Tuesday, August 30, 2011

Aircel's Newest Employee

I got hired by Aircel yesterday...

My closest friends here are three mischievous fun-loving guys: A, R and N. I was introduced to A by a friend at home, and after we had a great night out and really clicked, we all came to realize through post-party text messages that we work in Cybercity, in the same building, on the same floor.

They've become my closest friends in Delhi; carpooling with me everyday, taking me out everywhere, and completely treating me like their doll. I love it, obviously. Everyday, around 5:30pm, I walk over to Aircel, get a visitor badge and sit in my friends' cubicle waiting for them to finish up. I feel kind of like their kid sister. It's a nice feeling. We've become a really tight crew. It's always good to feel like a necessary part of a whole.

It's a very funny situation because the Aircel office can't figure out my friendship with them. I think just about everyone is trying to figure out which one I'm dating. (You should know that I'm not dating any of them!) One of their team members, an older woman, winks at me every time I leave with the three guys. R always tells me that I am way too popular at their office. I have a feeling that I am the center of some really juicy gossip. Let's just say I very much enjoy walking into Aircel everyday. It's a giant company with a very casual, team-oriented style of professionalism, a massive entertainment area, huge cafe, and loads and loads of young people... mostly 20-something guys...

The three boys work on the marketing team and have a boss named Mr. P. Mr. P came to know that the three of them take me home everyday and finally asked to meet me. A tried to convince him that I was busy (which I was not?. But, some way or another, Mr. P managed to "run into me" in the lobby and introduced himself.

From that point onwards, I have been the center of many pranks Mr. P, who turns out to be a really hilarious person, has played on his three favorite employees. He is known to steal phones and call/text with them, gain access to email and mass message the office, and generally, rag his employees. One day he took R's phone and asked me out through text messages using R's name. (R is married). And further, he asked me out for a "coke and a movie" haha. Before R deleted it he said "Dude, at least say a beer? A coke?? You are killing my reputation." Another time, I was getting coffee with N downstairs. N snuck out to do this and somehow or another Mr. P came to know. Next thing I know, N is picking up a call from his boss while we're at Costa Coffee. "N, get me a muffin... and also bring Lippi back with you." Now I know why A tried to prevent my introduction to him!

Anyways, the other day I walked in and the boys were somewhere else. Mr. P saw me sitting at N and A's desk. He pulled over one of his employees and said:

"Hey, get her CV."

I said "What?"

"Aren't you here for an interview?"

"Haha, sure... for the marketing team?"

"Yea, we need you"

"To do what?"

"We'll find something. You might as well make some money while you are here"

Then enters A, R and N, all looking a little nervous that their boss is speaking to me.

THEN enters their Big Boss...

Mr. P turns to the big boss and points at me and says "Meet our newest member of the marketing team."

All three boys jaws drop open. The big boss nods his head.

Mr. P then looks at A and says "You'll be reporting to her" and walks away.

And that is how I got hired by a major telecom company in India.

Thursday, August 25, 2011

Ready

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.”

Costa Coffee

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.

Monday, August 22, 2011

Indians vs. Vaccines

A quote or two from dinner last night with Delhiites:

"I got the first Hep B vaccine but then I found out I have come in twice more after a few months. Who is going to keep track? so I said &$%# it, who cares? I got one shot. That should be enough, haha."

"He has meningitis. Yea I heard there is a vaccine but you have to pay a bomb for it. 20,000Rs... that's like two nights of partying."

Case study in the making.

Standards of Appearance

*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.

Thursday, August 18, 2011

Anna Hazare

Got this today:

U.S. Embassy New Delhi
American Citizens Services Unit
Nyaya Marg, Chanakyapuri, New Delhi
Telephone: 91-11-2419-8000 ext. 4110 or 4306; Facsimile: 91-11-2419-8407
Email: acsnd@state.gov Website:
http://newdelhi.usembassy.gov

August 17, 2011

Dear American citizens:

We bring this emergency message to your attention so you can carefully
consider the information it contains. Please pass along the information
below to the U.S. citizens in your area or put this information on your
notice boards for dissemination. Thank you for your cooperation.

The U.S. Embassy wishes to alert U.S. citizens about large
demonstrations currently taking place in Central Delhi. You are urged
avoid areas around Connaught Place and India Gate. Please monitor local
television and print media for further information and updates about the
current situation in the affected areas.

India is full of demonstrations and protests in support of a political activist named Anna Hazare. He is trying to develop a court for the Indian Government to oversee their affairs and prevent corruption. (The government is so corrupt here!) Currently, I think he is being held in jail, but has created a bill to develop a judiciary board that politicians must answer to. In order to garner support, he decided to fast-unto-death and now young and old followers from all over the country are supporting him through demonstration and protest. Oddly, the US Embassy sent me this notice despite the fact that all the demonstrations have been peaceful.

Just went downstairs to pick up lunch and saw a mini demonstration snaking around our building.

In other news, our office's power went out for about an hour today. I thought it was hilarious. Everyone just kind of sat there, staring at their dead computers in silence. I took the opportunity to get up and declare "lunch?" Then we ate lunch in the dark.

Wednesday, August 17, 2011

Full

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.

Sunday, August 14, 2011

Sandwich Fortune

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!

Saturday, August 13, 2011

Beautiful Bombay

Flying out tonight to go to my Grandma's house in Bombay this weekend. I can't wait to see my family finally.

Monday, August 1, 2011

Update

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.