As I write this it’s about 8pm and Masan, Evie and Mia are standing on the porch looking at all the sand crabs who have come out of hiding now that the ruckus of sand play has ended for the day. They stand stock still as the girls squeel and point. A few startled crabs run for their holes for cover. “That one’s so fast it’s moving like a rocket, Dad!” And “Mom, I spit some toothpaste on that one so it could taste it. I think he liked it because he didn’t move.” There have been many little moments like this during our time in Kerala that stand out as being perfect and memorable. 

After being in India for almost 6 weeks, the knowledge that all this ends in a about year and 10.5 months weighs heavily on my mind. I know that seems like a long time from now, but time at my age zooms. And perhaps in a few days, weeks, or months living in India will feel like a jail sentence rather than an opportunity, but not right now. So we need to see and explore before its time to go back home. But where to go during monsoon season in southern India? In typical India fashion, if you can outsource it for a good price, do it. For a small price a travel agent gave us a few options for a first trip out of Bangalore, and a quiet beachfront villa at Marari Beach near the town of Kochi in the southern Indian state of Kerala seemed like an easy and doable first trip with this crew. 

The flight from Bangalore was a quick hour and 20 minutes. Flying over Kerala a fellow passenger and native of Kerala pointed out waterfalls out the window to our right. Even from flying height the beauty of Kerala was stunningly obvious-this state is probably the polar opposite of the city of Bangalore-and most likely all the other cities in India (tbd). Spongey bright green is everywhere, and our lungs don’t hurt when we breathe. That annoyingly persistent cough is gone as is that smell that permeates Bangalore. Instead of piles of molding trash along the roadsides there are lush trees and tropical plants. 

A few moments from the trip thus far: 

We stayed at the Marriott near the airport the evening we landed in Kerala. While we were swimming in the pool a crow grabbed my packet of tissues that was resting on the chaise lounge and flew off with it. He held on tight and never dropped it. There have been several occasions during this trip that the tissues would have come in handy doubling as toilet paper. 

The drive to Mararikulum and our second hotel involved an hour long wait for a 5 minute ferry ride. Apparently a bridge wouldn’t have worked because large ships like the Queen Mary are constantly going through the harbor. The ferry was packed with cars, mopeds, and pedestrians coming from a Muslim wedding. The docking of the ferry involved ramming the boat into the shore, which jolted everyone, and involved some minor pedestrian injuries. No big scene was made or assistance requested, however. 

After the ferry ride we stopped at Fort Kochi, a historic fishing village and huge tourist area for lunch. Fort Kochi was given to the Portugese in 1503 by the Rajah of Kochi after they helped him out defeating an enemy. Vasco da Gama, who if you remember from 5th grade history, which I didn’t, was the first European to land in India. He was buried for a time at St. Francis Church in Fort Kochi. In 1683 the Dutch captured the city and tore down some of the gorgeous Catholic Churches and convents. In 1795 it was the British’s turn to take control. Finally, in 1947 it was back in the hands of India. 

Fort Kochi was an interesting mix of Christian churches, Muslim mosques, Jewish temples, probably some Hindu temples, although those weren’t visible from the narrow road, and lots of Western tourists. We saw more white people in Fort Kochi than we had in 6 weeks in Bangalore. Like any touristy beachside town in all the world, there were people with long dreads and smoked out eyes alternately staring past or glaring at us while walking past, and hemp seashell jewelry decorating thin, tanned wrists and necks and plump white ones in equal number. Unlike other places in India a family of white Americans drew zero attention, except from the young, English speaking con-artist who showed up as soon as we sat down for lunch at a roadside cafe. The timing was too perfect for him not to have been tipped off by the restaurant staff, which was confirmed when he gave them part of what we ended up paying him. I wasn’t interested in his wares until he told us he was a member of a college artist collective selling their supposedly hand painted Indian scenes on antique, recycled paper. I wanted to atleast see the paintings painted with handmade sand paint. They were pretty and looked handmade, and after showing us about a hundred how could we not buy any? So we bought a few for way too many rupees, even though we haggled, and were later told by the driver that these were mass produced and that we paid triple what they were worth. This exchange was like buying one of those ubiquitous hand painted name signs sold on the streets of New York for way too much money. Or even worse, it was like getting suckered into a game of Three Card Monte near Washington Square Park in the late 90’s, not knowing it was a scam and that everyone around the table was in on it but you, the mark. As a New Yorker I pride myself on not being the typical, deer in headlights in the big city tourist, but India has turned me into one.

