Tuesday, July 26, 2011

Home Sweet Home

The trip home was largely uneventful. Mother-in-law and I took the bus from Pune to Mumbai, and a movie played loudly the whole way, discouraging any conversation. (She was talking to me again by this point, thanks to the morning cup of tea I made for her. My peace offering.) A few hours were spent at her sisters house, where I mostly just tried to stay awake and pretend like I was interested in what they were saying...in a language I can't understand. Then it was off to the airport. There were some delays and some turbulence during the flights, but I was passed out like I'd been drugged so I really didn't care.

Unexpectedly, to me at least, the strange part was when I actually arrived home.

The entire drive from Dulles to DC, I couldn't stop staring at my husband (at least when I wasn't scarfing down the delicious cheeseburger he brought for me). It was as though I couldn't believe he was actually beside me instead of just on Skype video. And not just an "oh I'm so happy to be home I can't believe it" but literally I could not believe it.

When we reached the apartment, everything was at once familiar and completely unfamiliar at the same time. Everything looked just the way I'd left it. But I found myself not knowing where to put things and having to open multiple cabinets or closets to find what I was looking for. It was like being in a completely new house. Even though everything was kept in the same place it had been since we moved in.

Being away from home for two months is nothing like being away for a long weekend. It's disorienting to be unsure of things in your own home.

I couldn't remember the quirks of our shower. I couldn't remember where my phone charger was kept or even which one it was. I opened the wrong cabinet to get a water glass. I woke up in the night, in the dark, aware that there was something beside me but I didn't know what or where I was. It had to be at least a full thirty seconds before I realized I was at home and the mound beside me in the bed was my husband. Well, the big one anyway. The small one on the other side of me was the cat. That took like an extra minute to figure out. I got up to go to the bathroom and walked straight into the door, which hubby keeps closed at night. As I'm unpacking, I can't remember where exactly I kept everything for my morning routine. I have no idea where my house keys are, and I had trouble locking the bolt behind my husband when he left for work this morning.

I'm home, but it feels almost like I've never lived here before. Like while I was away, hubby moved to a new apartment and this is the first time I've been there.

It sucks. I in no way anticipated it would be so strange to be home. Don't get me wrong, I'm ridiculously happy to be here. But there is most definitely an adjustment period required. Yay I'm home! But where do I keep my shoes again?

I'm sure things will settle down in a day or two and it will be like I never left. All my things will be in their places and I'll get back to my routine. The cat will stop chasing me every time I move in the direction of the door, and will accept that when I leave the house I really will come back this time. Hubby won't sound confused that I can call him in the middle of the day. I'll remember to cross the street at corners and give people adequate personal space on the trains and buses. But in the meantime...well, let me remember this if I ever again think going on such a long trip is a good idea.

Saturday, July 23, 2011

Goodbye India

This will be my last post from India. In an hour I leave for Mumbai by bus with my mother-in-law (who is not speaking to me after last night's episode...should be a fun trip). We'll set up camp at her sister's house for a few hours, and then it's off to the airport for me.

I can't believe that two months in India is almost at a close. I'm so eager to get back home, but at the same time it feels strange that it's already over. So now it's time to reflect back on what I came here to do, and what I've learned from the experience.

Could I ever come to live in India?
Honestly, I think the answer to this is yes. I would want to find a city that is more comfortable to me, as Pune is much too slow paced. And I would have to tackle that whole learning to drive on the wrong side of the road while acting out a game of Frogger thing so that I can have independence. But I do believe I could learn to be happy living in this country and make it my home. But not for an indefinite period. If or when we move to India, it would have to be with a set end date in mind. I don't think I could come here and stay forever.

Could I ever live with or near my in-laws like a good Indian wife?
That's a big fat NO. There would be much too much day-to-day friction. And I want the freedom to raise my children the way my husband and I see fit, and that would not happen with my mother-in-law in close proximity. The perfect distance would probably be one which is too far to travel more often than every few months, but close enough that a weekend stay is sufficient. Obviously, as long as we are in separate countries, the visits will last for more like two or three months (or six, if Dadaji's trips are any indication). But at the same time, once that visit is over, the rest of the year would be in-law free. I haven't yet figured out which is the lesser of two evils.

