Crème de la community

“I wouldn’t even want to live here for free,” shuddered grandma as she stood alongside mom on a manicured sidewalk in Palm Meadows, Bangalore, and surveyed her surroundings.

Having heard much about the upscale NRI bastion, mom had decided that a trip to the garden city would be incomplete without a look at the exclusive neighborhood.

“Kahaan jaana hai, madam?” security stopped her at the front gate.

“To the rental office,” fibbed mom. “I want to see if there are any houses to rent.”

“Come back tomorrow,” waved the guard dismissively and watched until the car backed up and left the premises.

Mom returned in less than an hour with a friend who lived across the street. Apparently, Palm Meadows security is a little lax with pedestrians. Evening walkers and domestic help glide in and out of the neighborhood on foot with no questions asked.

“What did you say the rents were?” whispered grandma, looking around and noting the community’s resemblance to a Southern California suburb with swaying palm trees, wide streets, cookie cutter houses and mini vans parked in driveways.

“Don’t worry, it’s beyond our budget,” mom reassured her. “We’re only sightseeing.”

“Good,” replied grandma, “I’d never fit in here, and I’ll feel so odd to visit you.”

Indeed, in the 10 minutes they spent in the neighborhood, nothing other than the proliferation of brown faces around them reminded mom of India. The streets were clean enough to roll in, dog walkers with Ziploc bags picked up after their pets, made-in-U.S.A. children glided by on roller blades with helmets and knee pads on, and grandma was the only woman in a sari as far as the eye could see.

“Why can’t the rest of the city be as clean?” wondered mom as they made their way to the upper crust clubhouse.

“Sorry, members only, ma’am,” said a polite employee at the entrance.

“But I really need to use the restroom,” entreated mom, hopping on one foot. She was duly directed to a ladies’ room that smelled of potpourri instead of phenol. Piped-in music played softy in the background as mom sank down on the seat, and she noted that the bath tissue was so soft it felt imported.

Later that night, mom called her children in Chennai to tell them about the sights she’d seen.

“Why can’t we live there, mom?”

“Because it’s too expensive.”

“Aw! Can we move there when you both get jobs?”

“We can go visit,” said mom brightly. “I’m sure we can somehow find a member we know.”

“But the place sounds just like home,” drawled the children.

“Exactly,” said mom, “it doesn’t feel like India.”

“So?”

Mom paused to search for the right words.

What's the point in living there?” she muttered softly, unable to explain herself further to the children whose roots are still in another country. “It just doesn’t feel like home India.”