But why work?

I looked and looked and looked, but nothing.
My ICICI Bank account was still at zero. The account, created for the express purpose of depositing my salary (Digression alert: I had no choice in the matter, which must be illegal, I thought, but apparently, it’s not.) is still a virgin account, untouched by money, or even worked on.
I joined this office on the 21st, and I figured I’d get my salary this 20th; I remembered something of that sort being said at orientation.
I checked my account on the 20th, thought it might have to do with the whole Bakrid-Saturday-Sunday thing, and waited with bated breath for Monday, the 24th.
Logged in, and nothing!
A short panic attack followed, when a colleague said I’d be paid only on the 1st, but only for a month. But thankfully, that's not the case: (I think) I’ll be paid for forty-odd days, though I’ll get my salary only on the 31st.
When I told my mom, it didn’t even register a blip on her. “So what? As long as you get it,” she said. She clearly did not.
“You don’t understand,” I wanted to shout. “I need the salary after working for a month.”
Then, I realized I was exhibiting signs of insanity and paranoia: I almost bit my mom-in-law’s head off when she was multitasking when I related the sad news of my salary not being deposited yet. (“You don’t listen to me. My real mom always listens to me,” I lied!)
I stepped back and thought about why it meant so much to me: It probably had something to do with the fact that I was used to earning money for a long, long time. Also, the biweekly pay cycle in the U.S. had totally spoiled me. I also realized some things that are embarrassing to admit: It will probably take a few more years for me to think of my parents-in-law’s money as mine; consequently, them as my own, as well.
I had questioned this whole earning business for the first time only a few days ago when my gym master asked me, point-blank, “But why do you want to work?”
I scrambled for a suitable intelligent answer, but the truth is that I had never considered not working. As a middle-class woman with fairly broad-minded parents, there never was any doubt that my sister and I would, one day, work. Or at the very least, equip ourselves to be able to get a job at a moment’s notice. (Digression: My sister is now a homemaker, and takes care of her son, but not working still weighs heavily on her mind.)
In any case, I now think about why I want to work, and have no real answer. I guess I’ve never thought about it. I don’t really have to work. By work, of course, I mean for money. Whenever I’ve thought about switching over to a voluntary job (read: without pay), something stops me. That something is probably the reason I think I have to work.
On the other hand, I have often asked myself questions about whether or not I want a child. People are usually zapped that I’m asking the question, when it’s “the most natural thing in the world.”
I suppose I’m just asking the wrong kind of questions in life!

Santa in the Sun!

Now I miss snow. Not really, but like you miss a tooth that ached, the tooth you would caress with your tongue just to feel the pain. I miss it like that tooth.
I read reports of a giant Noreaster blowing through the entire Northeast, and couldn’t get enough of the pictures. I wanted more – more pictures of snowblowers, of trees covered in icicles and people that shovel snow.
Even YouTube videos like this one -- totally cool! I miss Boston :(

All the while (sort of) aware and thankful that I’m not among those people. But I wish I were there, where the weather dominates conversations, where the number of inches of snow in your neighborhood is directly proportional to your bragging rights. “We have 12 inches near my house,” clearly trumps “I had nearly seven inches of snow in our area,” especially if you live in an apartment.
Public transport woes can never match the horrors and hazards of driving through the snow, especially if you drive through back roads.
I think what brought this whole thing about was the whole Christmas spirit thing here.
I thought I’d miss Christmas here, but I guess not. The office is full of it – more so than my office in Boston!
I guess the difference is that in Boston, it was more personal, and not as much a community thing. But desis, being desis, like being a community in everything!
There’s actually quite a few specialty Christmas shops set up. I saw a couple just on my regular rounds. That’s quite impressive.
I’ve always thought it must be weird for Christian kids living here – I’m sure they’ve never really believed in Santa Claus, and even if they did, how would they imagine him?
If they haven’t seen snow, how can they really enjoy the spirit of Santa “dashing through the snow”? Doesn’t everything make more sense in context?
Like the Independence Day celebrations in Boston, like the Diwali celebrations without crackers (NOT the biscuit kind) in Hartford, many of our rituals, traditions and festivals lose relevance when placed outside their own context, in space and time. How can we ensure that
a. we make them meaningful, and
b. we make them relevant to the time and place we belong to?

Clearly, Santa wasn’t part of the celebrations in Jerusalem. When the West created its own Santa, why can we not create our own Banta to make it more fun for kids?
New Zealand has done just that, with this "folk song," about Santa and a barbeque!
Or maybe this Santa on the beach needs to be made our regular mascot here in Chennai.

