note: I take no pride in the content of this entry, it is simply the facts.
I finally signed off on my forms from USAID to get paid for my consultancy. Converted to dollars, the daily rate was pretty weak… weaker than anything I’ve ever seen with my BA and now with my almost MSPH. My boss gave me a pat on the back and told me that with all this money, he will let me buy him lunch. I thought he was patronizing me.
Not ever scared to share the numbers, especially when they are comically low, I told my friend here exactly what I was being paid and how low it was for a graduate student. Oddly enough, his eyes opened really widely and he started running all kinds of numbers in his head. He’s a real estate broker. The field of real estate makes more money than any other fields in Delhi currently. His math was ridiculous.
I’ve come to realize that I am in fact receiving an above-margin salary and one that will go very far if I live in Delhi. After rent, food, even partying, I have left over money. Suddenly, the level of expense of the kids here makes a lot of sense. Your cost of living is so low (or non existent since you likely live with your parents), that most of your salary either goes into savings… or more commonly, into your pocket money. Why wouldn’t you buy a Gucci belt and an Armani jacket? (I kid, but actually Gucci is cheaper in India too!)
My friend went on to explain how much it costs to get an MBA in India, how much an MBA graduate makes, and how little the name of your school and your degrees (unless they are from the top university) matter. It’s kind of frightening. No wonder so many Indians come to the US. Yes our cost of living and taxes take away most of our salary, but at the end of the day, the margin is so high, that you will make more than you ever could in India.
I was incredibly embarrassed to bring my salary up, not knowing it was much higher than most of the kids that live here. I truly had no idea. And, I say this even though all my friends are educated and with years of work experience. My closest guy friends are engineers working in corporate telecom and I have just realized they make a fourth of what I am about to make. And yet, they take me out routinely, pay for my dinners, drive me around, and take me shopping. Money goes far here.
As a global health professional, you’re trained to assume you’re in the lowest of the brackets.
My friend spent most of the day laughing at me, and then planning the trip to Goa that I should take him on.
After this conversation, I decided that in order to truly appreciate this experience, I need to stop thinking in USD.
Sorry for yesterday’s post. I wanted to so badly write about my Lajpat Nagar experience, but I was in-and-out of a medicinal-induced sleep for most of the day.
Dr. U, one of the doctors that runs all of the work that Futures Group does in Uttaranchal (a northern state of India that touches the Himalayas and is known for snowy tourism destinations like Dehradun and Nandital), is one of the friendliest people in my office. He is part of the executive staff of the ITAP project but seems to know just about everyone at Futures. He oftens stops by my desk with loads of mittai for "Miss Lippi" to try. It makes everyone laugh because he is somewhat of a “hero” (he is a body builder that comes to work on a motorcycle and has long hair – no joke) that is always on a strict diet but enjoys making sure the entire office is loaded up on sweets. Dr. U makes a kind effort to speak to me in English but often his words just roll together. His style of speaking is through the side of his mouth and is very muddled. I’ve come to understand that this comes from having a swollen tongue, a symptom of habitually eating Paan, a mouth freshener that consists of chewing tobacco. In that very style of speaking, he invited me and a few other colleagues to his home on Saturday for a home-cooked lunch and to go shopping.
I traveled from my market (Malviya Nagar) to his (Lajpat Nagar). This is really probably about 5 Km apart – but market to market on Saturday is bumper-to-bumper madness, twice over. It is thanks to Delhi traffic and the lack of patience of auto-wallahs that I have such a rich vocabulary in Hindi galis (curses).
I reached his home, which sits next to the famous Gufa Wala Mandir (temple with the cave). This cave temple is only open twice a year – once for Navratri and once for Diwali. However, a larger temple has been built over the top of it and holds aartis and pujas constantly. Dr. U joked that he has paid enough penance for all his sins and more by having to listen to the chanting that comes from this structure starting at 5 am each morning.
I was going to originally live in Lajpat last summer. Now, I am so glad I chose not to. Liveliness at the cost of congestion is not a worthy sacrifice in India. Lajpat Nagar is a sea of small alleyways with stalls of food, stores, loads of people, and a destination for those who wish to see the true local Delhiite. It’s known to most as a crowded residential area that surrounds a massive market in which you can find the best of North-Indian clothing, the best wedding-wear, and amazing street food.
