A Return After 24 Years: Seeing North and South India Afresh

After visiting six different places in India recently, Amandeep Midha—currently living in Denmark for the past few years—reflects on his experiences. He observes that the contrasts aren’t just economic; they are cultural, psychological, and deeply historical. And that is why he is reminded of India’s greatest paradox: it is both one nation and a continent of nations. 

A Return After 24 Years: Seeing North and South India Afresh

Amandeep Midha 

From Bangalore’s professionalism to Delhi’s survivalism, Punjab’s distrust, Himachal’s bureaucratic time warp, Kerala’s quiet excellence, and Greater Noida’s premium efficiency, an unvarnished portrait of a nation evolving unevenly.

In 2000, I left Punjab and moved to Bangalore. By 2001, I had made my last trip home, and when my mother sold our family house in Punjab in 2004, that chapter quietly closed. For the next two decades, life carried me south and then far west, to Denmark, while Delhi became a mere transit point I barely visited. Between 2013 and 2023, I didn’t set foot in the capital even once. But the past two years have brought me back four times, and this summer I immersed myself deeply: a week-long program in Delhi, a growing network there, and a personal project that would give me a front-row seat to how the city really works.

That project was renovating our East Delhi apartment. Not a simple paint job, this was full-scale reconstruction: four doors demolished, walls replastered, one bathroom stripped down to its pipes and flooring, and the entire apartment repainted. I lived there through it all, managing the work myself, observing every laborer, every foreman, every transaction. It was as much an education as it was a renovation, offering me a visceral sense of Delhi life and labor.

And then, after a 24-year absence, I finally returned to Punjab. That journey, juxtaposed with my Bangalore roots and my Danish lens, left me with a vivid, sometimes jarring perspective on how deeply India’s regions have diverged—not just in wealth, but in trust, culture, and the way people imagine their futures.

Delhi: Inequality You Can Feel

Delhi’s energy is undeniable, but beneath its buzz is a stark picture of precarity. The men who guard apartment gates, the day laborers, even the supervisors as they work on small, irregular incomes. They own fridges and washing machines, but these appliances look like they’ve lived through generations, unlikely ever to be replaced in their lifetimes. There’s an air of survival, not upward mobility.

Managing renovation in Delhi required relentless vigilance. Instructions alone wouldn’t move things forward while one had to watch, push, and double-check everything. The work culture was transactional, shortcut-driven, and distrust simmered under every exchange.

The neighbors I encountered during this project mirrored this environment. While termite treatment, painting, and structural repairs benefitted not just me but also the building as a whole, I met hostility instead of gratitude. It was a reminder that Delhi’s culture of individual survival often leaves little space for empathy or community spirit.

Bangalore: A Southern Middle-Class Professionalism

The Bangalore I moved to in 2000—and lived in until 2014—feels like another India altogether. The apartment complex managers and security guards there are professionals with provident funds, families, even cars. I remember a gold chain glinting on the electrician in charge, his wrists stacked with bracelets. Labor there is part of a middle-class economy, not a subsistence one.

But beyond economic differences, Bangalore’s warmth stood out. Neighbors keep an eye out for one another. If a parcel is left outside your door, someone will message or knock. Conversations spill over balconies and doorsteps; there’s a sense of shared well-being.

Swiggy delivery boys in Bangalore are often technicians, carpenters, engineering pass-outs, or students between jobs. Yes, many are undereducated too, but there’s a baseline of dignity and ambition. And while the city’s traffic is legendary for its chaos, I rarely sense the crushing fatigue and resignation I saw in Delhi’s delivery fleet.

There’s also quiet evidence of progress. While Bangalore isn’t yet a hub for women delivery agents, my area’s postwoman has been delivering my mother’s monthly magazine subscription for over four years now. She’s become a familiar face and even offers a helping hand when my mother is around. That small detail says something about trust in public services and the slow, steady inclusion of women in traditionally male roles.