Every religion needs to adapt to make more sense to people who follow it.
It needs to, as one of our departments in the office is called, do some serious localization! Whether it’s software, or learning materials, or training manuals, the big buzzword here is that everything needs to make sense in a global context. So, never use local slang, or culture-specific idioms.
On the other end of the spectrum, some things need to be so personalized that we need to give them a local twist.
When Kamal Hassan was “inspired” by Mrs. Doubtfire, he had to bring in elements of Indianness that wouldn’t have made sense in the original.
Ayyanaar is such an example, where religion took the concept of venerating brave heroes, and turned them into a God that made sense locally, while retaining ties to the larger Hindu pantheon.
Of course, it is more difficult to achieve such a degree of localization in a monotheistic religion, but perhaps little things make a big difference?
A post on the Internet says, “I hated to see pics of a white Jesus when in india on homes of dark skinned people. It was offensive to me as a light skinned person that they did not see Jesus as one of their own.” Debates rage, especially around this season, as to whether the traditional representation of Jesus as white, with blue eyes, makes any sense considering he was from the Middle East.
We need to bring in an Ayyanaar (a primarily Tamil God venerated in villages, for his heroism) for things that we want to adapt, but don’t have a context. And not just in religion. In every sphere of our lives. If we want to be more Western, it may make more sense to create our own brand of rock, like Junoon did, rather than follow Linkin’ Park. After all, “teen spirit” isn’t quite the same here, is it?
So, this season, when kids scramble to sit on the laps of black Santas and white and brown, let’s figure out a way to make our own traditions that actually make sense to us.

That four letter word

Fuck. (No tricks here.)
I miss the word. Really do. I missed hearing it for over two months now, even if I used it only when I had to express extreme emotion. In fact, I can probably count on my fingers the number of times I have uttered it.
Mostly, I miss hearing it from others. Of course, there are substitutes, but nothing comes close to the succinct, pregnant meaning and emotion that the single-syllabled word signifies.
Why don’t people use it as freely in India? Or do they? Perhaps I’ll be hearing it often pretty soon, when people warm up to me, or when things get tough at work.
It’s weird that I miss it, because I’m not one to use it. But I’ve heard it said so many times by friends, colleagues and bosses in the U.S., that it sort of became a part of my “hearing” vocabulary.
The word used to bother me in the beginning, but gradually lost its edge, like a razor used to shave your underarms a zillion times.
Not once have I thought of its literal meaning when I've heard it -- only anger, frustration, overjoy (is that a word?) and surprise. I think it is a homophone, and means two entirely distinct things.
When I was in college doing my journalism, I was shocked at the generous use of obscenities by friends of mine. I had never heard swearing, certainly not by men (forget women) of the middle class. Slowly, I got used to it, then immune to it, and slowly, graduated (or downgraded) to using it myself, but carefully, and within my circle only.
Just today, the passport office got to me. Won’t start my sob story, suffice to say that my first brush with the hyped-up “online registration” system was not all that positive. I felt like shouting the F word at the top of my voice. Might have given me some relief; instead, I swallowed my anger and poured it all out on an auto driver who dared quote an exorbitant price (nothing new about that, only about my pressure cooker situation).
Now that I’m back in India, I find traffic irritating, and usually shout obscenities to rid myself of the stress, but am forever looking over my shoulder to see if the offender (at least in my eyes) is following me with a vengeance.
V. gently prophesies that I’ll probably get beaten up badly one of these days, and I think he may actually be right.
Oh fuck!

Chocolatization of India!

I did not expect this from the guy behind the counter at all -- he nearly broke my heart. One of my favorite drinks of all time was slowly but surely nearing its death -- nay, it was
being killed by a slow poison that has taken over most of the world.
Chocolate killed the Aavin flavored milk star!Yes, that dark brown seed that has dominated the candy industry so much that has come to mean candy, is slowly killing my beloved Aavin flavored milk.
When I went to my local neighborhood Aavin outlet, I spotted rows of tetra pacs of Aavin Flavored Milk. they seemed different, somehow, but I thought it might just be repackaging
that makes it look different. I asked for the elakka (cardamom) flavor, but the guy said all
they had were chocolate and strawberry flavors. Sometimes pista is available, he said, but cardamom is tough to find! Chocolate and strawberry, they aren't even native to this area, I wanted to scream. But markets rule everything today, and markets have decided that the Aavin Cardamom flavor is too irrelevant to live.
Chocolate is now everywhere. It is in cereals and cakes, and nearly everywhere else. It seems to have taken over children's hearts like crazy. Gone are the days when chocolate used to be a treat that kids pined and yearned for.
If I knew India would become so chocolatized, I would have at least enjoyed it more when I lived near the chocolate city- Hershey!

