Taking Stock - Part 1

It's been a year and about a week to the day we arrived in Bangalore. Regrets? None really. Miss anything? Sure. Here's my list: (not in any particular order of importance)

1) Stacy's pita chips with hummus

2) Driving. Although I have promised myself that I'll be out there behind a wheel this year contributing to the city's smog problem. Unless, of course, I get a REVA, but that's a topic for another post.

3) Stress-free driving (an oxymoron in India) through tree-lined roads. In the concrete wilderness that is modern-day Bangalore, most forms of the color green are found on giant billboards announcing the next big development in gated communities. You may have trouble spotting a tree in the midst of all this.

4) Cleaning the house (and having a clean-looking house to show for it)

5) Getting the house cleaned (and having a clean-looking house to show for it)

6) Being able to have more than five people over at a time

7) Not having to arrange your life around traffic patterns

8) The ability to bundle everyone in the minivan for an impromptu hike or bike on local trails. Even though, more often than not, such suggestions were greeted by: 'Nooo! Do we have to?'

9) Not having to get your darned vegetables weighed at a separate counter at the supermarket before you take them to the checkout register. Believe me, this is extremely annoying!

10) The luxury of pouring cold milk onto your cereal from a respectable and sturdy plastic jug. Polythene milk bags that leak all over your kitchen countertop....grrrr!

11) Oh alright...for those of you reading this....old FRIENDS!

Stay tuned next week (or whenever I get around to it :) for my list of things I don't miss from our former lives.

The Greased Palm Delivers the Goods

It’s sometimes easy to forget that, despite our core identity, we are not currently Indian citizens. All five of us hold American passports and we recently realized that we had visa "issues" that made our collective residency status a little shaky. The kids had entered the country on visitor visas, one of which had expired. The other two had exceeded the 180-day period within which they have to register with a local Foreigner Registration Office (FRO). The same was true was for the PIO card that I held. The only one whose status was current was B., whose frequent trips to other parts of the globe worked to his advantage in this instance. So the rest of us had, in effect, overstayed our welcome in the country. Such a realization, in the US, would have sent us into a tizzy and had us frantically contacting immigration lawyers to avert deportation. In India, we handled it with the “yahan sab chalta hai” indifference that defines the general Indian attitude towards rules and regulations. Still, it was a situation that had to be rectified and so we trooped off to the FRO in Bangalore city to see if we could rejoin the ranks of the country’s law-abiding residents. Thus began a frustrating cycle of endless paperwork, long waits in longer queues, and multiple visits to that office, at the end of which we were no closer to our goal. “Why you don’t have copy of husband’s passport?” demanded the clerk, on my fourth trip there, after going through the five-inch thick sheaf of documents that constituted my application.
I pointed out to him that this was not on the checklist of required documentation that they had handed me the first time I came there. He seemed ready to admit, albeit grudgingly, that I had a point but then, the next instant, his face brightened as he saw a way to score a decisive win in the exchange: “But you overstayed, no? Then what you expect?” We ended up hiring a travel agent to dig us out of the mess. The next time I went with V.’s papers, I was met by a person from the agency. As the line we were waiting in moved forward slowly to the desk where applications were being tossed aside on such grounds as “where is proof of residence in quadruplicate?” or “you must have old passport copy (even if it expired 25 years ago)", the agent looked nervous and unsure of himself. A quick phone call later, another person suddenly appeared in the line next to us. This middle-aged, mild-mannered man was THE INSIDER, the guy who could move our papers up the line, stand next to the clerk and cajole him into clearing them, get some other key signatures on them, and eventually deliver V.’s passport to us along with the all-important visa extension.
What, I asked the agent after he hesitantly disclosed the not insignificant fee for the insider’s services, would have happened if we hadn’t used this guy. After all, we still had to pay a penalty for overstaying and we weren’t trying to bypass any laws; just figure out what the legal process was to stay on in the country. So, in essence, all this man was doing was helping us jump the line. The agent seemed ready for the question. “It would have been impossible to get this done today “, he said. “You would have had to come back four, maybe five times”.
And so therein lies the root cause of dishonesty among Indian government officials. The system is purposely flawed and inefficient in order for this counter-system to develop that then becomes accepted as the way things are done. The innocuous looking person who pushed our case forward, as well as his cronies within the FRO, represent the face of systemic corruption; the openly murky side of the government's operations.
But what about those of us that go along with this? I was initially outraged by the whole thing...I pictured myself taking on the system ‘Jaane Bhi Do Yaaron’ style. But then the main characters in the movie didn’t really come out ahead, did they? And so while I’ve given V. the whole spiel on the importance of being principled and not being a party to this, I’m not sure if we’ll do anything differently when it comes to pushing the other children’s papers through. After all, who wants to be a frequent visitor to the FRO? It's definitely not on my list of delightful places to hang out in in Bangalore.
What would you do?

