Settling in - part I

“It’s not fair!” declares my 14-year-old son, a few days after school started. “You guys gave me a name everybody here messes up. Why did she get an easy name?” he points to his sister.

The poor child! Not much seems to be going right in his world these days - his fickle-minded parents can’t decide which country they want to live in; they don’t seem to be financially secure; he’s the new kid in school without any friends; his mother doesn’t understand him; his sister bullies him; and, the rest of the family asks him annoying questions about school that he’d rather not answer.

Thank goodness for his extended family in the vicinity whom he visits every weekend. His cousin in San Jose has a basketball hoop outside his house which the neighborhood boys regard as communal property. Much like our Bangalore neighborhood, garage doors are shut only at bedtime, and the children on his lane congregate to shoot hoops or try their hand at table tennis in the garage.

We could’ve moved to a more desi-centric neighborhood, I suppose, but our brash, rash streak compels us to take the road less traveled and do things backward, such as relocating the family before finding gainful employment. Not once, but twice in the last four years!

As though being the new kid in high school weren’t bad enough, my son finds my attempts to socialize with Indians in the neighborhood puerile and pathetic - a sentiment shared by his reticent father and sister.

“Let’s go for a walk, please,” I beg every evening at 6. “We can meet some people.”

“You go,” retorts my husband. “I don’t want to meet anybody.”

“Mom, stop embarrassing us!” the kids declare, closeting themselves in the bathroom or suddenly remembering a pending homework assignment.

I rue, yet again, that my good friends live a continent away, and congregate twice a day to socialize on the pretext of a constitutional.

In all fairness, our elderly Caucasian neighbor has tried to introduce us to other families in the neighborhood. The epitome of American good cheer and bonhomie, the man is literally the eyes and ears of the community, and can be found worshipping the California sun on his front lawn at any given time of day. Clad mainly in shorts and nothing else, he talks to anybody and everybody who passes by, including dogs.

That’s how we found out that we’re paying too much in rent, and that our Chinese homeowner is a “greedy bastard.” We were also introduced to the former tenants who moved across the street because the greedy bastard owner told them that he was selling the house.

“Chinese people, you know, all same …” said the Oriental lady shaking her head in disgust. “You no throw away money on rent. You buy own house. Not this house; buy nicer house,” she added, her facial expressions leaving no doubt that our homeowner is indeed a greedy bastard and many other unmentionables.

“The lease is only for a year,” shrugged my husband after the lady left. “By then we’ll figure out where we want to live.”

Move again? It’s only been three weeks into our new life, so bring it on, baby! I’m game.