Since the below post was written, I’m still waiting for the experience of the transition to Mumbai from Bangalore to be wrapped up for me with a sweet bow in the orange, white and green of the Indian flag. But it’s still a moving thing, sometimes light and bright, other times slimy and gray. When I think I have it pinned down, it slinks away from definition and is both this and that all at the same time. Lovely and horrid. To Dan’s chagrin I often refer to my new city as the ‘7th circle of Hell,’ but a bit lovingly since it’s also a place of morning yoga surrounded by hidden pockets of nature and some kind new friends. It’s as undefinable as the rest of my time in India has been. 

While the first blog post is one peek into a newbie’s first weeks here and is on the darker side, the pictures show a happy and whirlwind first 6 months. 

In the midst of the chaos of just living these past few months, writing about the transition fell by the wayside (Wayside? Is it just me or am I embracing more of the Queen’s English?). Although we left Bangalore over a month ago, we have only been in this city about two weeks thus far, having gone to the US for Christmas. It seems like I have been preparing emotionally and physically for the move since June. The sorting and the planning and the goodbyes. And the promises to visit, but knowing that may never happen. And now we start over.

In Mumbai.

The kids are doing okay. Today as I write this we have 3 children over for playdates. Each of my kids has a playmate. The house is actually quiet since each child is engaged. Masan greeted her friend by saying to a girl she just met, “I can’t play with you right now. I have work to do. I’m so stressed out,” and crying hysterically. I am basically forcing her to come play with this kid, and to “not be that weird kid that cries on playdates.” Yikes, I may have actually said that. Fortunately, the dad who dropped 2 of his kids off has 3 children and understood the drama, saying they have a first born too. We designated one bedroom as the playroom and last weekend moved our bedroom to the other side of the house away from the kitchen and the kids’ rooms to get a bit of peace from the kids and the chatty live-in helper who loves to pop into our room to ask a ‘quick question’ or muse on something about one of the kids at least 15 times an hour.

Dan is doing alright.

I am….well…managing. I like change, I do. It encourages trying to get comfortable with the in-between; the not knowing yet; the still being new. Manifested as the awkward conversations with strangers who will maybe one day be friends, the not knowing what people are talking about when they mention a part of town or restaurant, the “oh shit” moments when you’ve forgotten about after school activity sign up because you are overwhelmed and adjusting and now soccer is full and the kids will end up having to take basket weaving or whatever is left.

I think I am becoming a bit paranoid. There seems to be some underlying Margaret Atwood-esque dystopian expat plot going on. A bit Stepford-wifey. This was extremely apparent in my first pilates class held yesterday morning after the kids and husband were kissed and packed off to school and work respectively. A room full of ‘trailing spouses’ (such an unfortunate term used for those of us willing to drop everything for the good of the family) with manis to match their pedis, tightening, lifting and grunting like me, desperately fighting the normal course of gravity and nature diligently. With legs toned and abdomens just a bit too puffy. This was probably happening in little pockets all over Mumbai. The trailing spouses building endorphins before their salad and alcohol infused lunches downtown with friends. Were we doing all this sweating and firming in the name of keeping us happy and healthy, but consciously unbeknownst to us, really in the service of our spouses? So that they can do the ‘important work’ they need to do? Keep the trailing spouses happy and the worker bees will produce. They don’t say happy wife, happy life for nothing.