One thing that absolutely super duper hyper sucks when you’re an expat is when your friends or family members die. In 17 months, I am at number 5. It’s never pleasant, but being thousands of miles away, several time zones away compounds the pain. To go or not to go? How much would it cost? Why go? Maybe the money given to Lufthansa could be better used if sent to cancer research, Alzheimer research, or Captain Morgan. There is an ounce, or a kilo of guilt, that you weren’t there at the end, and that you may not be there for the funeral. In “normal” times, you would probably hop on a plane and not think twice about it. In “expat” times, everything changes. There is nobody who knew the person here with you, to commiserate and cry together. It’s lonely. It’s sad. It blows big time.

There is an upside. There is always an upside. Or so I am trying to convince myself right now. Less than 10 minutes after I learned that my nanny had died peacefully in her sleep surrounded by her family, our maid K. arrived. It was obvious than I had been crying a lot. A couple of sentences to explain the situation and she quietly went on to sweep the house. Then she came looking for me, looking for ways to console me. I asked her if she would make me tea. She did and she gave me a hug, herself teary eyed. I found a picture of me as a 6 year old with my nanny and showed it to her. She was the only person here I could share it with at that moment.

What followed is a marvel of human spirit. Her English skills are a string of vocabulary words with no grammar. My Kannada consists of about 10 words, half of them related to food. My Hindi is not much better. Yet, speaking in what I think is Hindi since most sentences ended with the sound “hein”, standing in the middle of our living room, she told me about her father’s death, her husband’s death, her mother’s mental illness, her children’s professional goals, being a single mom, and the effects of alcohol on her family.  She giggled when I asked her if she had a boyfriend. A young beautiful widow, she has no use for one, as her experiences with men are not the greatest.  I wish she knew the comfort one can find in a good husband.  I have no idea how I understood what she was saying. It doesn’t matter. Before leaving, she told me to stop crying, that it would bring tension, and then a headache.  

Tomorrow I will go to the biggest baddest church I can find in town. I will be surrounded by aunties in sarees. My nanny would have found that funny.

Posted on March 17, 2015 by Kitty Vindaloo | 4 Comments

Living next to a farm provides tons of photo opportunities. I now always leave a camera on the third floor, where our laundry room and terrasse are.  I wonder how long it will take for the farmers to notice me.  So far, I try and stay incongruous, but I may start waiving at them soon.  In the last few days, I have been observing them, and am starting to recognize them.  There are at least 5 women, 2 teenagers, a tractor driver, a man on a phone (always), and another man who seems to be the owner or manager.

There are several crops, many of which I cannot identify either out of ignorance or distance.  In the back, they are growing tomatoes, some are already red and look ready for harvest.  It’s rice trans-planting season.  The fields are tilled by a tractor, which is a step above the bullock technology seen in the villages.  The man driving that tractor is a genius, I have watched him manoeuver it in a foot of mud, forward and backward.

rice

The rice seedling must have been planted a while back, and cover one square of the field on a higher level of the farm.  It is a very beautiful shade of dense green.  They look like scallions.  The irrigation system is pretty ingenious. Men build mud walls to retain the water, and dig trenches to direct it.  All of this is done by hand of course, though I have no idea where they are pulling the water from.  

The seedlings are plucked and put in bunches ready to be planted again a few inches apart in a wider area, lower than the original patch.  Although the actual transplanting is done exclusively by women, there is a male teenager who helps pull the seedlings out.  They have been doing that for a few days now, covering about one square per day.  This morning I counted 12 squares or patches of land that are ready for sowing.

rice-2

From 7 in the morning until 6 at night, women in the fields stand in ankle deep mud, bent in half.  Some have a scarf tied around their head, and their saree is tied back between their legs.  Many wear a long sleeve shirt to protect from the sun.  It’s 90 degrees in the shade these days.  The mud is full of worms, creepy crawler, including snakes.  I can hear them chatter all day, and when I zoom in on the pictures, I can see that on most of them, the women are smiling.

I come from a family of farmers.  I spent my summer holidays sitting on a tractor with my uncles and grand-father.  Punishment at that time meant having to stay in the house and help my grand-mother with the chores instead of going out in the fields.  There was machinery, but a lot was also done by hand such as moving balls of hay, which requires brute force.  But never, ever, never, had I seen anything as backbreaking as growing rice.  And once again it’s done mainly by women.  

