Nihal On Leadership

In 1303, the Sultan of Delhi attacked Chittor, a fort in what is today the Indian state of Rajasthan. Faced with certain defeat, the defenders lit a large bonfire inside the fort. Led by the queen, the women committed suicide by jumping into it en masse. With their women having chose death over dishonor at the hands of the enemy, the king led the men onto the plains below to fight a final battle to the death.

Seven hundred years later, the standard for leadership in Rajasthan has waned just a bit. Here’s the sign I saw at a highway toll booth on the way to Chittor:

But give credit to the Indian politicians: at least they put up a sign. At home, the chasm between politicians and leaders continues to widen, even as the nation’s troubles grow more acute. Consider healthcare. The problem is simple to understand: if costs keep growing at their present rate (costs have tripled in real dollars between 1965 and 1985, and tripled again between 1985 and 2005), they will bankrupt the nation. And we’re not getting much for what we’re spending: America’s infant mortality rate ranks 46^th and life expectancy ranks 38^th (behind the socialist paradises of Cuba and Canada, respectively). Osama himself couldn’t have ordered a more fearsome enemy to lay siege to America.

But do we want to be led into battle by these folks?

• Congressional Republicans, who believe that the government shouldn’t be trusted with anything other than making war and cutting taxes? Instead, they resort to scare tactics to protect the status quo, just as they did in 1993 and during the six years they controlled the Presidency and Congress

• Congressional Democrats, who are utterly incapable of explaining the threat in layman’s terms and moving in a coordinated fashion to actually solve the problem? Instead, they resort to class warfare, cave to the usual corporate lobbies, and will most likely pass a half-hearted, compromise-ridden bill that will do little to cut costs.

• President Obama, who inspires the public with his soaring rhetoric, but makes the mistake of letting the citizenry think that they can have their cake and eat it too? Unfortunately, his reputation as the One is corrupted by his predisposition to work within the system, rather than revolutionize it. I’d love to be proven wrong, but it looks like “the fierce urgency of now” is easier said than done.

• The Media? Though often derided as a tool of the left, the media bows before only one master: their own ratings. So rather than drag Americans out of their uninformed stupor, they pander to it. Racial profiling in Cambridge! Kenyan birth certificates! Governors and their mistresses! Gay marriage! Sarah Palin! And now that they’ve learned that opinion-mongering brings home better ratings than the objective news, “commentators” spew outrage at the expense of reasoned debate.

Today, there’s not much left of Chittor: only ruins overrun by two-bit guides that claim to know where the queen committed suicide.

But you have to wonder that if such selfless leadership couldn’t save that kingdom, what becomes of a nation whose leaders are too cowardly to even face the enemy?

Do tell us, Rush Limbaugh.

ObaMarxism

Once upon a time, the pejorative “Liberal” would drive Massachusetts governors to fold like cheap suits. But the L-word has lost its Reagan-era oomph, leaving those who loved to use it casting about for a replacement. Enter the word “Socialist,” which has recently been seen dipping its toe into the political waters. The dictionary defines “socialism” as government ownership of the means of production—impossible in the U.S., since we’ve outsourced the production of things to China.

But the clarion cries for unfettered free markets sends a chill of pride through my spine, reminiscent of the tingle I get when New Hampshire license plates pass me on the highway. America was built by pioneers who relied on their wits (and their rifles), not on pencil-pushing, regulation-writing bureaucrats in Washington.

No, the last thing we want is government involved in our lives. So it’s about time we got rid of:

- The Armed Forces. If I want to invade a country, I’ll do it the old-fashioned way: with mercenaries. And who needs police? I’ll hire a bodyguard for my next visit to Target, just like they do in Brazil.

- Clean Air and Water. I liked landing at LAX much better when we’d descend through a yellow cloud of freedom particles. And they say that Boston’s Charles River is safe for swimming these days, although you’ll find me in the MIT pool.

