the little things

You know what’s funny about India? The little things, to paraphrase Vincent Vega.

Example?

You can order a DVD from the video shop and they’ll send a guy to deliver it, but they’ll tell you the DVD is in whether they have it or not, and then keep lying to you when you call back asking why the delivery boy hasn’t turned up. You only catch them out if the guy slips up and tells you the boy has just gone out to get the DVD, and only then can you give it to him good with your “Then why’ve you kept telling me he’ll be here in five minutes?” Then, even though the agreement’s for an overnight rental, you don’t have to take the disc back. You wait for the boy to come back for it, and if you haven’t watched it yet, you tell him you need it another day because there was a power cut the night before, and imagine some other poor bastard having to hound the shop guy for hours before he finds out he’s not getting his movie. They’ve taken convenience to the point that it becomes a hassle.

Another one?

When you go to the gym to work out, half a dozen servants follow you around to load and unload the weights. You can get a personal trainer, too, to motivate you, and he calls you “sir.” As in, “COME ON, SIR! PUSH IT, SIR!”

How about this?

If you’re in a Delhi bar during happy hour, you can book your drinks for the rest of the night at two-for-one or whatever. The waiter comes around with last call for cheapies, and you tell him ten beers and he doesn’t even blink. They’ll keep ‘em on ice for you and keep bringing ‘em out, too. They don’t even try to shame you by piling them all on the table at once, outing you as a skinflint. It’s not so great though. The bars make up for their liberal definition of happy hour by charging five or six times retail for drinks. That’s a New York markup in a St. Louis kinda town.

Any other ideas?