Has my relationship with my in-laws improved?
This is a tough one. Before this trip, I had essentially no relationship with my in-laws, and that has definitely changed. Whether or not we now have a good relationship is up for debate. I've learned a lot about them in my time here. But I have not learned much that I like. I have generally felt like they could care less that I'm here and have no desire to get to know me. My beliefs and opinions differ so drastically from my mother-in-law's that it is difficult to even hold a conversation.

Obviously, we have not become close friends because of this visit. But I have learned enough to feel like I now know how to handle them. I know what to expect from them, I know what my limits are, I know when I need to just walk away. Basically, I believe I can now survive long visits with them without anyone having to die. And that's something, right?

Did I gain any marketable NGO experience?
That would have to be a....sort of. I have had experiences that you certainly wouldn't get sitting behind a desk in the U.S., so that should count for something. But I definitely could not say I've learned the ins and outs of an organization. Or even performed any actual work with them. To be fair, I had ten days to arrange this trip. There are many organizations here that seem highly organized and provide their volunteers with incredible experience...but volunteers have to apply months in advance, a luxury I did not have. I was able to find and make contact with (and actually receive a response back from) only one organization before I arrived here.

Manavya is a great organization, providing a home, education and healthcare to HIV-positive orphans. They do amazing work. However, school started for the children two weeks after my arrival (and four days after I'd finally managed to arrange to visit), and so I could not work with them during the week because it would disrupt their schooling. Who knew school would be in session during this time? Not me. It didn't occur to me that schools in India might operate on a different schedule than in the U.S. Not something I thought about. After first being told I could work in the office once school started, I was then told that no I could not because I don't know the Marathi language. I told every organization I contacted that I do not speak any of these languages. Manavya seemed fine with it. But when it came down to it, it was an insurmountable problem. So I could not work with them, but was encouraged to raise money for them when I return to the U.S. Right.

Janvikas is also a great organization, working in rural areas and tackling all aspects of development. I discovered them through hubby's best friend after I had been in Pune for nearly a month already. I had a very fascinating day with them, but again, my lack of Marathi skills limited my opportunities. They did however allow me to attend training sessions even though I wouldn't understand a word of them. And they did take time out to at least sum up what was being discussed, even if I did still miss out on the details. But I was unable to visit them again and see more of their projects.

Visiting the slum school was an incredible experience. To see people from such an impoverished background that they don't even have a proper home is very humbling. They are rejected by society everywhere they turn. But this one man, a man who was once a slum dweller himself, is giving them all a chance. I really wish I could have spent more time at this school, but I guess it just wasn't in the cards. Three weeks wasted playing phone tag means that I only had two days at the school. Enough to change me, absolutely. Enough to tell a great story, sure. Not enough to boost my resume.

Did the trip meet my expectations?
The answer to this one is, sadly, no.

Part of that is that my expectations are always absurdly high. I don't think anything or anyone, myself included, has ever fully met my expectations in any situation. I expect not just greatness and perfection, but superhuman levels.

I expected to be capable in at least one language by the end of my trip. Indian languages are in no way similar to English or the romance languages, which are the only languages I have experience with. In fact, I can't find a single thing they have in common, but least of all are the sounds that form the words. My ears cannot detect certain differences and my mouth cannot form them. And those differences are very important to the language. I did not give this challenge the credit it deserves. I assumed it was just a matter of studying and practicing. Which of course it is to some degree, but without the natural ability that comes with learning a language from childhood, it will take time. When my in-laws got married, my mother-in-law did not speak Marathi, she only knew Hindi and Gujarati. Those two languages are very similar to Marathi, and yet it still took her six months of private lessons to become proficient. And I expected it to happen in two months. It was an unattainable goal, so I can't feel too bad that I didn't achieve it.

