Articles and Interviews

At the Ministry, an armed guard directed us to a drab office populated by sweaty foreign nationals. Three punkhas churned overhead, and a Gulf Oil calendar was the room's solitary decoration. We approached the metal Godrej cabinets and desks towards the back of the room, where several staffers performed their duties. The chief clerk – let's call him Babuji – had tortoise shell glasses that sat far down his nose and nearly touched his moustache. He issued numbers and vituperative instructions to those seeking help with immigration issues. There were several images underneath his glass top desk: Sai Baba, Shiva and passport photos of pretty white women. Pick-me-ups for a gruelling job. He told us that PIOs would be attended to at 11 and abruptly shooed us away.

While we lingered up front, a red-cheeked Afghani man approached Babuji and asked him for a visitor's pass in timid Hindi. "I would like a purchi," he said several times. "You're telling me you want a purchi!" barked Babuji. "But for what do you want a purchi?" He rattled off the names of numerous departments within the Ministry. Each one was like a blow to the gut. Nervous, the middle-aged migrant mumbled a response. "You're not even letting the words out of your mouth," screamed Babuji. "So how can I help you?" The Afghani walked away humiliated. Meanwhile, two European women – NGO workers in summer garb – approached Babuji without a number. "I see you've finally got the right form," said the suddenly charming bureaucrat. "Okay, have a nice day then," he said, his grin more deferential than lecherous.

Sitting down among rows of chairs, I realized that this was one of the Capital's most culturally diverse spaces. A Korean missionary pulled out her leather-bound Bible. Two Mauritians of Indian origin exuding Hare Krishna-esque auras walked in, expecting their holy attire to expedite their experience. But they were instructed to sit and sweat, like the rest of us. A corpulent African student with braids read a textbook entitled "improving patient care". American volunteers and corporate types sat next to Pakistanis and Bangladeshis. Who were these people, and why had they chosen Delhi?

There are those who move to Delhi fleeing economic or political hardship. Some come to study at the city's academic institutions. The rest of us firangis – NGO workers, diplomats, corporates, NRIs, zealots, spiritualists and writers – come because we can impose ourselves on the capital, much like our colonial predecessors. Our presence here is transient, and our integration tenuous. We live out fantasies of philanthropy, celebrity or religion while enjoying servants, cheap rent and obsequiousness. This type of behaviour wouldn't be tolerated in London or New York. But Delhi allows us to be this way.