Some people stress eat, but for me nothing helps ease the stress of this rough patch in Bangalore like making something clean. Standing in my open garage with an electricity stabilizer nicknamed ‘the Volkswagen’ because that’s how big it is, and a half broken dishwasher, I’m feeling like the neighbors in the US who put all their vehicles up on cinder blocks in the front yard. My Bangalore villa is now truly an eye sore, and I feel the need to clean.

When the landlord’s minion tells me that the guy who is supposed to install the TV today is going to take another 48 hours because it is raining (?!?), and the part for the dishwasher will take another 4 days (this is after a month of similar broken promises and delays-my favorite was that the new TV was too expensive and that the landlord wanted to wait for a Diwali sale or try to trade in the unuseable, broken TV for credit towards a new one) I push back. I tell him in a loud voice just barely this side of yelling that this is unacceptable, and that I am done with excuses. Of course to make the situation more ridiculous he speaks Kannada and Hindi exclusively and I only speak English. Thus, my little speech has to be translated by one of the minion’s helpers. I’m seething, but keep calm because this situation is tricky—we are here through Dan’s job and I want to maintain a certain level of decorum so that I don’t get him into any professional trouble, and also I do realize the uselessness of this conversation. (I have to say that throughout all of this upheaval, Dan has been able to stay focused on and deeply committed to his job. Very proud of him!) Anyway, with clenched teeth I thank the minion’s helpers because really it’s not their fault that their boss is ineffective, and turn my back to the group of men gathered in my garage and the drivers who are rubbernecking from my neighbors’ nearby villa driveways, and do what anyone would do with similar feelings of frustration and repressed rage, which is to clean the black Bangalore dust off the shelf in the garage with a handful of baby wipes. Totally normal.

Earlier today my neighbor set up an interview for me with a potential nanny. 10 minutes before the interview a different neighbor frantically called to tell me that this woman I’m about to interview is banned from the neighborhood. Apparently she threatened and harassed my neighbor’s husband once they had to let her go for neglecting their dogs. At this point in the story I lost phone service because it’s raining, but I got the bottom line, which is that I don’t want to hire anyone who brings any sort of drama with them because as we all know, I have my fair share. 30 minutes later the neighbor who set up the interview for me got a call from the potential nanny who told her that this was unfair and that she was going to the police. I want to believe that I’m the kind of person who will give everyone a fair chance, but in this case I feel like I dodged a bullet.

India continues to be a place of overwhelming contradictions. It’s ever so hard and frustrating, while at the same time being so easy and relaxing. House renovation and improvements when you own a home has got to be exhausting, but we have the pleasure of doing them in a developing nation with a rental. Time means something totally different than what we are used to and promises will most likely be broken. As the landlord said to my driver when he complained to him about yet another delay, “What do you expect? This is India, Yar.” Yet, in the midst of this daily chaos, a cook makes me mint, ginger chai and fresh, hot chapati whenever I request it. And yesterday a lady came to my house to give me a massage and facial in my bedroom for the equivalent of 45 US dollars. Although at this point I see these things as being necessities instead of luxuries.

Despite all of the struggles, I’m very happy to be here, even though tonight I will be cleaning thoroughly.

It’s taken about a week for me to be able to write again somewhat productively without wanting to vent about wanting to bang my head against the wall in utter despair and frustration until I pass out and wake up safe, sound, sickness-free, and in an electrically-sound home far away from whatever new hurdle Bangalore has thrown at us that we are trying to crawl our way up and over with only our fingernails to keep us from slipping from the rock into the abyss. A bit dramatic? Maybe. Probably. Which is why I didn’t write. I wanted to be in a better place emotionally and physically when I wrote again. I am sure my 3 readers are getting as tired of the drama as I am. So instead of writing in the past week I have tried to rest, recover, and slow down. I have tried to be okay with the boring day-to-day, and to even be grateful and embrace the down-time. Because down-time doesn’t last around here and one has to be fully rested for the next adventure. The best part of relaxing is that I have allowed myself to be sucked in by my latest Netflix addiction ‘The Get Down’ (thank you Courtney and Chris for your suggestion, and Dan, of course I’m not watching it without you).