So crowded in fact, that Dr. U leaned over his balcony to show me that he has not moved his car in two years in order to hold his parking spot…
Dr. U house is a breezy railroad style apartment on the 2nd floor (which means 3rd floor in the US by the way) of a tall pink building. As is customary in India, there are no quarters of a home that are “private.” He gave me a pair of slippers and took me right into his master bedroom to meet his family. (If you ever come to India, you will inevitably sit in the master bedroom with an entire family to talk. I think this tradition comes from that room being the one room with the AC, generally.)
Knowing Dr. U, I was not so surprised to meet an extremely beautiful woman named Geetali and an even more beautiful 4 year old child named Madijah, shortened to Jiya. Seriously. I am not one to throw around the word beautiful. Dr. U's family is from Assam. They are the first Assamise people I have met, I think. His wife looks like a mix of Indian and oriental features; obviously the best of both. Their beautiful child could be the poster child for every kid clothing company in the world. Jiya was very apprehensive of me and incredibly shy. However, when her parents left us alone to fix up lunch, she turned to me and started chatting with me in a mix of Assamise and Hindi.
“Who are you?”
“I’m Lippi. Who are you?”
“I’m Jiya. I’m four.”
Jiya and I quickly became friends. Her English was equal to my Hindi, and somehow that worked for us. She ran her house and knew her looks could get her just about anything from her parents. If Dr. U ever tried to talk to me while we played, she would scream at the top her lungs until he left the room. Charming. Testing how fun I would be, she brought over a Badminton set and a balloon (we were not allowed to use the shutter) and asked me to play with her. God! The last thing I wanted to do was exercise. Immediately, Dr. U said "she knows you like to sit around." Not wanting to disappoint my pretty new friend or her on looking parents, I obliged.
Soon enough, she had me running around the entire house to catch the balloon. She would copy everything I said. I unfortunately said “Out” once and the rest of the game consisted of her screaming “OUT! OUT! OUT!” at me.
Geetali made an amazing meal of fried balls of potato and cheese, chole paneer, unda subji, mixed veg subji, dahi vada, roti, chaval, and chocolate cake. It was amazing that she cooked so much considering that she is a neurological development counselor for underprivileged children and teaches classes from her home. In that sense, both Dr. U and his wife work in the development sector. Dr. U is a third generation doctor who decided to go into public health instead of clinical practice. He struggles to explain this to Indians. They were surprised to learn that public health is as misunderstood in the US as it is here in India.
Despite Jiya’s assertiveness and princess attitude (which I have no problem with, might I add), she was an incredibly defeated eater. I think her mother’s profession has something to do with this. In fact, she took medications just as calmly. She has a congenital kidney complication for which her parents have started a homeopathic course of medications for. I found that interesting considering Dr. U is not a homeopathic doctor.
Simultaneously, Jiya cooked me lunch with her play kitchen. She invited her two imaginary daughters, and her husband, who forces her to go to weddings of family she does not know. (What?!?) She made each of us eat six chapatis. After real lunch and imaginary lunch, it was time for Jiya to nap. I am not so sure what it was that made her so fond of me, but my best guess is that she thought she was smarter than me. She refused to sleep if I left to go shopping, so to help Dr. U and Geetali, I pretended to sleep with her. They gave me a pillow, a blanket, and a stuffed animal, and we all waited for Jiya to fall asleep next to me. Before she completely knocked off, she grabbed my hand and said “Don’t leave Lippi didi.”
Dr. U then took me to the market to meet with our other colleague and his cabin-buddy: Dr. N (cabins are what Indians call a closed office vs. a cubicle). Dr. N is also a doctor that has chosen to work in public health. She runs all of the programs in the state of Jharkhand. She is in her late 20s and has also been an incredibly kind caretaker to me. She is the boss that calls me baccha. Dr. U and Dr. N, while being good friends, bicker constantly. On that day in particular, the bickering was over what clothes I should wear and whether or not I should eat street food. In hindsight, while they both may be doctors, Dr. U believes in the Indian "chalta, chalta" attitude of whatever happens, happens. My stomach and I agree that we will follow the advice of Dr. N from now on.
The three of us covered all of Dr. U's wife’s favorite shops. I was treated like a doll and asked to try out everything they picked out in each shop. They would not even let me carry my bags. I think I bought at least one thing at every shop we went to. Towards the end, they made me try on the most outlandish and brightest of colors due to their insistence that I “have fair skin and therefore I can.” Stupidly feeling special, I complied. It wasn’t until I tried on a bright yellow number and saw the two of them laughing that I realized I was being played for their entertainment.
