CIRcle of Life

Generally speaking, from the universe of my acquaintances in my thirty-some years on the planet, the set from school would constitute the oldest and most valued relationships. To boot, a majority of this group would rate higher than average in terms of cerebral acumen as well as worldly success. Hence, when no fewer than three such friends seek me out in the space of a few weeks with queries on financial products, all centred on the theme of credit history, something does seem amiss in the State of Denmark!

Proceeding under the assumption that a general outbreak of penury has not gripped the Class of 1991 (and the financial transactions intended certainly pointed in the opposite direction!), the spate of enquiries was telling in the extreme. My working hypothesis was our collective lack of appreciation for credit bureaus and their rapidly expanding sway in India's financial system. (Incidentally, using the plural is half accurate — while only Credit Information Bureau India Ltd or CIBIL is completely operational, Experian is slated to be the second, and more are in the pipeline.) A quick primer, therefore, seems in order.

Simply put, a Credit Information Company or credit bureau is a repository of credit histories of individuals and companies. It is premised on the principle of pooled information — all member banks and FIs share credit line and payment data with it — intended to facilitate better credit decisions for lenders as also appropriate terms for borrowers. Bureau data is formatted into a Credit Information Report (CIR), which can be accessed by member institutions and concerned consumer or commercial entities. This CIR is being increasingly leveraged to assess creditworthiness in India as we speak — a decades-long practice in the developed world.

Therein, of course, lies the rub. Widespread usage of the CIR is a relatively recent phenomenon and customer awareness about it has been pitifully inadequate. Combined, this has severely limited consumer motivation to keep bureau data accurate and updated. As such, a sizeable section of borrowers end up not-so-pleasantly surprised by their CIR's contents — and that at the very cusp of a loan (hence calls to folks like me). Nor are the bureaus much to blame — not only are their credentials impeccable (CIBIL, for instance, was cofounded by SBI and HDFC, along with Dun & Bradstreet and TransUnion, both experts in their domains), but inaccuracy of information strikes at their very raison d'être.

Similar vested interest in veracity may have been presumed for banks and FIs. Unfortunately, in CIBIL's nascent days, a chunk of members were curiously over-protective of their data and loath to share vital information with others. This futile stance changed significantly only with the 2008 Crisis, when the industry woke up to the dangers of one-upmanship. Historically, there may have been infrastructure issues in data capture or storage too, especially with PSU players. All this — exacerbated by customer tardiness in closing seemingly trivial issues and occasional wilful default — culminated in countless unfairly sullied CIRs.

As things stand, the CIR is now part of life (common misconception: only delinquent accounts get reported to bureaus — not so; they carry all). In fact, consider it only a function of time when CIR usage shall transcend lending decisions to encompass utilities and other facets of one's financial identity. Note too that its capture, portability, and permanence will be in a different league post-Aadhaar implementation. Neither should it be thought impossible for the CIR to become an input for employment decisions (in BFSI, company directorships etc), nor, at some point in the future, indirectly impinge on social contracts, or even public office.

Meanwhile, for those with current or future borrowing needs — that is, virtually everyone in India's emerging consumerist paradigm — and at all concerned with credit availability and terms (obviously, pricing; equally credit delayed can be credit too late — ask those forgoing cash discounts when purchasing a new house), an impeccable credit history is highly desirable. Even as you get disciplined in future payments, cast an eye on your CIBIL report now and going forward (rectify errors, if any, via your bank or FI that has reported them). Procrastination is perilous.

Wheels of Fortune

Having trodden the more beaten end of the path last week, ambition drives me to pivot to the glitzy and stratospheric today. My motivation in changing gear from the Bicycle to a Bugatti is not entirely random though. It comes from realisation, grudging as much as bizarre, that the Veyron 16.4 Grand Sport that drastically redefined the automobile pricing summit in India, is not merely about libertine luxury but actually a fulfilment of some much humbler prayers!

First things first: it is now three weeks since the Volkswagen (literally, People's Car) family launched Veyron from its Bugatti stables to add to the options for India's super-rich. The crown of the nation's most expensive motorcar offering is not quotidian: the Veyron sports a daunting tag, at INR 16Cr onwards — a little under 3X its nearest competitor! Yet, my middle-class, nitpicking mind did not miss the claim by its aptly named sole agent, Exclusive Motors, that the gap between Veyron and #2 was much larger. Perhaps they missed the launch of INR 6Cr Merc S-Guard in February (for some reason a day after my birthday, if only!); maybe they decided that cars not retailed by them did not qualify. Nevertheless the tab is impressive (not omitting an unkind, if pithy, suggestion to rebadge it Veyron 18 next year unless inflation bucks its double digit trend). Equally, for those still stuck to more commoditized mindsets, it is most instructive to note Bugatti's annual sales plan, all of a challenging 60-80 units worldwide, including a prospective 3-4 Indians globally.