A quick update without going into too much gory detail: Last weekend we were in Jaipur for a few days to take a break from the electrical issues at the house and all the emotional and logistical energy which was required to try to get it all fixed (even with the amazing help of the relocation company trying so hard to help us to feel comfortable in our home again). Anyway, the Jaipur heritage hotel we stayed in was gorgeous, and from what I hear, the city itself was chock full of culture and history. Apparently there were beautifully ornate city gates, palaces, forts on hills, elephants to ride on, tons of gorgeous handcrafts, jewelry and carpets. Unfortunately, we did not see any of this. As soon as we arrived, the stomach flu hit hard and the rest of the trip was spent looking at the intricate tiles on the hotel bathroom floor and the hand-painted bedroom ceiling for me, and the hotel pool for the girls and Dan.

On a normal day I can handle and mostly embrace all that is India. The masala and curry-heavy spicy food, the smell of burning sulfur in the air, the crowds, the traffic, the hundreds of large and small cultural differences all appeal to me when I am feeling well—well, except for the sulfur smell. But when I am sick, I just want the familiar. No adventure, no excitement, just the boring. And unfortunately, India doesn’t do boring very well. Not that NYC does it well either, but at least there’s the familiar – you know where to order your favorite chicken noodle soup from on Court Street. Even the grilled cheese I ordered at the hotel once I could finally eat was unfamiliar – a strange cream cheese was used rather than the highly processed orange American cheese that my body NEEDED at that moment.

The doctor we called to the hotel said that my symptoms as well as my extremely low blood pressure indicated dengue fever, but that it could also be another type of mosquito carried sickness called chikungunya. Huh? That’s one I haven’t heard of before. Fortunately, the tests I had when we returned to  Bangalore indicated bacterial gastroenteritis. Unbelievable. A stomach flu was the cause of the horror that was the last 4 days?

Just when I was getting used to the cows on the streets of Bangalore…

The hotel pool.

Sassy at the hotel pool.

A gate, not sure of which one, that we passed through on our way to a market.

Mia being cute.

Mia’s own swimming pool AKA the bathroom floor.

My view of the girls’ bed and the ceiling from my vacation spot, the sick bed.

My trooper of a husband on the plane ride home with all 3 girls so that I could have the freedom to rush to the restroom whenever the mood struck. Earlier in the evening Dan was afraid I was going to be arrested when I screamed at the airport security officer who would not let me into the airport to use the restroom when I was going to be sick. He wanted me to wait in a huge line or use the outdoor toilets. I may have screamed, “I have Dengue Fever! You suck and I f—ing hate this country.” It’s amazing what not eating in 4 days and going to the restroom every 5 minutes will do to a person.

The good news is that India hasn’t beaten us. (And this is not an invitation for it to do so). But as enticing as it can be to be an expat with all the luxuries this position comes with, India is not a place for the weak. It’s not going to just let you be and do your own thing. It’s going to get into your cells, into your very being and change you in ways that at this moment seem daunting, but will inevitably turn out to be profoundly life changing (in a good way). If nothing else we will have amazing immune systems.

When we found out we were moving to Bangalore, besides having the burden of my domestic chains lifted, and before I knew all of the drama that would come right along with that, I was most excited about 2 things: 1) Participating in Indian festivals, like Diwali and Holi, and 2) attending an Indian wedding in India. I had been told by people who know these things that while we were living in Bangalore we would definitely be invited to Indian weddings. How were these people in the know so sure? In the US weddings are typically reserved for the closest friends and relatives of the bride or groom. How were we going to become close enough friends with a couple of marrying age in the 2 years we live in India? After all, friends our age in the US are ending marriages, not starting them. Fortunately, in India it’s not about inviting only your closest friends and relatives to a wedding. It’s more like, “Well, we are already inviting 10,000 people, so what’s a few more?” The guest list is typically in the thousands for south Indian weddings. I figured in this case, our chances of being invited were pretty good, especially given that we live in a predominantly Indian neighborhood and almost every single one of Dan’s colleagues is Indian.