I shared a cab home with Dr. N who immediately asked me, as though it was bothering her for some time: "Why did your parents let you come back here? They must think you have someone here." "
I said: "Actually yes. That's the first thing my mother asked me. I don't have a guy here, but I do have an affection for this country and this work. I convinced my parents that I needed more time abroad and they gave it to me."
"Do you have any pressure to get married?”
“Yes, of course.”
She leaned back and sighed, as though she was relieved by my answer.
I asked her “Why? Are you getting pressure too?”
She then went on to say that it’s getting pretty bad. Her cousin recently married someone from the lowest caste of India out of love and created a huge scandal in her family. She is next and her parents are fixing her up with a bunch of guys. She really wants to get married.
It’s odd how my social friends and my work friends are from opposite sides of the spectrum in this regard. My social friends take life casually, date around, have relationships for years and years without any sign of marriage. My work friends are desperately looking, hoping something will work itself out soon. People seem to gauge their own situations by using mine a point of reference. Yes, I am single. Yes I wish I wasn’t. Yes I am allowed to date. Yes my parents are looking. Yes I would like to get married in my late 20s. My responses either freak them out or reassure them. I think I reassured Dr. N.
***
It’s Monday, and I'm wearing the very simple patiala pant and kurti set I bought. I definitely look like I came right out of Lajpat Nagar (I should add LN is known to produce unsophisticated, rough-around-the-edge girls with a habit of using colloquial Hindi). Needless to say, I look very "Delhi" today.
As God would have it, my friends could not pick me up today so I took the metro. Again, I did this in full out Indian gear while everyone else in my cart was in black slacks and unnecessary winter wear. I got a lot of funny looks. More comically, I then had to take a cycle-rikshaw from the metro to my office building. Please try to visualize me in Indian clothes, on a man-drawn rik, in the middle of traffic, while BBMing on my Blackberry.
This being the first time I’ve worn Indian clothes since returning to India – I tried to hold out for as long as possible because my office was shocked that I did it so much last time – everyone in the office noticed.
Shonali (Colleague): “New pinch?”
Me: “Yea.”
Shonali: “Do you even know what that means…?”
Me: “No...” (Caught…as usual)
Shonali: “If you wear new clothes in India, people come and pinch you. So we call it a new pinch.”
Me: “Then yes. New pinch.” :)
So, I’m back.
In fact, this is the third time I have flown to India this year. It’s actually pretty ironic that India has become such a large presence in my life. As a child in the ‘90s, the idea of coming to this country was like an obligatory family pilgrimage that took years for my parents to save up for and required months of planning and packing. Those trips involved discomfort from beginning to end, starting with the unpleasant wave of thick humid air that one feels as soon as they enter the Bombay International terminal, to pretending to recognize hundreds of blood-related strangers that claimed to know me. Even while coated in hand sanitizer and Off bug repellent, I feared for my sheltered immune system when I first encountered the Indian washroom, the lack of food regulation, and the side effects of malaria prophylaxis. It was in India that I understood the glory that is Cortisone, toilet paper, and potable tap water. I mean, I was a kid taken out of my home, experiencing sensory overload -- in the most negative fashion, while being mind-warped of my English by an influx of Gujarati/Hindi/Hinglish. I still remember the pujas my grandma would organize at the end of each trip, during which my mother and her sisters would inevitably start crying. My aunts would crush me in hugs, teary eyed and miserable, while I would sneak a glance at the clock, counting the minutes until our departure time. I think the only thing I really enjoyed back then was buying Indian outfits that would probably never see daylight in the US.
What happened between those times and now, I am unsure. I think much of it I have to credit to my mother who decided sometime in my teenage years that traveling to India was something that should be done yearly. Soon, family members weren’t just names -- they were my sisters and brothers, we started to stay in our own temporary flat in Bombay, we maintained the expat lifestyle within the Indian experience, and with that, uncomfortable became comfortable. I learned to pave my own way through Bombay, grow attached to my family, and visit India on my terms.