The road from Fort Kochi to Marari Beach was called the Coastal Highway, which may bring to mind a highway along the ocean, maybe California’s Pacific Coast Highway. Kerals’s version was nothing like that. It was a windy, 2 lane, dotted white lined road resembling a backwoods country road in all but road usage. Along both sides were green trees, shrubs, grass, dirt, dilapidated shacks and huge, gorgeous  homes side-by-side, almost on top of each other with no views of the coast. Everyone seemed to be using the Coastal Highway at once in whichever way suited their needs best. Men, women, and children used it as a sidewalk causing the cars, auto rickshaws, busses, and mopeds to swerve into oncoming traffic to avoid hitting them. Chickens, goats, cats, dogs, and an occasional cow spilled into the road frequently from sloped front yards. Cars pulled over frequently for church, funeral processions, or to shop at small stands. No one was concerned about being hit by a car, especially the man who fell down drunk in the middle of the road and decided to stay there.

Kerala is a communist state. But a very Indian, live and let live kind of Indian communism. According to the driver we hired for the trip, being wealthy is no problem and being poor is no problem, but all kids go to school.

Also according to our driver, liquor licenses cost $7500 US a year, which caused about 400 bars to close. Apparently the government thought too many people were drinking too much. So alcoholic drinks are pretty much non-existent at cafes and restaurants unless the proprietor is serving beer illegally in a coffee mug like ours did today. 

Men in Kerala favor the Mundu, which is one piece of cloth which ties at the waist and flows to the ankle. It can be raised to the knees to allow comfortable walking. I was impressed with its beauty and practicality. Most of the men we saw wearing the Mundu wore a clean, crisp, collared, colorful button down shirt with it, which to me screamed business on the top, weekend on the bottom. 

Tomorrow we stay overnight on a houseboat-the same one Prince Charles stayed on for his 65th birthday. More stories to come. 

All of our wonderful friends and family know that I was very concerned about the 4 types of venomous snakes frequently found in Bangalore. Every conversation about the move went something like, “Yes, we are very excited to move to India, but there are 4 types of venomous snakes in the city we are moving to which I am not excited about.” The first week I was here I carefully and thoroughly checked the baby’s crib and the girls’ beds several times during the night for fear of the creepy crawlies.

Two Saturdays ago I was trying to figure out what to wear for our first Bangalore night out without the kids that would translate culturally (you know, not too New York—-black or ripped, not too short, not too tight, not too young-looking, comfortable, somewhat professional since we were meeting Dan’s colleagues later in the evening). As I was getting dressed I heard a lot of screaming coming from the driveway. There is always a lot of screaming around Villa 12, and Dan was outside watching the girls while they rode their bikes so I didn’t give it too much thought. Until 5 minutes went by and there was still intermittent screaming. I went to investigate and found the 3 girls, our 8 year old neighbor, his dad, and Dan standing around a brownish-black, 2 inch long earth worm. Mia said, “Mama, snake, scared.” She kept running up to a few inches from it, squatting down, peering at it, and running away screaming. Guys, why are we screaming? Mia, it’s okay, Lovie, that’s not a snake; it’s a worm. And that’s when Dan said, “Worms don’t move like that.” I went in for a closer look and saw that indeed the worm was moving in a very un-worm like S-shape. Yeah, that’s a snake. So what kind of snake is it? Is it poisonous? Is it a baby something or is this a full grown snake? Do we need to call the snake catcher? Just then, Dan, our brave hero picked up a piece of cardboard from the recycling bin, lifted up the snake by the edge of the cardboard and threw her in the storm drain at the edge of our driveway. We mutually decided that it wasn’t anything to be concerned about because it was so small and probably harmless, although Dan played up his heroic act all evening.

During around the 4th round of cocktails at a local bar, Dan casually mentioned that unbeknownst to me the driver told him that he thought that the snake was probably a baby cobra. Wait, what? I sobered right up and proceeded to start panicking. Apparently the driver told Dan that it probably fell out of a tree or crawled out of the drain when it rained. So if that was a baby cobra, where was the mom? And where were the other babies? Was the cobra nearby in our yard? Should we call the snake catcher? Should we call security? Someone? Although no one else present seemed all that concerned, for me the rest of the evening involved me and Google trying desperately to identify the driveway snake.