Except that I gave up. When I realized how difficult it truly would be, I stopped trying as hard. I couldn't motivate myself to study in my spare time, even though I had a lot of it. I didn't harass my in-laws to teach me phrases and words. I blamed that on the fact that they would each say things differently and if I asked them to repeat something they would say it in yet another way. Sure, that didn't make it easy. But I could have kept trying.

I expected to get a lot of work experience, to the point that when I send out my new updated resume, employers will be climbing over each other to get to me. Instead, I got about 8 days of work experience. In three different places. Can I use that to promote myself? Sure. But let's face it, there are people in my field who spent two years in the Peace Corp and still can't find a job. So how much will 8 days really help? I did, however, gain a lot of personal experience through those 8 days. I saw a side to the world that I could never see from the U.S. or even from my in-law's house in Pune. That has changed me. I hope potential employers will be able to see that in me, but if they can't, I can. And that makes me happy.

I expected my in-laws to fall in love with me once they got to know me. But even living in the same house for two months, there's only so much you can know about another person. I still occasionally discover little surprises about my own husband, and he about me. And it takes me time to warm up to someone and let my guard down so that they can get to know me. That didn't happen in this situation unfortunately. But perhaps I've set the stage for it to happen in the future. I hope I have.

So, no, this trip hasn't lived up to my expectations, but that has less to do with my stay here and more to do with the way I handled it. I didn't live up to my expectations. But again, I hope I've set the stage for easier and happier future visits.

Last day...and not a moment too soon

Sunday night, I head to the Mumbai International airport for my flight back to the U.S.

If I can survive til then. And not get arrested for assault either.

Me getting sick on Thursday threw a wrench into the getting-out-of-India plans. Instead of spending the weekend in Mumbai, I stayed in Pune. That left the question of how I will get to Mumbai on Sunday.

I figured that, it being the one day of the week Papa doesn't work, we would just drive to Mumbai. Easy peasy.

It turns out, Papa has to go to Mumbai for work on Monday. Even better, I thought. They'll drop me to the airport and spend the night with family, then come back to Pune when Papa is done with work.

Apparently that's no good. Papa doesn't want to go until Monday morning. And he doesn't want Mama to have to wait for him in Mumbai.

I spend all of Friday trying to settle the plans to no avail.

Saturday morning, before Papa left for work, he presented me with two options: take the train with Dadaji, or be put in a cab that would take me directly to the airport. We discussed both possibilities. He said we'd decide that night.

I assumed one of the two options would be selected. Silly me. I've learned nothing of how they operate.

I spent the day with my mother-in-law, having decent conversation and cooking together. When a friend invited me out to a movie, she readily agreed that I could go. What a great way to end the trip!

And then I came back.

And found out the plan was now for me and Mama to take the bus to Mumbai. She would come back the next day by bus. Even though Papa will be driving there and back that very same day. And Dadaji will be taking the train there in the morning. So we will all be traveling to Mumbai, but at three different times by three different methods of transportation.

Did I mention the bus would've been my last choice? See, there's a lot of hills between Pune and Mumbai. And the driving here is not so good. And even on the well-behaved roads of the U.S. in a little car on a straight road, if I don't have an unobstructed view out the windshield I get nauseous. So on a bus in India through mountains? That's a recipe for disaster.

I tried to tell my mother-in-law the plan made no sense. She ignored me. I told my husband the plan made no sense, and he told his mother the plan made no sense. Again, ignored. I threw in the bit about vomiting, and that's when it got bad. Ok, worse.

Hubby told MIL that I would get sick on the bus. She yelled at him that I should have been here tonight to discuss it instead of going out. Then she threw the phone at me. Yes, threw. Kids aren't the only ones who have temper tantrums.

