Cairo may have been Hustle City, but Delhi must be the Hustle Capital of the world. I sort of knew this would be the case, judging from my experience with Indian merchants in other parts of the world. About the only people who will hustle you in Singapore, for example, are Indian tailors. They always start out casually chatting with you as you walk down the street. They like to act like they’re just sociable people who are interested in visitors. You learn to never answer questions like “is this your first visit?” in the affirmative because you quickly realize that it will only encourage them. The next thing you’ll know, they’ll be taking advantage of your naiveness while they herd you into their cousin’s shop.
So sure enough, in the lions den of hustle (so to speak), I found Delhi to have the most persistent hustlers I’ve ever come across. Now I had long heard that India was notorious for its hassles in getting from place to place and dealing with the crowds, but I found the hassle nothing compared to the hustle. In fact, the biggest hassle was from hustlers trying to “save” you from the alleged hassle of travelling through India.
At times it would get so bad walking around Connaught Place that I would have to retreat to my room back in the guest house. Not only did people constantly try to steer me into some travel agent or “emporium” of Indian relics, they would do so in such a persistent manner that I couldn’t help but become extremely protective of myself. I would initially try to respond politely, but when that only seemed to encourage them, I would end up snapping. I later found myself snapping at people on the street the second they opened their mouths with lines like “You look like a movie star!”
This was interspersed with beggars walking along side me and pleading for my money as well. Even some of the begging appeared to be hustling. I spotted families of beggars walking down the street before they saw me and they seemed to be healthy, happy people. Their kids were smiling and running around playing with each other. As soon as I came into view of them, however, that would all immediately change and they would start their groaning and begging act. It was quite disturbing.
The saddest incident happened when a group of kids tried to persuade me to visit a travel agent. I kept telling them I wasn’t interested, but they kept persisting with their sales pitch. I finally whipped around, glared, and snapped “I don’t care!”, only to find a frightened and confused look in their eyes — as though they honestly felt they were trying to do me a favor. Poor kids. I actually felt sorry for them. It was as if someone told them that they were doing an honorable service by helping tourists find places to spend all the money they were just dying to get rid of. As though I had been out on the street yelling that I had all this money and desperately needed somewhere to spend it all.
After a typical bout with the hustling, I would find myself back to the seclusion of my room at the guest house to watch my multitude of Indian cable-tv channels and nurse my post-traumatic hustle stress disorder.