From what my research revealed, our snake was not a baby cobra. Baby cobras are indeed black, but pretty much look like small cobras, not worms. Just that much knowledge helped me settle down a bit and continue in the revelry. The next day, when I was able to see straight, I did some additional research and found that the snake was probably the Brahminy Worm Snake AKA The Brahminy Blind Snake or the Flowerpot Snake, and was the world’s smallest snake species. What I found most interesting from http://www.indiansnakes.org/content/brahminy-worm-snake (please excuse the grammatical issues as this was copied and pasted directly from the website) was the following:

“Almost always non-offensive and cannot harm large bodied enemy (like mammals, rodents, birds etc.) except poking their spiny tail on body to distract their attention or make surprize for a while. no aggressive display is known for this and probably all other Worm/Blind Snakes. It is an all-female triploid species having no evidence of male individuals till now. It reproduces parthenogenetically without fertilization by sperm and thus can build up a population from just one individual.”

Big sigh of relief. We had our first and hopefully only snake spotting and it was literally with the world’s smallest snake species. I get the feeling that God is teasing us. We get the street-cred for surviving our first snake encounter, but can sleep soundly at night because it was so puny and benign. Reminds me of my basal cell skin cancer: it’s cancer, but the puny kind.

 

 

This post was written 4 days ago. New developments in the ongoing house-help saga at the end of the post. 

Today is a good day, and I feel like there is peace at Villa 12, or at least a cease-fire. Household matters (yes, this is currently the focus of my time in Bangalore instead of actually seeing India, but I guess this is part of the deal) are more under control and less up in the air than they were last night, and no one is crying or complaining to me about anyone else. And the best thing about today besides the peace in the house and being able to sleep in past 6 am because Dan gets up with the girls, is that the housekeeper just brought me a cup of chai that the cook made. She delivered it to the bathroom where I was showering so that I could have it right when I got out. Yeah, that totally happened. There’s no privacy, but I get hot chai practically in the shower. And I didn’t even request it. It just showed up.

Currently, the cook is busily cooking not one kind of food for lunch, but Western-style chicken pot pie AND Indian chicken biryani (Christen, I heard you and will definitely take more pics of the food) because Dan’s work colleagues are in town for a week and are either not big fans of Indian food or are afraid of getting sick. They are lucky we are in India and have a cook. If Dan’s colleagues wanted to come for lunch back in Brooklyn, they would all be squeezed next to the kids at a table for 4, and there would be take out, probably pizza, and maybe if they were really fortunate, a homemade salad since I could never, ever whip up a meal for 10 without having a massive panic attack. But the cook does it seamlessly with a big smile, and time to make me chai. She is truly a gem. I keep hugging her. And that’s when she knows to ask me for money for “petrol” for her long commute and upkeep for her old scooter. Her timing is impeccable. But she’s worth every penny.

I am so grateful for today because last night was exhausting for everyone. There was so much drama in the house. And it wasn’t drama with those of us who actually live in the house. As soon as the gals and I arrived home from swimming, the driver told me that the housekeeper was very rude to him. From what I gather from the story he told me, he asked her to come eat lunch with himself and the cook (they eat at the kitchen table jamming out to Indian tunes on their cell phones at full volume. I always feel like a third wheel and go upstairs so that they can have a relaxing lunch break and don’t have to deal with the “madam” being around—which is what I am called by the housekeeper even after numerous requests to be called Sharon. I finally got the driver and cook to call me Sharon after I told them what a madam is in the US—think ladies of the night) several times, she said no, that she wanted to do her work and would eat later and he persisted until she got fed up and said, “Get out of my head. You are giving me high blood pressure,” which I take to be a really big insult judging by the level of driver upset. The vibe I have been getting for the last couple of weeks is that the housekeeper feels he is overbearing and annoying. And she, being 18, isn’t so nice to him, and additionally, sometimes talks trash about her workload here to the neighbor’s housekeeper.