I was here in the morning. I was here last night. I discussed and discussed and discussed with everyone. If anyone had mentioned the bus, I would've told them immediately that it wouldn't be a good idea. But no one mentioned it. I was given only two options, which were discussed in detail. I said I was fine with either one, and I went on about my business. Mama even called her sister this morning in my presence to say that I would not be coming to her house after all. The same sister we are now taking the bus to go see. They knew where I was this evening and how to get in touch with me. They could have just picked up the phone and asked if their new plan was ok. They did not. And somehow it is my fault for not foreseeing this completely new plan developing.

I shouldn't be surprised, everything has been my fault for two months. And nothing ever goes according to the original plan. So I guess really it is my fault for not anticipating it. I should have learned my lesson.

All I know is, somehow, someway, I'm getting to Mumbai tomorrow. And I'm getting on a plane. And I'm getting back to a world where it's hot in July, and people think before acting, and life makes logical sense. It can't come soon enough.

Friday, July 22, 2011

My first hospital stay...and it's in India. Go figure.

God has a sense of humor.

Last weekend, before we left for Lonavala, I thought that finally my in-laws wanted to actually do something with me. Then, I found out that six of their closest friends would be joining us. I was just tagging along, really. I was upset. On the way home, when it was just me and my in-laws in the car together, we got stuck in traffic. For three hours. No TV or computers or separate rooms to disappear to, just the four of us finding ways to entertain each other.

Thursday morning, we were all set to leave for Mumbai. My brother-in-law's flight back to the U.S. was late that night, and my flight is early Monday morning, so we were just going to spend the time there with family instead of driving back and forth. My father-in-law wasn't going to come with us, because he couldn't miss three days of work (he works Saturdays too). I was sad that he couldn't come with us, because I felt like I'd hardly seen him in the past two months because of his work schedule and his penchant for staring at the TV all evening once he's home. Well, God had an answer for that one too.

I woke up super early on Thursday morning in incredible pain. My right lower abdomen felt like it was alternately in a vice and being stabbed. I spent three hours unable to leave the bathroom before everyone else woke up and wondered where I was. I couldn't take any medicine because I would immediately throw it up.

My father-in-law loaded me into the car and took me to a doctor he is friends with. The doctor examined me, made a phone call, and off I went to the hospital. We marched right past all the waiting patients and directly into the doctor's office. From there, I was whisked upstairs and immediately given a room. Oh the joys of knowing people.

My room was in the "Super Deluxe Block." I kid you not, that's what the hall was called. We in the U.S. tend to name areas of the hospital based on the types of patients put there: ICU, Maternity, etc. I thought perhaps this was where they put their VIPs: political figures, celebrities, white girls they're afraid of, you know, the usual. But if this was a "super deluxe" room, I don't want to see the "substandard block." It was a small double room with barely enough space for someone to stand between the beds. It did have its own bathroom, so perhaps that's the deluxe part. Otherwise it looked more like a prison cell than a hospital room. In fact, I'm fairly certain those beds came from a prison cell. Wrought iron, hard as bricks, with none of the mechanical fun of hospital beds in the U.S.

I was given an antibiotic and put on an IV of saline and pain killer. Sadly, the pain killer was not of the fun variety that ought to be required when you're in a hospital. This was straight up ibuprofen or something, I don't know. It did the job, but I really could have done with some loopy happiness.

My in-laws packed my brother-in-law onto a bus to Mumbai so he could make his flight, then set up camp in my room. As I attempted to rest, they talked (loudly), watched a singing program on the TV (again, loudly), and turned the A/C (which I had requested be left off) on full blast. I thought I will have to remember this next time I want to visit someone in the hospital. Get in, say hey I'm thinking about you, then get the hell out so they can get well already! Once the drugs started doing their thing, though, I began enjoying their company and was glad they were there. They kept me entertained with stories, and we talked more than we probably have in the entire two months I've been here.

Word that I was in the hospital spread like wildfire. Mama had called her two siblings we were supposed to visit that day to tell them why we weren't coming. They called the rest of the family. Who then called us. And somehow at some point word spread to Papa's side of the family who then also began calling. At this rate, I figured my family would find out from their morning news.

