Yesterday’s WhatsApp message to a friend went exactly like this, “India is bad for my mental health. I feel there is so much that needs to be done but it’s so hard to get it done!” I wasn’t referring to the hassle that is trying to run errands in a place with horrific traffic and armies of well-meaning, yet untrained shop clerks. Instead, I was lamenting trying to do some good in a place with overwhelming needs, and finding the obstacles and hurdles if not insurmountable, at least daunting and depressing.

And when I feel like I should just give up, enjoy the expat life, and not worry about trying to do something helpful, India assaults the senses and brings me back to mine. As I drove to the Oberoi hotel last night with Dan, our once a month escape from our darling kids and day-to-day life, I was bombarded with stimuli, which reminded me on each and every street corner of how much the people in this place need, every single place I look there seems to be some kind of disfunction, and how little I have done thus far. And I know that I must. do. something. somehow. My thoughts were running wild, my head hurt, and my anxiety was high.

Sight: the colorful temples on the side of the road, the trash heaps being consumed by cows that meander through the streets; the ladies with stolen or borrowed babies stuck to their hips tapping on your car window to ask for money; entire families heaped together on two-wheelers helmitless; ladies in saris and men without shoes carrying heavy construction loads; hungry looking trash picking men and young boys riding bicycles with giant bags of loot precariously balanced on either side of handle bars; the lakes filled with snow – no, wait, that’s sewage.

Smell: the smells of the toxic lakes permeate for miles—vegetables are grown on the banks, people live next to the lakes, and animals swim in the lakes; the smells of fried food being cooked on the side of the road mixing with both your Uber driver’s sweat and the Mysore Flower oil fragrance procured from a local street market.

Hearing: the Bollywood tunes turned up on hight, and the radio DJ saying something about honey bees being able to predict rain; half clothed toddlers on the side of the road playing in mounds of dirt during school hours.

Touch: the feel of the relentless sun on your skin through the window despite the a/c; the occasional relief of a breeze that swirls dust in your hair.

Taste: the crunch of dirt between your teeth that in this summer season swirls all around everything, reminding you of the lack of pollution standards.

Yesterday, as it does from time to time, it all just became too much. Dan and I call this type of day a “bad India day”—those days that I just cannot handle this place. This should be differentiated from “F—ing India,” which is when we see something unbelievable, but typical for India, a somewhat humorous going-on, and chuckle quietly to each other. “Bad India day” is more serious and depressing. It’s when India gets beyond my senses, enters my heart and weighs me down. The frustration of the anganwadi projects’ recent stall due to corruption, and the uncertain and disorganized future of anu LIFE (more on these projects in a future post when I have the stamina to write all the goings on), were weighing very heavily on my heart. Every single thing that I saw, heard, smelled, touched and tasted yesterday reminded me of how much needs to be done and how I have done none of it.

Bangalore has a pretty happening hotel scene. As in people go to hotels to eat dinner and brunch. This was all very strange upon arrival to this place, but makes more and more sense as we approach our one year Bangalore anniversary. 5 star hotels here are lush and green with giant trees, no trash in sight, water you can brush your teeth with, clean air, food that is cooked in sanitary conditions, and are fairly cheap in comparison to home. They also have enticing events like wine tasting—all imported, non-Indian wines, which is a very special treat as a bottle of the equivalent of ‘2 buck chuck’ in the US can cost the equivalent of $30—and have delicious Asian, non-Indian restaurants. The Oberoi, which is where Dan and I have gone to twice since we have been here has an amazing Chinese restaurant and a Michelin-rated Thai restaurant which we tried out last night. Not once last night did I worry about the people living in shacks on the sides of the roads, or the trash, or the lack of clean water, kids not getting properly educated, etc., etc., etc. The Oberoi was an escape, a reprieve, a shelter from the storm, and for just one night, it was blissful to forget all that Bangalore needs. (Of course, Dan did end up with food poisoning that landed him on his back from the Michelin-rated Thai restaurant because India doesn’t let one get too comfortable or complacent).

The following post was written months ago, however, it’s going up now since I can’t seem to finish it before another holiday pops up. Hopefully even in its incomplete form it gives a sense of what American holidays have been like for us in India. Here goes…

Holidays can be tricky as an expat, to say the least. The traditions that seem so important in helping us mark the occasion at home may no longer be possible in our new country. And the people who we typically celebrate with may now be as far away from us as the globe will allow. These past 10 months I have learned that the key to a successful holiday in a new land is flexibility. The Butterball turkey you want to buy costs $200 US, no problem—your Indian oven is too small to hold the jacked up bird anyway—so instead you go out for dinner to a traditional North American Thanksgiving feast at a local restaurant. You may find out after you are seated that they don’t serve alcohol, but this year you can enjoy Thanksgiving dinner sober because your siblings, parents and in-laws aren’t there (love you guys!). You don’t have loved ones nearby to invite for the holiday, so just ask your new family—your house helpers and work colleagues. It may be the first time most of them have ever celebrated this holiday, and one of them may vomit all over the car on the drive back home, having never eaten this kind of food before or ridden in a car, but overall the holiday will probably be enjoyed by all.