Ignorance and presumed readership interest dictate my glossing over the car's intricate details (noteworthy stress in launch press releases, in any event, was on components of 'special materials — titanium, magnesium, etc' handcrafted at Bugatti's French HQ, perhaps playing to the khadi brigade; or 'Puccini sound system with digital signal processor' variety of abstruseness). Certainly, it should be safe to assume the Veyron would be a hedonistic delight, with top-notch safety features and on-tap performance (unlike me, some drivers are seemingly able to discern every tenth of a second in a 0-100 kmph dash, the car in question clocking a 2.7). Above all, its modest sales target and the excessive hype around price are highly suggestive — what may draw prospective buyers is badge value and exclusivity rather than trivia like its pacy 407 km/h, or worry over the 10% speed compromise with the roof off.

The performance numbers do beg an obvious question: where-on will the Veyron get a chance to perform thus for its privileged owner? Of course, one is not unfamiliar with the analogy of powerful sound equipment rendering vastly superior auditory experiences at lower volumes too. The applicable analogue here, however, is of the machinery largely on mute (disbelievers may try DLF Cyber City early morning, or all evening, to truly appreciate the engine's idle hum). And therein lies Reason #1 to have prayed for the Veyron's ilk — folks who buy this car would be from the ranks of the high-and-mighty, eminently better placed to motivate our civic authorities to build roads instead of potholed dirt tracks — chalo Sohna Road, or rather, most of Gurgaon, if you find the depiction pessimistic. Their frustration matters, unlike ours, hence my hope!

Unfortunately, the pristine-road fantasy may come up short against the brutal realities of our obdurate bureaucracy. Regardless, another Veyron attribute makes an even bigger, better case (raison d'être, if you will) for my fervour. Reason #2 is, simply, its price. One hears (and of late there is little to distract) corruption Rajas of contemporary India swindle 1,70,00,00,00,00,00,000 (please check my zeros, someone) Rupees improving connectivity; others siphon off the good part of a (relatively modest) few tens of thousands of crores when organising a sporting event, almost killing the proverbial goose itself; and an ideal housing scheme for Kargil War vets degenerates into a (paltry) some hundred crore scam.

Truly, arithmetic feels inadequate to grasp the enormity of these astronomical amounts — a picture may be better, worth a thousand words (crores, actually). For instance, growing up in Middle India, one imagined lakhs in the form of sundry cars; mention of a crore or two conjures visions of the apartment of our dreams; but, by God, a few hundred crore, and many times over? Head-reeling numbers and 'every day the paperboy brings more'. And how do they make that kind of money? Why want to? What to do with it? Enter the Veyron to up the ante for cars, and at least there is the start of improved perspective. Of course, humble India needs more such symbols, if only to help us learn the New Math (of the dubious) and enhance our imagination.

Obviously this is hardly intended to pull the VW car down (and is too far removed to be a case of sour grapes). Equally frankly, my congratulations to any actual buyer are half-muted — appreciation of its technological marvels or epicurean appeal has been sullied by the coincidental imagery — reminiscent of a generally eroding conviction in the balance of good and bad karma in the world.

As caprice scales new heights and honesty becomes scarce to the point of endangerment, some core beliefs need reassertion. Sceptic, yes; shades of grey, perhaps; but one ought not succumb to the ogre: no comfortably-numb turning tail. Selfishly and for posterity, the choice is to stay angry, lest we get stuck in a gilded Wheel of Misfortune.

The Cycle Diaries: Bihar 2010

My apology to Che-lovers for the title, but the pull of the wheel has been strong in this space these last few days, and it seems opportune to talk 'cycle politics' in my beloved home state. For the politically disinclined or oracularly averse — you would be hard put to find a self-respecting Bihari willing to answer to either description — the crucial eastern state is mid-way through polls to elect a new Vidhan Sabha. Truth be told, in the fractious cauldron of Bihar's polity where caste often looms larger than life, the election appears a tantalisingly close call (at the very least, it may hardly prove the cakewalk for the ruling NDA that the national media would have us believe). The battle is, equally, critical to fortunes of at least two regional satraps with thinly-veiled national ambitions. For the country's largest party too, securing a firm foothold in Bihar is crucial to its long-term consolidation plans.