So here goes my own version of "Chocolate killed the Aavin Flavored Milk"
I tasted you, back in '82
Drank from you, enticed by you.
Longing for you everytime I passed through.
Ooh-a-ooh.
You were nice to hold, and sweet on my lip,
Then the dark, handsome chocolate arrived on a ship
And reduced you to an insignificant little blip!

Oh, and here's a little limerick!

There was once a drink called Aavin Elakka
It was sweet, healthy and a party maker.
Then came along chocolate
And sealed the fate
Of the wonderful drink Aavin Elakka.

A sharp turn in the matter of bus rides!

So, I revise my opinion of a bus ride – I’ll do a 180.
I love buses, especially when I manage to snag a seat. After I “saw” an editor at a newspaper for a job, I took a ride back home, and the bus, for all its inefficiencies, was really a microcosm of the city.
Now, bear in mind that I’m able to say all this simply because I got a seat to sit on. I made another trip that made my blood boil, and my leg, incidentally, because my foot was right on the vent near the gear box.
But I digress. I reached the bus stop, after visiting the parents of a friend of mine. They regaled me with stories from my college days (most of which I had forgotten either because I was drunk, or I had a bad memory, or they were making things up), and I was merrily on my way back home. I had been forewarned though: It was 4:50 p.m., and peak traffic was, literally around the corner.
I got on a fairly empty bus, a Deluxe bus no less, and the politics of gender immediately came into play. Many women were seated one to a seat, and because of the unwritten rule that men cannot solicit the empty seats next to women on a bus, there were several men standing. I always, always, make an effort and sit next to a woman in that case, so that two men may be allowed to sit.
I did that, and moved closer to a woman occupying a seat, and lo! The woman placed her handbag next to her, and gestured to the back of the bus. "Friend," was all she said, and I had to forget that seat! When I turned back to look at the seat I had given up, that had gone too! So much for chivalry!
Thank God I got a seat next to the door, really squeezed in, but that was the only empty seat, and we had reached the dreaded LIC Bus Stop – where half of Chennai apparently boarded buses. Now LIC is to Chennai what Sears Tower is to Chicago – our pride and joy, our architectural wonder, standing all of 14 floors tall.
In any case, there entered a crowd that, if melted, could not fit the bus even in liquid form. A couple of stops down the line, another huge crowd entered, and the fate of the bus ride was sealed – it was to be a rough one indeed. A young girl (apparently returning home from office), stood next to me, and I felt almost guilty sitting, the way she was hanging on for dear life.
An older vendor woman was seated on the seat behind me, and her humungous basket was lying around somewhere near her. The woman next to her was irritated at having to sit next to this vendor, which would have left this other leaner woman with nearly no space on the seat indeed. When the time came to alight, the lean woman had a tough time negotiating the basket, and grumbled in English all the way to the door. It had no effect on the vendor woman, clearly, and I smiled at the leaner woman, as I recognized that everybody’s fuse was getting shorter, as the bus made its journey across the city, slowly.
Every couple of minutes, the conductor shouted, “Ulla po ma (Go inside), edam irukku (There is place),” when, in reality(true story), a two-rupee coin that was dropped did not make it to the floor.
In the meantime, another woman got the seat left vacant by the exit of the leaner woman, and she then started telling the standees (actual term), “Idikkadhey ma. Thalli nillu (Don’t keep pushing against me, stand away).”
The girl standing near me exclaimed, “Oh, so now that you have a place to sit, you are ordering us standees around? Weren’t you just standing here, being pushed around?”
Yeah, I guess once a person gets a “seat,” her whole perception undergoes a paradigm shift.
After that came another colorful character on board, the 60-year-old woman who could not but think she was a victim of sexual harassment. In a jam-packed bus, paati suddenly started shouting at some guy, “Don’t keep touching. Stand away.”
The guy might have mumbled something, but paati did not let it rest. The rest of the bus might have been snickering, and there is no telling that she was over-reacting, but it was impossible to tell whether the guy was up to mischief or not.
After a while, he must have said something that suggested that paati was, after all, not all that touch-worthy, and she resumed her salvo with greater gusto, “All you guys need is a sari. Wrap a sari around a stick and you will misbehave,” she went on.
Meanwhile, tickets were being passed around, cell phones were ringing and calls were being answered, somehow.
Near the end of its journey, the bus began to thin out. It was still really crowded, but you could move your elbow, and could at least rotate on an axis.
I got off a stop further away from home, and decided to walk it. As the bus left, I couldn’t help thinking this one hour was better than any soap I’d ever get to watch on television!
Of course, it helped that I got a seat.