I am faced with a new existential dilemma.  To paraphrase Shakespeare, my problem has become “To Eat Or Not To Eat”, or more precisely, “What To Eat”.  Many people think it is wrong to eat animals since we have to kill them first (preferably) and it’s just cruel.  I agree with that, but I also think animals taste good!  

Is being vegetarian is a kinder option? No. It’s just cruel on another variety of animals: humans.

 

Posted on March 17, 2015 by Kitty Vindaloo | Leave a comment

She said I looked too clean.  She took my hand and walked me a few feet away closer to the crowd.  We danced together for about a minute.  Three to four women then pushed me to the ground and rolled me into the wet slushy red mud, laughing hysterically.  One lady removed my glasses, another my phone from my pants pocket.  They continued to dance.  I got up, laughed a lot and continued to dance, jump, laugh and twirl.  They all pointed at me when singing the title song “Desi Girl” that the DJ was playing.  Ironic since Desi means “from the Indian subcontinent” and I was the only white person there.  I have been called “Desi” before, and I like it!  We took silly selfies though I have no idea who those ladies on the pictures are. I was ordered to let loose, and I did.  This is what Woodstock must have felt like, minus the illegal substances.

This is Holi for you, the Indian festival of colors.  A clean adult sterilized version of it. This was not in the streets where it gets much wilder, but on what used to be the manicured lawn behind the pool in our new compound.  It was the party organized by the homeowners’ association, and from what I could see, all people were having a grand time, probably helped by a fair amount of Kingfishers being consumed.  Everybody was soaking wet. I mean drenched.  Because of Bangalore’s red earth, we were colored in various shades of orange.  A few had patches of bright colors, mainly pink and green.  I managed to escape that since I had heard about the harmful effects of the chemicals that may be hidden in those powders.  They had a great buffet, a DJ and water cannons spraying into the air, turning the lawn into a mosh pit.  I do wonder how long it will take the grass to recover. 

I ate some yummy nimbles and came back home, I was getting cold.  That was one good day.

Until later when my phone decided to act up due to serious water exposure.  No sound, which renders a phone pretty useless.  I sulked for a day, especially since I had been careful not to bring the cameras to the event so as not to damage them.  I told E. if my phone could not be repaired I would use his, and he could upgrade to the newer version.  Then someone told me to put it on a slightly warm surface.  After placing it overnight on the cable box, I am happy to report that my hubby is not getting the Iphone 6.  

Sorry honey!

Posted on March 8, 2015 by Kitty Vindaloo | 3 Comments

About a week or so ago, when E. said he had to spend a few days in Chennai, I hoped along, and after his meetings were over, we hired a driver and headed South to this little charming seashore town for the weekend.   The name Pondicherry has always held a special aura, had a magical quality to it.  As a French kid, I had always been fascinated by the place. La Route des Epices, or the Spice Route. Pondicherry used to be ours, it was a French colony.  Now it’s not. 

I had a very specific reason for visiting Pondicherry, completely unrelated to the history of this country. A few months ago, thanks to a friend and Facebook, I discovered a watercolor artist whose work I fell in love with. His name is Rajkumar Sthabathy. Extraordinary. The gallery was our first stop after we checked into the hotel. We had trouble finding the place, and enrolled our driver and his Tamil language skills to call the owner for directions. I got out of the car, and was shocked and honored to see the painter himself welcome us upstairs. He’s a very unassuming man, rather shy. He seemed surprised that I knew so much about his work. We looked around at the painting on the wall, in awe. He then pulled out a few un-mounted canvases from a simple fabric bag laying on the floor. And there she was. The girl with the amazing face. The girl that embodies everything a village girl is to me. She’s actually a wife, as indicated by the red mark of sindoor powder at her hairline. Beautiful, proud, focused, dark, colorful. She’s now with me. We went back a couple of days later and bought another one. Bringing them back on the plane was quite a riot, but we managed.

IMG_8743She is now safely in a corner of the house, waiting to be expertly framed and admired for years to come.