- Roads. Wouldn’t it be more efficient if private companies built roads instead wasting taxpayer money on Eisenhower’s silly Interstate Highway System? The general that led D-Day might’ve known a thing or two about logistics, but I think I’d rather pay a toll every time I pulled out of my driveway.

- Schools. After all, private schools were around before the public kind. And who said that every kid should be given an opportunity to learn, irrespective of how much money his parents make? There’s always flipping burgers (or investment banking).

- Healthcare Insurance: They taught us at Wharton that a free market is an efficient market. And after my recent appendectomy, I got a chance to watch market-clearing forces work. I marveled at the efficiency of my insurer’s unintelligible paperwork, horrid customer service, numerous errors and confusing doublespeak about deductibles, out-of-pocket maximums and co-payments. I didn’t quite understand why my insurer paid the surgeon’s assistant $2,400 and the surgeon $900, but I was thankful I had insurance. If you happen to fall between those with nothing (who’s going to sue you to collect?) and those of us that have insurance, tough luck. Your house or heart surgery, what’s it going to be?

But I don’t think the cries of “socialism” are going to fool anyone. We all know that name-calling only benefits two groups: the special interest groups that shape legislation in the shadows, and the talk show hosts that make millions by devolving complex policy debate into binary, Chicken McNugget-sized talking points.

Or is “Live Free or Die” just a slogan on a license plate?

Now Batting: New York Taxpayers

New York City mayor Mike Bloomberg’s running for a third term, and assures us that he’s spent the last eight years busily fighting the good fight on behalf of middle-class New Yorkers.

Consider the deal he cut with the Mets and Yankees when they proposed building two new stadiums to replace two perfectly functional ballparks. Neither team pays rent or property taxes on the city-owned land donated for the projects. In fact, the city condemned parkland for the new Yankee Stadium, promising to substitute artificial turf on the roofs of new Yankee parking garages. Stadium construction was financed through $1.9 billion of tax-free municipal bonds and the teams received a indirect subsidy of $640 million to upgrade the roads and train stations around the stadiums. All in all, the Daily News estimates that it adds up to a $1.2 billion check from taxpayers to two for-profit private partnerships. Oh, and the stadiums were built smaller, because limited product commands higher prices. All so the boys of summer can charge $350 (Yankees) or $90-$210 (Mets) a seat to sit twenty rows back from the field (or where I sat for $15 in high school).

Mayor Bhujle would’ve taken a slightly different tack if Steinbrenner or Wilpon had come sniffing around City Hall for taxpayer subsidies. I’d have encouraged the Mets and Yankees to shop their product around. See how much they’d make if they became the Las Vegas Yankees (2006 Metropolitan Area GDP: $92 billion). Or maybe the San Antonio Mets ($73 billion). I’d remind them of the size of the New York market ($1,124 billion) as I summarily threw their asses out of my office. I’d then get back to work, figuring out how I might use that $1.2 billion to get the Second Avenue Subway built faster, or maybe to pay the police better, or perhaps to fix leaky school roofs quicker.

Then I’d feel I’d earned the right to make a commercial like this:

Enemies Everywhere

There was Obama in Europe, practically declaring himself an Al-Qaeda operative by claiming that America is not a Christian nation! Doesn’t he know that America was founded on Judeo-Christian principles? God only knows what those non Judeo-Christian heathens believe in, but I’m damn sure it’s not mom, baseball and apple pie.

And why is he wasting time visiting Europe, populated as it is by socialists? Not just socialists, but the worst kind: European socialists who ride bikes to their five hours-a-week jobs and then take trains to beach resorts for their six-month vacations. These are the people that we’re apologizing to for our arrogance? They should be thanking us for being arrogant enough to save them from Hitler and the Russians. And speaking of the Russians, there was Obama, kissing up to Comrade Medvedev and the Red Chinese during the G20 summit! Ronald Reagan would’ve never wasted time talking to socialists, let alone communists!

You won’t catch me vacationing up north this summer, either. Those Canadians betrayed us by staying out of Vietnam and Iraq, and then they think everything’s peachy when they change their Daylight Savings Time dates to correspond with ours. It’s only called “the longest undefended border in the world” because we haven’t gotten around to invading them yet. And maybe the time has come to rid North America
of universal health care and the French language once and for all.