All play and no work makes me a dull worker :(

So, I’m at my new job, but have nearly nothing to do. Last week, they said this week will be busier, and this week, they say the next will be busier.
The work is so-so, and I’m doing extra things on my own initiative, like creating a training manual for writers to avoid simple mistakes. That’s pretty much the only thing I’ve done, actually.
I edited three documents or so, and V. said I’d receive a document today to edit, and it’s 3 p.m., and I have nada. Zip. I’m somehow not able to initiate talk, and don’t quite know what to do with my time.
If they give me a document at 5 p.m. today, I’m going to blow a fuse. They’d better not give me anything today, then!
But doing nothing is awful; never thought I’d be the one saying this.
When I came into this swanky office, I thought this was Corporate India at its efficient best – all smart and well-oiled. But that’s far from the case, as I’ve probably cribbed earlier as well. I’m thinking it’s be great if I had some extra writing work to do – partly why I’ve taken up this side assignment with Vin.
Oh well, let’s see what goes on.
Had dinner with one of my best friends from college yesterday, and she had some insightful things to say about society today.

Update: Just got an e-mail that details some tasks for the next few days. Seems like I have a lot of work coming my way tomorrow!

Support system -- too much of a good thing?

I’m finally meeting one of my best friends from college – and she lives just two streets away. Not quite sure why I didn’t rush to meet her; might have just been general lethargy, or is it subaltern for running away from my past? I’ll never know, because I finally got my ass up and had dinner with her.
After hurriedly getting her 2-year-old daughter some chocolates (which her husband, also a close friend ate with great gusto – turns out she doesn’t like chocolate all that much), I landed at her place. Her daughter apparently did not like me too much, and she has NO stranger anxiety, it seems! After meeting her husband, we bid goodbye to get on our journey, in the bike that must have seen a million potholes.
My friend, whom we’ll call S., has put on quite a bit of weight. Motherhood, I guess.
In any case, we go over a few more potholes, and wait at the gas station petrol bunk for two litres of petrol. Shouldn’t the reading be 2.02 at the pump? I guess not. Seems like the guy is doing some fraud, and I try to be the Jhansi Rani of Chennai, but the kids brush me off like I was crazy. Maybe I am.
In any case, two of us helmeted ladies reach Duchess Restaurant, and S. walks in with a defiant look on her face – like she’s going in for battle. On the way, of course, I’ve heard her tell me she’s hungry (really hungry, dead hungry, will-die-in-two-seconds-if-I-don’t-eat-right-now hungry) about a zillion times. It’s not like I can fly on my bike, but anyways.
So we walk in, and she practically orders for me, and seemed really desolate that I had decided to order vegetarian food. Something about the place made me want to stick on to my roots, or did it? Was it her? Is it India? I had not really eaten any (substantial) non-vegetarian food in Chennai since we arrived.
Anyways, what I got from the conversation was that all around her, relationships were breaking up. People were getting divorced, or sleeping with other people, or generally unhappy with their current lives.
True words. With increased financial independence and that “archenemy” of contentment, choices, women (and men) no longer think of relationships, and marriage, as being something “permanent.” They are, at best, the result of what was the best-case scenario at the time of the wedding.
Like an electron in its ground state (new information I gathered from one of our e-learning courses- hehe), people are constantly looking for ways to make that jump to the excited state. If an outside gamma ray comes and hits them, their bond to the nucleus is broken quite easily.
The concept of the existence something better out there that might not require this much work is ever-present in the minds of some of these high-tech DINK couples. Even DISK couples.
Working on a relationship might be really difficult for them, then. For people like me.
What makes it extra difficult in India is the fact that you have a support system that’s crazy, and will hold you no matter what.
Whenever V. and I fought in the U.S., sheer boredom would drive us back together. Desperate to talk and make up, we would. But here, I noticed (of course we’ve already fought), I don’t have a need to speak with him. I have my parents-in-law, work, friends, hundreds of books, cooking, and lots of other things to keep me busy. And it’s the same with V. – he has regular bridge games, doing little chores around the house, this and that. Actually, come to think of it, it does seem like he has less to do overall here!
So the support system that is looked at wistfully from shores beyond is working in devious ways within the country. Friends speak with each other, get drunk, and communication between partners is not exactly essential for either party’s survival.
I am independent and so are you, so let's all quit getting sentimental!
I‘ll stop my verbal diarrhea now; got to go.
But you get the point.

