November 1997
Indian Traffic
It was a hot summer day and the trip into Delhi was relatively uneventful. The operative word is “relatively”. Relative to Delhi the drive was normal. Relative to Fairfield, Iowa; Ann Arbor, Michigan; or Santa Barbara, California the drive was mondo bizarro.
Take, for example, the 6 lane boulevard approach to the southeast side of Delhi. The traffic flow (“jerks” and “jolts” seems a more accurate description) was around 35 mph. In the fast lane 3 white cows were ambling along at a leisurely 2 mph. Their soft, expression-filled eyes are so contented and calm. Yet bumper-to-bumper traffic of hard and heavy cars are whizzing within inches of them. Parked on the boulevard strip is a huge brown and white bull sleeping soundly. In the slow lane are water buffaloes pulling carts. In all 3 lanes in each direction are cars, trucks, and motor scooters driving at different speeds.
No one follows any set pattern for staying in lanes. Drifting from one lane to another without looking or signaling is the accepted practice. So is barreling down on a hapless motor scooter with dad, mom and 2 kids, blaring the horn at them but never slowing until they either give way or get run over. But the family appears unconcerned with their near death experience. Bicyclists are fair game for all heavier and faster vehicles. They accept their lot in life as moving targets with complete equanimity. The only discernible driving rule is that the larger vehicle has the right of way. Someone once remarked that Indian traffic is a sure demonstration of the existence of God because no human intelligence could keep it from turning into a gigantic car wreck.
A little further down the road is an elephant with his handler riding on top. Imagine being an animal with the most sensitive sense of smell and hearing being inundated by rush hour pollution and the cacophony of constantly blaring horns. Yet the elephants all bear it with that same patience as everyone else. He waits diligently in the turn lane, playfully waving his trunk. When the cars ahead begin to move, he follows along without any prodding.
With me in the car are 3 tense students. The traffic doesn’t bother them. They appear oblivious to the incessant threat of impending violent death. These students have won coveted MBA earn while you learn positions in the U.S. We are on our way to the U.S. Consulate to apply for visas for them. As a foreign faculty teaching here, one of my responsibilities is to help our students through the visa process.
For Indians going to America is dreaming the impossible dream. For them, America is the Land of Milk and Honey. Consider that the parents of most of our students earn a declared income between Rs 80,000 to Rs 120,000 per year. This amount is roughly between $2,000 to $3,000 per year. Even if they are hiding 50% of their income from taxes, they are still making only $4,000 to $6,000 per year.
The cost of living is cheaper here, but it isn’t that cheap. Indians must live very frugally to save enough money to provide for their sons and daughters. Sending them to a business school that costs Rs 250,000 is a sacrifice. Giving their daughters a dowry for a suitable husband is likewise extraordinary: Rs 400,000 to Rs 500,000 for a BA or BS, Rs 700,000 to Rs 800,000 for an engineer, and Rs 10,000,000 to Rs 12,000,000 for a member of the Indian Administrative Service or the Indian Foreign Service. A husband with the coveted Green Card or a US Passport is even more expensive. Then there’s feeding, clothing and housing the family, and saving for the parent’s retirement.
In the U.S. a low starting salary for an MBA graduate is $20,000 per year; that’s 4 times what their parents earn after 20 years of seniority at a professional level job! And in America it isn’t unusual for Indians with their incredible drive and intelligence to earn $100,000 per year. That’s Rs 40 lakh per year.
Therefore, to the parents and students, this opportunity to go to America is a VERY BIG DEAL! And the next hurdle is a 2 minute interview that will decide their fate for the next year and possibly alter the course of their entire lives. Yeah, the 3 students are a little anxious.
Now we are in the Consular section of the US Embassy in Delhi. There are several hundred Indians nervously waiting inside to be interviewed. We take seats and wait to be called for the interviews. Along one wall is a series of counters with bullet-proof glass separating the visa officer from the applicants. The visa officers speak into a microphone that emits their voices through a tiny speaker on our side of the wall. Everyone in the large waiting room can hear the interviews.
“Why do you want to go to the U.S.?”
“Do you have a job lined up?”
“Do you have relatives living there?”
“Where will you live?”
“This isn’t enough money to cover your expenses."
“How do we know you will return to India?”
“This is not a strong enough reason to compel you to return to India...”
The tension builds as we hear the pleading voices and stern rejections.
The students wait for half an hour before being called up to the counter for their interviews, for their 2 minute moment of truth. By this time, they are very anxious. After their brief talk, the attaché hands them a slip of paper and tells them to go to the cashier’s window.
There is a bit of confusion until I explain that they have just been granted their American visa. Their jubilation is a sharp break from the previous tension. I wonder if my Italian and German forebears experienced the same ecstasy when they passed through Ellis Island, the primary Immigration Center in the U.S.A. during the first half of the 20th Century.
It is now noon time, but the students must wait until 4:30 PM to pick up their passport with a newly stamped American visa. Since the white knuckle part of the ordeal is over, I’ll leave them at the Embassy and head back to campus.
On my drive back, I remember my second visit to India in 1982. I was on a speaking tour of colleges in Tamil Nadu. I rode the buses from town to town. Most of the highways were single lane, very bumpy paved roads with steeply sloped shoulders. The buses top ended at about 45 mph. Two buses approached each other at a closing speed of 90 mph, both occupying the center of the one lane road. Neither bus slowed. At the last possible instant, each bus would veer to his left, and pass each other mere inches apart canted at an angle of 45 degrees, then lurch heavily back onto the road once they had almost passed each other. The first time I saw an oncoming bus I felt a surge of panic. But then I looked at my Indian fellow passengers. Not one of them was reacting. I took my cue from them and tried to remain calm. After a few incidents like this I accepted that this is how it’s done in India.
In 1986 during an international seminar, an associate of mine, Dr. Tony DiRusso, was riding in an auto rikshaw taxi on Ring Road. His driver decided to pass a truck. The auto rikshaw moved into the opposing lane of traffic. Immediately the car behind closed the gap with the truck that they were now passing. Tony looked ahead and saw 2 trucks side-by-side, barreling down the road toward them. There was no space between the oncoming trucks, and there was no space to slip back onto their side of the road. Tony thought, “We’re gonna die!”
The gap between the auto rikshaw and the oncoming trucks closed quickly. The instant before impact, the driver of the auto rikshaw turned around holding an audio cassette in his hand and said, “Sir, Do you like Indian music?” Tony looked at the cassette and then flicked his eyes back to the road. No trucks. He whirled around and looked behind them: There were the 2 trucks still side-by-side. He looked beside them: Still no gap in the traffic. Nature functions differently here.