Concurrently, I entered a phase of my life where I was consumed by a mission of self-identification. I don’t know what made me feel so determined to define myself in my late-teens, but I wanted to be sure that I knew exactly what I was. My college essay was about the Indian-American experience. My courses turned to cultural anthropology, South Asian studies, and religion. My social life was immersed in one theme only as I attended Bhangra competitions, created a Jain Student Organization at GWU, and went out to every “Desi” event at the nightclubs of DC. The frequent trips to India were a validation of my cultural rebirth as I explored my ancestral villages, the social scene of the 21st century Indian, and the importance of family. Now, my trips out here have become spontaneous, packing takes about a day, and most recently, I've started to come alone. India has become as necessary for me as it was for my mother and if my Aunts ever looked up when I hugged them goodbye, they would see that my eyes are full of tears too.
And so, of course, as my trajectory would predict, here I am back in the “Motherland,” working at a global health consulting firm and serving the Indian population. My international health studies have somehow led me to live in this country for the next two months. Live in India...again?? I have been reassigned as a consultant to work for the USAID-funded Innovations in Family Planning Technical Assistance Project with Futures Group International, based in Gurgaon, Haryana.
I invite you to join me once again, through my experience as an uprooted and re-rooted, Indian-origin, ex-patriot yuppie, pursuing her academic degree while continuing a journey of self-identity in the glorious city of New Delhi.
I feel an overwhelming sense of impending doom. I’ve spent the past 365 days or so out of my hometown, and now out of my home country, escaping from heartbreak and lack of direction through various forms of distraction – both positive ones and negative ones. This includes studying, partying, developing relationships, breaking relationships, and following friends around the country/world to take a temporary break from my life and join theirs. One year later, now it is time to come home.
It is so nice to be so far away, but I guess, as expected, at some point reality has to seep its way back into your day. People have to start living the lives they lived before you arrived and will continue to live after you leave. Suddenly you may have overstayed your stay. I love meeting new people, but it is so hard to say goodbye and know that life must go on without you in it.
In the same sense, once I get home, I suppose I’ll have to entirely bounce back from my escape. I will have to take action on things that I have left untouched out of my fear for change. I had a life before coming here that is going to be expecting me to be back, 100% ready to take it by the horns and make something out of it.
India was a growing experience (and I do hope and pray I have the opportunity to come back and relive it as soon as possible). I have come to understand a few things: what type of person I want to be (on some level), what type of person, try as I may, I am not meant to be, and what a rush it is to become so close to people within a limited amount of time.
While I'm in India, I constantly think about my music. I don’t know why, maybe my training in Indian classical music reboots when I touch down here. (I would go on to explain Indian classical music but it’s better if you look it up on your own. I can’t do it justice.)
I have to say that over the years I’ve really neglected it. From the classical training, my love to sing Western music evolved and soon after, I started to make my own music and write songs. It has become my secret passion to write, cover, and record songs. But, I’ve never wanted to perform them. This is not really a talent that I share with the world. A lot of hurtful experiences and forced performances over the years has kind of ruined my love for my own voice. It’s a long explanation and this is not the time or the blog for it.
Every once in a while with my A/C on full blast and my bedroom door locked, I start recording some melodies on my Macbook using my headset for online classes as a mic and some very basic karaoke recorded off of amateur musicians on Youtube. Yea, if I ever become famous this is going to be my version of JK Rowling’s “I wrote Harry Potter on napkins at a coffee shop.” I wait for the A/C to start humming pretty loudly before I belt out some of my best tunes. Every now and then I’m pretty sure my roommates are lingering outside of my door and listening. Haha, Living. The. Dream.
Not to sound like a complete American hippie inspired by Eastern influences (and there are a lot of those in this part of the country), but I really feel like I write and perform better here. I almost wish that I had planned things better so I could have taken some classes here to refresh my training.
However, as luck would have it (and this trip has just been a series of lucky events, touch wood), one of my new carpool friends here, N, is a musician, producing director, camera man, photographer, script writer, actor… and works a day job in marketing for a major telecom company here in Cybercity. He plays guitar beautifully, has worked for multiple major TV stations, has directed various Hindi serials/reality shows/award shows, filmed for an Emmy winning documentary, had another air on National Geographic, directed and acted in his own freelance films, and talks about camera lenses like most guys talk about cars. *breathe*
During my first week in India, our carpool (which includes A, R, N and I) decided to take a pit stop after two hours of painful traffic at N’s house before we set off again to my and R’s houses. We got comfortable and N told us to sit back and take it easy, with the promise to play guitar and sing for us while we all had dinner and a drink. Of course, I couldn’t help but say what I always say: “Hey! I sing too!” followed by a quick “but, I’m not going to sing” when everyone looked at me.