First Day at Work!

So, today was my first day at work in corporate India!
And boy, does it work slowly! My computer wasn't set up even when I left, and no one really gave me anything to do, and probably wouldn't have, if I hadn't asked them.
So, I was sent to an absent employee's computer, and just "hang out." I played two games of Spider Solitaire.
Then, I asked someone for something to do. Felt increasingly like the genie who had to always be occupied.
To get me out of their hair, I was asked to peruse some style guides. The files wouldn't open, and I waited for a while to get someone to help me. They couldn't.
Three games of Spider Solitaire followed.
Turns out the file won't open from the server.
So, after about an hour of that, I was bored. Thank God for my colleague, who dropped in with some edited documents for me to look at, so I could at least see what an e-learning course looked like!
Lunch was an elaborate affair, with some kids. The kids were really mostly fresh out of college, I saw a bit of myself in them. Age does funny things to you sometimes.
Well, lunch hour was for about an hour and a half, it seemed like. Way too long for my liking. I guess it's good sometimes, since there's not much else to do. I think I'll eat at my desk from now on. Perhaps join them for the walk later. Some of them walk after the hour-and-a-half-long lunch, apparently.
Anyways, to cut a long boring story really short, I got some work at around 2:30 or so, without a deadline attached to it.
And after reviewing my first real "client-approved" edited version of a module, I started actual work. After about an hour, there was some sort of (irrelevant, at least to my role, at least on my first day) meeting.
When I could return to my (read: Sudharshan's) desk, it was 6:15 p.m. I go and ask the guy what the deadline is, so I can plan my next day, and he says it is due that day.
What with PMS and general irritation, I almost snap back at him that it's not possible.
Anyways, I guess I'll have to finish it tomorrow.
First Day: Just OK. But people are really nice, all over the world.

Of jobs and interviews

Yeah, the job culture sure is a bit wierd -- that much can be figured out from the interview process itself.

So, I'm looking for a job; sort of half-heartedly. I don't want to seem like I'm not looking, but I'm not over-enthusiastic about it either.

My parents-in-law, after knowing that I might be interested, quickly accelerate to fourth gear, while I'm still on neutral, contemplating whether or not to move my car to first. They call on their favors, and put me in touch with many people from different kinds of newspapers.

First up is Deccan Chronicle. I learned that whenever you ask someone for any job opportunity, the first thing anyone says (before even looking into whether or not there IS a job), is "Come and see me/him/her."

So, on a tip ("recommendation") from a reporter (who my parents-in-law might have misconstrued as the sports editor; but I had no heart to tell them), I was on my way to meet a woman who had the very basic information on me. I had nothing on her.

So I made my way to her office, met my informant (recommender), and found myself in the office of a young woman who probably had half the experience in reporting that I did. She didn't seem to understand what I wanted. She said I could start off as a reporter, and I nearly laughed. Not because I didn't want to report, but she had prefaced it with, "Like any person fresh from college..."

Not sure if she read my resume, but as we spoke, I realized the job I would be perfect for, with my experience and background, was hers! She was in charge of the Chennai-specific supplement of the paper.

Any case, after a few questions like: How well do you know Chennai? Tamil? (Turns out she's a Telugu from Hyderabad who knows no Tamil --hehe), we parted ways, with promises of resume forwarding. That still hasn't moved forward, but I had an eerie experience at another newspaper, the doyen of Chennai's journalism.

I met a really nice gentleman, who asked me, again, to "come meet me," or "post me" my resume. He was going on vacation the next day onwards, and was nice enough to go through my particulars. After telling me there were several options available to me, he asked me to fill in my personal details at the end of my one-page CV.

Write your date of birth and marital status, he said. I was tempted to ask how this was all relevant, but held my tongue. In any case, I left with high hopes. He also called me right away, and said there were openings in their sister publication as well. I contacted the person in charge there, and he said the same thing -- "I'm not the person making the decisions, but you can come see me."

Why would I go see him if he cannot make a decision? Not sure, but I did. He gave me some gyan on the general industry etc., and left me sort of hanging. He was supposed to tell the editor-in-chief about me, so that I could call him.