Two sides to every story, of course, so after getting the driver’s story, I asked the housekeeper what happened at lunch. I probably should have just stayed out of it, but I often feel so ultra-responsible for everyone’s happiness, and had to get involved. Mistake. What I think she told me in Kannada with gestures and a drizzling of English words here and there is what I mentioned above–she was annoyed because the driver wouldn’t listen to what she was saying and she just wanted to get her work done. As she told me the story she started crying. Poor thing! She’s just a kid! And she spends all her time cleaning my house! She isn’t the best housekeeper, but she tries! Well, she tries sometimes. I think she actually does work for about an hour and a half each day although she is here about 9 hours. I asked her if she thinks she can be nice to the driver even if she finds him annoying. She shrugged. The cook had to translate the conversation since my Kannada isn’t up to par. I wondered if there was anything going on at home to upset her. This gets a bit confusing, but apparently the housekeeper’s former employer whom her mom now works for keeps telling her mom that her daughter needs to train her properly. Ouch. And apparently another reason she is upset is because she thinks the cook tattled on her to me about her complaining about her work here. She told me she hadn’t been complaining, but several people heard her. But it wasn’t the cook who told me—it was the neighbor’s housekeeper who told her boss that my housekeeper said that the money is good, but that she has to clean the floors twice a day (that totally sounds like something I would ask her to do, right? And yeah, it is. But you should see how many people come through the house each day. Sometimes the doorbell rings and it’s not even for me. Today, for example, there was the housekeeper, the driver, the cook, Dan’s 4 co-workers, my awesome neighbor and her housekeeper, and her two kids, oh and my 3 kids). The neighbor’s housekeeper told her boss that my housekeeper is crazy for complaining because she gets Sundays off, works only a half day Saturday, and gets 200o more rupees a month than any other housekeeper on the block. And I let her hang out and draw as much as she wants to (I’m a sucker for artists). At this point the cook said that she was starting to feels stressed out because she wants everyone to be able to work together well, and she has never experienced this kind of conflict before at any of her jobs. Great. If the cook get stressed out and leaves we are all screwed.

Meanwhile, elsewhere in the villa…While I am having this intervention of sorts, Mia has taken off her dirty diaper, thrown it on Evie’s bed where the poo has seeped through a quilt, duvet and a sheet, and she is running through all the rooms upstairs with poo on her leg. Masan is screaming because she doesn’t want to get it on her. I throw Mia in the shower with Evie who holds her nose and starts screaming about poop getting on her. I stealthily cleaned Evie’s bed while she was in the shower so she would’t freak out any further.

Back to the saga…Long story longgggggg—-the housekeeper ignored the driver today and that seemed to work. Although she left the house as soon as I left for the pool today and never returned. Apparently her mom slammed her hand in a door?? And the neighbor’s housekeeper who ratted on mine is now helping us clean over here. So this should be awkward. I know that I probably need to fire my housekeeper. There are so many reasons why she has to go, but I feel badly firing someone who really needs the money. And she is always smiling. Maybe I can figure out a way to just keep paying her but not have her actually work here. I would rather do that than fire her.

Fast forward to Friday. We fired the housekeeper. Well, Dan did while I hid upstairs crying. He said that it was harder than any firing he has ever had to do at his job, although he gave her double what he owed her for this month. She was tearing up when she left, Dan looked like he was about to cry, and I was crying upstairs. The whole day I kept finding pictures around the house that she had drawn, the kids were asking for her, and I saw that she had actually organized Dan’s closet like I asked her to earlier in the week. It was like a really sad break up. Dan and I kept calling each other to process how horrible we felt. The neighbors and Dan’s co-workers thought we were ridiculous. Apparently, firing house help is very common in India, and not a big deal. But to us, we were so concerned about this girl’s feelings and ability to make a living. In the US if we don’t want a cleaning person to return we just don’t call them back. It’s the same thing with dating in the US—avoid confrontation at any cost. Maybe it’s not an American cultural norm at all, but just me. But in India, it’s important to be upfront and break up face-to-face, which is ironic because in India no one wants to be upfront and tell you no, even when there is no way they are going to be able to do what you are asking. Contradictions.

The good news is that our former housekeeper successfully found a full-time job down the street in just one day.

