Osaka glittered like a jewel on a dark piece of velvet. The sun had set but the city’s electric glow matched its brightness. The icy north wind raced through the city but without its sting. It had been thwarted by the warmth blazing in homes across the landscape. It had snuggled close to the ground by the time we descended from a four-storeyed high express flyover. We had been in Japan for more than 90 minutes and it was the first time that we were actually standing on terra firma.

The hotel staff bowed so low that one marvelled at their sense of balance. Everything was clearly labelled and there was no confusion as to who goes into which room. If there was a spot of chaos, it was because the guests elbowed each other to get their room keys first! No amount of Japanese intervention could sort out the melee.

Outside, the streets purred with traffic and the sidewalks seemed unused. There were cars, buildings and trees in plenty on and alongside the roads but only an occasional human form. Japan’s urban landscape is densely populated, and Osaka is perhaps more so, but the lack of figures belied the facts. We sauntered along, admiring buildings and trees and the brand new bicycles chained to lamp posts wishing for a human encounter. We were in the heart of the city but it seemed as if it had been pumped dry of human existence. The buildings were the city. People snaked into them from the underground to occupy their lofts and then slithered back to the borrows as the day ended. Overground, cold concrete touched shoulders with carefully crafted trees that some times swayed to the sounds of laughter.

"My father is an American and my mother is a Japanese. I was educated in the USA and I work here," the young man from Dow Jones said by way of introduction at the official dinner. "And you? How can you speak English so well?"

"Both my parents are Indian but I was educated in Convent schools," I replied. "Yeah," he nodded, perhaps only half understanding the import of the reply. "India is the same place that is next to Pakistan, no?"

"No, Pakistan is next to India. Actually, it was a part of India before 1947 when it was partitioned and the Muslim state of Pakistan was created."

"Yeah," he said again, only half understanding the import of the reply. "Yeah, I have heard of India many times. The last time I was in Bangkok I met a couple who said that they were Indian. They were darkish like you." We exchanged knowing smiles. Dow Jones was covering the Indian Ambassador’s dinner for his newspaper very dimly lit on world geography.

A moment later, Dow Jones introduced me to his colleague from another paper. "Both her parents are Japanese. She will be able to tell you about Japan in greater detail," he said by way of introduction. The woman smiled and bowed low.

"I know about India," she began with a smile, "I had a boy friend who is a Pakistani and he told me about India. You people have fought a number of wars with each other." May be it was a question but it seemed like a statement of fact. "You know, Javed and I studied together for two years and he wanted to marry me. I agreed. He is such a nice man, very polite and always helpful. But he wanted me to convert to Islam. I said no. He had, poor man, no option but to marry within his own community. I will be going to attend his wedding in Pakistan next month." It was indeed very gracious of her but she didn’t look it that way. "Its alright," she said shrugging her shoulders, "He is a man after all."

She talked through the drive to the sake bar. "How can you shame me like this," she asked reproachingly, "We don’t allow men to carry our stuff even if it is a heavy package." But isn’t gentlemanliness all about escorting ladies and carrying things for them? "No," she looked horrified. "I can’t allow you to do this. Men are to be waited upon. They do not serve women."

"This is what it is," Dow Jones said wearily, "Japanese women make very good wives. Always at your beck and call and they don’t mind even if you ignore them altogether."

"Are you married?"

"No," Dow Jones yawned, "Too expensive. It is better to have a live -in girlfriend."

"Doesn’t she want to tie the knot?"

"She knows that we can’t afford it. In Japan, marriage is very expensive. First the ceremony and the gift -giving costs hundreds of thousands of yen. Then this whole business of marriage makes your budget go awry. It is better to stay unmarried."

I asked the girl about salaries. "They are okay but nothing seems like enough. One day you take a taxi and you go home broke. I am higher than middle class but I am always broke. What do you do— the more you earn, the less it seems."

"As compared to newspapers, salaries are better in the corporate sector," Dow Jones continued, "I worked in a Japanese company before shifting to journalism and By God it was atrocious! They just don’t give you space. It is only work and more work. Nobody should ever work for a Japanese company."

That the corporate sector is driven maniacally is obvious from the business meetings that the Prime Minister had with industry leaders in Osaka and Tokyo. The hierarchy is so well defined that it follows people like an aura. Seniors expect unquestioning loyalty and commitment from their subordinates and a punishing schedule is the first pre-condition for employment. Management principles like Just in Time operations and Total Quality Check are Japanese gifts to the corporate world. Kansai district, next to Osaka, is the size of a handkerchief but accounts for 20 per cent of Japan’s GDP. It is also the hub of Japan’s IT industry. The productivity levels are seven to eight times over that of the best in the world. Hard work, and more hard work, is the given mantra.

The Ginza street in Tokyo is just six kilometre long. It is also the most expensive piece of property in the world. "This is the place that was sold recently," the interpreter pointed to a store on the main crossing,"And it went for a record-breaking price. In other words, this is the most expensive site in the most expensive place in the world." She then shook her head sadly and added, "The man who bought it killed himself soon after. He was frustrated with life." She also tells us that the owner of the plush hotel we are staying in has 62 pieces of the best of the best properties in Japan and as many wives. Would she marry him, if asked? Her eyes light up. "Oh yes. What does it matter if he has many wives? He is a rich man."

Richness is evident everywhere. The countryside is a rich green and copper of trees, preparing for the winter. The Imperial Palace gardens seem as if every leaf of each tree has been personally attended to by a master craftsmen. The zen gardens with their rocks and sand appear like delicate paintings straight out of a classical art form. Not a single thing is out of place and no feature, natural or man-made, has been overlooked in the grooming of the tangible, visible environment. Also, even during peak hours, the roar of traffic is missing. Vehicles just glide; and the Bullet Train flowed like a lazy, tranquil river carrying passengers 450 miles in just two and a half hours. Even at very high speeds, there was no noise or vibration. It was also dot on time, by the watch! The future of our rail system was right there, and it worked.

"Look around you," the interpreter said grandly, "And you will see how affluent Tokyo is. Ginza alone transacts business that surpasses France’s GDP. Though there is a slowdown in the economy, we are still way ahead." True. Equally true is that the incidence of stress-related suicide among the Japanese is the highest in the world. The worst affected are the young who have to compete at a feverish pitch to even get admission into a graduation course at universities. Alienation levels are high and this has led to unprovoked violence against strangers. Tokyo is also the most expensive city in the world where a family of four can afford to put only 100 to 150 grams of beef on their table every other week. Marriages are being avoided and children are a scarce commodity among professional classes. Living spaces have shrunk and cars have to be parked in iron lofts. People would rather bow to each other than smile at each other. And all the talking is done through cellphones. This is the future. It works. But I wouldn’t want to be there.