When I called the editor a couple of days later for an appointment, he apparently said, "Who's this Miss Meera?" Not a good sign!

Anyhoo, later!

The Best Diwali Vedi!

At least someone has a sense of humor! Never mind that the bombs were all smoke, no burst.
One other picture attached too...

Enjoy!

Anatomy of a bus ride

T. Nagar has become crazy this Diwali season (perhaps always is during Diwali). The coming of the mega clothing stores (Saravana, SKC, Pothys, RMKV) has concentrated all the shopping within one square kilometer – so you can imagine the rush, the craziness and the commerce that goes on.
Sunday was the last weekend before Diwali – traditionally the busiest day for shopping for the entire year. Auto rickshaws are prohibited on the main shopping route in T. Nagar, and yet, the traffic was standstill or, if you're lucky, moving inch-by-inch.
My MIL has a friend, who operates an orphanage and old age home (these two institutions seem to go well together, as seen in many NGOs), has an annual concert and we were going to attend that. We, meaning, me, MIL, Maha, Vijay, and Govind (who had never set foot inside a bus, not even in the U.S., I might add).
After my idea of calling a call taxi was rejected (with good reason, apparently, no call taxi will ply to T. Nagar anyways), came a bus filled with people. Never mind the day of the week, Diwali means crowds, we gathered, but we wanted to wait for a bus with at least a square inch of footroom for each person.
Another bus arrived soon after, which might have been better. It didn't have the promised square inch, we learned, after we somehow got on. It was one of those buses where the front of the bus is reserved for ladies, and the back of the bus, for men. Earlier, there used to be buses where these two sections were separated by a grill, and was nicknamed “nai” bus (Dog bus) by my sis – it was quite amusing, especially when the ladies section would sometimes have a few free seats, while the men’s section would be bursting at its seams!
We all got in, or were shoved in, and the bus started before Vijay and Govind could get on. There was a mini-crisis in my mind, as I contemplated having everyone get off, but they both got on fine. Next came the task of getting Govind to a comfortable position (not possible, I learned). My MIL tried to get him to hold one of the poles in the bus, or even sit on one of the seats, but so terrified was he, that he just hugged my MIL’s knees, paralyzing her motion as well.
After getting the tickets (premium price, I must mention, as the bus was ‘Deluxe.’) we thought the bus would move. But it was stuck In traffic. We saw people walking by us – what’s more, we saw them walking back, after competing their chore as well, while we were stuck in the same place. T.Nagar is accessible by a subway (from our home), and the bus was stuck forever even before we reached the subway, which was known for its traffic snarls anyways.
My MIL had another bright idea – to get off before the subway (even though there was no bus stop), and cross the railway line (somehow, I’m sure it must have involved something illegal, not quite sure, as the lines are quite blurred). I was vehemently against this idea, and as we debated back and forth, the bus lurched forward, and braked immediately, of course, pushing us all a few feet in front. I looked down to see Govind was still holding on to his grandmom’s sari, and had now buried his face within her sari’s pleats.
After what seemed like an eternity, we got off at another unscheduled (but encouraged by the conductor) stop. The program itself went well, and we got a mix of some good songs, although the volume was really high. Our sitting right next to the speakers didn’t help, of course.
The way back was uneventful, as we hired an auto to get home. Of course, auto rates in Chennai are always negotiated, and the meter lies purely as a decorative piece.
I realized that I would have enjoyed this bus ride, had I been on vacation. It would have been something to tick off on my “local things I did when I went home.” Being local when you live locally is not all that attractive, I realized.

Personal what?

Personal spaces: Eh, what?

So, on Vijayadasami Day, I found myself screaming across the grill gate to the old woman next door, “No, I haven’t seen a doctor yet.” My nephew, Govind’s balloon became the starting point for a conversation that took me by surprise, but apparently it is quite common.

Anyway, to back up, Govind, my nephew, was playing with a balloon, and it fell over the fence to the next house. I went up to the gate and called out for permission, and the lady of the house (I think) said I could take it. Before I could move, an 80-plus old lady came out, and seemed happy to see me. I hadn’t seen this woman before, only heard her in general ambient sounds drifting into our house. She thought I was Govind’s mom, and after I clarified I was not (she was hard of hearing, so I had to shout too) she said, “oh, you are the second daughter-in-law. So how long have you been married?” I had to shout, “Four.” No sense complicating with months.

She immediately looked disappointed. “No kids yet?”

“No.” (Screaming at this point)

“Why?”