I have had the pleasure of previously attending 3 North Indian weddings – 2 in the US, and 1 in the UK. These weddings were all lavish festivities and feasts for the senses, with gorgeous, heavy gold and silk saris, intricate and involved wedding ceremonies and traditions, free flowing drinks, all the most fattening and delectable Indian foods imaginable, and even nose rings. My favorite part of one of the weddings was when the groom rode up to the bride’s parents’ home on a white horse surrounded by his cheering friends and family. I should point out that he was an American of non-Indian decent. Besides the horse, what took some getting used to for someone who has previously only attended Western weddings is the fact that none of the guests were paying any sort of attention during the ceremonies. There was much chatting, eating, drinking and moving around by guests during both the Jaimala ceremony, which is when garlands are exchanged while the bride and groom sit on a dais, and the Saat Pheras, which is the ceremony of seven steps taken around the ceremonial fire.

I don’t know how much of the traditions at these 3 weddings were tweaked because they were held in the West, so I can’t say whether or not everything that went on was typical of North Indian weddings. However, what I have learned by talking to my Indian neighbor, our driver, and the Indian ladies in my fitness class is that North Indian weddings are very different than South Indian weddings, and I was interested in seeing how they differ.

The South Indian wedding we were invited to was the wedding of Dan’s work colleague’s brother whom we had never met. The wedding ceremony itself was being held at 5:30 am, and fortunately, we were not invited to that part. Instead, we were invited to the reception, which was held at the more manageable hour of 11:30 am. Dan said that his colleagues would be going to the reception on their lunch break and going back to work afterwards. I couldn’t fathom going back to work after a wedding reception or that one would last just the duration of a lunch break.

The first question for me was what to wear. We wanted to look appropriate since Dan was the boss of the sister who invited us, but also wanted to look festive. Sadly, for the previously attended Indian weddings I wore Western clothing because it was just easier. Wearing the clothing of another culture can be a bit tricky depending on the particular culture. Would it seem like cultural appropriation if I wore the clothing of a culture not mine as a white person? Not in India. In India, most people are flattered that you try to wear traditional Indian clothing. So I asked pretty much everyone I know in Bangalore what we should wear to the wedding. Dan’s work colleagues said for me either a sari or a salwar kameez and for Dan a kurta with work pants underneath. The neighborhood expats gave me some pointers on shops that would have these items, and a few even offered to loan me saris. The expat crew also told me that it didn’t really matter what we wore because we would be honored guests just because we were from the West. That would be flattering, but the bride and groom had no idea who we were, so it seemed strange that we would be honored, but okay.

Dan at Fab India holding up the one size fits all pants that go under his kurta.

Photo credit to our wonderful neighbor.

The happy couple.

Dan’s co-workers.

Family.

Mia and her bindi.

Mia with the wedding favor.

The Morgan Stanley crew.

My dear neighbor spent 2.5 hours at Phoenix Mall helping me shop for something to wear. We hit up every single Indian store in the mall. OVERWHELMING. Saris and salwar kameezes come in plain, fancy and extra fancy. Bling, embroidery, silk, cotton. Every color, every style. Some looked like cheap prom dresses, some were beautifully crafted and cost upwards of 25,000 rupees. To help me narrow down my choices my neighbor wanted to know what type of wedding it was going to be. Did the invitation have any clues. No idea – Dan hadn’t shown me the invitation at that point. To make matters more confusing, in Bangalore white is reserved for funerals and black shouldn’t be worn – I forget the reason. So the 2 colors I would typically gravitate towards were out. I started to get mall syndrome, and settled on a pretty, long dress, which wasn’t Indian beyond the mirrors on the front and the tassel on the belt. Seemed like a good back up option if the next shopping trip didn’t prove fruitful.

