Jaani Dushman

Usually, when one looks for a home in India, one pays attention to the neighborhood, proximity to work-school, size of the bedrooms, state of the toilets, and the water and power supply situation. Some people may even consider Vaastu compliance.

Mom looks for none of these.

When she walks into a home, her gaze invariably falls on the floor. She isn’t particular about the flooring material or its color; instead, her sharp eyes scan the surroundings for lizard droppings.

“Eeeww, gross!” she exclaimed in one house as she gingerly stepped over the porch. “Yikes!” she yelled in another house as she opened a closet. “Hmm!” she sighed resignedly in a third house as she inspected a bathroom.

“Why are you standing outside?” asked dad from the foyer of a brand new bungalow to let with a servant room and a two-car garage. “Have you seen the house already?”

“I’ve seen enough,” shuddered mom, pointing to an offending dropping between dad’s feet. “Look at the size of that. It was made either by a rat or a lizard the size of Terri.”

“I will show you best house saar,” said a realtor confidently last week, striding up to a freshly painted house with a dark green lawn and an entryway set in speckled granite. The doors opened to reveal an open kitchen as large as the one in the humans’ former home, along with the perfect alcove to fit the piano they had lugged across the seas.

Gleaming tiles beckoned mom, and after a cursory glance at the entryway, she raced inside to admire the woodwork in the kitchen, complete with frosted glass cabinet fronts and recessed lighting.

“Look,” pointed grandma, opening a drawer under the hob. “They’ve installed wire baskets instead of wooden shelves. Very sensible. That way you’ll have less cockroaches.”

“Madam, please note Aquaguard unit is already there,” pointed the realtor. “Also, hot water geyser in kitchen.”

Leaving grandma to inspect the rest of the cupboards in the kitchen, mom and dad flitted through the three rooms and a study, noting the abundant storage, split airconditioners and sunlight streaming into the rooms.

As dad discussed trivialities with the realtor, such as the rent and deposit, mom joined grandma who was still admiring the wire baskets in the kitchen.

“Tamilian owners only,” commented grandma.

“How do you know?”

“See? There’s a tulsi plant in the garden.”

Too preoccupied to argue about Tamilians owning copyright for tulsis, mom bent down to open the cabinet under the sink. Reaching for the brass knob, she recoiled in horror, for there on the knob and on the floor under the sink, were remnants of a lizard lounge bar - the worst she had seen so far.

Mom’s screams reverberated through the quiet neighborhood.

Blabbering incoherently about the dimensions of the droppings and their sheer multitude, she was escorted to the car with a shawl wrapped around her shaking shoulders.

“I’ll get back to you,” said dad grimly to the stunned realtor standing on the sidewalk.

As the car pulled into the main road and merged into bottleneck traffic, mom composed herself. Stifling her sobs, she noted a vein throbbing in dad’s neck and the determined set of his jaw as he stared resolutely ahead, refusing to make eye contact with her.

“The neighborhood was nice though. No?” she placated, trying to gauge the extent of his aggravation.

No response.

“The house was also nice, but it didn’t have a puja room, and there was no mirror in one of the bathrooms. I'm not sure it would've worked for us ...” she trailed off, looking out the window the rest of the way home.

Chatting in Chennai

It was a meeting she had looked forward to and willed to happen for a few years now.

“I can’t come to Bangalore on Tuesday,” mom informed dad. “I have a very important meeting I can’t miss.”

“Why are you standing in front of the closet and staring at your clothes, mom?” asked the children last week.

“I have a very important meeting,” muttered mom, sorting through her clothes and disdainfully rejecting every single garment.

“What important meeting?” asked grandma, sensing the anticipation and trepidation in mom's voice over the phone. "Job interview aa?"

Job interviews are passé. Mom had a rendezvous with Rads!

E-mails were exchanged between Lakshmi, Rads and mom to meet at an outdoor coffee shop despite the heat, daughters in tow. As usual, Lakshmi was the first to arrive, and mom sauntered in fashionably late after changing her outfit at least three times and still unhappy with what she wore.

Rads tunneled thru' thereafter with warm hugs and infectious exuberance. Much like her online persona, she’s a bundle of energy - a complete contrast to mom’s bovine personality. One can easily imagine Rads as a dancemasterni, cracking her whip at truant teens and gently encouraging pudgy matrons to call upon some semblance of grace while shaking a leg.

Accompanying Rads was a demure cherub with a shy, ready smile, remnants of baby fat on her arms and thighs just begging to be squeezed. As their mothers rightly predicted, the two girls didn’t utter a word to each other the first hour. Missing from the group was Lakshmi’s daughter who was home with a stomach bug, and less than an hour after she arrived, Lakshmi was paged to return home and deal with a sick child.