Kerala: A Glimpse of Quiet Excellence

Kerala offered me an experience unlike any other in India. Honestly, it always felt closer to Europe. Public transport is exceptional, connecting even the tiniest villages on the map with remarkable efficiency. Roads—no matter how narrow or serpentine—are built with ambulance commutes in mind, and there’s a prevailing sense of public welfare that you can tangibly feel.

My host (a non-Malayali, a Rajasthani to be precise) is completely in awe of the state. He showed me around all the places he loves and kept explaining why he admires the people and the place.

But what impressed me even more was the social fabric: the least amount of hostility, xenophobia, or racism I’ve encountered anywhere in India. There’s a baseline of civility and inclusivity here that stands out starkly against the sharp edges of other regions. My host is a testament to this—he stressed that he has never experienced any hostility, despite spending a lot of time in the state and having acquired two flats here.

Kerala’s bureaucracy surprised me with its professionalism when I accompanied my host to a government office for a property-related task. Every step was documented: government ID verification, signatures, and an officer who spoke to us in English—without passive-aggressively trying to make us switch to Kannada or Hindi. After the formalities, he politely told us we could leave while a hired proxy would handle the rest. Within three days, the job was done, with timely updates sent throughout.

I told my friend that the contrast with Himachal Pradesh could not be starker. Almost the same task there dragged on for years, requiring two separate trips in 2024 and yet another follow-up visit in 2025. I thought Kerala proved that efficiency and ethics can coexist, and that India’s administrative machinery doesn’t have to be synonymous with corruption and delay.

Greater Noida: Efficiency at a Price

Greater Noida felt almost unreal. My first visit was to clear some old property dues of my aunt, and all it took was a few words about having come from far away to gain direct access to the Chairman of the Urban Development Authority. Over tea, he personally commanded the updates: slips, invoices, and KYC formalities: all processed within flat 45 minutes.

On my second trip, I met an architect who, in a single hour, mapped out the full landscape: restrictions, potentials, and future plans, all as a gesture. Greater Noida was undeniably hyper-expensive, but that premium came with a level of unheard-of efficiency and direct access to governmetnt decision-makers. Even in Kerala, my friend needed a local proxy; in Greater Noida, bureaucracy opened its doors.

Himachal: A Journey 30 Years Back in Time

If Punjab felt like a paradox, Himachal Pradesh was a shock—a journey back in time. In a country that loudly champions “Digital India,” the tehsildar’s office still operates with a Gmail address instead of an official government email. What should have been a straight forward property inquiry, turned into a Kafkaesque ordeal: the patwari demanded a ₹20,000 bribe merely to hear us out and insisted that original documents be submitted without a receipt.

Even after complying with their demands, there was no urgency, no sense of accountability. What they expected instead was 'ji huzoori' or flattery —blind faith, reverence, and respect for their authority, all while openly abusing their position. It was, without exaggeration, the worst babudom I’ve experienced, a stark reminder that corruption doesn’t always move faster with technology—it simply entrenches itself more deeply.

The only respite was environmental. Escaping the choking pollution of Punjab and Haryana for the cool, clean air of Himachal felt like stepping into a different world. Yet dealing with its bureaucracy felt like traveling thirty years back in time, a sobering reminder of how unevenly India’s governance has evolved. However, not long after I returned,, news of massive landslides in Himachal deeply unnerved me.And I thought: what have we done to our hills? Or all natural resources for that matter! 

Punjab: Distrust as the Currency of Daily Life

If Delhi’s challenge is precarity, Punjab’s is distrust.

Abohar, the small city where our family home stood until 2004, offers a fascinating paradox. On one street, you might see a sprawling new mansion with intricate designs, and directly opposite, a broken sewer line spilling over. Wealth is conspicuous, yet infrastructure is fragile.

Getting around Abohar was its own adventure. There was no organized taxi or rickshaw union, no app-based safety net. Many narrow lanes were inaccessible to cars, so e-rickshaws were the only option, and even finding one could be a challenge. Every ride required negotiation. Each driver carried their own narrative of hardship and resentment, and it often felt like stepping back in time.