But Canadians are an undercard to those Muslims! They may not be able to make a decent toaster, but those Islamofacist thugs are the #1 threat to our way of life. And Obama wants to negotiate with suicidal Iranian mullahs bent on building a nuke and Fedexing it to Osama? What a waste of time. We all know that negotiations work best when Presidents declare “You’re either with us or against us.” Toughness is the best medicine for these folks, like when we orchestrated the 1953 coup against a democratically elected Iranian prime minister. No wonder they hate us for our freedom.

But enemies also lurk closer to home. Can you believe that Obama shook hands with Hugo Chavez! No doubt he’s teaming up with Fidel(and probably Al Qaeda and the Mexican drug cartels) to destroy our English-speaking, SUV-driving ways. And in close partnership with that gay liberal Marxist-Fascist Barney Frank, who’s plotting to make all of us embrace his sick lifestyle. Give these Harvard/Upper West Side/Hollywood liberals a few more years in power, and they’ll have you driving down to the government-owned bank in your government-mandated Prius to hand in your guns, wait in line for an abortion, and pick up your assigned gay partner on the way out.

Anyway, gotta run. Sean is interviewing Rush on Fox.

Nihal, Minus an Appendix

I woke up before sunrise a few Sundays ago to catch a flight to Seattle. On my way out the door, I wiped away beads of sweat from my forehead without wondering why I’d be sweating on a frigid early February morning. After spending most of the following week in a hospital, I’ll share my hard-won lesson: if you’re running a temperature and feel a dull pain in your abdomen, don’t try to treat it for three days with Tylenol and sleep. Unless you want to experience a burst appendix first hand.

But for all my stupidity, my end-to-end medical experience was flawless. There was hardly a wait in the ER, the surgeon delivered competence, and I enjoyed a private room during recovery. In the throes of a breaking 104 degree fever one night, I remember thinking what might’ve happened if the dull aches had begun a few months earlier while I was on the back of a camel 50 miles from the Pakistan-India border (doing some contract work for the NSA, can’t really talk about it).

Instead I found myself in a New Jersey hospital bed, with nothing much to do but think while waiting for the infection-induced fevers to subside. And given my surroundings, I thought quite a lot about how silly politicians’ rants against “socialized medicine” seemed from inside a hospital. I doubt that many of us would leave the Hispanic mom in the room next door to die on the hospital floor, even if she was poor, uninsured and/or an illegal alien. Most of our moral compasses tell us that healthcare is a right, not a privilege. So the question isn’t whether to provide socialized medicine—we’re doing that today. It’s about how to provide the best possible socialized medicine at a cost that society finds acceptable.

Most of my frustrations, not surprisingly, centered around my insurer:

• The naysayers might warn about the evils of government bureaucracy. But after my recent dealings with my insurance carrier, I can't imagine that the feds couldn’t possibly do a worse job. The claims are already pouring in, and the insurer has improperly calculated reimbursements on 3 out of 10 of them, and still hasn’t processed a fax* I sent to them more than two weeks ago. When I was left wistfully pining for the customer service I received at the New Jersey Motor Vehicle Commission, I knew something was horribly amiss.

• The same naysayers warn about violating the sanctity of the relationship between a patient and his doctor. No such relationship exists. The doctor I choose and the procedures he chooses to perform are choreographed by my insurance company, which has a profit motive to minimize the reimbursement made for the care is delivered to the patient. Case in point: a “Physician Assistant” submitted a bill for $3,000 (a sum higher than the surgeon billed) for treating me. You can’t blame the hospital or the caregivers for starting the negotiations with the insurers with a high first bid—they are also running a for-profit business. But caught in the middle is the patient, who found himself arguing with the insurer’s refusal to pay the Physician Assistant. She said her services were worth $3,000, the insurer said they were worth $700 (but being “out-of-network,” they wouldn’t cover them). My argument was simple—flat on my back and under general anesthesia, I wasn’t able to check that everyone treating me was “in-network.” Luckily, the insurer said they’d take another look at the bill. The patient and doctor both reduced to arguing over a bill: that’s how the doctor-patient relationship works in real life.