Back to Pondicherry itself, a cute touristy little town.  As in Louisiana, the French influence is still strong. Like in New Orleans, the town is divided between “White Town” (the French quarters in N.O.) located West of the canal, and “Black Town”, ie, the East part, the rest of the city. The street names are often “Rue de la Whatever”, using the same blue metal plaques as in the old country. It is not unusual to be greeted in French while entering a restaurant, or by people on the street. Aside from history, it may have also to do with the massive amount of French tourists.

It truly is a lovely quaint little town, very photogenic. The streets seem wider, with barely any congestion. The house exteriors are often painted in bright colors, with more bougainvilleas and blooming trees than you can imagine. There are much fewer cars, but many two-wheelers and bicycles. We saw women in saris riding bicycles. All this made us long for the Bangalore that we never knew, that of 20 years ago, when it had bungalows instead of sky-scrapers and a population under a million. Pondicherry has, once again, made us want to buy property here, and enjoy a stress-free life. This happens every time we visit a seaside town, Goa, Kochi, even Chennai (Mumbai doesn’t make the list!). I call it the “Hotel Marigold syndrome”. But there is no such thing as a stress-free life in India!

IMG_8878Pondicherry is a place where you can walk, take a stroll, which is quite a luxury in this country where walking is a mode of transportation and not a leisurely activity. You can breathe easily, without (noticeable) fumes, dust or pollution.  I walked a lot in the French Quarters, and on the Promenade, the stretch of road along the Bay of Bengal, another magical name. At night, there are hundreds of people, families, single guys, as well as foreign tourists. We met many people who wanted their picture taken for no other reason that they saw me with a camera. Those three guys came to me, asked me to click a photo, shook my hand and ran away laughing. Even after 15 months, I still don’t get it, but I still enjoy it, every single time. The same happened at the gas/petrol station.

We walked to the Grand Bazar, which is a really nasty smelling food market.  We met some hungry kittens.  We then walked at the Sunday market, where they sell everything under the sun.  When we were done walking, we rented a scooter. With an engine, you go faster and further. We drove around aimlessly, went into some parts of town that were probably not too safe. We found a fisherman’s village while looking for a beach (which we didn’t find) and got dozens of people waving at us. The fact that I was possibly the only person in town on a two-wheeler wearing a helmet probably amused them. It’s easy to forget that India was violently hit by the tsunami in 2004 and Pondicherry saw many casualties and houses destroyed. One mural in the village still stands, though, since the colors are still vivid, it is more likely from the second lesser-known cyclone that hit in 2012 (while my buddy was on a business trip in Chennai!). The mural explains what government funds are available for those made homeless by the tsunami.

Mural

We saw plenty of dogs, a bit skinner than Bangalore’s, fewer tuk-tuks but more goats. They have hundreds of goats in the streets. I do not know if they belong to someone or just roam free. I felt silly when I waved and took pictures of a group of people, then realized they were entering a cemetery. What we mistook as another religious happy festival turned out to be the goodbye celebration for a loved one. Talking about religion, we both got blessed by an elephant in front of a temple. The process is simple: you give the elephant either a 10-rupee bill, or a fruit. She quickly, yet precisely, takes it with her trunk, curls the tip of her trunk and hits you on the head! If you gave her money, she will then give it to her owner. If you give her a guava, she throws it in her mouth, peel and all. Since we need all the blessings we can get these days, I also visited the Catholic church by the sea, and all the descriptions of the Twelve Stations of the Cross were in French.

As quaint as it is, this town has more garbage in the street than anywhere else I have been. The canal has blankets of floating crap, all going into the ocean.  Poverty is more visible than in Bangalore but I feel the same way every time I go to Chennai, as there are more tent settlements on the sidewalk than back home.

We visited Auroville, an experimental utopian village created in the late 1960’s for the betterment of mankind. Since I have nothing nice to say about it, I will keep quiet. But here’s a couple of pictures of the gold colored bubble standing in the middle. 

Whatever.

 

 

Posted on March 4, 2015 by Kitty Vindaloo | 2 Comments

February 28th, first rain of the season. Nice smell, wet grass, a dash of wet dust too. It will clean the streets a bit. It will create havoc for some who live on the street or in the blue tents. To us, it’s selfishly nice. It will lower the temperature a few degrees, though it is not yet scorching hot. I like the night showers the best but will have to wait a few more weeks. One night in May last year, I wrote:

“It’s pouring rain. So hard. The drapes are swinging away with the wind trying to invade our house. The doors are slammed shut. It’s loud on the balconies. The cats went into hiding. The temperature dropped 5 degrees in 5 minutes. It smells fresh and dusty at the same time. Thunder sounds like a steamroller over massive bubble wrap, or as if the gods are dragging heavy furniture in the sky. Pre monsoon at 2:30 am. It will last a few minutes and then we will only have puddles as memories. The temperature just dropped another 5 degrees since I started typing this. This is magical”.

