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.