Of course, N did not miss a beat. We’ve become really close friends since that day at his house, largely because we spend hours together in traffic everyday. He’s a very patient and kind soul who has developed an understanding for my fear of performance, my past of rejections and the emotional reasons for which I have given up sharing my art.
One of our favorite things to do is discuss the music that we both really love on our rides home. Despite our very different backgrounds, different stages in life, and different taste in music, we love to try to convince each other to appreciate our favorites. Usually, I will give him some diva female vocalist’s least popular emotional single and he will throw some old school loving-life rock ballad back at me. Sometimes I think we get a little bit too attached to our songs and we argue about how much each other’s taste sucks.
In fact, one time, a pretty unsuccessful attempt to make N stop rolling his eyes when I spoke of how amazing this one break-up song was, left me slightly irritated and in a pretty cranky mood. He must have realized because as I was getting ready to go to sleep, he called me. I acted curt, but I was secretly pleased for the apology and deep reverence for my musical taste I thought I was about to hear...not. Instead, he told me to stop acting like a baby and changed the subject. He had listened to some song a couple of times, figured it out on the guitar and needed someone to hear it and possibly sing it for him. I said I wouldn’t sing it but I would listen, maybe.
Of course, it was the song he insulted. Haha. (Unspoken apology ;) ) Made me smile. Well played.
Nowadays, without fail, a few hours after each time I say “I love that song!” in the car, he has it mastered on the guitar and plays it for me over the phone at night. He first will belt out the song over his strumming. He knows me enough to know that I will be incredibly bothered if he butchers my favorite songs. It’s a trap to get me to jump in. However, I know him enough to know what he is doing and refuse to fall for it. Stubborn as he is, he will play the song again, with no singing and wait for me to hum. Once I’m humming, he'll try to convince me to just sing for him (and this is over the phone!) but I just can’t do it. Too many years of suppressing my music. We’ve played this game for days.
Anyways, a few nights ago he called me up and gifted “Don’t Know Why” by Norah Jones on the guitar to me. Norah Jones is the half Indian daughter of famous Indian Classical musician Ravi Shankar. She is one of my favorites (but I secretly hate her for becoming the first mainstream and award winning Indian artist in America.) We had spoken about her the night before so I was of course, so charmed and embarrassed that he had learnt yet another song for me to get me to sing.
He kept playing the song over and over again, butchering it on purpose, waiting for me to hum it, and of course, cautiously asking me to sing. Our phone called dropped (yay India!) and while I was waiting for him to call back I couldn’t help but think: “wow, I have a talented friend here who is willing to take the time and patience to help me regain my confidence, learn how to play my favorite songs, call me often to help me revisit my skills, and understand me enough to ask me to do it over the phone so I don’t feel shy.”
How wasteful can I be to not humor someone who is so willing to give me shot? Even if it sounds horrible…
He finally called back and being past the point of trying to get me to jam with him, just kind of stayed silent on the phone, playing around with his guitar strings. I finally said:
“Ok, do me a favor…”
“Yea?”
“Just say ‘Ready’ and nothing else when I ask ‘Ready?’”
“...ok...”
“N, ready?”
“Ready.”
I sang Norah. And I didn’t stop... It was like opening the flood gates. I sang every Norah song I could think of. Then Alicia, Adele, Sinatra, Mayer, Mariah… All the years of practice and performances… some Hindi, some English. I even held the phone up to some stuff I recorded.
It was amazing. And, sticking to his commitment to not say anything, he refused to speak throughout my vocal concert. He just kept playing his guitar to accompany me.
It was a weight lifted off of my shoulders. I’m so grateful. I think sooner or later we might actually try to jam, in person, but who knows, I only have a week left here and a ton to do.
Still, that hasn't stopped a kind voice from calling me every once in a while to say:
“Ready.”