I am looking forward to that again.

The farmers, across the security wall covered in broken glass, tilled the red soil today. At dusk, dozens of birds were eating their snack of worms. Farmers should be happy, rain means one less chore for them. From what I can see from my third floor terrace of our new home, their houses are made of concrete. Why am I thinking of the Three Little Pigs right now?

I made a new friend. Or is he a nuisance? We have switched the noise of construction work for that of much nicer, yet still loud, birds. I was looking for the creature that was chirping louder than the others and found the cutest little squirrel singing his lungs out. He may be a chipmunk, I will have to check. He was going at it as if his life depended on it, and maybe it did. It lasted quite a while, the entire time the plumber needed to fix whatever was wrong with some pipes. New house means new problems, but I have learned the art of patience. For now.

We have moved into our new house.  It’s called “shifting” here.  We left the sterilized world of expat compounds. We are still in a compound, gated, twice gated even, with guards, but I think we are the only foreigners. The house is bigger, yet cheaper. The water does not smell of rust anymore, and the marble floors are so polished and shiny, they squeak. We are quite isolated from the main roads and I will have to learn to ride the scooter, and get my license. The 1.5 kilometers to the main road is too long a walk when summer comes. Or anytime! We are discovering new faces, finding new places for our daily lives, are the object of stares from new people and are still waving at everybody.

The kittens have explored every nook and cranny and are now content. So are we.

Posted on February 28, 2015 by Kitty Vindaloo | 4 Comments

We are moving. The noise level, which as always been a problem, has become unbearable, day and night, and will not get any better for years to come. We do not, cannot sleep well, which is affecting our moods. We have a wonderful garden and a terrace that cannot be used. We live with the windows closed because of the dust. It is getting hot, but it’s too early in the season to use the AC. So we melt inside. Since June, nine months ago, the house behind us is being renovated. Then the two houses next to it went into renovation as well. To make sure matters got worse, the new houses outside the compound have stepped up speed and changed their working hours. And there is a story there: traffic around here is horrendous. It takes kids 90 minutes to go to school by bus. Our friend used to drive for an hour to get to work, this is now one hour and 45 minutes. Each way. This is due, among other things, to the number of trucks from new constructions. Buildings are sprouting up like mushrooms. Nasty, ugly, dusty, concrete mushrooms. So, to ease traffic, they passed a law a couple of weeks ago forbidding trucks from driving here during the day. Good idea. On paper. Construction is not going to stop because we are inconvenienced. So they simply shifted the hours, and were then pouring concrete and drilling and making a hell of a racket until 3, or 4, or 5 am, until the trucks were no longer allowed.  Rational people with no connections to the building industry wondered why materials could not be delivered at night, then the work be performed during the day. But fresh, liquid concrete cannot just wait, it needs to be used right away, no matter out of synch it is with my sleep schedule. However, things got nasty, the police got involved and the workers are now mostly quiet at night.  I can hear some hammering but can tune that out. But, since they got scolded, they are taking their sweet revenge: they blast their music all day long. How kind.

Wait, we are not done. The empty house right in front of ours has been vacant since May, and they just started renovations this week.  Just our luck.

We are done.

After a lot of kicking and screaming and nasty juvenile exchanges on the compound’s online forum, coupled with promises that cannot be kept (that’s called lies in the US), we came to the sad conclusion that the only solution is to move. We are crushed because we love this house, have a great relationship with the owners, enjoy the compound amenities and really like the villages around.

We had to convince the company that life is no longer feasible here. I think they understand and are helpful. Back to square one. Back to visiting houses. Back to discussing prices that can be multiplied by 3 when you use authorized agencies (that means agencies for expats), asking about washers/dryers and checking if any construction is happening around the units. We saw many houses in the two Whitefield compounds, as well as a few independent units. We listened to an older gentlemen trying to convince us that his house doesn’t need AC installed, that it stays cool in the summer.  This has to be the only one in Bangalore.

