Alternate Alternator

Sometimes it takes rather unusual circumstances to discover an unusual spirit in unexpectedly unusual people in the most unusual of places. And when this does happen, it becomes a rare Eureka-feeling that puts a smile on your face and a spring in your walk, leaving a remarkable positivity in the goodness that lies around, making you wonder why you didn’t notice it before.

It all began when my wife’s Fiat Siena packed up because of a faulty alternator (the electrical device that supposed to charge the battery whenever the car’s running). The workshop where it was towed to raised their hands: the alternator couldn’t be repaired, and what’s worse, said spare part was not in stock, nor available at any other Fiat dealer. After waiting for over a week, we decided to take matters in our own hands, and picking up the defective alternator, made the arduous journey from Gurgaon to Kashmere Gate on a Saturday evening.

As if the roads were not bad enough on the first Navratra evening when Delhiites were ushering in the forthcoming festival season with a pious trip to the temples, thanks to a couple of wrong turns in the Walled City, we ended up honking our way through bumber-to-bumper traffic in narrow bylanes of Azad Market and Mori Gate before we reached the spare parts market in Kashmere Gate, said to be among the largest in Asia, just as shutters were being downed. More than 2 hours after we’d started, in a very foul mood, indeed.

Luckily, we found a dealer who did have the part in stock, and was willing to sell it at a good 15% less than what the workshop would’ve charged: but that’s not what this story’s about. This one started when I casually plonked the old alternator on his table, enquiring if there was any chance of it being repaired, before we shelled out the considerable 9,800 rupees for a new one.

Surprisingly, the dealer, who’s not my friend, nor related to me in any way, was nice enough to suggest that we check that out with a particular mechanic just round the corner. Picking up the dusty old alternator, we wound our way through an alley that houses the once glorious Minerva theatre to an old decrepit shop right opposite the entrance to Delhi Railway Station, called Hind Batteries.

The time was close to 7.30 pm and the staff was preparing to leave for the day, when we put down the alternator on the rather modest work-table cluttered with wires, tools, soldering iron, et al, with the dubious question: can this be made to work? What followed, over the next hour and a half, so pleasantly surprised us that we left reaffirming our faith in humanity, and in particular the ingenuity and never-say-die spirit of the Indian workman.

Much has been said about the essential ‘jugaadu’ character of Indians: the ability to find workable yet cheap fixes to just about any problem, and each one of us has encountered this special talent at some point or the other. But what we saw that evening was something much, much more.

A casual look around was enough to gather that this was a small business belonging to a family of sardars: the chief was a tall and burly cut-surd, the man at the reception an elder brother or cousin wearing a pagree, and a couple of sardar apprentices, one of whom seemed to be the man-at-the-counter’s son, were busy running around.

The man could’ve said he was about to close, or knowing the price of a new alternator, quoted an abnormally high figure for fixing it, but he did neither. Instead, without as much as a word in response, he began testing the alternator for available current. Then, systematically, the cut-surd and his team began to strip the alternator bit by bit, testing for current generation at every step.

As my wife and I watched fascinated, not so much by what all goes into an alternator, for there must’ve been a dozen or more sub-assemblies that unfolded, but by the attitude of the workers. They all remained extremely focused on the job: now tackling the million screws that seemed jammed from years of service to a demanding but ageing engine, tapping or levering open the layers of sub-parts, little by painful little. Never once did any of them display any impatience, nor for that matter any other emotion that a lay-person like me quickly feels when confronting machines. In fact very little was even said: the scene resembled a very efficient operation theatre where an open hand was a clear request for a new tool, and a specific look a sufficient order to clean up a particular part. The analogy to an operation being performed is rather apt: only in this case, what shone through was each team-member’s humility and focus: mind you, they were all staying back well beyond their normal working hours and if anyone had a problem with that, it never showed.