Fortunately, Dan and I had more luck the next day at store called Fab India. Who knew I would have better luck shopping with Dan, the man who only shops for clothing when the gaping holes in his expose too much to be worn on the street? Anyway, I think of Fab India as Indian-light because it’s an easily accessible store for expats and foreigners to score hand-made, beautiful clothing and housewares without having to venture too far out of their comfort zones. To me it felt a bit like cheating to get our wedding clothing there, but it was easy. I settled on a lehengha, which was a long, full silk skirt and a crop top. The crop top was questionable on a 40 year old mom of 3, but the salesperson helped me to adjust my dupatta in such a way that I was appropriately covered, although women of any age in India wear their cropped sari blouses with pride. Apparently, the way that I liked to drape my dupatta was in the style of the Gujarat region in India, which is where my neighbor is from, so fortunately, she was able to patiently help me get ready the day of.

When we arrived at the wedding reception we were invited to take a seat in the wedding hall with the other guests while the bride and groom had professional pictures taken on a stage at the front with EVERY SINGLE wedding guest, even us whom they had never met. We chatted with Dan’s colleagues and Mia and I borrowed bindis while we waited for our turn. Eventually we were invited to the stage, where we presented our gift of money to the happy couple, said our congratulations, and were given a blessing that somehow involved the goddess Lakshmi, red powder on foreheads, and something about being a good wife to our husbands. After the meet and greet, we were escorted to the wedding hall basement which was filled to overflowing with long folding tables all facing the middle of the room, draped with white table cloths, and covered with banana leaf plates. We were invited to wash our hands at the sinks in an adjoining room (soap and paper towels were not available) before we sat down. I opted for hand sanitizer. As we sat at our places, waiters came by every couple of minutes with metal buckets full of various kinds of delicious vegetarian food that was heaped on our banana leaves. This went on for 20 minutes. Several times during the course of the meal, Dan and I were offered spoons by various waiters since clearly we were having a hard time eating with just our fingers. However, Mia was doing just fine. During the meal, the woman who invited us to the wedding’s husband stood next to our table to keep an eye on us to presumably make sure we were comfortable.

After the delicious meal the party was over. We were ushered out of the reception hall, handed a coconut in a mesh bag as a party favor, and were back in the car on our way home. Boom, a lovely, fun wedding reception over and done in just over an hour. I can’t wait until the next one where I hope to venture into the strange new world of saris. Although I’m really hoping for bit of dancing and an open bar…

This week has been a tricky one. A trial, as my Dad says. The day after our electricity fiasco (see High BP and Electricity post), my sweet father had a near-fatal heart attack back in the US. He is now back at home without any heart damage at all, thank God. His last heart attack was on Christmas Day 4 years ago, so this time at least he only missed Labor Day.

In India, instead of Labor Day, we celebrated Ganesha Chaturthi, a Hindu festival that celebrates the elephant-headed Indian god.

According to Wikipedia:

“This is a very auspicious day celebrated to pray to the god so that every new activity that is started is successfully completed without any obstacles…

“The festival is celebrated by families at home, by people at their places of work and in public. The public celebration involves installing clay images of Ganesha in public pandals (temporary shrines) and group worship. At home, an appropriately-sized clay image is installed and worshipped with family and friends. At the end of the festival, the idols are immersed in a large body of water such as the sea, river or a lake. The clay idols disintegrate over time in the water.”

Embracing as much as we can during our short time in India, we participated in the Ganesha festivities. The girls know that we believe in Jesus, and are Christians, not Hindus, but it was important to us that they understand the cultural significance of the festivals surrounding them, religious or secular. It might at times be confusing for the girls to differentiate between Jesus and the Hindu gods we pass by on the roadside everyday. When driving by the huge Hanuman (the monkey god, and my girls’ favorite Hindu god) idol earlier in the week, Masan was praying for my dad after his heart attack and said, “Hanuman, please keep Papa safe.” When I reminder her that we pray to Jesus, she said, “Hanuman, please pass the message on to Jesus.” Hmmm…we may be completely screwing these kids us religiously.

