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.

Hello, California!

Barely a week into our great California adventure, and I’m already feeling like one of those mothers who can’t wait for school to reopen so that the kids get out of my and each other’s hair. Our empty house resounds with shrieks of “Shaddap! … No, you shaddap! … I’m going to punch you … kick you … slap you … Don’t touch me … I hate you!” as sibling rivalry reaches a crescendo.

A momentary truce is reached only when a parent loses his / her cool and yells above the din to separate the warring brother-sister duo. At such moments (and there are too many to count in an average day), the tailor made-for-children gated community environs where we used to live in Bangalore are recalled with a wistful sigh, and the mind travels back to all the times when the children were nowhere in the vicinity even when we wanted them to be because they had such a hectic social life.

“Will I ever make friends again?” my nine-year-old daughter, Kuki, wondered aloud one day, during a brief respite from her busy YouTube watching schedule. The first few days after I landed, I was so desperate for fellow Indians, I asked my husband to drive me to the Livermore temple. I was ready to be best friends with Mrs. Patel whose lower half I haven’t yet seen since she’s always behind the counter at Bharat Bazar. I almost called the old Punjabi lady who served me my Subway sandwich at the corner store ‘aunty,’ and was even tempted to smile at the sneezing, snorting, coughing, stuffy-nosed, oily-haired desi guy who sat behind me on the train last weekend.

With each passing day, however, the desperation subsides, and I become a little more like the Indians here – make minimal to zero eye contact with fellow desis, but go out of your way to be polite to the white populace.

I’m also reliving America through my daughter’s eyes. Her fickle child’s memory seems to have erased portions of her past so that most things here seem alien and foreign to her - “Wow, the toilet paper is so soft! Everything’s so clean here! Why is that lady wearing a bindi in America? So much candy everywhere! No one’s begging at the station … are there no poor people here?”

In much the same way, California is also new and alien to me – “Look at the size of these peaches/cherries/grapes! A vineyard behind the mall? How picturesque! So many Asians in one place! $20 for eyebrow threading? Day light robbery!”

Kuki and I went to the Indian grocery store the other day. As soon as we entered, she closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “It smells so good in here,” she said, running her eyes over the familiar packets of Maggi, MTR spices, and glucose biscuits. She happily bounded down the aisles, expressing a sudden interest in all things Indian, while I worried about the smell of the spices clinging to my clothes and hair. For a brief moment, I suppose, she was transported to Bangalore, on a trip to More or Hypercity that would soon end and she could return to her beloved friends and their familiar ways.

It is at times like these – when I watch her listless expression in the car; when she asks, “What time is it in India?” as soon as she wakes up; when she fingers items at Claire’s and mentions Friend A has the same bag, Friend B the same hat; and did we know (for the hundredth time, if I may add) that Friend C’s dad used to work for Target; and can we run into the Apple store for a few minutes, please, please, please because Friend D’s mom works for the company – that I swallow a lump in my throat and wonder yet again why I am cursed / blessed with this nomadic spirit that doesn’t allow me to settle in one place for too long.

I'm leaving on a jet plane

This blog is moving to the Bay Area this summer .... Mid-August, to be more specific.

Pet Pee-ves

My drive to work these days takes me through the busy bylanes of a village called Garbage-palya.

Now, were Garbage-palya a rural settlement in the south of France, it would be a charming little village with cobblestone roads and cottages brimming with bright flowers on the windowsill - the kind of picture postcard place where friendly villagers rode bicycles and waved to passing tourists.

Given its unfortunate location however, Garbage-palya is little better than a slum, with open drains, shabby tenements, and overcrowded streets spilling over with illegal construction, vegetable markets, roaming dogs, naked children, slow-footed cows, manic motorists and deaf pedestrians.

On a main road originally carved out to accommodate ambling cows and flocks of sheep, impatient motorcycles and cars crisscross slow bicyclists as they all lumber over potholes, navigate steep speed bumps and avoid pedestrians who take incessant honking in their stride by simply ignoring the sound.