Not quite sure how to answer this, really. Should I be telling this woman anything about my life? I shrugged.

“Did you get yourself checked?”

Which was the statement I was totally unprepared for, but wasn’t exactly astounded by. I saw the old woman, and realized, “This is India yaar.”

I quickly promised her I would have a child as a ”humanly” p, and then she went on tangent about her accident, and about my mother-in-law’s stroke. “She would have died, you know,” said the old paati, as if we were unaware of it. Her words were quite dramatic, as if my mother-in-law was on her way to heaven and was brought back by some stroke of luck. Turned out she was a close friend of my mother-in-law’s mother; that was her claim to closeness.

After her, the local ironing lady asked me the same question too. “Nothing?” she asked matter-of-factly, tracing out a bump in her belly. I said, “If I keep eating like I do now, I’m sure I’ll get one.”

She didn’t seem to get it. Well, goodbye space. Hello, world; welcome to our bedroom!

Fights and fisticuffs, almost!

So I picked several fights today-- on Saraswati Puja.
I'm still trying to make sense of this country called India. While many of its residents are riding its wave of success, many more have not just been left behind, but are trying to make sense of all that is happening around them,including the presence of huge supermarkets like RelianceFresh (loved the place), and manifoldincrease of the prices of everything from petrol to day-to-day essentials.
Anyways, the first fight (maybe not exactly a fight), was with a random roadside rowdy. Maha and I were going on the bike, to enquire about a school closeby. The bike seemed to be a bitout of whack, and stopped after going a few feet everytime.
A bike, who was behind us, was continuously honking (with some good reason), as we were snaking on the road. Two kids passing by said something to the effect of 'Ladies,don't disturb." There was another lady in front of us,a vendor who was carrying a basket of greens, or something like that.
I called out to the guy, and followed him to his office, and started shouting outside the office. I scolded the guy outside, and told him that the world was going places, and this guy was interested in teasing women. I gave a spiel about women being offended and how we were not able to walk in peace blah blah. I asked for the supervisor, but was not given a proper answer. We wanted to ask Amma about the bike, so we parked the bike there and walked toward home.
The guys probably thought we were going to call the police or something. After we asked Amma, who advised us to keep giving it the choke constantly.
When we went bak to where the bike was parked, a few boys (hardly 15-16), were standing outside and asked for our forgiveness. They said that boy was crazy, etc.! I felt good for a little bit, but then started thinking about the boy who teased us. Where was he getting all this? From movies? Around him? His parents? How far had he studied? Why did he stop?

Anyways, the second was hardly a fight -- a taxi which was parked right outside our house was blasting music, perhaps oblivious to the fact that it might disturb others. I went to the taxi, and was almost ready to switch off the music manually (the windows were open), but turned out the driver was awake, and speaking on his cell phone. I told him it was disturbing us,and he immediately acquiesced, turning the volume down. I realised the concept of personal space was a bit different in India.

Then, I went to Maha's parents' house, and then to Vijay's peripa's.There was the real fight, quite unnecessary, i might add. Our hosts were on the third floor, and we went with my nephew Govind (three years old, I might add). He was already cranky, and we were sure making him climb the stairs would worsen him. We were directed toward the elevator, but there was a puja in progress right outside it -- a Saraswati Puja of the building, sort of. I asked the gentleman there if we could use the elevator. An older man, he said something roughly translated as, "What would you do if there were no elevator?"
Already on a short fuse, I got mad. I asked the man why we couldn't use it, and he muttered something under his breath. I went off on a tangent, clearly misunderstanding what he said. Then, even after he offered us the lift, I used the stairs, dragging poor Maha and Govind along. I muttered inanities ("They worship God, but clearly don't worry about human beings," etc.) all the way up. On the way down, we used the lift, and dropped straight into the proceedings! After some jostling, we got out, and an older lady said, "This is why he asked you to use the stairs." I thought to myself, "I understand, but isn't there a way to say everything? Why say something like that, instead of something nicer, especially to guests of the building?" Again, I guess presentation is not an important part of Indian culture.

Well, I feel like "Anniyan's" Vikram, Rules Ramanujam. I was speaking with Malar about the whole staring thing today, and she asked me, "So what's wrong with staring? It's just an indian thing. Just because Americans don't do it, doesn;t mean it's wrong, does it?" Point taken, I guess.

I'm also feeling a general sense of lethargy. Haven't really established contact with anyone except Malar and Soap, minimally. Don't know why. I guess I'll figure it out.

Gym salwars!