Some time ago, a fellow Hopkins student in my cohort sent us all an article about how expats always habitat cozy starbucks-esque wifi-enabled imported-coffee coffee shops wherever in the world they are working. I laughed it off thinking about how assimilated I am since I drink Chai instead…
I have been wondering why I have not been performing at my 100% over the past four weeks. I’m generally a pretty poor sleeper, as most people know, but I can bounce back from lack of sleep fairly well - especially here in India - where I wake up a lot earlier and fresher than I ever have back home. I usually get out of bed at around 7:30, but after supervising my maid’s cleaning and the cook’s cooking, getting myself ready via bucket shower, rikshawing out of my congested market to the main road, waiting for my spoonfed-by-mom friends to pick me up, and then getting out of the city to get to Gurgaon, I’m actually sitting at my office desk around 10:30. In that time, my morning chai can no longer keep me up and the car ride has tired me out - my friends’ favorite hobbies are 1. teasing me, 2. teasing me, and 3. playing trance music at 9am.
It recently occurred to me that I might need to reconsider my lack of caffeine.
In true junkie fashion, I pressured my buddy, R, to go to Costa Coffee (coffee shop in cybery city where all the firangis (foreigners) hang out) with me before work the other day.
Now you’ll find R and I at Costa Coffee every “morning” (10am). The funniest thing of it all is that I’m not so sure if R has ever drank coffee for anything more than a dessert drink. He, being Indian, will buy a meal of a large fu-fu-fancy cold coffee with chocolate and whip cream, a muffin, and some warm pastry while I get my small black Americano. This is our morning routine now... I think he’s hooked.
The cool thing about this coffee shop is that everyone that works there except for the man at the register is deaf and mute. It’s pretty amazing how they communicate because they definitely do not use American Sign Language. There’s a lot of pointing and acting. R doesn’t really pay much mind to it, as Indians rarely pay much mind to anything, but I find it fascinating.
*edit* not my best entry, more of a rant
Having been to India often, I am starting to understand the expectations of physical appearance in Indian women. It’s quite strange to me and I think about it almost daily. I figured it was something I should discuss here.
Here is my thesis: In a society where physical upkeep is cheap and readily available, there are certain expectations in appearance that just about every Indian woman upholds.
I like to think that I generally do a decent job of putting myself together, and in American standards, sometimes I do an above-average job of putting myself together. But something about Indian women really makes me feel like a slob. I don’t iron my clothes… I’ve never really found it necessary, and ok, my nails are rarely manicured, I paint them myself and keep the color on until it all chips away. I have crazy curly hair, so with humidity, it’s mostly frizzy and I never like my hair tied up so it’s kind of just a mane that I tame with loads of products that usually stop working mid-day. Every now and then I wear a pair of heels that look a little too chewed up and you will usually find me with my favorite school bag even though there are pen marks all over the bottom of it. And as for personal keep up, I will go to the salon when I can and if I feel like it, so yea usually my face doesn’t have a post-facial glow and my eyebrows are not perfect arches.
Here, if you live in a decent middle class household, someone washes your clothes daily, someone presses your shirts daily, an eyebrow lady, waxing lady, and a god-knows-what- else-lady is at your disposal 24/7, a bag can be fixed in a matter of minutes, a pair of jeans can be hemmed for a price that converts to under a dollar, and shoes can be cleaned and polished right before you leave the house. A small hole in a shirt is unacceptable, cracked nail polish is untidy, and frizzy hair demands reprimand. It’s not like most Indian women are rocking the finest designers and the latest trends. Nor do they necessarily wear clothes they way they are intended to be worn: girls often buy clothes one size larger than they should be; dresses fall at an awkward above-the-knee rather than a mid-thigh; cinching belts sit at hips rather than the waist; jeans are always belted with the front of t shirts tucked into them so you can see the belt brand over the jeans; Indian jewelry is worn daily even with Western attire; preferred heels are oddly kitten heels even though the girls are so short here; silver is mixed with gold; and nails are always incredibly long and rounded (even toenails!). Despite this, all garments look as though they have just come out of the store, colors are perfectly matching, and whites are bleached. Every night a girl wipes off her make up (if she wears any – most don’t), every day she coats herself in lotion or powder, she washes her face at least three times a day, and washes her feet as soon as she gets home. No ripped jeans, flip flops, sloppy buns, smeared eyeliner, not matching accessories, tattered purses, stray bra straps, or dare I say it, low-cut shirts. Despite the mud, heat, and humitidy, you will not see a girl sweat, have frizzy hair, or dirt on her clothing.
And not to leave out guys. They are just as proper too! Their hair is always done, shoes are always polished, their JEANS (not just their slacks) have a crease in them, their shirts are tucked in, and if they had a rough hour or two in the heat, they will shower and start over.