As the weather cooled, the little girls warmed up, their bellies sated with French fries. Kicking off their shoes, they tore through the establishment, chatting with waiters and leaning over banisters, while Rads and mom sat under trees lit by fairy lights and talked about things-that-women-can-talk-about-for-over-two-hours-and-not-be-bored.

It was while the three women were chatting about blogging and the virtual audience that Lakshmi and Rads made a passing reference to dealing with unwanted attention online. “Wow, I thought only The Mad Momma had trolls,” blurted mom, as she listened in wide-eyed wonder to the two women recount their experiences in dealing with virtual venom.

This has left me shaken. Frankly, people, I can’t tell you how disturbed I am by this phenomenon. It saddens me to the point of shaking the very foundation of my self-esteem and confidence. Maybe I should take grandma’s advice and give blogging a break, while looking for a more fulfilling hobby, such as social work.

Four years of an online presence and what do I have to show? I am almost ashamed to admit it: not one nasty comment; not one testy troll.

Do you people have any idea how isolated I feel in social situations with fellow bloggers? Really, what does one have to do to get some attention around here?

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.”

Musafir hoon yaaron

The upside to being unemployed and a home renter, versus being a cubicle prisoner and a home owner, is the ability to pack up and move, either on a whim or after deep thought.

Less than a year ago, when my humans decided to disrupt their children’s lives and move to India, simply because they felt like it, they were both gainfully employed and paying a hefty mortgage.

10 months into their Indian adventure (yes, that’s how mom sees it, as an adventure) with neither a job nor any other form of security blanket, the humans have decided to move again - simply because they feel like it.

“Arrey, you guys just came here. You’re moving already?” asked an acquaintance. “All that packing and unpacking. Oof, baba, I don’t think I can do it,” shuddered the woman.

The school principal handed over the children’s school leaving certificate asking, “Husband getting a transfer aa?”

“Yes,” smiled mom, lying through her teeth.

“Has he at least started looking for a job?” asks grandpa worriedly over the phone. "The cost of living in Chennai is lower; you'll realize it as soon as you move."

The humans know little about the city they’re moving to. As the majority of its inhabitants, my humans will also be outsiders, fighting their way through mind-numbing traffic and communicating in languages other than the local one.

“You said the weather’s nice there, mom,” the children exclaim. “Then how come they have lizards if it’s not hot?”

Can you guess where we’re moving?

Thiruda Thiruda

From what The Hindu reports in the city section, it looks like chain snatching is still the numero uno pastime of petty thieves on bicycles in Indian metros such as Chennai. In fact, the enterprise seems to pay such rich dividends that the more seasoned chain snatchers have now upgraded their getaway vehicles to motorcycles.

On any given day, right alongside murders and sexual assaults, one reads of women being "relieved of" their chains while walking along a busy street in broad daylight. (Standard newspaper jargon usually states that "a woman was relieved of her chain," rarely using words such as snatched or stolen. Does the use of the word "relieved” suggest the chain was a burden to begin with?)

“One can never be too careful these days,” shuddered a buxom aunty at the monthly ladies association meeting. Discussing the gall of a "badava rascal" who snatched her friend's 10-sovereign gold chain, she nervously tucked her thick, rope-like mangalsutra, weighed down by innumerable safety pins, into her ample bosom, and declared, “You just cannot trust anybody.”

“I have two thaalis,” another maami shared. “A regular one, and one I use expressly for my morning walks.”

“See, if you wear a salwar kameez, the chain won’t be so prominent with the dupatta covering your neck,” a third lady chimed in, contributing her two paise to the discussion.

“Er … maamis," said mom, when she could get a word in edgeways. "Why don’t you just leave your thaalis at home? That way you won’t invite trouble, no?”

Shocked silence ensued.

Normally loquacious maamis were rendered speechless, until one of them pointed in the distance and asked, “Isn’t that Karpagambal maami? Let me go ask her when she returned from the U.S.”

Suddenly, all the ladies professed an unusual interest in Karpagambal maami’s U.S. trip and departed like a herd of elephants, leaving mom standing all alone by the watering hole buffet table.

Reaching for a paper towel, she noticed a solitary, plump, golden brown medu vadai left on the tray, looking as forlorn as her. Quickly glancing around, mom pushed the idlis on her plate aside and picked up the crispy vadai.

In a crowded room, in broad daylight, a tray was relieved of its last vadai.