how India changes you

Living in India changed my outlook on a lot of the little things in life...

1. You start to think of perfection as an affront to God. So many, many things in India are in need of improvement, its buildings, its roads, its social and governmental institutions, its politics, its bureaucracy... the list seems endless. But then you learn that "perfect" things, like the Taj Mahal or an intricately woven Kancheepuram saree, which look perfect to you and me, actually have been designed intentionally to have one tiny flaw. Why? Because only God is capable of creating perfection, dummy. And so it goes... you start to accept that most things associated with the human condition will never be perfect. Suddenly, the thought that you will never have the perfect house, car, spouse, kids, career and so on ceases to terrify you or make you run out for some Prozac; instead, it is utterly and amazingly liberating. That's not to say that you stop trying, it's just that you resent life's and people's imperfections a lot less.
2. You start subscribing to crazy superstitions. If you've ever hesitated about walking under a ladder or felt cursed when you broke a mirror, you'd better not listen to any of your Indian friends' superstitions. Some superstitions are just silly, some are "based in science," and others are based in religion. I can no longer enjoy orange juice with a bowl of cereal for fear that the citric acid will curdle the milk when they combine in my stomach. Nor can I take a shower right after eating. These are matters of science, I have been told. I try to start important activities on any day but a Tuesday or a Saturday. Friday is not a good day for spending money because it is disrespectful to the goddess of wealth whose day it is (similar to Thor's day). I rarely purchase objects made of metal in any case, so Saturday is not really a problem for me.
3. Your inner control freak starts smoking pot. The banana salesman and his dog are lying fast asleep on top of all the bananas. You realize that he probably isn't the first and only person to sleep on the produce and other consumables that he sells, and God knows who or what has beshitten all over the things you bring home from your local grocery. Power goes out at the damnedest times. Repairmen are called to fix things, they swear they will be there at a specific date and time and consistently fail to show, and when they do show, they fix one problem but the solution usually creates a different problem. Guests come one hour later than the time you tell them to come, or they just drop in out of the blue without calling first -- because calling first is cold, impersonal, formal (something that caucasians do). But, after some time, this just seems to be the natural order of things. You forget about the better business bureau.
4. You start analyzing the veracity of directions that passersby give you, taking into account the person's general appearance and comportment. People in India do not like to say no to any question, even if the question is "do you know where the Hotel Atria is?," or "do you sell blue carpets?" Instead, they will make up directions and tell you to come back next week, they'll have some by then. So, in the case of directions, you learn to conduct straw polls and head in the direction that the majority indicates, of course, after taking into account whether they look crazy or just plain stupid. Obviously, you try to ask only police and auto drivers but sometimes they aren't around. My driver once stopped to ask a guy for directions and the crazy bastard just kept asking us for a ride to his village.
5. You learn to handle unsolicited advice and suggestions with grace. Elders are respected in India and they feel it is their duty to constantly advise the younger generations ways to "adapt, adopt, and improve" as they grow into pukka adults, parents and middle-agers. They will give you ten homeopathic remedies all made with honey to give to your 6-month-old, and every shred of advice that your own elders may be suppressing will undoubtedly pop out of the mouths of passersby, shirttail cousins and sundry aunties and uncles. You realize that it's not just the advice itself that these people are offering, it is their care and concern for your progress.
6. You learn how to say "how are you" and really mean it. In India, people have greater respect for each other than they do for the clock. They will linger over coffees, lunch hours, tea times to hear how their friends, colleagues and their families are really faring - the gas shortage, the unexpected medical bill, the nephew's motorbike accident, the daughter's first steps. Of course, maybe all this lingering is why they need to work a half-day on Saturday to make up for the missed work.

"Molae" Exploitation

My husband's younger cousin-sister lived with us while she finished her studies in Bangalore. She is a "molae," which in Malayam means daughter or girl, and anyone of a certain age can call you that. A Molae has a lot of duties, but most of all she must serve the elders in the house. "Go get my wallet from my dresser upstairs." "Run and get my cell phone before the caller hangs up." "Help Chechi with the baby."

I discovered a formula while I was there - the more someone calls you molae, the more work you have to do.

I, also, lived in a state of domestic servitude while growing up. I had to run and fetch eyeglasses and other on-the-spot jobs, in addition to whatever I did for my "allowance" - dishes, vacuuming, gardening, snow shoveling, etc. But I only served two masters, my parents. If I served anyone else, it was out of love and/or respect, like my grandfather.