As I wind my way through the narrow village, I pass by daily fixtures such as the baby buffalo with limpid eyes tied to a street sign; the old vegetable vendor pushing his cart toward the main road; portly stray dogs walking in and out of the butcher shop; shivering chickens huddled together in cages, as though resigned to their fate; and dusky women with plastic buckets beating sudsy clothes against culverts.

As though passing by the butcher shop every day weren’t disturbing enough, I have to endure another sight that makes me want to drive through the village blindfolded. At any given time of day, but most certainly in the mornings, rows of little children squat on the pavement bordering the road to answer nature’s call.

The daily traffic jam on the single arterial road ensures that the stalled vehicles are subject to spiral mounds of human waste in varying shades of yellow and brown that the ladies of the house then push into the open drains bordering the road.

I keep my eyes on the car in front, preferring instead to watch the driver examine the contents of his nose in the rearview mirror. Another ghastly sight will confront me a little ahead. Just before the bylane joins the main road, mingent men will park their vehicles alongside the road and relieve themselves against the shrubbery.

“Why can’t guys control themselves?” I ask my husband, wondering if men are missing a muscle in the perineal area that women automatically have. “It’s so disgusting!”

“Not a big deal,” he shrugs, prompting a quick look of alarm from me as I silently speculate if he’s guilty of a similar transgression or two.

If I were the kind of person to succumb to road rage, I would like to ram my vehicle into these men who calmly whip out their organs in public as though they were flipping open a cell phone. There are times when I'm tempted to honk at them – indiscriminate honking still scoring as the pinnacle of rudeness in my driving manual.

But being female, I exercise admirable restraint, just as I can control my pubococcygeus muscles as needed.

And to think they call women the inferior sex! Harrumph!

Long time no see!

See that adorable terrier mix wagging his tail furiously in the crowd? The one nervously wondering if you’re going to throw a rock at him or give him a warm hug?

That would be me, gentle readers, making a stage appearance on this blog in the style of Madhuri Dixit and other celebrity mothers on semi-retirement.

It’s been such a long time since I wrote anything worthwhile that I fear I may have forgotten how to write. The only reason I’m wiping the dust off this blog - at least for this one entry - is to thank all the people who write in from time to time asking how I am. You guys really make my day!

To all readers, here’s a quick recap of the last year or so that this blog has been lifeless:

• Work – Mom’s first job in India lasted a mere 14 months. A pity, because just when she started enjoying myself, her entire team disbanded. One moment the woman felt like Cinderella at the ball, and the next moment she found herself standing beside the road holding a pumpkin. She jumped ship like the rest of her team did, and is now part of a huuuuge organization, feeling much like a fish out of water.
  
• Play – Socially, my folks have never been busier. With dad’s sister living across the street and other friends in the complex, Friday nights and weekends ensure a steady stream of parties and impromptu get-togethers. So much so that when grandparents call, they preface the talk by asking, “What party this weekend?”
  
• Pati –Mom has gotten so used to seeing dad as a permanent fixture on the couch, laptop balanced on knees, that she dreads the time it might end and he’s back in the work force. For now, she thanks her lucky stars that he’s there when she leaves in the morning and pretty much in the same position when she returns – unflappable, quiet, reliable and extremely undemanding.
  
• Patni (exact opposite of the above) – The family made one trip back “home” in April. Living in India still feels like a vacation. Mom longs for the comfort and familiarity of their house in Chandler - the dry bathrooms, the sunlit kitchen, the spacious study, even the match-sized kids’ room. According to her, every nook and cranny of that house is filled with memories of me, the beloved pet, and mom in her younger days, when she was fitter, thinner, richer and more in control.
  
• Aur woe – You see, the vacancy I left behind has not been filled. I doubt it ever will. The only way I foresee a dog in mom’s life is if she quits her job and stays home. “Well, why don’t you, Amma?” asks her seven-year-old. For starters, mom would go nuts. And secondly, it’s the money, honey. “But Appa has a lot of money," Kuki offers helpfully. "That’s why he keeps going to the bank to get some.”