On Ganesha Chaturhi we were invited to the club house in our neighborhood where we watched a puja, a prayer ritual, which consisted of chants and prayers; gifts of money, flowers, and food; and a heavily decorated Ganesha. We really didn’t have too much of a sense of what was going on during the ceremony, but it was interesting to watch, and we appreciated being allowed to be there. What I have experienced thus far is that the majority of Indians are very welcoming and take a “the more the merrier” approach, even during their holiest ceremonies.

Later in the day we were invited to our across-the-street neighbor’s house for what was kind of like an open house with their own private Ganesha that people could offer prayers to. Dan and I chatted with our neighbors and the girls took over the neighbors’ twin teenage daughters’ bedroom. There was also delicious food, and Mia loved the coconut puri bread the best. Not having gone to a private home for a Ganesha celebration before, we weren’t sure what to bring. Being Italian, I can never show up anywhere empty-handed so appropriate or not, we brought chocolates. We were given a coconut and a lantern as party favors upon taking our leave.

Giant Hanuman statue in Bangalore.

Ganesha being submerged in a lake. Made of clay so not too much water pollution.

Later in the evening we joined a procession of our neighbors snapping photos (there are many expats who live here) dancing, singing and carrying one large and many small Ganesha idols on a flat cart through the neighborhood to the mosquito-infested lake outside of the entrance gates where the statues were delicately dropped into the water. Masan and Evie used this time as an excuse to run wild with their school friends. Mia and Dan went home to start the grill for the Labor Day portion of our celebrating. Masan cried when she wasn’t able to carry one of the Ganesha statues down to the lake. I told her that we needed to let the Hindus carry the statues since this is their holiday. In my girl’s quest to do everything artistically and to the fullest, she wanted to be wholly involved.

Masan embracing the festivities.

Ganesha in the procession to the lake.

Puja at the neighborhood clubhouse.

When the girls and I turned into our lane to head home Dan met me in the street with a beer in hand, and asked the girls to go directly to the neighbors’ house. Uh-oh. Whatever he wanted to say couldn’t be said in front of them. That’s never good. Apparently, when he got home and flipped on a light switch, fire again reigned down from the ceiling. The fridge that had just been fixed two days prior from the first electrical storm blew out again. Along with our brand new projector for the girls’ room for our weekly movie nights. So we packed our bags and headed to the Marriott once again. It was not as unemotional as I have written, but I will spare the swearing and in-fighting.

When bad things happen, it’s only natural to turn inwards and say, “WTF?” or “Why did this happen?” “Or did I deserve this?” It’s like we have turned into the India equivalent of the Bible’s Job. Crappy things were happening to us, and we couldn’t seem to get past them. As ridiculous as it sounds, Dan and I asked each other if Jesus was angry because we had been participating in the Hindu festival. Although we never prayed to Hindu gods, was the attention we were giving to this festival day an issue? It definitely seemed like we were being punished.

Fast forward to today where it’s the third day of electricians in our house. They travel in packs and are all affiliated with different organizations—the landlord’s electricians, the Adarsh developer’s electricians, our independent electricians, the neighborhood’s electricians. Today it’s the developer’s electricians. Everyone wants to have a look at the fuse boxes and they all have a different opinion as to what happened, although no one has a clear plan of what needs to be done. I’d go into more detail about what the issues seem to be, but the diagnostics change depending on who is doing the diagnosing. I will say that there is too much electricity being used on the small grid we have. Yeah, we knew this on Wednesday. This time we will not be moving back into the house until we are 100% certain that this will not happen again. Until then it’s corporate housing or the Marriott.

