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!
Brooklyn Mama in India 