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.

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.”