a power station would be the least impressionistic aspect of those 30 seconds.

Which sort of sums up India for me most days - the stuff you expect to make sense rarely does and you find find yourself looking at things thinking: “What the fuck?”

New Delhi daze

There’s one thing worse than sitting in a sweltering office for weeks with the temperature hovering around 30º Celsius.

It’s sitting in a sweltering office with the temperature hovering around 30º Celsius after enjoying fresh, cold air conditioning for all of one day.

My new job - the one that brought us to New Delhi - is in a grandly named but not so grandly maintained office building in the centre of town. When I first heard that I’d be working at the World Trade Centre I imagined a sleek modern office building oozing with modernity. I pictured myself rubbing shoulders with a global cast of workers in classy eateries, drinking imported beers in slick bars and enjoying the comforts of a world class office.

What I got was a relic from the 1980s with one cafe, although it may be an insult to the French nation to call it a cafe, and no multinationals. The most global tenant sits next to the stationery stand - which sells far more Post-It notes than anyone could ever possibly need. Akbar’s World Of Travel promises exciting journeys to Goa and the Taj Mahal.

A sign on the wall by the (often non-functioning) lifts asking people not to dump rubbish or clean plates and utensils in the stairwell says it all.

“Not what I was expecting” would be a fair summation.

As mentioned above, the ambient air temperature in our office - which, I must admit, is very nicely appointed - sits around 30º C and isn’t the most comfortable place to spend nine hours of your day. This is thanks to a non-functioning air-conditioning system that the building’s managers maintain is working fine.

I haven’t been involved in the discussions over the lack of air conditioning as I’ve been too busy trying to stave off dehydration by drinking my body weight in water every few hours. The short version of this story is that the building manager says the AC is good, so the AC is good. In the universe of our building his word is God’s word and nothing can change that - not even thermometers registering temperatures in the low-30s.

To get around the problem the company decided to install an extra air condition unit. For weeks we were promised that the new unit would be arriving “tomorrow, the day after tomorrow or next week”. You could delete as required. When the unit did eventually arrive - about a month after it was promised - we watched in excited anticipation as two guys struggled for three days to install the unit in the ceiling.

Of course, having them pull the ceiling apart, drill into concrete and cut through metal above your head - in 30º heat - doesn’t make for the best working environment. Still, the promise of cold air was on offer and we were happy to suffer any slings and arrows to get the temperature down.

When the unit was finally installed we spent the next day shivering under an icy blast of cold air. It was so cold I could feel my fingers going numb. It was bliss.

The next day I sauntered into the office only too happy to spend nine hours at my desk. I even wore woolen trousers just to keep me warm.

As the day wore on I started to notice beads of sweat forming on my forehead. My arse was sticking to my seat and there was a bit of whiff about the armpits. I didn’t need to look at the temperature on the wall-mounted clock to know something was amiss.

“Hey, what happened to the AC?” I asked a co-worker.

“The building manager says it wasn’t approved, so he’s disconnected it,” I was told.

“But, apparently, our regular AC is working just fine.”

Well, if he says so.

Is Australia racist?

India has been asking that question a lot lately in the wake of attacks on students in Melbourne. It's a tough topic that requires a serious debate - unfortunately much of the coverage in India has, to date, bordered on the hysterical and the "racist" tag has been thrown around with gay abandon. Unfortunately, calling "racist" as part of a knee-jerk reaction clouds the issue and can be positively counter-productive.

So it was nice to join a rational discussion on the topic as part the panel on NDTV's We The People programme. Luckily, I wasn't the only Aussie on board. Australia's High Commissioner to India, John McCarthy, was there to take most of the heat. I did feel for him as question after question started with: "Mr High Commissioner, I'd like to ask you . . ." I was tempted to jump in a few times and help out, but I figured that (a) the Cambridge-educated diplomat was far more qualified than I was to answer the questions and (b) it's what he gets paid to do.

Asked how I felt about Australia being labelled "racist" following the attacks, I gave the only answer I could: embarrassed. Who wouldn't be? But the series of attacks - and their reporting - needs a deeper analysis than merely jumping on the racism hysteria bandwagon. Many are asking why more Indian students are being attacked. It's a fair enough question. The more simplistic answers are race-based: Australians are racist or in times of economic stress people attack migrants because they're "taking locals' jobs".

The more intelligent answers look at the number of Indian students studying in Australia - it's jumped enormously in the past few years - and the areas in which they live: poor, disadvantaged suburbs where crime rates are high. It does stand to reason that if you pump more Indian students into areas with high crime rates, they're increasingly likely to be victims of crime. Dealing with that crime and ensuring the safety of all foreign students are the real issues.

Indeed, Melbourne authorities have been struggling with crime and violence for longer than the Indian media has been interested in the topic. I lived in the southern city for two years and it's an ugly place on Friday and Saturday nights when 19-year-olds are out on a bender and spoiling for a fight.

That's not to say racism doesn't exist in Australia - it clearly does - or that racism didn't play a part in any of the deplorable attacks on Indian students - it may well have. What it does say is that Melbourne has a crime problem that it needs to deal with - fast. And the educational institutions who make so much money off the backs of foreign students need to show a greater duty of care to their overseas guests.