It would be wrong to say that my second day in India started off as a smashing success.

I had arranged with my colleagues to meet them at the office at 10AM. This would give me ample time to catch up on some rest after the harrowing ride through the Delhi streets the night before. Unfortunately, someone had other plans. At 7AM, the phone next to my bed shakes me from my sleep: "Hello? Mr. John?" Yes, I think that's me. "This is Kishin from the concierge desk calling to confirm your car for this morning." The kind gentleman, clearly unawares that I am tired and cranky, proceeds for the next five, maybe thirty-five, minutes to tell me about the car, the driver, the pick-up time, the drop-off time, the happy time, whatever. I mumble something about that being fine and slam the phone back into the receiver.

An hour later, my mobile phone alarm beeps because, in my eagerness to sleep, I had forgotten to reset it. I turn that off and curl back into bed. By 9AM, it's wake-up call time and my bedside phone rings again with an eager young woman at the other end who wishes me a "Good morning, Mr. John!" Finally, an intended disturbance.

India, as I am quickly learning, is the epitome of contradiction. As my driver navigates the Tetris board to the office, I watch white humped cows meander the streets, men in leather and helmets drive Harley Davidsons, wrinkle-faced women crouch along the sidewalks sweeping dust, and half-naked workers raise the beams of an impressive 45-story condominium property around a Hindu temple.

My new driver, not as conversant as Rim, stops every few meters and peers around curiously. Is he lost? After about 20 minutes, he puts the car in park in the middle of the road and, honking be damned, gets out to ask directions.

Perhaps it's not his fault. Gurgaon is a suburb of New Delhi that is quickly becoming the business hub and upper-middle-class residential area of the city. Skyscrapers and air-conditioned condominiums appear to be popping up like dandelions here. I give him the benefit of the doubt that maybe our office is hiding behind a tower that wasn't there yesterday.

In total, the 15-minute drive to the office takes 30 minutes. It also costs me 1,300 Indian Rupees, which, in dollars, converts to a bloody rip-off. My Indian colleague meets me on the 5th floor and introduces me to the other Indians in the office. From one of the windows, I look out across Gurgaon, a virtual hotbed of construction. Layers of new highway, condos, shopping malls and office structures are creating veritable urban sprawl. But with more cows.

The office itself feels all very Western, aside from the faint smell of curry and the brown-outs every couple hours. The first few times a brown-out hits, I can't help but crack a smile. We'll be in the middle of a meeting, and suddenly all the power cuts out. No lights, no PowerPoint projections, no air-conditioning... the Indians don't even blink. They continue to talk, pointing and carrying on as if electricity was an optional element of doing business. I too soon learn to ignore the rolling power outages and feel rather proud the first time I don't stop mid-sentence because I suddenly can't see the person sitting across from me.

For lunch, a few of my colleagues invite me along to a cafe where I'm told India's young professionals go to eat. We pull into the dusty parking lot and walk into a cool food court. By "cool", I refer to the temperature, not the hipness factor. It feels like McDonalds meets India Palace wrapped in a Golden Corral. Nevertheless, for $US6, we feed four of us a feast of Indian foods I could not name. No matter. It was delicious.

Later that evening, I join a colleage at his brother's house in a gated community just outside Gurgaon. His brother is the director of a large insurance company in New Delhi. There are actually two gates: the gate to the community, guarded by two suspicious young men in tattered uniforms, and the gate to his house, also operated by a team of uniformed guards. The house itself is massive. A Malibu-style bungalow sitting on four acres of pristine, manicured lawn with accompanying pool, hot tub and tennis courts. Two beautiful dogs bound out to greet us, a striking contrast from the owner-less mutts wandering the Delhi gutters. They are soon followed by two maids bearing Kingfisher beer and bowls of nuts. The whole experience, again, seems a bit surreal. One of my American colleagues settles back into the leather comforter and exclaims, "This is not a bad life... not a bad life at all..."

We sit for the next couple hours and discuss the rise of India, the new-found wealth of the Indian upper-class, and the potential expatriate packages that might be doled out to brave Westerners who agree to make India their home for a chapter. Clearly, India has reaped great rewards from embracing capitalism and the free markets 20 years ago. Its economy is growing at a robust 9.5 percent. Some would correctly point out that globalization has also deeply divided the country. There are now those who can and have benefited and those who don't and perhaps never will. Many of the Indians who left their home country for education have now returned, eager to multiply their investment portfolios and get venture funding for their business ideas.

After the nuts and chips have disappeared, the four of us pile into the chauffered car to head to dinner. It's an upscale Indian restaurant, but I'm told it sits in the middle of a popular expatriate neighborhood. At the table next to us, four Korean girls chat excitedly. A few French people two tables over draw long on their cigarettes between nibbles of paneer tikka. Again, I leave my taste buds to the mercy of my colleague and enjoy every second of chewing as the flavours of North India burst in my mouth.

Some people say it is difficult to sleep after a heavy, spicy meal. But that night, as I tucked into my goose-feather duvet, I proved those people wrong. This is not a bad life... not a bad life at all.