Reform to reduce healthcare costs or ensure universal coverage need not eliminate the role of the private insurer. Japan, Germany and Switzerland utilize private insurers and still manage to achieve universal coverage while spending far less as a percentage of GDP on healthcare (8%, 11%, and 12% respectively, compared to 15% for the United States). The government need not set prices: while the Japan Ministry of Health sets the price for every procedure, Germans pick between 200 non-profit insurance pools that negotiate as a group with doctors to set prices. And “non-profit” need not drive inefficiencies: the German insurers’ management are compensated on whether they are attracting new patients, incentivizing them to compete for patients on the price they charge for coverage.

Healthcare reform in the United States won’t begin and end with changing the way we’re insured. But it certainly can’t be done any worse than it’s being done today. But common wisdom says that Americans have nothing to learn from the “socialists” in East Asia and Western Europe. But if citizens in these countries are living longer and spending less, surely we can take a second look at how they do it. Every 1% of U.S. GDP represents $150 billion: lower our healthcare costs to German levels, and we’ll have an additional $600 billion to spend or save as we like. Replicate Japan’s ability to reduce costs, and we’re talking about $1 trillion deposited into our bank accounts annually.

And there isn’t anything socialist about that.


*An archaic communications device popular in the pre-email, pre-Internet 1980s to transmit images of documents over phone lines. Still apparently in use in some technologically-backward industries.

Nihal in India: A Trip to the Slums

When Americans imagine cheap labor, they might picture a teenager working for $7/hour at McDonald’s. But the Indian definition is a bit different, and much closer to the global average. Case in point: We paid Rs. 11/km (or $0.35/mile) for our rental car, but only Rs. 300 ($6) /day for the driver. In other words, twenty minutes of the car’s time on an Indian expressway is worth more than the driver’s time for the entire day.

Consider one unit of this vast pool of Indian labor. Suresh Patil would arrive at our flat daily to wipe down the floor, do our laundry, and wash our dishes. Suresh is his mid 30s, does thorough work, and always wears a smile. He was amused at my childish and accented Marathi, and stared at me in stunned disbelief when I told him that in America, my family did their own cleaning and driving. I was anxious to get an insider’s view into how he lived with his wife and three kids, so on Christmas eve he led my father and I over the Mahim suburban rail station’s pedestrian flyover toward his home.

During our crossing, we noticed a large group had gathered on the flyover, pointing and craning to see something on the track below. An everyday shortcut across the tracks had turned into a gruesome end for a pedestrian, (the literal translation of the Marathi was that “he had been cut” by a train). “It happens all the time,” said a nonchalant Suresh, and we moved on. To enter his slum, we had to climb through a break in a brick wall roughly three feet off the ground. Piece of cake for your cat-like correspondent.

A host of Western slum stereotypes would instantly die at that entrance. Late night comedian Jon Stewart was interviewing the star of Slumdog Millionaire last week, and he wondered about the real residents of Mumbai slums. “Are they angry? Are they pissed off?” he wondered. I’d probably wonder the same thing if I’d never been there. I was wearing a (relatively inexpensive) watch that represented a few months’ pay for the average resident (this was relatively well-to-do slum), but felt as safe as if I was walking through an affluent New Jersey suburb. Once inside, we found ourselves weaving through a passageway no more than 3 feet wide, surrounded by adults and kids that looked every bit as happy as the well-to-do morning commuters on Park Avenue look depressed. Each shack had electricity and cable, the alley had been recently swept, and sewage was nowhere to be seen (or smelt).