 

Yesterday I was able to get the gals out of the house for 2 expat outings. After Masan being sick in bed all day Tuesday, and me being sick all day yesterday, I was starting to get a bit stir crazy. First, we went to the Overseas Women’s Club (OWC) coffee at The Leela Palace Hotel, which is what I think of when I think of Indian luxury. Lush gardens, decadent decor, plush seating. Love this place. If you’re in Bangalore, and you don’t want to stay at Hotel Otmar, definitely look into this staying at Leela. Or you can stay at our place and we will stay there.

When Dan and I came in February to look for housing I was supposed to check out the OWC coffee hour at Leela, however, with the timing of our flight it never worked out, which I was not so secretly glad about because it seemed very exclusive. And I was coming to India to see India and make friends with Indians, and OWC membership was only open to those holding non-Indian passports are able to attend. Flash forward to July and me not being as connected here yet as I was back home (it only took me 10 years to feel settled in NYC), and I was willing to give OWC coffee hour and membership a try.

For the first time since landing in Bangalore, I was not the minority at a gathering. Not only were there other white ladies in attendance, but there were other Americans, and even one other child who the girls hung out with. That was the first time I had met other Americans in Bangalore. We live in a community where the majority of people are native Indians (although most have spent at least a few years in the US or Europe) or European (mostly German since Bosch is nearby). I hear that there are some Americans in this neighborhood, but they are thus far as elusive as the common cobra.

The OWC ladies were very helpful and welcoming. There were a couple who really went out of their way to chat with the gals and I. Overall, the group was not as friendly as most of the Indians I have met thus far, but neither am I—culturally Indians are so warm and loving. However, I’m excited to join the OWC. It’s another community of people to be a part of–they have a listserv for members as well as various volunteer and social opportunities. As we career development folks tell our clients, you never know where a job is going to come from so you need to try all avenues. It’s like that, you never know where your Bangalore best friend is going to come from. Of course, at one point at the coffee hour Mia and I spent about a half hour talking to a native Indian mom and her baby who were at Leela for a wedding. Somehow it was just easier to chat with her, and maybe it was a way of dealing with the guilt I felt at being at something that excludes others.

Later in the day Mia and I went to a weekly expat play date for toddlers down the street. I left the big girls watching a movie with their 8 year old neighbor with the housekeeper (more developments on this end with her being rude to the driver and gossiping about us to our neighbor’s housekeeper) and cook in charge. We had been casually invited to this play date by 3 different moms with kids we had met in while walking around the neighborhood, but I felt rude just showing up at a stranger’s home so up until this point we hadn’t been. But this week a very helpful mom held my hand and basically brought me with her. Over the past 3 weeks I have often felt like the only white person in Adarsh Palms Retreat, but at yesterday’s play group everyone was white except for one woman and her 2 daughters who were from S. Korea (and the cook, babysitter and maid). (BTW, I mentioned to Lilly, the babysitter that I really needed one, and this morning at 9:30am there was a woman on my stoop telling me her sister babysits and could she bring her by on Monday. Some things are just so easy in this country! Dan’s colleague told us help would just show up, and that’s what happens). Almost all the kids were blonde, and the moms were from all over Europe. I was definitely the loudest and most talkative person there. I tried to tone it down and listen more than I spoke, but who knows how we were received. It was hard to read these moms. I brought chocolate cupcakes and a bottle of proseco when everyone else brought homemade muffins and bottles of water. And the wine was never opened! The introduction of wine at our weekly Brooklyn playgroup was my biggest contribution, so maybe I’ll carry that tradition on here in Bangalore.

At the play date there were about 10 other moms with kids ranging from 9 months to about 3 years. Everyone was very welcoming without the bending-over-backwards, in-your-face, US friendliness. Mia had a fun time playing with all the toys and other tots. The host’s house looked like a montessori school. I have never seen so many toys outside of a preschool ever. Mia lost her mind. The trampoline was her favorite, of course, but she also loved the slide, the swing, and the puppy named Milo. (That’s another thing about Bangalore—there are so many dogs around here. You can easily adopt any dog you see, and by ‘adopt’ I just mean take home with you).