I mean, I have nice things but I’ve never been one to preserve the quality of what I own. If I spent money on it, I'm going to use it often and probably never get rid of it. I will never be the girl that has a closet of shoes that she wears only on occasions. Every pair of heels I own has been abused by the cobble-stone streets of DC and Baltimore, and despite that they look like my puppy had at them, I still wear them to work. Here, the quality of everything Indians own and wear is at its best at all times.
I know that when I’m in Bombay, no matter what I pull out of my suitcase to put on, it’s always almost-right. There have been so many occasions where my grandmother, aunts, once-removed aunts have sent me back to my room to change my clothes – and not because I dress indecently – because I don’t dress well enough. Your jeans are torn, that shirt is wrinkled, can you tie up your hair, do you have any other shoes besides flip flops? Why don’t you wash your feet? Only recently have I started brining nice clothes to India. Before my mother would deliberately make my sister and I take older clothes because the dhobis (clothes washers) really violently hand wash your clothes so colors fade and fabric weakens immediately.
The most contradicting part of it is that Indians aren't known to be the most hygienic people. We all know in the US, Indian immigrants are the subject of every body odor joke - and with justification. This country, while beautiful, can be pretty disgusting. It is entirely polluted and few care to fix it because as long as the inside of their house and car are spotless, what difference does it make to them? Perhaps this is why the best vacation destinations are usually places where Indians can admire "the cleanliness." Consider a place like Bombay: God help you if you ever have to visit a public restroom and during monsoon season; enjoy watching someone pick your dinner's vegetables from the mud-soaked and fly-infested market. Passing gas, picking noses, and using cologne in preference to deodorant (which still has not become mainstream here) is pretty normal for the generation above mine, and some in my own. Not to generalize, but you have to admit it's kind of true!
I can’t decide if the proper and particular-ness in middle and high class India comes from the influence of the British, the availability of cheap labor and cheap maintenance, or the need to show distinction from lower classes of people. Further, I can’t tell if it’s me who is too casual or if it is all Americans. I would not even wear half of the stuff I see my friends and cousins wear here, but with the poise and style that they do it in, I feel like they are better dressed than I am.
Anyways, not sure if I made much sense here. Just had to point out the quality of physical appearance in this city and in the country in general. I think the ability of the Indian people to appear well put together in cities where soot and mud are your daily companions is something of native abilities and well-practiced tradition. The value of impeccable cleanliness is unfairly high in a country where only the natives can figure out how to maintain it in such difficult conditions.
I feel really full… of happiness. Like my heart is going to burst. I don’t remember the last time I felt this way. I think it’s the combination of being on my own so far away from home, doing what interests me, having a busy social life, and seeing my loving family. Every time I think about it, it puts a smile on my face. It’s been a very long time since I’ve woken up and wanted to start the day. I’m glad the motherland can help me find my inner happiness.
I know it is temporary and I know a lot of it has to do with my real life being on hold, but it means something to me to finally feel content with myself as I have been trying to fix so many things over the past year.
I think I have been waiting to be far away for a very long time.
I feel like I fit in here. I feel like people are genuine with me here when they do not have to be. I feel like people extend a hand to me here because they want to, not because they have to. I feel like I communicate better here and that I am understood here. I feel real love and attachment with the family members I have here. I feel like they have accepted me as I am and appreciate me for it. I feel like I operate on my own time and pace. I don’t feel like anyone is trying to bring me down, compete with me, judge me, or misguide me. It may have something to do with not being close to anyone, but having many people surrounding me.
I don’t know if I am trying to make this a perfect place, but it feels like a perfect place.
After an amazing meal of pav bhaji in South Bombay, my aunt and uncle ordered some chutney sandwiches from their favorite street vendor. Needless to say, eating is non-stop here.
Sandwiches from street vendors generally come wrapped in newsprint or recycled paper that the local newsboys collect.
We were all chatting away and chowing down sandwiches (that my immune system will probably make me pay for later) when my Uncle suddenly was staring at his wrapper with his mouth open. My cousin brother-in-law (is that an acceptable kinship?) picked it up and saw that it was a letter with official TATA (a major Indian corporation) letterhead from February 11th that read: “Dear …, Please invest the following amount in ... from my account as soon as possible.”
The amount was 33Rs crores (that is US $7.3 million). Along with the hefty number, the letter included the man’s name, his investor’s name, both addresses, signatures, an official seal, and… an account number.