We were so engrossed in the process that we hardly realized when an apprentice stepped out to fetch a replacement part from a nearby shop, or when another slipped upstairs to clean specific parts which were being removed. I tried to remember when I’d last seen a more comfortable team working, communicating, vibing so perfectly: certainly not in the many large corporations we routinely do business with. The harmony was so understated, it contrasted sharply with all that we normally associate with the shrieking media world, and the feeling of trust and understanding was so palpable that we couldn’t help but contrast it with the back-stabbing ways of our politicians. Here then, was a microcosm of an ideal world: humble souls toiling away in perfect accord to solve a problem, driven not by greed, but by the scientific attitude, oblivious to minor details like the time and their surroundings. Which incidentally, you can picture: a hot, humid and unventilated shop right opposite the Delhi Railway Station on Hamilton Road, with a stream of unending vehicles honking their way in both directions, struggling through a sprinkling of cows, stray dogs and a sea of humanity.

We weren’t sure what exactly impressed us most about this situation: was it the spirit of ‘jugaad’, the quiet pride of a craftsman, or simply dignity of labour even in the most oppressive conditions? Or just the fact that life is best approached one simple task at a time? But as the team began putting the repaired and serviced alternator back again, their story was revealed in snatches of reluctant conversations, putting into perspective a little of what we’d witnessed.

Hind Batteries was setup by Jagtar’s father, apparently the 93rd engineer in Punjab’s history, after he moved to Delhi from Jalandhar years ago, in 1937. The shop catered to the electrical needs of the few cars that the very wealthy owned back then. Contrary to his father’s wishes, young Jagtar did not study to become an engineer but apprenticed with him, picking up skills on the job, and has been running the business now for over 40 years. There have been ups and downs: he lost out to brothers in a dispute after his father passed on, he's taken up battery dealerships, but the 54-year old Jagtar has kept the flag flying: today, when a Pajero, or Skoda owner from far-away Gurgaon or NOIDA needs a self-starter or alternator fixed, his services are sought out. For unlike the changing world where minor faults and the profit motive drive workshops to replace rather than repair, Jagtar and his team always approach the problem with an engineer’s mind, and create a solution, even when there is no apparent answer. Despite his circumstances, Jagtar is more proud of the fact that his son is studying to become an engineer, and till then, he doesn’t mind toiling like he always has.

In the end, we paid 3400 rupees for the job, about one-third of what we would’ve, if we’d bought a new alternator from Kashmere Gate, or one-fourth if we’d bought one from Fiat. Of this incidentally, the labour charge was just 300, and Jagtar was willing to waive off 35 to round it off to the nearest 100! For people like us who’re accustomed to routinely paying insane charges at fancy, ‘modern’ workshops, this naturally, came as a pleasant surprise.

You may call it bad pricing, a lack of knowledge of economics and opportunity-costs, or simply a case of illiteracy leading to low awareness, but the fact is, Jagtar and team were genuinely happy that they had fixed a problem for a couple that came knocking at their door from so far away. On our part, we certainly came away far happier at having discovered an alternate reality in this otherwise sad world: and sure enough, the drive back to Gurgaon seemed like a breeze that night.

Presbyopium

I thought I might as well do it. Now, before it becomes too late, and I begin to teeter-totter and have trouble spelling Alzheimer. So there, that’s my contribution to the English language. Whether it’ll make it to the Oxford dictionary or will simply be relegated to another book on sniglets, it’s too early to say, but I’m hoping that the word will get at least some of the necessary Press it so deserves.

In case you’re wondering what it really means, Presbyopium describes the condition where spouses of members of the Press get to unfairly enjoy the perks meant, in effect only, for their spouses. For the more literally inclined, its etymology can be traced to Press (as in 'printing', and also an euphemism for Power), Opium (the heady, often unreal feeling induced by power, including 'Press' power), and has as its inspiration, Presbyopia, the condition where the eye exhibits a progressively diminished ability to focus on near and obvious objects with age.

