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Posté le Lundi 24 septembre 2007 par Sittingbull
DE GUSTIBUS
Passage to India
Adam Smith in a Delhi market.
BY MARY KISSEL
Friday, September 21, 2007 12:01 a.m.
NEW DELHI– »I am convinced that you could buy enough spare parts in this market to build an entire airplane! Isn’t it wonderful? » So my friend Shruti, a diminutive, sparky Delhi native, suggested to me as we forged through Chandni Chowk, the sprawling market just down the road from the capital city’s iconic Red Fort. In a subcontinent still shaking off decades of socialist planning (enshrined in its constitution, even), Shruti is educating me on Adam Smith’s invisible hand in a free market–the real kind, that is. The first time she took me to Chandni Chowk’s maelstrom of commerce, my feet froze in fear. She grabbed my hand, I shut my eyes, and we plunged into a bewildering web of weaving couriers, tooting cycle rickshaws, buses bursting at the seams, sacred cows, sari-clad grandmas and the occasional man stomping by with a 100-pound bag of chilies perched on his head.
After a few minutes, I stopped long enough to take a good hard look. And then I noticed it: Order. Not a single laborer walks aimlessly around this place. In every cranny, nook and lane, someone is selling something to someone. Even the men sitting on the sidewalks are ready for work. « See, » Shruti points out, « a painter with his brush; a carpenter with files. » And many of the shops are so good at what they do that they have been in business for hundreds of years–selling exactly the same product, continually refined.
This, mind you, is a market that predates Smith himself. Built in 1650 by the Mughal emperor Shah Jahan’s daughter, Jahanara, Chandni Chowk covers several football fields’ worth of space. The shopping conditions aren’t attractive; at first glance, many of the crumbling buildings don’t even look stable. It’s the top-quality goods that draw the crowds. There’s no government imposing order. And why should it? As Smith said, there’s a « certain propensity » in human nature to « truck, barter and exchange one thing for another, » so it’s natural that a certain kind of system, guided by an « invisible hand, » results. Chandni Chowk must be the perfect place to watch it at work. First stop: Parawthe Wala, established in 1875 by Ghasni Ram, a Brahmin who cooked only parathas (a kind of fried bread) for a small fee on a street of silvermakers. He was so good at it that he was soon turning a pretty rupee; and by the turn of the century, more than 30 paratha shops had opened nearby. The street was soon renamed « paratha street. » Competition slowly winnowed out the weaker restaurants, and more than 100 years later only three remain–including the original, its fifth-generation owner, Abhishek Dixit, tells us.
Mr. Dixit’s shop embodies the division of labor described in the « Wealth of Nations. » One man takes orders; the second puts the ingredients into the dough and kneads it; the third fries the bread. And they’re pretty good at it. « The last cook was here over 40 years, » says the slightly chubby, genial Mr. Dixit.
What does he think of competition? « If McDonald’s opens, we are not scared. Delhi is a food culture! We sell different products. » And how does he differentiate his parathas from those of the other two sellers just down the road? « If the quality is high, that’s how I make money. » Does he advertise? « Never. It’s only spread by word of mouth. » We were ready to help after we stuffed down a few ourselves.
Next stop: Anil Sethi & Sons, an oxidized silver shop on a street laden with silvermakers, staffed by the 56-year-old Mr. Sethi and his two sons, Vikas and Vishal. Shruti and I squeeze onto slim wooden benches facing Mr. Sethi, who produces a book of his wares: lamps, mirrors, keychains, earrings, walking sticks, cups, jewelry boxes, pitchers, vases, furniture (yes, furniture), tablas, sitar boxes, candlesticks, ashtrays in the form of little shoes, an exquisitely crafted mirror.
Who designs the products? « I design everything myself! » Mr. Sethi declares. Did you study design or business? « I don’t have a business degree! » he exclaims. « If you are here, » he says, gesturing to his wares and his flourishing shop, « you can do the business. » How do you hedge the fluctuating price of silver? « I don’t. » (« He doesn’t know what hedging is, » Shruti confides.) How long have you been in business? « My grandfather founded this shop. » Have you ever advertised? « Everyone knows me! . . . do you like plain bangles? »
Further down the road: Chiranji Lal Ram Lal, a tidy, one-room affair piled high with popcorn maize, corn flakes, dal and rice. In a brutal commodities industry, this shop has been in existence for more than 100 years. A small group of workers gathers to stare at the sight of Shruti and me questioning the 72-year-old manager, Bishanchand. When we ask him how he’s stayed afloat, he shrugs and says, « I’m not worried. » If you can survive in Chandni Chowk, you can survive anywhere.
We end the day at a Bangladeshi sweets store that sells curd-like delicacies. The line is long, so it’s the best around, Shruti assures me, as she wends her way to the front, jostling for the best ones. This is a woman who isn’t afraid of a little competition. Ms. Kissel is editor of The Wall Street Journal Asia’s editorial page.
