Last week I went to a notary public in Ithaca to have my signature on a document attested. I had phoned in advance and when I stepped into her office, she guessed: ‘Professor Basu?’ In about ten minutes I was out of there, job done. As I drove back to Cornell I could not help feeling impressed by the efficiency. But I must admit, there was also a feeling of nostalgia for India.

Last August my wife and I had to get a document notarized in Delhi. Dodging a procession of banner-waiving protesters of some sort, near the crossing of Sansad Marg and Ashoka Road, we entered an open arena resembling what I imagine the bazaars of ancient Babylon must have looked like during the decline of the Mesopotamian civilization, where notaries public (I just checked—that is the right way to write the plural) keep their offices. ‘Offices’ here means a cluster of ramshackle desks and chairs beneath makeshift sheds and tarpaulin to keep the sun out. Right in front of this arena is a garbage dump, with additions to it appearing like missiles every now and then from a window in an adjacent building. Chai-wallahs and peons weave their way through rows of desks where an assortment of men in black coats sit, some working, some staring vacantly, some dozing.