As fun as the playgroup was, and as interesting as it was to meet so many other expats, I didn’t quite feel like I belonged. It was that first day of a new school feeling where all the cliques are already established. It was similar to how I felt when I hosted movie night for our Indian neighbors a few weeks ago. I was just trying to feel my way without knowing quite how things were done. Fortunately, the cook was there to make Indian food because I get the feeling that much of Indian life revolves around food and if the food is good, the event is a success. In fact, I think it has been much easier for me to feel at home with my Indian neighbors than the expats I have met. We will see what happens once I meet some American expats. I’m hoping that there’s a way to include expats and Indian moms all in one big group. Being in Bangalore has made me appreciate how inclusive NYC is in so many ways. I know it’s not perfect and racism is ever present, but equality is something that we strive for, and segregation isn’t just accepted as being okay. It’s not only apparent in groups of moms, but is also clearly demonstrated in how ‘the help’ is treated. The women who cleaned for us back home ate dinner with us, sat on our sofa, used our plates and bowls, while here ‘the help’ has their own plates and cups (we have these), sits on the floor to eat their lunch (not at our place), doesn’t use the inside bathrooms (not at our place), and are basically treated like they are less than, and acting mean and rude to them is almost expected. That’s one part of the culture I hope to not embrace wholeheartedly, although I am fully taking advantage of having inexpensive labor which brings up many uncomfortable feelings.

Next post will hopefully be about today’s trip to an Indian dentist…

 

Not going to sugar-coat it. Today I feel annoyed, frustrated, short-tempered—BITCHY. I keep yelling at my kids because I am too programmed by my upbringing to be non-confrontational to yell at the housekeeper like I want to, although I did tell her I was upset that she was an hour and a half late without calling, which is a huge step for me. This is going to sound very ‘poor little rich girl,’ but it’s worth the possible label and criticism to be able to vent. Today this smiling, beautiful, probably overworked, incompetent teenager tried to wash the girls dry clean only, hand blocked quilts I told her last week were dry clean only (this is after washing 4 of Dan’s work pants and putting 2 in the dryer when I told her they were dry clean only), who spent 2 hours today watching her sister’s wedding video on Dan’s computer (she invited me to watch too, so in the middle of working on a client’s resume in the one second of time the kids would let me work, I obliged) after taking a lunch break, who left for the day without mopping the floor with the kids’ dinner rice scattered around like I had asked her to. She has also turned everything white I own to light blue or grey, burned a hole through my favorite shirt while ironing, may have stolen a ring of Evie’s that my dad made, sits around talking on the phone when she thinks I’m not looking, and cleans Mia’s room when she is napping inevitably waking her up or getting her up out of her crib when she cries for more than 5 minutes even when I have asked her numerous times to NOT DO THAT. But yelling at her or firing her would be acting entitled and unkind, and aren’t I here to try to help instead of becoming a pampered housewife? After all, she needs the work and has so little. I feel guilty that I have so much, and am so demanding of her. But swallowing my anger has made me grouchy and passive aggressive and I am paying her, so who does sucking it up really help? But she seems like she is trying some of the time, so how can I be angry with her? And she doesn’t have a computer at home so I need to let her use ours to watch her own sister’s wedding video, for goodness sake! But if I say nothing about what she is doing that I don’t like I am not training her, but when I ask her to do things I feel like I am being too bossy, which is something I was accused of all the time while I was growing up until I turned into a shy little girl, too afraid to raise my hand in school to voice my opinions for fear of being called “bossy,” but that’s another post all together.

And it’s not just this incompetent young housekeeper, and my inability to express my feelings about her work, but I’m also grouchy because I am an expat in a strange, new land and I am trying to figure this place out while being a full-time mama to 3 little kids on summer break. I am trying to meet people, plan outings for the girls, make sure they are well rested, healthy (easier said than done—today I found out I have to get them dewormed every 6 months), happy (some days this is impossible), having what we need for food and for the house, all while the kids are fighting incessantly, begging for unhealthy food all day long, interrupting when I am trying to understand what someone in Kannada is trying to tell me over the phone, pulling off diapers and peeing on the rug, and whining at the top of their lungs about pretty much anything and everything. I NEED A DRINK RIGHT THIS MINUTE.

 

We have been in Bangalore about 3 weeks at this point, so the shock and awe is beginning to wear off and now the daily grind and reality of living here has started to sink in. I love this neighborhood and our villa, but going to the pool or the in-community play space can’t be all that we see of this city and country. Although that’s pretty much all the girls want to do, but diving in is good for all of us, even if it takes us out of our comfort zone.

