More Bang for the buck

After checking with our new neighbors we learned that the average wait for a BSNL connection in the new house ranges from 30 – 45 days.

The humans were flummoxed. At this rate, they'd be forced to make civil conversation with each other instead of retreating to their respective corners with their laptops. Grandpa was duly requested to use his clout, and after a short wait of five working days, the humans were reconnected to the virtual world.

The question du jour directed at my humans is “Settled aa?” Kind neighbors want to know if they need help, relatives visit with fresh vegetables and food, and the doorbell rings ever so often with strangers asking, "Madam, driver beka? Maid beka? Cook beka?"

Perhaps it’s the glorious airconditioned weather in Bangalore, or the squeaky-clean community they now live in, or the new townhouse they moved into with lizards outside the house as opposed to inside, or the fact that they moved countries exactly a year ago … whatever the reason, this time mom has unpacked all 143 cartons and is trying to turn her house into a home.

“We have too much stuff,” frowns dad, referring to anything non-electronic. “Let’s get rid of half the things,” he proposes, as mom frantically clambers to rescue her brass Ganeshas, ceramic vases, papier-mâché knick-knacks and terracotta figurines from a cardboard box marked “Trash.”

For the first time, the humans find themselves living inside a gated community lined with barbed wire fencing separating them from the nearby halli residents. Uniformed security guards patrol the streets day and night with nothing to do other than crack their knuckles or adjust their black caps.

“They should get Dobermans instead,” suggests mom, as she spies the security guard on her street picking his ear or checking out his reflection in a parked car.

Where before mom would nag the children to “go outside and play,” she now begs them to come home at least during meal times. With a swimming pool, tennis and basketball courts on site, minimal traffic and lots of company, the children prefer to spend time playing outdoors or in friends’ homes.

“Only young people living here,” observed grandma as she walked around the complex, “young” referring to anybody below the age of 50.

At night in bed, the family listens to the thunderclouds rolling outside and watches the palm trees swaying in the breeze. “Do you guys like it here?” asks mom, in between swatting tenacious mosquitoes.

“It’s cool,” says Anu, which probably translates as superlative in tween vocabulary.

Perhaps the family's feelings can best be summed up by its youngest member who declares, "I want to stay in Bangalore, I never want to go back to India!”

Chokri needs naukri

It's not from a lack of trying that mom is still filling out "Occupation: Homemaker" on official forms in triplicate.

It's been roughly nine months since she contributed anything of value to this household, other than made-from-scratch banana/apple pancakes drizzled with honey as a breakfast treat on Sundays. A cursory browsing of jobs on employment Web sites paints a grim picture of available openings in her field.

"See? That's why you should do computer courses," says grandma helpfully. "How much did I ask you to at least do an MBA when the children were younger?"

Mom’s inbox fills every day with mass e-mails generated by placement agencies addressed to “Dear candidate,” offering positions in every field but her own.

"What is expected CTC, ma'am?" recruiters want to know even before they say hello.

"C-what?"

"Cost to Company."

“What exactly does that mean?” asks mom, convinced that it's a marketing term like USP that's used ubiquitously in India.

It turns out, CTC is a fancy term for 'compensation' in acronym-loving India. When mom indicates what her expected CTC is (which is considerably lower than what a dollar-earning janitor would make) she never hears from these recruiters again.

One placement agent got back with the following job offer: "Ma'am, we're looking for attractive marketing professionals to market our product in Chennai and Bangalore."

"What product?" asked mom suspiciously, when she heard that "attractive" was a prerequisite.

"It’s a famous whisky brand. We’re India’s largest …”

“Sorry, I’m not interested,” mom cut her off, irritated firstly that the woman was offering her a sales job she wasn’t qualified for, and secondly, for asking her to peddle a product that tastes like Waterbury’s Compound.

Interviewers so far have fared no better. “Would you be able to work from Chennai for three days and from Bangalore for three days?” asked a director. “Of course, we’ll give you Sundays off.”

“Where was your father working?” another interviewer wanted to know. “What about your father-in-law?”

“Tell me about yourself,” asked a Human Resources manager, drawing an Om on the paper in front of him before taking notes. When mom launched into her qualifications and work experience, the man stopped her mid-sentence and said, “All that is in your résumé. Tell me about yourself. Where does your mister work? How many children do you have? What are their ages? First one boy, second one girl aa or first one girl, second one boy aa?”

So far, other than her age, mom has been asked every red flag question that featured in a harassment training program she attended at her last workplace.

“See how tough it is to survive in India?” pointed out grandma. “Take my advice and do what my neighbor’s sister-in-law’s cousin’s daughter does. She moved back from Atlanta and now teaches at her children’s school. You can ride the school bus with them, have lunch on campus and the children might even get a discount in the tuition.”

There’s just one problem with that picture.

If mom could teach, her five-year-old would be reading by now instead of flipping through picture books. Not only that, she might even be wiping her own rear end after using the potty.