So it’s been two days since I joined “Rambo’s” gym.

The place where I see women in spotless salwar kameezes working out at 6 am! These are mainly working ladies who want to slim down, mostly to get married. How they can go to the office in those clothes soaked in sweat, or indeed, how they are comfortable in them while working out is beyond me.

I did that yesterday, but went out and bought some gym clothes (I could only get it in the men’s department, in something called “LoungeWear.” Really sweet girls, and they immediately asked my name and all that.

Not to be a comparer, but for all of Arlington Health and Fitness’ squeaky-clean atmosphere and the spotless equipment, nearly one-and-a-half years there got me no further than a random “hi.”

The first day I went to Rambo’s, I was subjected to a half-hour lecture from Rambo Vimal (former Mr. India and three-time Mr. Tamilnadu) on the importance of working out and keeping your body fit. “No one in India, indeed no one in the world gives such a talk,” he said. Never mind the obvious question: How does he know this? The talk was initially interesting, then became mildly funny, then boring. But he was sincere and earnest in whatever he said and that was the best part of it for me.

He also gave me a diet diary, and a diet chart, which stipulates five glasses of milk a day! Guess he thinks Dhoni’s secret really is in the milk!

Even the first day I met him, I thought he got what I wanted to do. The equipment (if you could call it that) was really rusty, but I took to this hulk who seemed genuinely interested in what he was doing.

I think it was Hrishikesh Hirway (a U.S.-based singer that I interviewed once) who said that the one thing inherently South Asian about his work might be its sincerity – how even in his lightest lyrics, there is a sense of sincerity that he finds reflected in Bollywood. I now know what he means.

Although most girls must be in their 20s (gosh!) there was one 56-year-old mami working out in her sari! Quite the change from Arlington’s gym, I must say.

The only thorn is that I have to get up at 5:30 a.m. to walk there – the session starts at 6!

Look for a muscular Meera in the months to come!!

Finally here!

I'm finally here! Things are chugging along, slow so far, still got a bit of a jetlag, am sleeping all the time. Mom thinks it's the stress of the past four years showing now.. hehe..

The first thing I noticed as soon as we landed, were the stares. It was not directed at me because I was a woman, or because I was perceived to be from America, or any such thing. It was just plain staring -- from women and men, both.
No sooner than my feet landed on the walkway than I assumed what might be my attitude throughout my life here in India -- one of offense.
I stared right back at people, until they would look away. And if I thought someone was staring at me because I was a woman (backed up by no particular observation even), I started ignoring them and walking past as if I was above such petty staring games.

My offensive stand came in useful at the counter when one of our bags was reported to be missing. The woman at the counter said the bags would come home, but no mention of any compensation. Now, I did not really have many clothes in the bag that I needed right away, but the bag was mine and the airlines was British Airways, and I hated them.
So I asked the woman (by now, my tone to anyone outside my "known" circle was already belligerent) if we would get any compensation. She said, point blank, no.
I immediately started complaining like the good NRI (RI I guess), and wanted to know where her supervisor was. She disappeared for a few minutes, and returned saying the supervisor was very busy.
I saw an older man who seemed to be answering everybody's questions, and I shouted out to him, "Sir!"
The lady seemed to understand and said immediately, "This is not my supervisor," and pointed me out to a man in a pink shirt (real men wear pink, of course).
V., by now, had unsuccessfully tried to dissuade me from getting into the mess, and had retreated. I followed the man in the pink shirt, and said I needed to speak with him, and he said, "wait there."
I seemed to think that being a pest will work best, and told him, I'd just follow him around. He was a nice guy, though, I must say, he also had a cute lisp!
He said he won't be able to do his job if I followed him around, but I stood my ground, and I might have gotten on his nerves a bit, I think.
Anyways, long story short, we got about 35 pounds as interim compensation. Not that the money was important, as I explained to Vijay -- it was the principle of the thing.

As soon as we got out, however, another thing hit me -- something I had forgotten during my days in Boston-- the humidity. It was around 5:15 a.m., and we were sweating like pigs. The weather -- still not used to it, and I like the heat too! I guess I like it when I don't have much of it:)

Vijay was here yesterday, and we planned to leave for my in-laws' house today, but I wanted to stay over an extra day. Think that didn't go down too well with my parents-in-law. My brother, meanwhile wants me to stay here until Sunday, when I leave for Mysore with my mom. Oh, whatever!

Am at my parents' house now, and they have broadband, so Internet is easier here. Looking forward to the Mysore trip.