Outside the South Point Mall, a large white Mercedez-Benz swivels into the main Golf Course road and reverses into its banks three times, until it is perfectly in line with the BMWs and Audis on its either side. It is 5 pm and the traffic on this arterial road is heavy, the Merc’s perfect parking, on this narrow stretch of a road while construction workers build a metro line above, results in about a hundred cars braking and waiting to crawl on. The mall has parking space in its basement and at ₹20 on weekdays it is one of the cheapest places to park in the city. Yet, no one does. The luxury cars in Gurgaon have been acquired on the patient saving of ₹20 and ₹30 by parking on the street, no matter how inconvenient. This city, one that was born solely out of liberalisation’s economic buoyancy, unequivocally embraces “development”, and no one has developed by paying for something when it can be acquired free of cost. Even a fool knows that.

Earlier in the morning, the Merc, along with the other big cars parked in high-rise apartments, are washed down copiously, after which the driver clambers in and turns the engine and the air conditioner on. On the rare occasion that a morning walker or marathon trainer requests that the engine be switched off because the accumulated toxic diesel rings are thick enough for a meat knife to struggle through, he would be rudely informed that the employer is expected any moment and the car has to be kept at a suitably tundra temperature until then. Upstairs, in the penthouse, the owner of the car has installed air conditioners every five metres. The only way to live in Gurgaon, he is fond of saying, especially to visiting westerners, is to believe that you aren’t living in Gurgaon. All air conditioners would be turned on all the time, the power bill notwithstanding — this is personal comfort, not consideration for others — and if you were to go up for a visit, even before you’re settled in, you’d be told in genuine excitement about the project that their seven-year-old son is working on. It’d be around the theme of saving the planet and the global warming that is melting the ice caps and finishing off the polar bear entirely. Sometimes a diorama is involved; irony never is.

These are the icons of success that television channels interview; they are the untiring champions of ‘development’. I ran past two of them this Sunday morning, that glory hour when financial development is set aside for physical development, and overheard one say to the other, “Honesty is, of course, important. Paramount. But work has to happen, no?” His friend nodded earnestly, empathetically. Across the driveway, on the lawns, the wives are furiously kicking and punching the air; being led through these motions by a man in dri-fit wear and rippling muscles. This is the tribe whose arch nemesis are flabby stomachs and cellulite scarred thighs. The real enemies are elsewhere — female colleagues thronging the husbands’ workplaces or the tight, bandage dress waiting in the wardrobe. Never mind, in the evening the tribe re-assembles, walking briskly along as the nanny pushes a stroller with the latest ‘bundle of joy’. This year’s beagle, acquired after somehow managing to get rid of last year’s pug, gambols along. It’s not often that real life resembles a Facebook post. “Stay blessed,” someone always comments.

Around the corner, a young father, smug in his rakish looks and the ample projection of his modern mindset, takes his toddler on a stroll, while allowing the wife a little weekend lie-in. He points at each car and the toddler, a star already, correctly identifies them — Audi A8, BMW X5, he babbles, and gasps three times before he strings together Porsche. “That’s not a Porsche,” the father is firm.

He is right, the Porsches aren’t here, they are mostly in the next building, named after a flower, magnolia, but forever destined to be called Mongolia, although no one says it without adding “the most expensive apartment in the city.” Even on a scorching April morning, the line to enter the most expensive apartment in the city is long. Plumbers, carpenters, domestic help, wait in the 38 degree heat to be patted down to an inch of their lives before they are allowed to step on to the marble floors of the actual building, whose florist’s bill for a month is more than enough to build a shaded reception at the ‘service’ entrance. But it’s fine, really, in another month, it’ll be 10 degrees hotter, but the Porsches will still be there and who’s to say there’s no joy in walking past them. The greater happiness is in driving them, no doubt, which is why last week a driver emptied out as much as he could of his employer’s Magnolia apartment, loaded the employer’s Jaguar with it and simply drove off.

There is much talk, of course. Of unreliable help and corrupt police systems. Spoken unironically, while illegally parked, by these champions of development who believe honesty is paramount but work has to be done (no?). They look around, at the metro labourers in their tattered orange safety vests and the Bengali maids riding their cycles home, and shake their head in disgust. “Yaar, these people will commit a crime for ₹20 also. With these people around, this country will never improve.” Of course ours is a diverse nation, but we can all agree that it’s only robbery and corruption when it’s done outside of a Gucci suit and in a Maruti car. It can’t be easy to spend ₹50 lakh on a car and ₹15 crore on a house, and despite the fact that the windows are sealed and the blinkers are worn, little bits of reality insist on pushing their way in and sullying the mood. It can’t be easy. What is easy is saving the ₹20. Pour the Japanese single malt, no water, just ice. Thanks.

Twitter @veenavenugopal

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