During my visit, conversations revealed a deep undercurrent of suspicion. A cabbie cursed hoteliers for their wealth; wealthy residents complained about crime, extortion, and failing law enforcement. Most telling was the attitude toward property ownership. Families own multiple homes but keep them vacant, terrified that tenants might destroy them or refuse to leave. This distrust has created ghost houses across the city with empty spaces frozen by fear rather than filled with opportunity.

And yet, Punjab isn’t frozen in time. Bhatinda, just a short drive away, is a revelation: a clean, orderly city center, a modest airport where light aircraft occasionally dot the skies, and a gleaming four- and six-lane highway connecting it to Abohar. The drive felt world-class, rivaling any Western road.

This juxtaposition, state-of-the-art infrastructure next to overflowing sewers, captures Punjab’s contradictions perfectly.

Labor and Delivery Culture: A Tale of Two Indias

The difference in delivery workers between Delhi and Bangalore struck me hard. Delhi’s delivery boys often look younger, thinner, more stressed, and more trapped in their jobs. The lack of formal employment structures shows in their demeanor; survival takes precedence over ambition.

Meanwhile, Bangalore’s delivery workforce is an extension of its aspirational culture, where workers are better educated, see these roles as stepping stones, and carry themselves with a sense of professionalism.

This isn’t to say Bangalore is free of poverty. It’s not! But the cultural climate is more optimistic. It’s an ecosystem that has lifted even low-wage jobs into a middle-class orbit.

Trust and Empathy: The Missing Links

Living in Denmark for over a decade has sharpened my sensitivity to trust. Developed nations thrive on it where neighbors trust each other, institutions function, and empathy is embedded in daily life. In my Horasis article “Empathy Exists Where We Least Expect It: Lessons from the Dragon Boat Festival and Beyond,” I explored how empathy often surprises us, appearing where culture and community foster mutual respect.

India’s contrasts have made me think deeply about empathy’s uneven distribution. In Bangalore, I saw it in neighbors checking packages outside my door and if its raining, take them inside and message you. In Delhi, I felt its absence during renovations in Delhi altogether. Punjab’s atmosphere of suspicion reminded me how fragile trust becomes when systems falter.

And yet, there are rays of hope. During a brief six-hour stay at a hotel in Delhi’s Aerocity, I met three hotel staff members who communicated using sign language. They worked confidently and seamlessly alongside their peers, a small but powerful sign that empathy is taking root. While I’ve seen Danish employers create opportunities for differently-abled individuals—some bars employ entire teams of them—seeing this inclusivity in India felt deeply encouraging. It reflected a society that, even while grappling with inequality, is learning to care.

Reflections: Three Lenses, One Country

My journey through these places reminded me of India’s greatest paradox: it is both one nation and a continent of nations. The contrasts aren’t just economic; they are cultural, psychological, and deeply historical. A single road in Punjab can feel like Europe, while a sewer next to it feels like another century. Bangalore’s professionalism feels like the future, Delhi’s hustle and the present, and Punjab’s distrust of a lingering shadow of the past.

After 24 years, I came back expecting nostalgia. What I found instead was a new understanding of India’s diversity—a reminder that this country cannot be reduced to a single narrative. It is a kaleidoscope, dazzling and dissonant, demanding both critique and awe.

Yet amid this complexity, I also saw seeds of empathy: in the neighbors of Bangalore, the inclusive hiring at Aerocity, and the quiet progress on world-class infrastructure in Punjab. These glimpses remind me that India’s growth story isn’t just about wealth or development metrics rather it’s about evolving into a society that trusts, cares, and shares.

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Amandeep Midha is a technologist, writer, and global speaker with over two decades of experience in digital platforms building, data streaming, and digital transformation. He has contributed thought leadership to Forbes, World Economic Forum, Horasis, and CSR Times, and actively engages in technology policy-making discussions. Based in Copenhagen, Amandeep blends deep technical expertise with a passion for social impact and storytelling.