I feel so badly for all the molaes I have met. Our household molae mostly gets assignments from my father-in-law and husband. Neck and shoulder massages, leg massages, in addition to running for the cell phone when it rings. When my mother-in-law comes (my husband's parents are divorced), all hands are on deck but it's mostly "Molae, this" and "Molae, that" when she wants something...everything from chai to reheating the chai because she was too busy talking to drink it when you first gave it to her.

My empathy prevents me from assigning Molae any work. I would feel like a jerk, remembering the relative independence and fun I had in my college years contrasted with the duties of her college years.

Perhaps that is why she speaks highly of me to her friends. "You have an American chechi (older sister)? What's that like?" She tells me she tells them that she thinks she is lucky she didn't get another indian chechi because then she would really have to work.

the cousin-brother and cousin-sister

When Americans first start moving in pukka desi circles, they will be confused the first time they hear someone say something like..."I am going to Madras for my cousin-brother's wedding." Or, similarly when I was talking of one of my cousins, I was asked to clarify
whether I was talking about my cousin-sister or cousin-brother.

I thought that the sibling modifier was just to indicate to people the cousin's gender. Most languages in India have specific words for specific relationships. I studied Tamil and my mind swirled during one session where my teacher was telling me "ok, your husband's aunt on his father's side is called X. your husband's uncle on the other side is called X. No simple Uncle Steve and Aunt Faye here, but still no ambiguity as to how exactly that person is related to you. My daughter calls her father's father just that...in malayalam it is achachan - achan is father and they contract it to achachan.

So I asked my husband one day why people used the term "cousin- brother" or "cousin-sister." He explained that the sibling modifier is not just an indication of gender, but of the closeness that people feel with that relationship. In western families, the core or nuclear unit is all-important and all others are just secondary. In India, the core is important but each person connected to any given family is promoted a rung. For instance, cousins become brothers and
sisters, second cousins become first cousins, aunts and uncles are secondary parents (my husband calls his mom's younger sister "little mommy,' and his dad's younger brother "little dad", and any and every other person who is older than you is either called "older brother" or "uncle" or "elder sister" or "auntie," depending on the age difference.

When you are in India, you will hear so many people calling someone "Bhai" or "Bhaiya" (Hindi), "Ana" or "Aka" (Tamil).... to entreat the Rickwalla (Autorickshaw driver) not to cheat you, you might say "Meter Down, Bhai" as you get into the Auto.

But that's for celebrities!

I spotted some teeth whitening products the other day which jogged the following memory:

I arranged to have a dental checkup at the well-reputed Manipal Hospital one afternoon. One of the great things about India is the ridiculous population level. Having so many extra people means that doctors administer tests that normally only medical technicians and nurses do in countries like the US.

The dentist has always been my favorite doctor to visit; as a child I was a test subject of the Tufts University Dental School. They provided me with free toothpaste and free seals on my "grown up" teeth. Coupled with the efforts of my orthondontist, my teeth could not help but be an object of admiration to the dental set. Dentists could only half-heartedly try to upsell me on whitening treatments, seeing that route canals and implants were not in my immediate
future. (Thank God.)

At the end of my checkup at Manipal that day, the doctor did not try to tempt me with any other treatments. I was shocked, and more than a little bit interested to see what the savings would be of getting my teeth whitened in Bangalore vs. like, anywhere in the US. I asked the dentist whether I would be a good candidate for teeth whitening.

The dentist looked at my teeth again and said, "But, why? Your teeth are a natural color, the color teeth are supposed to be. Besides, whitening is only for celebrities and such people. You are not a celebrity, are you?"

Well, if you have to ask, I guess I'm not.

Those meddling Americans!

As I was preparing to leave Bangalore, one night at the dinner table conversation turned to my notoriously naughty toddler. Pampered by all and sundry in Bangalore, my daughter would laugh in the face of disciplining adults. In Bangalore, people used to say "That's all right" and laugh when my daughter would try to push them, bite them, slap them; all the anti-social behaviors. Their philosophy is that the child is "king" until they can be reasoned with (around 5 or 6), until a Magna Carta of sorts will reign in the child's whims.

"What will you do if she misbehaves in public over there, like she does here? You cannot hit her in public, you know. People will call the police and children's services on you."

That is the fear of many, many immigrant parents, as I have learned. They fear/respect the American police because their honor is rarely besmirched, and, because children's services can take away your most precious belongings: your kids. Perhaps there is also a little bit of shame involved when the neighbors notice the police at your doorstep.