Naturally, with such high stakes, it is a no-holds-barred fight, with participants of every persuasion eager to seize upon and amplify the minutest of issues. One idea that has thus assumed centrestage is the Mukhyamantri Balika Cycle Yojana. The scheme is simple enough: it entitles girls who pass Class VIII in government schools to state support in the form of a free bicycle, or INR 2000 to purchase one. (It should come as no surprise that although the Nitish Kumar government subsequently extended the scheme to boys, it is the promise of female empowerment implicit in its original version that has captured the public imagination in one of India's most backward states.)

On his part, Nitish has scarcely hesitated to ride this humble bicycle into the grime of electoral debate. He has extolled its virtues, from obvious aspects like education enabling gender equality to deft positioning as a philosophical lesson in striking balance. The latter in particular is a veritable coup de maître: in a single turn of the pedal, it transforms the potentially divisive edge of any female assertion arising from the scheme, and imbues it with a character of harmony and inclusion. The logic is crisp — indeed crucial in the extant male-dominated quasi-feudal milieu — but clearly there is bigger game afoot.

In the larger picture, Nitish knows that the issue of governance played more than its part in pitchforking the NDA into power in 2005 (and reinforced in 2009) when his predecessor's much-vaunted contempt for vikas as a demotic issue turned electoral turtle. (Traverse back in history and one could make an equally good case via Rajiv's freshman promise and appeal to change in the massive post-Indira assassination mandate.) In short, development may not be an absolute winning ticket but it can serve as a formidable consolidator in electoral sweepstakes. The wily politician in the Bihar CM reckons that he needs every card on the table to retain his edge in its complex electoral arithmetic. (This same appease-all desperation also motivates his covert courting of JD-U neo-converts and the occasional bahubali, moves that are denounced as capitulation by pro-vikas votaries in the intelligentsia.)

Equally, the pragmatic Nitish recognizes he is no Narendra Modi, lacking the BJP strongman's masterly leveraging of the governance plank, or indeed his enviable track record. Even Modi's biggest detractors (and Bihar's CM does occasionally assume that garb) cannot deny the single-minded determination that Chhote Sardar brings to Gujarat's development agenda, or his patience-is-no-virtue bias for action. Regrettably, Bihar under NDA rule has largely struggled to shrug off the negative-growth RJD legacy and benefitted partially from its shrunk-denominator effect. In a nutshell, it is no one's case that no good has come about in Bihar post-2005, but its pace has been painfully slow and corruption continues to sadly fester. The incumbent CM, therefore, has little choice but to root for the symbolism in his bicycle scheme.

The compulsions for Nitish's main challenger are, of course, entirely different. Shri Laloo Yadav is looking for a way out of the political Recycle Bin, hoping that the cycle of change prompts people to vote RJD's lantern back to power. The path is hardly rosy and the 60+ one-time kingmaker has struggled to brew a concoction to renew his spell, apart from hope in Ram Vilas Paswan's vote-transfer ability. After initial flirtations with the development plank by pointing to his record as Rail Mantri (a claim made hollow thanks to Didi's revelations) he tried one-upmanship too — promising Class IX students motorcycles if victorious (so much simpler to match 1-kg rice with 2, alas!) — but thankfully did not persist. It is, after all, one thing to turn animal fodder into millions, and quite another to conjure up finances for a mere-paas-motorcycle scheme (petrol bhi hai?). And then there is the minor happenstance of students not being of driving age, a fact that Nitish was quick to drive home, calling his bête noire's schemes as "always meant to land you in jail"!

Unsurprisingly, we have had some RJD leaders attempt murder-by-whispers too, with talk of bicycles being used to finance eloping couples, inter-caste marriages, and what-not. Such slander campaigns sit lightly, however, and most Biharis are too politically adept to miss the attempt to paper over Lalooji's misgovernance credentials (he once castigated Raghuvansh Prasad Singh, his most trusted lieutenant, publicly during an election rally for merely mentioning development, calling it an avoidable digression from 'the fight against communal forces'!). Hence, despite his core support base more or less intact (though there is some talk of post-Babri Muslim angst changing this at a local seat level), Lalooji has been left to ponder where the additional numbers will come from. One can never write him off too soon, but it has till now sounded like a far cry from the days of jab tak rahega samose mein aloo.