Motherhood and Apple Pie Charts

I went back to work about a month ago after more than twelve years of full-time parenting. It has been a little strange, to say the least, to let go of my mommy persona for a few hours everyday. But I have to admit it has also been liberating - to actually be in a situation where you feel that you largely control the outcome. Where toddlerhood and pre-teen angst don't collide with variables such as hunger, tiredness, exam anxiety, teacher trouble and homework overload.
I am happy with my new job description - a content development role in a PR firm - and am looking forward to making a difference. I am usually home shortly after the girls return at 4:30 pm although A. is back by lunchtime. Nagamma, the maid, is there for him till I get back: changing and feeding him, taking him to the playground and trying to get him started with the basics of conversational Kannada. A. seems to have adapted to the situation as have the older ones and the whole thing is working out well thanks to the support crew of Nagamma, Ramji (the cook) and Ravi (the driver).
But still I thought that maternal guilt would strike sooner or later. That all-too-familiar feeling that has plagued me from time to time over the years: for not breastfeeding long enough; for breastfeeding too long; for clipping V.'s nails too short when she was an infant causing her to bawl in pain; for forgetting to show up in D's class for a Halloween party that I had signed up for....the list of my parental lapses is long if non-discriminating. I spread the wealth of my failings as a parent pretty equally among all three of my kids.
So I was surprised when guilt didn't make an appearance this time around or at least not a noticeable one. Maybe Michelle Obama had something when she talked about keeping her family happier by taking care of her needs first. Motherhood doesn't always have to be about putting yourself last; about eating the burnt pieces of toast so that the rest of the family can have the good slices.
Having said that, I would never ever consider the years I stayed home with the kids as my share of burnt toast. That was precious time spent with some incredible individuals who taught me some valuable life lessons. A few of these are: 1) Don't sweat the small stuff: the world does not depend on your unfailing ability to find matching socks every morning; 2) Some kids are just designed to help candy makers and dentists rake in profits; accept that and move on; 3) Develop a healthy relationship with the walls in your house as you may find that you spend a lot of time talking to them when you think you're actually talking to your kids.
In all seriousness, though, I love these guys and I think that the biggest lesson I've learnt recently is to appreciate each one of them for who he or she is.
If we're talking about motherhood, it's hard not to mention my mother and others in her generation who handled the whole maternal act with such grace and aplomb. Who perhaps had fewer options outside the home than women in my generation do but who did such an outstanding job inside it that it hardly matters in the end. Definitely no room for guilt here.