Then we fell in love. A nice house, away from expats, but still in a gated community, with no construction behind, in front or next to. It’s much closer to my school, yet the same distance to E.’s work. It has a dry kitchen and a wet kitchen. That means there is one kitchen for the maid and one for the lady of the house. Yep! There is a puja room, which is a prayer room where idols and flowers are set. The laundry room is on the third floor, next to the terrace so you can dry your clothes in the open air. You know what they have behind us? Farm land. Vegetables. And you know what vegetables don’t do? Drill at night. Nor during the day. I think.

So the paperwork has started. The exchanges of terms and conditions, and the movements on money will start soon.

Please keep your fingers crossed.

Posted on February 17, 2015 by Kitty Vindaloo | 2 Comments

Dear neighbor,

You said I pay my cook too much. Let me tell you what’s on my mind right now.

I don’t pay her “too much”. I pay her whatever I please. And I believe that a hard-working woman who holds 4 or 5 jobs has the right to pay her children’s school fees on her own.

Oh, but you tell me that our compound does fundraising to help the people working here pay for school, as well as unforeseen medical expenses. I commend you on that, and we have given rupees to those funds. Here’s an idea: what about paying them a bit more each month so they don’t have to beg for those monies?

But, you tell me, if we pay them more, they waste their money on non-essentials. That’s true sometimes. A friend loaned money to her driver, who a week later proudly told her he had bought gold earrings for his daughter. My friend wasn’t pleased at first, but was repaid on time, and the kid is in school. End of story.  I also know when I am being taken advantage of.  Sometimes.  Several maids were given the opportunity to work for us once, not twice (previous post).

Our cook is a woman. An inspiration of a woman, tall and dignified. With 3 darling kids. She has to raise them alone since her husband is missing in action. We give “too much” money mainly to women. As an educated person, you have probably heard about the concept of micro-credit, small loans given to the poor to help them get ahead. Mohammed Yunus won a Nobel Peace Prize for expanding the model, and he stressed the role of women in bringing poor regions of the world forward economically. Give a rupee to a woman, she feeds her kids and sends them to school. Give a rupee to a man and he’ll buy some hooch. So you say. I love micro-credit, and have been a donor on Kiva.org since 2007. On Kiva, I only give to women.  

By “overpaying” my cook, I bypass the middleman. A few weeks ago, after quitting her main job because of what can only be described as sexual harassment, she started her own business, selling dosas and idlis on a cart in the street. She’s officially a street vendor, and we are extremely proud of her. Whenever we ride by her spot, after 6pm, she’s always there, with her youngest daughter sitting on the ground doing her homework, surrounded by her cousin who sells flowers and her neighbor who sells herbs. The cart she is currently using belongs to her church, she rents it for 30 rupees a day. Tonight, she will be inaugurating her very own cart. Hers. Not rented. Not on loan. Not on credit. Her cart.

Then you tell me I am skewing the market, that nobody can afford maids anymore in the area because they only want to work for expats. Oh my, I am sorry that bringing maids out of poverty is an inconvenience to you. Let me enlighten you a bit about how the expat world works. We do not pay for our housing, the company does, through the nose. Although E. is a well paid attorney, one of the best IP strategists in the world, we could never afford this house. Yet, many of you criticizing me for the wages I distribute, own one, two, or more houses in gated communities. You’re not middle-class, you can afford to pay your maid a decent salary. And by the way, she’s entitled to a day off. And a raise once in a while. Even the compound handbook says so (yes, there is a handbook).

I had a long talk not long ago with a very wise man. I was discussing how I dislike bargaining, haggling. I find it exhausting. I recently saw a woman haggle over 20 rupees with a street vendor. I know this woman, she is married to the India-CEO of an American company you know of, but that will remain unnamed. I also know this woman works, or volunteers for a non-profit organization to help enroll children in schools. Why, why haggle over 20 rupees here, and then give 20 lakhs to an agency there? I was told by this very wise man that she gets her name in the paper for the donation, not for the measly rupees to the food vendor.

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I am done with this rant.  I need to re-read “White Tiger”.

Sincerely,

Kitty V.