After a bit of winding and ducking, we arrived at Suresh’s home. Cold hard numbers can describe, but you can’t really understand the living conditions here unless you see them. Imagine a family of five living in a room 6 feet wide by 9 feet long. A good size walk-in closet by American standards, as long as you don’t factor in the 6 foot high ceiling. A combined bathroom and kitchen the size of an elevator was through a door in the back. But the shack was located in the heart of Mumbai, allowing the landlord to charge Rs. 2000 ($40)/month.

But Suresh had bigger plans for himself and his family. We were led a few doors down to a shack about twice the size of his current place, which he was under contract to buy. He’d saved up a down payment at a local bank, which was also providing the mortgage. After the move, plans were afoot to add a second floor. “More space for the kids,” I thought to myself. Not quite: Suresh planned to rent out the new rooms for a little extra coin. And though these shack settlements were originally illegal, property rights have been assigned to the tiny plots. And when a developer eventually decides to build a proper high-rise, the Patil family will have the right to purchase a flat at a reduced rate. A flat in India’s most prosperous city wouldn’t be bad for a man who came to town with little more than a canceled train ticket.

So if I was assembling cars in Michigan (or crunching spreadsheets in New York), I’d be frightened at the potential energy stored up in these slums. These residents are best characterized by their embrace and understanding of entrepreneurialism, in vivid contrast with a Chinese citizen’s reaction to the bursting of the Shanghai stock market bubble: “The government should ensure that stock prices don’t go down,” said a middle-class worker to a reporter. But by no means did I visit a utopia: Suresh’s kids devoured the chocolate I brought for them, demonstrating that the line between being well-fed and malnourished is a fine one. And India hasn’t prioritized education, and the country is in love with the IT sector, as if hundreds of millions could be employed in call centers and back offices.

But all that’s for another blog post. As I dodged taxis on my way back to our flat, I thought about the neighbors that I don’t know and the silence in the hallways of my building in New York. The sidewalks devoid of people at home in New Jersey.

All of this would make you think that “Slumdog Millionaire” isn’t just the title of a good movie.

Change nihal.com Can Believe In

Last Tuesday’s inauguration reminded me of turning thirty. What once seemed impossibly distant rushed toward reality. The buildup was overwhelming, the pre-gameday hype thick with clichés. But a week later I was the same Nihal, with the same 55 mph fastball and ability to touch my nose with my tongue. So I found the talk cheap in President Obama’s inaugural address. A few suggestions on how to bank the change:

“We reject as false the choice between our safety and our ideals… Those ideals still light the world, and we will not give them up for expedience's sake.”

Federal agents walk onto the set while Hannity and Limbaugh are doing their shows, snap the cuffs on them, and begin to lead them away. “On what charges do you dare arrest me!?” they’d thunder. “Charges? No, it’s just that the President believes you are a threat to national security,” the agents would answer. “Gitmo awaits.” Instantly these two would see what it feels like to be on the wrong side of a system of justice that has surely swept up innocents and given extremists a powerful weapon to whip up hatred against America. Point made, the federal agents would unsnap the cuffs and leave the two to wallow in the irony (and perhaps a bit more, if their bowels behaved badly during the mock arrests).

“On this day, we come to proclaim an end to the petty grievances and false promises, the recriminations and worn-out dogmas that for far too long have strangled our politics.”

True to the fears of his most paranoid foes, President Obama signs an executive order banning the use of public airwaves for debates on issues where a layperson can take a side without thinking twice. Abortion, gay marriage and gun control are three examples that jump to mind. Because while we’ve been arguing about whether gay couples can have abortions during deer season, gays with health insurance have been subsidizing straights without it. Hunters in Arkansas and the hunted in North Philadelphia both suffer when the federal government refuses to legislate cleaner air. Thus muzzled, CNN, Fox and the gang will be forced to turn the spotlight on issues that can’t be reduced to a 15 second soundbyte or three-minute debate. I think it’s called “reporting.”

“In reaffirming the greatness of our nation, we understand that greatness is never a given. It must be earned.”