'Tis the Season (to be holy)

With Navratri and Dussera behind us but Diwali around the corner, we're still officially in the throes of festival fever. There are smashed watermelons and crushed lemons in the most unlikely of places like in the parking garages of malls. Sandalwood and kumkum is applied liberally to all kinds of inanimate objects including the elliptical machine that I clambered onto this evening in our clubhouse to try and burn a few calories. And so while the agnostic in me still maintains a safe personal distance from the many religious rituals of the season, it's impossible not to be drawn into something that's as much cultural as it is religious.
In August, Ganesh Chathurthi provided the opening act to the bigger festivals. There were multiple stalls set up in the friendly neighborhood village outside our development to house the Elephant God and we woke up every morning for the next ten days to the sounds of bhajans that traveled in with the breeze. Enthusiastic devotees first installed Ganesha on the road just outside our community gate until it was pointed out to them that cars may also need to use that road from time to time. They then whisked him off to another undisclosed location where they could continue the party. One hoped that, in the interest of the environment, somebody checked to make sure he wasn't made of plaster of paris or covered with a lead-based paint before dunking him in a body of water. But it's impossible to hold that against lovable Ganesha though, with his rotund, child-friendly persona and his fondness for modakams and laddoos.
Muslims celebrated the end of Ramzan on September 20th this year. Since this was during Navratri, pooja-related activity was also at its peak at this time, largely for the leading Goddesses of the Hindu pantheon: Durga, Lakshmi, Saraswati, a religious nod to female power. In Karnataka, Durga Puja is also called Ayudha Puja and it's a day when one worships any tools or implements used to do one's job. And so Ravi, our driver, spent a good two hours decorating our Toyota Innova with flowers and patches of smeared sandalwood. It looked quite spiffy at the end of that treatment. It reminded me of the time in California several years ago when I took our new car at the time to the Livermore temple for a vahana pooja and the priest ended the ceremony with a flourish by painting a big red swastika on the hood. I couldn't imagine motoring down Highway 580 with that in the front and so I hastily rubbed it off as soon as he was out of sight. Ravi's handiwork looked better and was infinitely more tasteful.
For Dussera, our community hosted a cultural program that ended with the traditional burning of Ravana's effigy. He may be the dark lord of Hindu mythology but you can't help feeling a little sorry that he has to be subjected to this year after year. After all, as legend goes, he was also well-read, a talented musician, practically a Renaissance Man in Lanka circa 7000 BC...you have to cut the man some slack. The kids enjoyed the display, however. A. came running up afterwards to gleefully inform me that "the fire guy" was dead.
So that just leaves Diwali...a childhood favorite - for me at least. The one day of the year when it was fun to wake up at the crack of the dawn and acceptable to have greasy oil rubbed in one's hair. A time when we enjoyed delving into our small but respectable stash of fireworks to work our way up the bravery scale from sparklers to atom bombs. I'm sure the kids will love it now but we grown-ups will stand around complaining about noise and air pollution and about how unsafe it all us. All true, mind you, but still.....
Despite my ambivalence towards religion, I can't deny that the festival season in India is a lot of fun, a cultural celebration of the many colorful stories in Hindu mythology. But just to provide a dose of secular leavening after all this, Halloween arrives at the end of the month.

Connie & Kamini: The Garbage Eaters

Being environmentally responsible has always been a one step forward, two steps back process for me. Yes, I have those reusable shopping bags but I can never remember to take those darned things with me when I go out. While I recycled to the best of my abilities in the U.S., I also routinely pumped yogurt containers and soiled diapers, among other things, into landfills. And at grocery stores I would pick up the organic broccoli with a self-satisfied smile only to turn the corner and balk at the price of organic milk.
A little green handbook that I once bought at a Barnes & Noble exhorted me to bigger and better things in the eco-friendly area. "Go solar", it urged or "Consider wind power". "Reuse dirty water", it said in a reprimanding tone as I poured day old water from the children's water bottles into the sink. And "why not simplify your life?" it inquired politely as I struggled to squeeze clothes into dresser drawers and find ways to organize an out-of-control toy and book collection.
And so I was really happy the day I brought Kamini home. She is a comely lady who I picked up from a house in Bangalore's Indiranagar area last week. Once I got home and deposited her in the backyard, I went and opened my little green handbook to a page headed "compost your organics" and did a triumphant fist pump in the air.
You see, Kamini is a composting system made up of three stacked terracotta chambers. She joins Connie, a similar composter that my sister-in-law across the street acquired the day before from the same source, a small Bangalore-based venture called the Daily Dump whose model for putting waste to good use is beautifully simple. Take some pots, throw in some compost starter and lots of garbage and voila, you soon have plenty of rich, nourishing humus (not to be confused with the mediterranean chickpea dip) for the garden. Then - even if you are horticulturally challenged like I am - just watch this garden grow!
My sister-in-law and I also picked up a couple of packages of the Daily Dump's Soapy Nuts, a natural plant-based alternative to laundry detergents and a way to limit chemical run-off into water streams. So far the experiment is working reasonably well. The clothes don't come out smelling great but they look clean enough and can pass a quick inspection test.
Next up on the list of environmentally friendly actions: dusting. It's in keeping with the spirit of this blog and my little green handbook informs me that regular dusting of light bulbs and appliances improves their efficiency and reduces energy consumption. So bring on the feather duster.