Posted on February 15, 2015 by Kitty Vindaloo | 1 Comment

Being an expat is not all fun and games (hearing about your father in the hospital through Facebook isn’t ideal), but it’s not exactly horrible either.  One of the perks for many of us is the ability to travel to places we would not have visited otherwise.  It’s actually sometimes complicated, in a funny way, to keep in touch with my girlfriends, because we are always out and about. 

When we accepted the assignment, I made it abundantly clear to E. that I had three travel requests: 1- Australia, 2- Thailand, and 3- The Maldives.  Numbers 1 and 2 are still a dream, but Number 3 has been bagged.  And I now have visual proof, admissible in a court of law, that I married a dimwit!  I married a guy who chases sharks.  Yes, sharks, as in Da Da Da Da Da Da Dummmmm.  Not once, but twice, and on purpose.   I have pictures and he has videos. 

Let me put this into context.  The Maldives are astonishingly beautiful above and below sea level.  The islands are of white sand, crystal clear turquoise water and coconut trees.  Not much else.  The ocean is brimming with hundreds of colorful fish.  And sharks.  There are plenty of sharks.  When we picked up our snorkeling equipment, they explained the different types we may encounter and reassured us that most are quite inoffensive.  Yeah right.  I don’t care how calm and skittish reef sharks are, they look freaky.  They swim in an unmistakable slow and stalking way.  Their bodies are floating horizontally instead of vertically, like any good fish should be (rays don’t count here, they’re cool).  Seeing your first shark gives you goose bumps and makes you want to scream for help.  But would you believe that there are so many that you actually get used to seeing them swim around, and go “bleah” when you see one?  That “bleah” however quickly transforms back into “OMG” when one curious shark comes directly at you, so close that you could touch it, looking at you directly in the eyes (quick, are we supposed to hold their gaze or look down, I don’t remember, ok it’s got black stuff on its tail so it’s a nice one, I will just close my eyes) and spends a few terribly long seconds circling around you a couple of times.  At that point I had conquered my fears, stood as still as I could and took pictures.  There, here’s my curious shark and my hubby in the background.  Chomp.

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It is a very sad state of education when you can name all the different dinosaurs, which have been extinct for millions of years, but can only name fish as in “Hey, look, Nemo”.  Or “there’s, Gill”.  “Ohhhh, Dory, I like Dory”.  Pathetic.  So, here’s Nemo and his family hiding in an anemone, here’s Gill, the magnificent morish idol, and of course Dory.  They didn’t teach me underwater photography in photography school, and it’s harder than it looks!  The GoPro was much easier to use, until it got wet and died. 

E. spent a bit more time in the water than me (I had a John Grisham to finish while eating my complimentary mango sherbet on the immaculate beach) and when he was not chasing sharks, he was mistaken for fish food, befriended a turtle that swam with him for about 15 minutes and got a close encounter with a moray eel, though I suspect he wasn’t aware of it until we looked at the footage! 

Video of the fish mistaking my husband for food:

E. befriending a turtle:

Last but not least, the chasing of the shark, with plenty of “Dory” at 1:25.

At the Koodoo airport on the way back, when they couldn’t identify this strange object appearing on the x-ray of the luggage, instead of taking everything out in an all powerful arrogant TSA way, they simply asked “Could you help us and tell us what this is?”  It’s nothing but a big pack of D batteries.  That’s how nice and honest people are around here.

Keep swimming Keep Swimming Keep Swimming.

Posted on February 10, 2015 by Kitty Vindaloo | 2 Comments

This is not the greatest picture I have ever taken, but I love it nonetheless. It represents India’s daily life. Not the beautiful exotic women wrapped in saris, not the sadhus on a quest to a better (after)life, not the poverty of guilt-inducing documentaries. It’s just India. Taken from the car, it’s mistake of a photo, I don’t even know what I was trying to focus on. But I got the essence of what India is for me.

PJ1A0205

There is a little store, a hut, made of metal, that displays all kinds of goodies, from cookies to tobacco products. The guy is sitting behind the jar with the red lid. There are little packages of individual doses of pann (I think), that look like long strips of condoms! There is a light bulb hanging there, a useful addition after dark.  When he goes home at night, he closes the store window which serves as an awning during the day.