In a few days from now, we will get to know how it stacks up. Yet, irrespective of party inclination, a broader political lesson emerges — one that gives reason for hope to the Bihari in me. Holding its own amidst the high stakes and tightly strung social equations, the humble bicycle — campaign rally exhibit extraordinaire — epitomises the inevitable drive of economic progress and an inclusive agenda. Or as a much wiser man once put it, one cannot fool all the people all of the time.

In Driving Seat!

My credentials as a backseat driver are rather suspect, to say the least. Hence it is not easy for me to put on paper experiences of a motoring kind, but a Zen moment this Tue morning, amidst Cyber City rush hour traffic, did cause me to pause — hence this. (To make a full confession, one must add that it helped that this was also a week when Delhi formalised its intent to — finally — bid adieu to its dreaded Blue Line bus fleet.)

Now for the last few years, my chosen set of wheels has been a truck (actually two, both poor man's SUVs). Naturally, if for no other reason, this has put paid to any ambitions of one-red-light-to-the-next Formula 1 speed thrills that most Delhiites consider their bounden duty to practise. In fact, enough of them (any number exceeding zero is too many, in my book) take the killer-instinct facet of their nature too literally for anyone of sane counsel to refrain from indulging in pyrotechnics behind the wheel — unless desiring publicity as the day's victim in some horror tale of road rage. In such trigger-happy times, one is therefore left with little choice but to give the next horn-prone pup right of way, and enjoy the wafts of dhakchik-dhakchik music they leave in their wake. (Back in college, it was a source of much wonder for me as to how so much noise pollution was managed, till someone clarified that specialised — and naturally expensive — equipment was duly installed to create the jhankaar beat!) A show must be made if it can, after all.

Cut to 2007. With a good chunk of my motoring in Gurgaon, with roads that rivalled Laloo's Bihar for non-existence, one learnt new lessons in forbearance. The strip available to drive was narrow, the traffic unending, and the desire to be first in office all-consuming. With such an evolved mindset in the fellow driver, there was little to do but enjoy oodles of me-time stuck in bumper-to-bumper traffic. (This of course rendered the no-handphone law quite redundant — too little a distraction in a sea of red that a million feet on the brake pedal and no street lights produce!) Yet, to go back to the question of road rage, two competing species were found in abundance — the Call Centre cabbie, overworked, underpaid and an embodiment of the what-me-wait credo; and the local agri-culture aficionado, sometimes on a tractor, often on an LCV, for whom a 4 lane road meant 2 opposing lanes on either side of the median. Ouch.

In such a setting of bad-road-worse-traffic, and caught amidst a Darwinian struggle for survival between might-is-right tractor and no-waiting-no-stopping Qualis, it would be rank dishonesty to claim that my patience levels, though infinite, were never tested! Faced with an assault of the senses, it would be a body a much worse conductor of heat and or electricity than most folks of my acquaintance, including me, that would not occasionally boil over. And so, unfortunately, we succumbed. Thankfully we survived too. Yet, my lasting memory of any such skirmish was no sense of victory in getting the better of it, but clenched teeth, muttered breath, foul mood, and worse.

The tale this Tuesday, though, is not of victory. Running a wee bit late to work, and at just the final turn into the office building, my focus was tested by two gentlemen who, though not out of nowhere, decided to forsake the median they were perched on, and jump right in my straight line path. The traffic having just cleared up, my newbie enthusiasm for an automatic was finding expression, when one had to resort to testing that other nouveau feature — the ABS. The steed responded well enough, bringing me up well short of the duo — who were in any case a study in indifference. Perhaps it was appreciation of the advancement in automobile technology (we do love instant responses, don't we!) or satisfaction at my holding my own against the vagaries of time (a split second reaction), but the three of us (yes, that's me included) each broke into a smile. To make matters more profound, and at my gesture bidding them to pass (one has to do a Cyber City cross-country to fully appreciate this) they responded by waving me on instead.

And so, where there might have been righteous indignation or early morning vocal cord exercise (on either side), but surely all-round frustration, we had smiles, thank you! (Looking back, one is thankful too for the pre-brake speed that precluded any of the following traffic getting too close for comfort!) A good start to the day, we say. Or, in effulgent Diwali spirit, hope for more!