Seeing my Uncle’s luck, I opened mine and it was a transaction receipt of 22Rs crores.
Believe me, I too wish I took a picture.
Alas, no one else being in the mood for a “Catch Me if You Can” Leonardo Di Caprio-esque indentify theft heist, we silently ate our chutney sandwiches, minds in reverie of our potential millions, and threw the papers away.
Thoughtful lesson from your local Mumbai-ite sandwich man: Shred your trash!
Things have taken a strange turn this week. Here is what happened:
On Friday evening Neha called the beautician for an appointment for her and I. When I came home, oddly no one else was there. Usually Neha is home first. The beautician arrived and I could not get in touch with Neha to tell her. Finally I did and Neha told me to give the phone to Sarita - the beautician. She told Sarita to go ahead with me and then leave. Odd.
Then the cook arrived and clearly was very upset that it was just me. I can’t give her any cooking direction on my own. She waited an hour for Neha and still nothing. I could not even get through to Neha on my cell at this point. The cook left.
Then Sarita left, but not without eerily telling me “Tell Didi to come home. You should not be here alone.” So creepy. I locked all of the doors and sat in my room. Every creak and shudder in the house was so frightening.
Finally Neha came home and was accompanied by her mother. Neha told me to use a new cell number because she lost her phone due to a “long story.” I didn’t ask. Both of them said hi to me and quickly went on to their business in hushed voices. I finally fell asleep knowing she was home.
The next day I was talking to Neha about a possible trip to the Taj Mahal – which I was really excited about! In ran Jyotsna (roommate two) yelling “oh my God, Neha! I just saw your facebook status. Are you serious? He seriously did that to you?” Completely against my nature, I politely left the room because I knew this information was not for me and I figured it was something with her ex. I was right but I had no idea how serious it was.
Later that night Jyotsna and I were watching TV and Jyotsna pulled me aside and said: “I feel like it is right for you to know this and I think Neha is hiding this from you. She was attacked by her ex husband yesterday.” Jyotsna than dove into a series of details explaining how messy Neha’s divorce was and how her ex may be pursuing her to harm her. I asked Jyotsna to show me the facebook post. The post explained that the ex followed her car to a market far from our house. He and a friend on a bike smashed her car windows with an axe and then holding the axe up to her neck, took her phone, keys, and valubles. All of this was in front of 200 people in a busy market. Neha then ran to the police station to file a report and the police denied her of this saying “you are lucky to be alive.” (WHAT?) Neha posted this on her facebook in search of a video of the attack happening.
Jyotsna and I stayed up until 2 am trying to figure out what our plan of action should be. Jyotsna did not want her name to be brought up with Neha because she feared getting kicked out of the house. Apparently I pay way more rent than anyone else because I am a foolish expat. If I leave due to Jyotsna warning, Neha loses a lot of extra income. Oh well.
Staying up until 2 am and being scared made me forfeit the Taj Mahal trip with an old classmate from GWU. The tour started at 5 am the next morning. That was no longer possible.
(Through this whole situation, I think Jyotsna and I became really close. She is so educated and interesting. I will even say that she has a better handle on the English language than I do. I love her banter about literature, television, and movies. She is such an expert at analyzing everything – as I suppose she should be – which is my favorite thing to do. Consider this: She thinks Harry Potter is a gigantic escapist story – a child that is so traumatized that he creates a magical world in his head. Hmm…)
Knowing this, I freaked out. I emailed a few friends. My Dad came to know of the situation and called me. We decided to question Neha to get the truth out of her of how safe the house is. I felt like Neha was deliberately hiding things from me. Neha got very defensive and very curt with me.
First, she claims that because she has a restraining order against her ex, the house and the tenant are safe. Jyotsna, who clearly knows more than I do, says that is a very naïve way to think. A court order only goes into effect after the man disobeys it. Neha continued saying she was completely confident that I was safe in her house. However she also repeatedly said “you can leave if you want to.” (WHAT?) Let’s also not forget that the police do not care about her case. Jyotsna then finally told Neha she would be moving out by the end of the month.
Knowing how highly wanted my flat is and how many people come by to see it for my room – which I will vacate in September, I am worried to tell Neha that I want to move out. I am sure she would pressure me to leave. My dad and I decided that I should secretly pursue a new living arrangement and then if I find one, tell Neha I want to leave.
I can’t believe this is happening! I guess people were right about the safety of Delhi.