After an administration led by a man who earned none of what was handed to him, President Obama should strike a different tone in his first State of the Union address. To put the emphasis on earning and saving, he should replace the income tax with a national sales tax on consumption. He should promise to stop living off the levees, airports and trains that our parents and grandparents built, and build some of our own. Give interest-free loans to anyone that’s worked hard enough in high school to go to college. And provide an honest accounting of what we’ve promised to pay in Medicare and Social Security benefits ($54 trillion), how much we’ve saved so far ($0), and whose taxes will be raised and whose benefits will be slashed to close the gap.

The icing on the cake would be á la carte cable pricing, where I could buy just the four channels I actually watch and not be forced to buy a package that includes the Hallmark Channel. Lifetime and E! desperately applying for federal bailout money? Now that’s change I could believe in.

Nihal In India: Part 2 of a Series

Affluence, But to What End?

If you want to observe civic order taken to its logical extreme, visit Zurich. During my first visit, I found myself at a crosswalk over a two meter-wide trolley lane. Though there wasn’t a trolley in sight, I dutifully waited with half a dozen Swiss, waiting for the crossing light to turn green. The city lives up to the precision of its citizens: the streets are spotless; the trains go everywhere and get there right on time. Even the airport monorail was whisper-quiet, with only the noise of recorded cowbells and mooing adding a bonus helping of creepiness to the eerie silence. My return to New York felt like a UN fact-finding trip to Mogadishu.

The first morning after my arrival in Mumbai, I found myself at an intersection not much wider than that Zurich trolley crossing. There was no traffic signal, no crossing guard, and no mercy shown by a vicious and continuous stream of traffic. The expression worn by an elderly co-pedestrian was an only-in-India mixture of nonchalance and determination. Suddenly, the man saw a lull and made his move. My New York-honed instincts told me that he had miscalculated badly—I jumped back and cringed, bracing myself to witness certain injury (or death). But he made it with inches to spare and a honk from a taxi, and continued on his way.

To live in Mumbai as a local is to realize that while India’s economic muscle might have fattened wallets, everyday life beyond its citizens’ front doors is spiraling downward. The only thing thicker than the traffic is the air pollution. The 5 km, 8-lane Bandra-Worli Sealink bridge promises to create a bypass between Mumbai’s downtown and its suburbs, but planners have terminated the Worli end onto a quiet residential street. Streets are routinely widened at the cost of footpaths, forcing pedestrians onto the road itself. My uncle counseled me to avoid an express commuter train, lest I was unable to fight my way out of the car at my stop. Imagine a New York where the sun disappears into an oily haze an hour before sunset, the George Washington Bridge terminates onto 79th St., old ladies are forced to walk on Fifth Avenue inches from taxis and buses, and commuters breathe a sigh of relief after jumping from doorless trains that stop for seconds and depart without warning. Imagine all of this, and you’ll get a sense of the price that Mumbaites pay for their affluence.

The argument that Mumbai’s civic planners are challenged by their city’s runaway success was often rolled out to rebut my critique. And it’s true that the city represents only 2% of India’s population, but accounts for 40% of the country’s GDP. So Mumbai attracts countless migrants that live in unconscionable conditions by Western standards and overwhelm the city’s infrastructure, but keep coming to enjoy a life that would be impossible back in the home village. “What can be done?” the argument concludes with a sigh.

But just as democracy permits freedom of movement within a country, it provides all the tools for citizens to mobilize so that the common welfare can be improved. You’d expect that in an India that’s growing richer and where labor is plentiful and cheap, countless large-scale civic works that ease transport, improve sanitation, and create green spaces would naturally follow. But India’s urban and educated middle class doesn’t see their rising affluence as an opportunity to demand more livable cities. My insistence that cars should yield to pedestrians and that each intersection should be properly signed (and each road named, for that matter) were met with bemused smiles, as if I was insisting that Santa Claus was a real person.

Instead, the middle and upper classes retreat into their spotlessly-kept flats and emerge only when absolutely necessary. At the top of the economic ladder, the world’s fifth richest man is building a $1 billion house in South Mumbai. A man who could leverage his influence to catalyze the populace and intimidate corrupt bureaucrats into building the civic amenities that European and American urban dwellers take for granted has instead chosen to build the world’s most exclusive prison. Because when his new home is complete, Mukesh Ambani won’t be able to step out and enjoy a pleasant stroll through his neighborhood.