In the spirit of trying new things, having adventures to prevent stagnation, and check off our to-do-while-in-in-Bangalore checklist, on Sunday we went to church at St. Mary’s Basilica in the city center, which is one of the oldest churches in the city, and the only one in Karnataka to be called a Basilica. This church with a neon cross at the alter was way over capacity with patrons flooding the streets and in overflow chapels on either side of the main sanctuary. People meandered in and out of the buildings and were talking throughout the mass, similarly to the Indian weddings I have attended. I liked the casualness. I wasn’t worried about the girls’ manners or behavior disturbing anyone. Again, the gals were a hit—they met other Indian kids, had their pictures taken a dozen times, danced around, and said some prayers. Mia had a great time giving hugs and kisses to Indian babies, although she didn’t like it when some of the bolder folks picked her up. I was the only one who actually disturbed anyone—apparently a churchgoer had such an issue with my knee-length, baggy shift dress being way too short that he complained angrily to his wife and gestured so aggressively that Dan caught on to what he was saying even though he doesn’t know Kaanada.

After church we walked around the neighborhood, which sounds simple, but was actually pretty challenging. Imagine Chinatown, NYC where everyone is selling something in small stalls, but Bangalore’s scene was much, much dirtier and more crowded, with the smell of burnt rubber and fried food permeating the air already bursting with unfiltered exhaust fumes from busses, auto rickshaws, cars and mopeds. And the sidewalks were so cracked and narrow that they were non-existent. Even the small umbrella stroller was useless, and each step was a leap of faith that we wouldn’t be mowed down by a moped. At either side of the entrance to the stalls were heaps of trash, puddles of brown, flies diving and swarming, and people everywhere selling lots of dusty merchandise. I was oblivious to what was being sold because I kept my head down and trudged along, clutching Evie’s hand on one side and Masan’s on the other, while Dan carried Mia. My senses were overwhelmed, to say the least, and I got into speed walking, winter-in-NYC-mode to try to outrun my immediate environment. Evie and Masan kept complaining loudly about how badly it smelled, and kept asking to go home, and although I shushed them because they were being rude, I felt their pain. But we made it to Russell Market, which seemed like a haven in the storm after our 5 block walk from the church. Russell Market is a local indoor produce, flower, and meat market, which was in reality, only ever so slightly cleaner than the walk we had just taken. The produce was beautiful and exotic, and a man selling toys tried to sell me a dirty blow up punching doll for 250 rupees. I wanted to buy flowers and dragon fruit and veggies and the largest kidney beans I had ever seen, but alas, Dan didn’t have change, and pulling out 1000 rupees and trying to get change would have been tricky. We have noticed that if a store doesn’t have change, it never works in the customer’s favor: The shopkeeper keeps the money with a shrug.

 

It’s monsoon season, but in Bangalore the rain is not debilitating as it is in other cities. It’s cloudy mostly every day, but only rains in the morning or evening, usually. And traffic seems to get a bit worse with the rain, but other than that, I find the rain to be cozy and cooling, and we can even wear a sweater when it rains! Love that! But this post isn’t about the weather, lovely as it is, but instead about our middle class family moving around the world to suddenly find ourselves members of the 1%.

Last Sunday we went to the zoo, which involved a 2 hour drive one-way in bad traffic, unappealing views out the window of soggy mounds of trash along the road-side, skinny cows meandering in and out of trash piles and the middle of the road, and exhausting complaints from my kids. But once we finally arrived, it was well worth the trip. We went on a safari in a dusty car with two Russian expats we were paired with by the zoo ticket booth staff, and had some great, close-up encounters with cute, furry-eared bears, sleepy-looking lions with gold wise eyes, and lounging tigers (pics on FB and Instagram). As we progressed on the drive we passed through gates to get to the next animal’s habitat. The gate operators seemed as interested in catching a glimpse of us as we were of catching a glimpse of a cobra in the brush. And this continued after the safari as we strolled around the zoo. Many zoo visitors stopped us to take our picture, well, not us so much as the kids. I was surprised that in Bangalore where there are so many expats that we would be of any interest, but we were quite a hit, especially Masan who posed theatrically for all the pictures. After awhile I told people it would cost 500 rupees for a photo opp with the kids, after all, the toilet, which was a traditional Indian hole in the ground cost money to use.