The doctors wanted to do some tests to make sure it was nothing more serious than a problem with food. They did an ultrasound to make sure my appendix wasn't the source, due to the placement of my pain. Everything checked out fine, though I would like to know why the technician felt the need to smear the gel over my entire mid-section just to check the lower right side. The highlight was when they handed me two small containers, as big around as a quarter and about as deep, and told me they needed urine and stool samples. Then they left. Excuse me, but what do you expect me to do with these? I'd be doing good to pour water into an opening that size. And who did they send to collect the samples? A doctor so hot he should be in movies. Life is unfair sometimes.

By early afternoon, we knew there was nothing seriously wrong. A little antibiotic and some time were all I really needed. So you can imagine our frustration when we were not allowed to leave before 10 that night. The only reason they didn't succeed in making us stay overnight is because of Papa's friendship with the doctor.

We didn't want to stay overnight because, apart from being really uncomfortable, it would be very expensive. Very few people have health insurance here. There's no real point to it from what I gather. So everything is out of pocket. Even the medications that are administered in a hospital, the doctor gives a prescription to the patient, who hopefully has a friend or family member with them to send outside to the pharmacy to purchase the medicine. They then bring the medicine back in, give it to the doctor, who then gives it to the patient. I mean really, wtf is that? If I'm in a hospital and need medication, just f'ng give it to me! If I'm ill enough to be in a hospital, I'm too ill to go shopping.

The one advantage over American hospitals is the food. Papa had told me that when he was little and his sister was born, he would go visit in the evenings and eat the food the staff brought to the room. "I can still remember the taste of that daal" he said. I assumed it was burned into his memory because it was so terrible, but apparently no, he thought it was delicious. So then I assumed he's out of his mind and I can understand now why he likes my mother-in-law's cooking. But when they brought my food...I'll be damned if it wasn't pretty tasty! Good food! In a hospital! Will wonders never cease.

By the time I was discharged, I'd been in the hospital for 11 hours. That was plenty for me. I hope I never have to repeat the experience, in India, America or anywhere else. Today, everything seems to be back to normal. I guess I just really didn't want to spend four days in Mumbai. Although now that I know my mother-in-law snores (she fell asleep at the hospital), I am a bit glad I don't have to spend the night anywhere where I have to share a room with her. I'll finish out my last few days here in the big house in Pune, thank you very much.

Wednesday, July 20, 2011

Slummin' it...literally

Visiting the slum school took forever to happen. Three weeks after I met with a woman who is involved with the school, I still had not been able to visit. First she arranged the visit for one week after our meeting. Then, in the days leading up to the visit, when we tried to reach her to arrange a specific time, she would not answer or return our calls. Once another week had passed, I finally succeeded in speaking to her, but was again left waiting for her to arrange an exact day and time. Another week went by, and finally on Tuesday I was able to go visit.

She had called my mother-in-law on Monday morning, but she didn't wake me up so that I could go that day. So she tentatively set it for Tuesday at 9am, depending on when my brother-in-law goes to play tennis. Well I knew if I was dependent on him for a ride, I would not be able to go at 9am because he would not leave the house before 10:30. So Monday evening, I asked my MIL if she had spoken to the woman to set the time. She had not. I asked for her number so I could call her. She would not give it to me.

My evening phone call with hubby consisted of me, yet again, venting about his family. It took him calling his mother directly, and what sounded like a very heated phone conversation (I really need to learn these languages!) before he was able to tell me that she should give me the woman's address and phone number (and if I didn't have it within 15 minutes to let him know) and that I would be allowed to arrange a rickshaw to take me, rather than waiting around on my in-laws (all of whom would be home at the time I needed to leave, but of course none of them can be bothered to give me a ride...or rickshaw money).