Children of a Well-Connected God

We now know that a US immigration officer in Newark is as likely to have heard of SRK as an Indian fruit vendor is to identify Tim Robbins in a line-up of Caucasian men. What the hoopla over the "my name is Khan" incident revealed, apart from the immaturity of certain Indian politicians (read Ambika Soni), is the "VIP complex" in the Indian system, a long ingrained habit of trying not to inconvenience the rich and famous. This complex was evident in the way newspapers compared the SRK case to the time Abdul Kalam was "frisked like a commoner" at the New Delhi airport, 'in clear violation of protocol".
But the case that best demonstrates this preoccupation with pampering the privileged in recent times is that of Sanjeev Nanda. Nanda, the scion of an influential New Delhi family, was the prime accused in an infamous hit-and-run incident in January of 1999 when he rammed his BMW through a police checkpoint, killing six people and injuring one. He was initially acquitted of all charges for lack of reliable witnesses but after a lot of public outrage over the acquittal, he was retried and sentenced to five years in prison in September 2008, more than nine years after the crime.
But then last month a Delhi high court reduced his sentence from five years to two after downgrading his offence to a less serious one of causing death by rash or negligent act. The trial court where Nanda had previously been convicted had found him guilty of culpable homicide not amounting to murder since he was drunk and driving well beyond the speed limit. The Delhi high court disagreed. Here's why:
"[Though] the appellant caused the accident in which six persons died...., it was not a case where the appellant had any knowledge of the presence of these persons on the road..."
SAY WHAT???? You mow down six people without being aware of their presence on the road!!! What made the whole thing more convenient for Nanda was that he only had four or five months of the two year sentence left to serve since he had already put in some jail time during the protracted trial process. And the final cake, complete with icing, was delivered to him a few days ago when the Tihar Jail Superintendant let him out three months before his sentence was due to end as a reward for his "good conduct". Could they have fallen over themselves more in trying to smooth the guy's way to freedom? Why didn't they just dispense with the sham trials and let him walk a long time ago - slipping a few mints into his hand as he headed towards the door and expressing the hope that he had found the service satisfactory?

In Loving Memory of....

Terri, my sister-in-law's dog and faithful companion of thirteen years, succumbed to a stomach illness and passed away on August 13th. He had a full and eventful life starting from the time she picked him up as a pup from a Phoenix-area animal pound to his final months in Bangalore. After their move to India more than a year ago, he settled in happily, developing a keen appreciation for roadside delicacies of all kinds and showing no signs of missing the sterile environment he had left behind. For lifelong dog lovers like my sister-in-law, the loss of a canine friend comes with a lot of heartache. She would probably concur with the view of an anonymous person who said that "the problem with loving is that pets don't last long enough and people last too long". Apart from being the tail-wagging mood pick-me-upper of the family, Terri was also the irreverent voice behind his mistress' entertaining blog. Visit this to read the beautiful farewell tribute she has paid her beloved pet in it.