To the left, there is the mattress seller, with the ubiquitous cotton plaid fabric covers. The mattresses are handmade.  This is not the kind we sleep on, though I often wonder if those wouldn’t be as much, if not more comfortable than ours. We were warned though that they don’t last long. And I suspect they are bug infested. I don’t like to share my bed with bugs, unless they’re my furry kittens, my lovebugs.

There is trash on the streets, though not much. I can only see a few pieces of paper, and a plastic cup. It’s been swept that day. Swachh Bharat. There is a broken sidewalk, the only kind we find here.

There is a “do not park here” sign that has lost all notions of verticality. There is an explanation, or an amendment underneath it, in Kannada. “Everything is in English” they said before we moved here. No. There are pasted ads on walls, ads for “PG Gents”, accommodations for single men, and ads for Hadoop’s Big Day. I have no idea what that is.

In the back, there is a large banner advertising a brand new apartment building located close to us. You see those signs everywhere, as well as dozens of new constructions.

There are three guys hanging out. One of course is checking his phone, they’re always checking their phone. There’s another man sitting on a motorcycle. Motorcycles make very good sitting devices when one is idle. There is a helmet attached to the motorcycle, but it’s a construction helmet. It can, and is used often as a device to protect one’s head while riding a two-wheeler. And my favorite is the man in the black shirt, with his hand in the air, with the quintessential Indian hand gesturing. You cannot “speak Indian” without accompanying your words with flicks of the wrists. It puts Italians to shame. Even ex-President Kalam does it. When my school kids try and imitate my American accent, I imitate their hand gestures.

They think it’s hilarious. Me too.

Posted on February 5, 2015 by Kitty Vindaloo | Leave a comment

So many holidays, so many celebratory days, so many religious days, so many reasons to party!

Today is Republic Day. I, like many, thought it was the same as Independence Day. Wrong again. Republic Day commemorates the Constitution of India, which took effect on January 26, 1950. That’s it for today’s history lesson.

President Obama is here. We have been hearing, reading, and gossiping about it for a long time now. It’s a really big deal, as the ruler of the free world, and the ruler of the world’s largest democracy are chatting over tea. Or chewing gum. They have cleaned up around New Delhi and Agra in proportions that make no sense (yes, I am good like that at keeping my opinions to myself!). They have scrubbed the streets of Agra. Not only did they sweep (in line with Modi’s “Swachh Bharat”, or “sweep India”, I wonder if Obama will pick up a broom) but they washed the streets. With water and little brushes. In a country where water is scarce. And reports say workers were paid 300 rupees a day, a bit under US$5.00 to do this job. But, bummer, the King Of Saudi died and Obama needs to go meet with the new king. So they streets have been cleaned for nothing. That is if you consider the inhabitants of Agra “nothing”. Now they have clean streets to enjoy.

The security around the American President is astounding, yet not unusual. But it has been on the front page of the newspapers here for a long time, with detailed descriptions of the armoured limousine and the amenities inside Air Force One. I think some Indians are a bit miffed that they are not trusted, but in this case, I side with the U.S. The Secret Service is always the agency in charge of protecting the President, no matter where he travels. That’s it for today’s lesson on law enforcement agencies.

Not quite. There was a breach of the security. Ayyaaa!!!! The culprit? A stray dog. I told you those dogs are smart as a whip! Gotta love India!

I went to my school’s celebration. At 9:30, hoisting of the flag, national anthem, a few speeches and dances for all the kids and guests. Then the little ones went home while the big kids, X standard (that’s 10th grade) partied. The invitation stated that we had to come in Indian clothes. I messed up the saree thing and was dressed in traditional skirt, a bit more North Indian than South India. They had decorated the assembly room, usually a drab concrete room where they eat their meals, play at recess and scram people during certain celebrations. They hung over 40 sarees to make it look like one giant tent. They had stalls selling handmade knick-knacks, bangles, food and tea. The chaiwalla of the day was extremely popular but I guess he won’t have much voice left tomorrow. They had a raffle, forced me to dance and unfortunately have it on video. They braided my hair and offered mehendi (henna design on hands) but I was in no mood to be motionless for a couple of hours. The girls were unrecognizable. Take off their braids and uniforms and dress them up, and you have the best fashion show in town.

 

Happy Republic Day, India.

Posted on January 26, 2015 by Kitty Vindaloo | Leave a comment