The contrast with Indians’ chosen benchmark couldn’t be starker. In the West, high living standards are measured by the charm and vibrancy of your surroundings, not by how expensive a house you can build on your property. My favorite memories from Boston, Munich and Madrid were rambling walks through neighborhoods and parks that spanned hours without having a single honk directed at me. My parents can choose between three parks within a five mile radius of their suburban New Jersey home. Walks in Indian cities couldn’t be more different, with the ideal stroll being short, and ideally within the confines of your housing society.

I found India on an unfortunate trajectory, in which the dividends of economic success are being invested in building affluence that ends at the front gate. “I think India more powerful than America soon,” said my driver as we made our way to the airport. I remember thinking that it was an odd thing to say after 45 minutes of being stuck in standstill traffic.

But at least the cows mooing around me were the real deal.

Editor’s Footnote: Well, that was a bit longer than your average nihal.com entry—sorry about that. And to add editorial balance to a decidedly negative piece about Mumbai: We loved “Slumdog Millionaire.”

Nihal In India: Part I of a Series

Initial Reaction

My flight from Mumbai touched down at Newark Airport before sunrise this past Thursday morning. Bags collected and customs fooled into thinking that I was the only Indian not returning with kilos of food products stashed between saris, the terminal doors whisked open, and I stepped out into the darkness of a January morning. The temperature was balmy for the time of year—right around freezing—but other than exactly two taxi drivers, no one else was about. The only sound I could clearly hear were my heels, clacking their way toward a clearly marked, well lit sign: “Passenger Pick-Up Area 2.”

The contrast from my arrival in Mumbai exactly one month earlier couldn’t be more striking. My loyalty to Delta is fiercer than a dog to its master, so the airline tagged my bags to be the first ones off the plane. So I was the first one out of the terminal and into a sea of five thousand people, each anxiously making direct eye contact to see if I was a friend, relative, or potential taxi fare. I felt like Barack Obama in front of his adoring public, but instead of a message of change, I was carrying bags of used clothing. I wasn’t Barack, I realized with a shudder. I was John McCain.

Over the next month, I would dodge traffic in Mumbai, ponder the timelessness of medieval Rajasthani forts, and drink from the same Konkan village wells that quenched the thirst of my grandparents nearly a century ago. I’d buy a cup of tea for $0.06 on the platform at Pune, and the same night be treated to a cup of coffee in Mumbai that was nearly as good, but 15 times the price. The richness and frustrations of India’s linguistic diversity would be on display in nightly family conversations that would bounce between three languages with ease. Even I would try to parlay this chaos to my advantage by speaking Marathi to my Hindi-speaking Mumbai cab driver, hoping to fool him into thinking I was only a simple kid from the interior, not someone who converts every expense back into dollars.

I was ready for another tour through India’s gut-wrenching poverty, which was most notably on display in Rajasthan, where legions of men idled their time away waiting to be interviewed by Tom Friedman. But even though I grew up in an Indian family, my Anglo-American sensibilities were completely unprepared for the enveloping warmth of my aunt’s extended family, who welcomed our visit to their Konkan home as if a world war had ended, and we’d returned home.

Words can’t fully express the dichotomy between two places separated by only 16 hours of flight. I’ll do my best in the essays to come, but the contrast was illustrated to be most sharply on the morning I landed. I was walking to work through midtown Manhattan, where I was struck by the cleanliness, the orderly way cars, trucks and people interfaced with each other, but most of all the silence. Was I in New York, or was this Geneva? For a split second, I missed the chaos of the Maximum City, Aamchi Mumbai, India Rising, and all the other references to an ancient civilization that sees itself poised to take its rightful place amongst the world’s powers. That is, until I came to an intersection, and a taxi politely came to a halt to let me cross.

Nope, I was glad to be home. More to come.