"That is what is wrong with the people over there! Nobody minds their own business!," he declared.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, the gong was struck on the Muppet Show... because that is what so many of my Indian friends say of the people back home in India.

the 2 rupee Iron Lady

Another luxury I miss is the 2 rupee per shirt iron lady or "ishtri aka." This aka will do the rounds of the neighborhood, coming door-to-door asking for clothes to be ironed or "tunni."

One thing I used to enjoy was answering my own door from time to time. Most households have a maid who will filter all the traffic that comes to the door on a daily basis - the washing machine repairman, the unsavory looking guy soliciting odd jobs, etc. When unsuspecting visitors see me answering the door, their expression is one of shock, confusion, and apprehension. Perhaps their first thought is how rich are these people, to have a white maid answering the door, and then their second thought is that i probably do not know a word of any of the local languages, so what to do now.

Ishtri aka comes to the door and asks hesitantly in Tami and Hindi for clothes. She will then go to her cart under a shady tree and iron the neighborhood's tunni the entire day, delivering them late in the afternoon. There are no official records kept by either party in the transaction - you just make sure to double-count your number of shirts and pants, and she will do likewise. Multiply that number by 2 and that is the amount she will ask for in the afternoon. Her iron
looks like something that existed perhaps even before the British came... it really is made of iron and subdues wrinkles better than anything you could pick up at macy's.

She recently raised her rates to 2.50 rupees per shirt, to keep up with the rising tide of the indian economy.

comparative culture of gas stations

For the first time in a very long time, I filled up my own tank of gas and again felt like a foreigner. I didn't know which side of the car the gas goes into and had to switch pumps. Then the debit card transaction nearly got the better of me. I fumbled with the keys - trying to figure out which keys to hit for Enter OK Yes at each point. I was filled with relief when I heard the fuel flowing thru the hose. That relief was short-lived as I was soon filled with the horrible sensation that I had not set a dollar limit to the transaction, and didn't know how to... I looked around frantically and spied another consumer conscientiously pumping the nozzle to get their transaction to just the right dollar amount, and my American instincts were reactivated. The whole thing was accomplished without interacting with any other human beings.

My daughter did not enjoy the refueling trip as much as she was wont to do in Bangalore.

When I pulled into the "petrol bunk" in Bangalore, a team of 5 guys would wave me to the appropriate pump. My daughter would wave back, excitedly. All 5 would wait there; their leader would greet me at the driver's side window and get my order - ex, full tank on credit card or 1000 rupees in cash, etc. He would bark my order to his crew, and tell me to unlock the gas cap door.

The leader would disappear to get the bill, one guy would do the hose formalities, another guy would get my attention yelling - "Zero, Madam, you see 0.00" to prove to me that I would indeed pay for only the gas that I got. And one guy would keep his post by the rear left window making funny faces to my toddler's delight. And at the end of each transaction, the leader would ask, "you are basically from which place, madam?"

Bangalore and your petrol bunk crews, we miss you.

desi beauty ideals

This post should have published on 2/15/2007, but it didn't.

Our office boy is getting married and he's hardly 20 years of age. I wonder if his family thinks that "office boy" is a career high. He is the junior office boy at that, and only recently got his license to drive a two-wheeler.

The office is collectively astonished at the news of his engagement. "It's like child marriage," they say. There was much speculation about his intended, how old she would be, and whether she might be his niece (it is a custom among some Tamilian communities that a brother will marry his older sister's daughters.). My own suspicion is that the two of them must have been caught in some romantic act by the girl's family - the good old-fashioned shotgun wedding.

The junior office boy had only announced that morning that in the afternoon he would leave early for his engagement. Our senior office boy, aka Man Friday, was the only one who could attend the engagement. The next day, we asked Man Friday about the bride-to-be, he only said, "She's black!"

Since her intended is also quite dark, I think that should be OK. The Indian or at least South Indian ideal of beauty is fair, a little fat and with long, thick dark hair.

Since I am fair and a little fat, I have enjoyed being amongst the ideal body types... just one more thing I will miss about India.

Indian kids are naughtier than American kids!??

My daughter is getting to be a Master Brat. A friend of ours whose son is just six weeks elder to my daughter came on her annual visit to her family in Bangalore. My friend’s son is American born and raised but of Indian parentage, my daughter is American born but Indian raised of mixed parentage.

