Of Jodhpur, The Village People, Prince and McDonalds

view from our window

Welcome to the Maharani suite, our home away from home at the quirky, fairy tale Singhvi Haveli, which sits deep in the oldest neighborhood of Jodhpur. Blue used to be reserved for Brahmin class residents, and then everyone else got in on the act, and now local ordinances include color stipulations akin to home owners association rules in the States. As for havelis, they come in all shapes and sizes, many having been enlarged to accommodate extended family, and the stone work is exquisite, resembling intricate lace more than rock.

The ornate facades helped reduce unemployment among stone masons during dire times and became a kind of keeping up with the Joneses status symbol for local bigwigs.   Beyond these elaborate entries lie a warren of rooms, courtyards, and multiple steep winding stairs that invariably lead to the roof, where a night’s sleep offers cool relief from the desert heat.  This one has been in the owner’s family for over 400 years.  

Far from the clock tower--ground zero of tourism in Jodhpur--we wander the narrow streets in relative peace, away from the hawkers and touts who pester and cajole tourists to “let me help you spend your money!”  In our neighborhood, the shops sell cooking supplies, ribbons, vegetables, and young men make the bangles that sell a few blocks away.  It comes as a relief to have to contend only with traffic, though the streets here are sometimes so tight that two motor cycles and a cow cannot pass.  This may explain why the enormous macaques jump from roof to roof, avoiding the streets altogether.

We’ve gotten used to seeing a mix of Hindu, Jain, Sikh, and Muslim people in the streets of Bombay, but our trip to Rajasthan has introduced us to the exotic, colorful and highly ornamented tribal people who come in from the villages.  As it turns out, they do many of the same things we do.  They, too, ogle at the magnificent Mehrangarh Fort.  They, too, take as many candid photos of us as we do of them.

click to enlarge this one

They, too, appreciate the portraits of the maharajas, including the one formerly known as Prince.

   They, too, haggle for bangles.

And they, too, paw through piles of fabrics and textiles, but the difference is that they have produced much of it them. 

And perhaps common ground ends there.  We certainly never saw a tribal family anywhere near a McDonalds, but when we stopped in for a bathroom, we were sorely tempted by the McSpicy Paneer and the Masals Fries Value meal. Roopa tells us that India took great joy in bringing McDonalds to its menu knees.  

When this fast food world leader first opened its doors, corporate execs were puzzled why sales didn’t take off.  Apparently it hadn’t occurred to them that a nation of Hindus who worship the sacred cow might find a hamburger joint offensive.  After a series of unsuccessful advertising campaigns, sales continued to flat line, so McDonalds did the unthinkable—they retooled their business model, changing everything from menu to signage to distribution. The only thing that remained unchanged was the McFish Filet sandwich.  They went mostly veg, spiced up everything in sight, and repositioned as a high-end destination spot for wealthy families on a special day outing. And that’s not all--over here, McDonalds delivers!  

As Roopa notes, people don’t change India; India changes people--certainly true for us!  She has entertained us with many stories of companies that arrive in India, eager to break into a potential market of 6 billion, only to end up abandoning plans in the face of insurmountable hurdles.  It seems the more fixed a foreign company’s business plan is, the more frustration it faces. Basic distribution procedures common to the USA have no place in India.  

A couple of years ago, Harvard Business School conducted a study of the tiffinwallas of Bombay—men  who each day carry on their bicycles upwards of 300 tiffins (stacked tins lunch boxes).  They pick up the fresh lunches in the morning from wives all over the city and exurbs and deliver them to the husbands at work.  The tiffinwallas all descend on a central distribution spot then head off on their bicycles, a bit like FedEx's hub in Memphis, but with an Indian flair.  

On any given day, multiple millions of tiffins make it to hungry husbands all over Bombay.  The average misdelivery rate?   ONE every 6 million!  When they completed the study, Harvard still had no idea how this whole system worked. 

Getting back to where we started, here's one final shot of the Blue City.  Off to Jaipur!