Interrupting the previously started post about a recently attended South Indian wedding for a look at this week’s B’lore drama. Or rather, a chance for me to process what’s been happening so I can assess whether or not I am becoming truly irrational, as Dan indicates, or if this is a situation that calls for, or even requires, irrationality as a means of coping. As an aside, as I write this, the door to the front terrace outside of the girls’ room has been left open and the daily evening dose of chemical smoke that is used to kill mosquitos (there have been markedly higher cases of Dengue this season, apparently) has flooded the upstairs. I am hoping that this doesn’t negatively impact their fertility as I feel the smokey poison seeping into my every pore. Do I attract drama? There is always something crazy going on here. Is it me or is it this place?

Back to the drama. So Dan and I are trying to get fit. We have a gym in our neighborhood, access to inexpensive golf courses, a driver and household help, and a later work start time in the morning than in the US. So really we don’t have any excuses. Although I would like to go everyday, I get to attend Zumba/Bollywood dance class and boot camp classes on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, and Dan gets to go to the driving range, work out at the gym, or play 9 holes on Tuesdays and Thursdays. This way we trade off watching Mia at home.

On Tuesday, Dan’s workout day he invited Mia and I to the driving range with him. A half hour into Dan and I hitting balls and Mia watching ‘The Backyardigans’ on my iPhone Mia needed a break, or rather the other golfers needed a break from her. We were walking together around the parking lot when she saw our driver, let’s call him K. He was sleeping in the car which he never does. When he sat up to say hi I noticed the blood on his shirt. He said that his eye was bleeding. A few days prior he had slipped down the stairs and smacked his face into the wall of his home during a smoke break, which required stitches on his lips and pain killers. K’s response to my freak out over his bleeding eye and bossy insistence that we immediately go to the hospital was that Dan needed to finish hitting balls. I told him that bleeding eyes took precedence over golf any time, and we rushed to Columbia Asia Hospital in Whitefield, which I had been to previously for myself and the girls. My doctor didn’t have any appointments available when I called from the car, but I sent her an email (one of her sons is in the same class as Masan at TISB) and pulled out the American-style friendliness and flattery with the reception staff and at the nurses station, and we were able to walk right into see her. Since K had never been to this hospital before I took charge. It was nice to finally have the chance to help him out and be in the know since the whole time we have been in B’lore he has been the one to hold my hand and show me the ropes. But I digress…

Long story short, K was not bleeding from his eye, but from his nose. His eye was severely blood-shot from the fall, but the real concern was that his blood pressure was stroke-level high, and he was immediately taken to the ER where his nose was packed to stop the bleeding, he was given saline to hydrate him and meds to reduce his bp. He was also given every single test and admitted over night. Apparently this was the first time he had ever been admitted to a hospital or given an IV in his life. He is 38, and had no idea what any of the machines were. He must have been scared. At moments I felt like an over-protective mom (not such a stretch, I know).

The next day K was feeling much better, and was ready to be discharged mid-afternoon. However, the hospital wouldn’t release any reports or the patient himself until the bill was paid. Of course, they aren’t stupid. Many people here live in places without electricity and running water, let alone an actual address. The hospital would never be paid otherwise. K didn’t have the money to pay for the hospital stay and we insisted on the really good, unaffordable hospital, so it was our responsibility to pay. That’s how things work over here. Employees ask their bosses to pay for their medical care. Without this help, many people would not be able to see a doctor even when they are very sick. Anyway, the hospital refused to take payment via the phone or internet so I had to drive to the hospital over an hour away to pay the bill in person. And by ‘drive,’ I mean have a temporary driver drive me. After paying the bill I was dropped off at a TISB second grade moms’ lunch nearby. After the lunch I called the temporary driver, who was a friend of K’s. He told me he was over an hour away because he had taken K home from the hospital and it had taken much longer than anticipated. Anyone else who lived near me had left the lunch already. So I took an un-ACed, somewhat smelly Uber home. I dug inside the dusty seat to find a badly tangled seatbelt (no one wears them here).