My friend’s son is a sweet, quiet, well-behaved little boy. My daughter is very sweet with episodes of extreme naughtiness in between episodes of sweetness.

We met up at the boy’s grandmother’s house. My daughter started out nice, giving hugs and shaking hands. The boy wasn’t very enthusiastic about being with her, since he had just woken up from a nap. Over the course of the afternoon, my daughter pushed him three times, knocking him over once; wedged herself between his mother and him in order to gobble up his snacks; chased him away from the windows she was hogging. I scolded her at each point and took her out of the room in some cases. I also apologized to my friend for her behavior.

My friend said, “Actually, it’s nice to see a child who’s a little naughty.”

“Why, because she’s not your kid?,” I quipped.

“She’s completely normal for an Indian kid. Indian kids are naughtier than American kids, because there’s so many adults around to dote on them,” she elaborated.

I dunno, I almost feel as though my nation’s integrity is at stake. It can’t be that we Americans don’t have the naughtiest children on the planet!

Ooo Madam is in trouble... Quick! to the batscooter!

A few weeks ago, I had to make a split-second decision that happens to many drivers here in Bangalore... i was traveling at about 40 km/hr when I noticed a brick in the middle of my lane. I could either swerve to my left and hit the autorickshaw next to me (who, by the way was trying to make a three-lane road into a 4-lane road) OR i could just hit the brick. I decided to be antisocial and hit the brick, and voila, a flat tire.

Since my husband is out of town, I call my father-in-law for help. He calls the office boy, who is in the middle of an errand on the other side of town, and tells him to drop everything to come help me.

My FIL told me it might take an hour for the guy to reach me. I’m OK with that because even in the US roadside assistance means a one-hour wait. My daughter is happily sleeping in the car-seat still, so we just sit tight waiting for the office boy.

Now, wouldn’t you figure the office boy would be less than thrilled to have to drop everything and go rescue someone who doesn’t even work for the company?

Thirty minutes later, not one but two office boys show up - the one that can drive and the one that can’t. They are both very concerned about our well-being, whether we got hurt and all that. Once they are sure we are both fine, they’re all smiles, like this is the most wonderful thing that could have happened to them.

But I think I understand their excitement: it’s like when you’re an intern and you boss sends you to buy Powerball tickets when the jackpot is ridiculously high.

How I know I have finally got the hang of India...

I got a flat a few weeks ago. I pulled over to the side of the road and got out of the car to inspect the damage. The tire was totally flat, riding on the rim. I stood outside the car for a bit, making calls from my cell phone.

Not one car pulled over to offer help.

When I first got here, if the same thing had happened, I would have thought “This terrible country...look no one will help a woman with a flat tire by the side of a busy road, with a child in the car....What heathens!”

But now, if someone did try to help, I would be totally suspicious!!

Reverse Culture Shock

Since moving to India in September of 2005, I have returned to the US twice for three-week stretches. Each time I have to cope with reverse culture shock.

I rented a car at Newark airport in freezing cold February. I had to rent a carseat too, so I asked if they could intall it for me - i didn’t want to because i was barely familiar with my old one. And that way I wouldn’t have to cart my infant out into that icy chill while the carseat gets fixed into place. NOPE. LIA-FREAKIN-BILITY. Because the company cannot afford help with brains and the american consumer cannot pass up an opportunity to SUE... as i struggled in the dark and bitter cold to connect black latches with black hooks, i longed for india.

I stayed at very nice hotels and dined at restaurants of all kinds and discovered that customer service in the really IS crappy. Americans have too much of a sense of self-importance and lack creativity when it comes to following policy or pleasing the customer.

But I loved being back where scalding hot water is always on tap, and washing machines take bushels of laundry at a time and wash them up in under 30 minutes. Nothing can beat American household help - the dishwasher, the garbage disposal, the food processor, the washer and dryer...as noisy as they may be, they are much quieter than my Indian household help and i get consistent results every time.

These new maids yap yap yap all day long, and try to get me involved, and they don’t speak my language and i stumble in theirs - i think that’s their entertainment. I mean, i did once tell them to eat the baby, instead of feed the baby. I think they want to hear some new material...

And the grocery store was heaven.... so many items ...scented trash bags, washing detergent that comes in the shape of a ball, all kinds of character shaped organic snack crackers for the kiddo, whipped cream in the aerosol cans ...wooohooo. i could spend hours in a grocery store after seeing the same limited supply of things here...