After the safari, we visited the butterfly conservatory, which was a lot like the Natural History Museum’s except that it was outside and no one seemed to care of you touched or even stepped on a butterfly. There were tons of butterflies landing on flowers and visitors alike. Both beautiful and mundane. At one point a zoo employee was in the process of letting newly hatched butterflies out of mesh baskets. He took one look at us and asked us to join him for a special tour of the butterfly hatching area. We were the only ones he invited back. Strange, but maybe it was because we had so many kids with us that we were asked. We walked into a small building with signs up all over reading, “Employees Only,” but the guide seemed to be cool with it so we continued to follow him and found ourselves in a mesh garden with tons of flowers, butterflies and butterfly eggs on the underside of leaves. The zoo employee (keeper?) went right into what was a very well-rehearsed speech about what we were seeing. Most of it I couldn’t catch because of his thick accent, but he was clearly an expert. At one point he wanted to wow us by putting a butterfly on Evie’s cheek. It fell right off to the ground, which is when we realized that it was dead and that there were quite a few dead butterflies on the ground. The zoo guy didn’t seem to find this distressing. Masan, Evie and Mia loved the experience of having butterflies flutter all around them, except that one time a butterfly landed on Mia’s shirt. At this point the zoo employee started his spiel about the cost of the fine he’d get for being caught with us back here being from 1000-2000 rupees (about $15-30 US), and I realized that he wanted a bribe. Of course. That’s why we were the only ones offered a behind-the-scenes tour—because of the way we look and because it’s assumed we are clueless. So we gave him a bribe. We may have been suckers but it was well worth it for the kids.

The Sunday before we had been leaving church when two women with babies strapped to their backs started urgently and incessantly asking us for money. I gave them food, but they wanted money. They practically got into the car with us. They were relentless and the girls were confused because at home we try to give to whoever asks us for money. But here apparently the people who beg for money are run by gangs and the babies are drugged to appear hungry and listless. And all the money goes to the gang leaders. So it’s a scam, and again, we were a target because of the assumptions made about us because of our skin color–that we are rich, that we are new, and are clueless about the scam.

Yesterday the cook made an amazing fish curry dish. I hugged her and told her how happy we are to have her cook for us. She seemed pleased, and then immediately started to ask me for more money. She said that we live too far away and that another expat family offered her 30,000 rupees and is only 2 km away from her house. She says she likes our family so it’s a hard decision. I told her that we love her cooking, but that it sounds like a great deal and she should really consider it. She also told me that her past employers paid for her daughter’s private school. Lately, she has only worked for expats and I have come to realize most expats’ companies pay for the cooks, housekeepers, drivers, etc. so they don’t typically mind paying much more than the going rate. Although Dan’s expat package through work is beyond generous, any help comes out of our pockets. We knew when we moved to India that we wanted to help however we can while we are here. Today Dan and his whole team volunteered at an organization for young adults with developmental disabilities. And I am looking into helping out at some children’s homes. But maybe paying more than the going rate for helpers and paying for their kids’ school tuition is also part of the deal. Like a tax for being wealthy expats in Bangalore.

I feel guilty for admitting this but it makes me angry that the cook that has only worked with us for 2 weeks is asking me to pay for her daughter’s private school education. My kids go to public charter school in the US. We lived in a walk-up rental. Dan has a good job, but we have one real income, 3 kids and are by no means wealthy. And yet, by Bangalore standards we are the 1%.

According to the driver, who I asked about this, we are seen as wealthy because of the color of our skin. People just assume. I find it interesting that in a way people, especially helpers, want us to flaunt our wealth. Our driver talks incessantly about his former employers who would spend 100,000 rupees on alcohol (about $1500 US), drove a Range Rover, had multiple houses back in the US and rented a 7 bedroom here in Bangalore with large quarters for the helpers. When he tells us all this on a daily basis, I laugh, and say that Dan is probably the least materialistic and ostentatious employer he will ever have, and although our housing allowance would have paid for a 7 bedroom, we choose a beautiful house with lots of light near Dan’s work so that he can see his kids instead of being stuck in traffic for hours a day.

So although we aren’t wealthy, and want to use this time we have in India to save up to be able to send the kids to college and possibly one day buy an apartment in the city (pipe dream I know), we also want to do some good. So that’s the rub. Everyone and their brother wants a piece, but how to dole it out and when to say no. I guess we will figure it out as we go.