That evening I had put 2 out of 3 kids to bed and was watching ‘Max & Ruby’ with Masan, which, if you’re not familiar with it, is a very stressful cartoon where the younger brother bunny never does what he needs to do and his older sister has the patience of a saint. (Why can’t you just listen already, Max?!?) Anyway, all of a sudden the large light on the ceiling in the center of the room started to flicker, crackle and rain sparks along with several other lights on the ground floor. It seemed like something out of ‘Stranger Things.’ But then we started to smell smoke, and we saw fire and sparks shooting down from 2 ceiling lights. And the TV was smoking like it was a toaster which had overcooked a too large bagel. We ran upstairs, opened Evie’s door and screamed for her to wake up. I grabbed a sleeping Mia from her crib, and Masan helped me get Evie out of her bed. We rushed out of the house into the dark street with 2 out of 3 of my girls pants-less. I realized at that moment that I had no idea what the fire emergency phone number was. So I called the maintenance office for our neighborhood. They didn’t understand me. I screamed ‘fire’ and ‘smoke’—-but they hung up. Clearly I need to learn at least a few words in Kannada. I called Dan at work. We ran to the next-door neighbor’s house, but they weren’t answering the doorbell. I saw my across-the-street neighbor on her terrace and yelled for help. She rushed us inside and called maintenance for us. I left the kids with her and ran into the house to try to see what was actually on fire. I knew this was the stuff of after-school specials, but I didn’t see any more flames, so I assumed it was okay. I saw smoke coming from near the window in my bedroom. Dan arrived home. Maintenance showed up. Once they determined that nothing was on fire any longer, and we realized that the TV, fridge, and dishwasher had been blown out along with many lights and other appliances, I quickly packed overnight bags for everyone. There was no way we were going to stay in the house. The next-door neighbor came outside (she had been in the shower) and took my kids and perishable food inside her house. A few minutes later, the kids, Dan and I headed to the nearby Marriott for the night.

This morning we went back to the house. The house caretaker, his electrician, and several electricians from maintenance showed up. At one point there were at least 7 men in my house discussing what the problem may be. They couldn’t figure it out. I should back up at this point and say that every night for the past 2 weeks I have called maintenance because there have been power outages. After 2 weeks with men from maintenance coming by nightly to see what’s wrong and still no meaningful solution, I finally sent Dan and the driver to the maintenance office to talk with them (they refused to take me seriously and brushed off my concerns—sexism is rampant here along with bias against those who can’t speak the local language). The head electrician said that this was a landlord issue and that the circuit is overloaded. We called the house caretaker who said to turn off the the switches that turn on and off the hot water heaters when we aren’t using the hot water. We did. But we still had power outage issues. At this point I was incredibly angry. We called the caretaker again. He still refused to take the situation seriously. What was a $100 fix before last night will now cost his boss thousands in lost appliances. I am furious, scared, and want to move. I told one of the neighbors that I am going back to Brooklyn. I can put up with a lot of things, and overall, have really enjoyed B’lore, but I have reached my limit. When I told Dan that I want to move houses he told me to relax, which is always the least helpful thing anyone can say. He told me I was being irrational. I rationally told him that I would punch him if he told me to relax again.

This morning Dan asked our relocation company to hire an independent electrician because we don’t trust the competency of the landlord’s electricians. The pros showed up and were able to immediately tell us what was wrong and how they were going to fix the problem. I feel a bit more assured, but I still don’t want to stay here. Dan says that every house has these problems. I can’t imagine that’s true. I feel unsafe. He ordered smoke detectors and fire extinguishers, we are getting a custom-made stabilizer, and the pro electricians balanced the electrical load. But the outlets all feel hot to the touch, and I still feel unsafe. It’s the incompetence I see so often around me that makes me afraid. I don’t trust that anyone really knows what they are doing. People are so often not properly trained.

Currently it’s 8pm and we are waiting for a temporary fridge to be delivered. Apparently it’s on it’s way but the traffic is horrible, per usual. It’s time to call it a day. A big, fat, frustrating day. And a big shout out to God for preventing this ordeal from being any worse than it was. At least it’s something to blog about!

The electricians trying to diagnose the issue.

All of the bikes of the electricians who are trying to diagnose the issue.