Do You Know Who I Am

Delhiites are obsessed with being connected in high places. Cradled in the same family of obsessions such as good food, expensive cars and opulent houses is the fetish with ‘contacts’. One’s worth is not measured by one’s own individual achievements in this city, it is measure in terms of the people you know. Police officers, IAS officers, upmarket restaurant owners, concierges at 5 star hotels; all count. Everybody wants to be a somebody in Delhi, and one isn’t a somebody unless they know other somebodies.

Bump a car, cut someone off in traffic, and chances are that you will be hearing the words “Do you know who I am?” very soon, coming to you from a guy vaguely resembling an Australian frilled lizard striking a threatening pose. This is always a rhetorical question, as it is not possible for anybody to know every random person in traffic in a city of 14 million people. It is also a question which is best not answered by wise cracks. It is a question to be replied with an averted gaze or an even more menacing “Do you know whose son I am?” It is a common sight for Delhiites to witness such pointless arguments until a moment where either parties tires of the altercation and drives off in a huff, to the relief of the other party and the rest of the drivers stuck in the ensuing traffic snarl.

Each time anybody gets pulled over by a cop for violating a traffic rule, they step out with their cell phone in hand, determined stony expression set on  face and names whirring through the head as they try to remember which person would be able to get them out of getting a ticket. Denial, acceptance, phone calls and finally greasing palms are the 4 steps of getting back on the road. After all, only the least connected, dumb or incoherently drunk people pay the full fines for road violations in Delhi.

Not a single day goes without a Delhiite bragging about knowing some person of wealth or stature, or recounting tales of flouting one law or another and getting away with it because they know somebody who could get them off the hook. Driving back home late last night, I witnessed a man blind with rage, beating his fist on the window of a car in the middle of a crossroads. It looked like the driver of the car had haplessly blocked this enraged man’s way. Instant payback is a way of life here. The man probably felt completely justified for his unruly behavior, perhaps because he was connected in high places. That’s just how it is in the quirky capital.

Only In Delhi.