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).