The first American holiday to arrive post-move from home was the 4^th of July. I asked my What’s App mom’s network about fireworks, but disappointingly, I was informed that they weren’t being sold or shown until the Indian festival of Diwali. (And were they ever available in full force during Diwali! I almost never want to see or hear a firework again after the sound assault we were subjected to for 3 nights in a row during Diwali — all birds and small animals ran for cover). The only celebration I could find happening on the 4^th was a July 4^th brunch at one of the local restaurants, which seemed 1) possibly unsafe (Possibly a target for terrorism? I was new to living abroad and didn’t know the vibe of this town yet. I mistakenly assumed the whole world hates Americans), and 2) disappointing for lack of fireworks. This 4^th of July was starting to feel like that year I went to an all-night drum ‘n bass party in the dark basement of a DC club instead of watching fireworks outside on a picnic blanket; it was just all wrong.

The next big date on the calendar was Dan’s 41^st birthday. Because of the following reasons this was going to require a bit of planning and thought: 1) Dan dislikes any sort of birthday attention—hates it, really, 2) We had only been in Bangalore 3 months at this point so did we have anyone to invite to a party, and 3) Getting stuff you need in this town can lead to all sorts of frustration. Surprisingly, Dan willingly agreed to a birthday cook-out. We had recently bought a grill from an exiting American expat, and with the help of Kiran, had rigged it so that it would work in India (Kiran was all on-board since he secretly loves to eat beef, but he is a Hindu, and his wife would kill him if she knew). After 3 months of a mostly plant-based diet, Dan would again be able to eat meat and better yet, could grill it himself, thus, he would have agreed to literally anything which would have allowed this.

The guest list was the next hurdle. The last thing that I wanted for Dan was a replica of my 25^th birthday (my exact age then escapes me since I have tried to block out this whole fiasco) when an ex-boyfriend threw a ‘surprise party’ for me at my parents’ home in Northern Virginia. I had not lived there for several years and very few friends remained. So, NO ONE CAME, except for one friend who lived in the area and my loyal sister. My mom made a huge pile of veggie chili, the ex made a vegan cake, and there was no one to eat either. My mom ended up inviting the neighbors from across the street whose son I used to babysit. Ugh. It was so traumatic that I still cringe when I think about it almost 20 years later, and I cannot believe I am writing about it. But I am not taking myself so seriously these days. Long story short—I was determined that a similar experience would not happen to Dan. And since we didn’t have many friends at this point in our Bangalore tour, who would we invite? We decided on immediate neighbors, a few work friends, and Kiran’s family. Although the beef burgers were overdone and over-spiced and the veggie burgers were almost inedible, it proved to be a fun evening that even ended in a game of poker at the new picnic table in the backyard—Dan’s birthday gift, as well as a few drunk Indian neighbors.

And then there was Mia’s 2^nd birthday on October 20^th. This one was easy. We have been lucky enough to have a large community of little kids in our neighborhood, and one of the fellow expats hosts a weekly playgroup. So I invited them all over for pizza, cake, and to play on the new trampoline (gift from Nina and Papa) in our backyard. Unlike being back in Brooklyn, there was no angst about whether to try to squeeze 20 little kids and their parents into our 2-bedroom walk-up apartment or fight with Dan over the absurdity of paying $1000 US to hold a party at one of the overpriced local venues (yes, incredibly absurd, but what choice did we have when we couldn’t fit anyone in our apartment?). This year we had enough space to accommodate everyone! The only real hiccup was when the electricity went out several times during the party. At one point it was off for over an hour and a half, and the sun was setting. As I bribed the electricians to come to try to repair it for the 5^th time that afternoon, we moved the party outside. Fortunately, at the end of October, the weather was nice enough because it’s always nice in Bangalore.

Shortly after came Mom’s birthday. We went to the Taj Mahal, Delhi, and had brunch at the Leela Palace. Amazing trip with my brave mama and first visitor. Enough said. See previous posts for more info.

Halloween. Because it directly followed Diwali, which is the biggest holiday in Southern India, it didn’t get nearly the amount of attention it does back home. Just a Diwali afterthought with some store bought signs hung over door frames. A few of the homes we trick or treated at didn’t have candy bought yet well after dark (in my experience, Indians tend to be way more laid back than Americans, and are completely comfortable with last-minuteness), and had to run to the store, with promises of a fast return. The costumes were mostly store bought and less likely to have been made by an ambitious former art student Brooklyn Dad. But the best part of the evening was that we weren’t over-run with humungous crowds, and the gals were able to trick-or-treat freely with their friends in our neighborhood without fear of cars or abduction.

My 41^st birthday.

Thanksgiving.

Christmas.

New Year’s.

Masan’s 8^th Birthday.

Easter.