Presbyopium begins with the occasional accompaniment to a fashion show, graduates to dinners at fancy restaurants, and ultimately descends to an unending spiral of free holidays at exotic locations. Without realizing it and for no real fault of theirs other than being married to the right person in the wrong job, Presbyopiates get so used to a lifestyle of decadence, they often have trouble focusing on real life as it passes by at close quarters. It is strongly rumoured that in their next lives, they usually get reborn as flies and mosquitoes who get swatted repeatedly with folded newspapers and magazines, and it normally takes them at least seven and a half births to set their sins right.

Almost all Presbyopiates go through distinct life-stages, following an alarmingly screenplay-type narrative, except that it unfolds in reverse, and in the end, it’s always the ever-powerful Press that wins. At first, our unlikely hero, completely unaware of the greatness destined to be thrust upon him, denies any rights towards perks being offered through status of spouse. ‘Just because the invite says admit 2 doesn’t entitle me to sit in the front row and watch that fashion show’, or ‘You have to eat at that restaurant because you have to write about it, but that doesn’t mean I should have a free lunch too’, or ‘Really, I’m not entitled to spend a weekend at that resort just because I happen to be your husband’ are often heard arguments, which are struck down skillfully, as you guessed it, by the Mighty Pen of the Press. This is followed by a stage of deepening conflict as our hero fights with his mind, conscience and spouse, to little avail. Sadly the resolution stage looms where, to avoid further marital discord, he meekly surrenders and gains martyrdom, blooming into a full-blown Presbyopiate. By which time, as it’s time to drop the curtain, our hero has fully surrendered, and the battle has been thumpingly won by the Press!

To be fair, a few cases of rebellion have been reported, and even a few escapes have been engineered by enterprising Presbyopiates wishing to write their own script, but at the time of going to Press, none have been known to’ve succeeded. Sure, some Press feathers have been ruffled by ugly domestic spats particularly on evenings where free invites have been plentiful, but since these have occurred safely between four walls in most instances, such cases have rarely been reported or have come to light. Suffice it to presume, that the Press has been all-powerful, even in the most democratic of setups, primarily because it has what it sees as the reasoning that always trumps: ‘Since I am Press and you are spouse, whatever I have ‘earned’ is yours to enjoy, by law and implication’ – Q.E.D.

Not that it’s all tragic, of course. There are some lighter moments in the story: when a Presbyopiate is sometimes confused with the Press, by lesser mortals, for instance. The smile accompanying ‘Which magazine will you be writing for, sir?’ quickly turns to a frozen face with an ‘Oh!’ when told that it is the wife who will actually do the writing, is an oft-encountered situation. But among the most hilarious has to be when one was addressed as ‘Mr Meenu’, as a derivative husband of ‘Ms Meenu’, a practice in complete deference to the supremacy of the Press!

Comedy aside, Presbyopiates soon come to accept their situation, some rather more good-naturedly than others, and this is evident in most of the talk that passes between them and other Presbyopiates who expectedly flock together at many Press Dos. So, a question such as ‘Hello, Mr Meenu, how are the kids – haven’t seen them lately – don’t get them to parties anymore, eh?’ would probably be greeted with a mumble of ‘Oh hi. Er, they, had a friend over…’ (when, of course in reality one wouldn’t want to corrupt them just yet) have been overheard.

Coming to terms with one’s social situation is one thing, but facing those demons in the head, where one principle too many are often stuck, is one helluva fight, and is bound to have side effects in the long run, such as loss of balance, appetite, or worse, hair.

Some day, when this species is studied a bit more, mankind will gather sufficient knowledge to understand and appreciate its peculiar situation. Perhaps some enterprising scholars will take on the mighty Press and question some of its best practices, thereby giving Presbyopiates a hope before early extinction. But till then, we will look forward to another perplexing question: do most Presbyopiates bald sooner than the average human?