So I finally secured the woman's phone number, and called her directly to set a time. She told me to come by 9am, and I told her I would arrange a rickshaw to bring me. I called up the rickshaw walla and asked him to pick me up at home at 8:30. We live in BFE and rickshaw drivers don't come here. It's nowhere near anything, so they can't generally get a return fare from here. Hence the need to arrange a rick in advance.

At 8:28, my mother-in-law tells me that this auntie had called her in the morning, and asked that I come at 9:30 instead. My brother-in-law was going by there on his way to the dentist at 10 (an appointment that was apparently scheduled after 10pm the night before, because no one seemed to know about it then), so he would drop me. I was fully expected to call up the rickshaw driver, who was at that moment pulling up in front of our house, and cancel. Even though he had driven so far out of his way and would not now be able to get a fare.

Instead, I called the auntie and explained the situation, and asked if it was alright if I still came at 9. Of course, it was. So I went. And my in-laws watched with a mixture of disbelief and disapproval. I really was expected to send the driver away, and then sit on my hands for an hour waiting. No thank you.

I reached the auntie's house with no problems, and from there her driver took us to the school (the name of which is Kilbil and always makes me giggle). They have two separate schools, a nursery school and a kindergarten-10th school. In India, after the 10th grade students go to "junior college" which is more focused towards their fields of study. They can go to schools for the sciences, commerce, or arts (at least I think that's all of them), but those two years are outside the realm of general schooling.

We visited the nursery school first. All of the children were about two and a half to three years old. There were more than 60 kids per teacher. And they were the most well-behaved kids imaginable. They all sat in neat little rows, quietly working on their pasting and scribbling skills. When they were done, they cleaned up all stray scraps of paper from the floor and put them in the trashcan. Two years old! Cleaning! When I went to the other school for the older kids, I saw the same thing. Model behavior from the students, and creative and passionate teaching.

I wonder what my mother-in-law would think about me sending my kids to a slum school?

The teachers are incredibly invested in what they do. Some have been there for 20 years. They could get higher salaries at other schools, but they stay because they love their principal. 

On Wednesday, I visited the school again. It was decided that I would come to the auntie's house by 7:30 to have breakfast before going to the school. My mother-in-law, surprisingly, said she would drop me to her house. She would just go to the gym an hour later than usual. When I asked if that would really be alright for her (what can I say? I was in disbelief), she responded that when it comes to doing things for me and her kids, it is never a problem. 

Come again? I think perhaps someone else had invaded her body. It was still there in the morning when she not only kept her promise to drop me off but said she would pick me up as well. But by afternoon, when she refused to answer my phone calls for 2 hours until I found another way home, the alien had clearly left.

I again visited the nursery school first. Within twenty minutes of the kids' arrival, I had blood, snot and urine on me. Man I miss working with kids!

The children (remember they are 2 and 3 years old) were learning "Twinkle twinkle little star." But rather than just learn the song by memorization, the teachers had completely darkened a room with black paper and put silver stars everywhere. They wanted the children to know where and when you see stars, what stars are, everything. Not just a song. When they learn about a particular color, everything in the school is that color for the entire day. The clothes, desks, wall decorations, everything. These kids will never forget what "red" is.

Once the nursery school was over for the morning, I shifted to the other school. The morning session was younger kids, kindergarten through 2nd grade (or "standard" as they say here). I was able to sit and observe a class, and got to see how vastly different schooling here is from the U.S.

In the U.S., teachers are told what and how to teach. They don't get to exercise much creativity in their lesson plans because someone else dictates the best way for kids to learn. Except whoever it is that decides this stuff doesn't seem to know anything about kids. At this school, teachers are able to teach the lessons in whatever way will work best for their students, and they are so committed to it, as evidenced by the "Twinkle twinkle" lesson.

In the U.S., the kids who get good grades and get the answers right in class are picked on. Smart kids dumb themselves down to avoid looking like a geek. Here, it's the kids who get the answers wrong who get picked on. Everyone wants to be the best and smartest one in the class. The class I observed was a 1st grade class. They were working on their handwriting (cursive) and their multiplication tables. Now, I don't remember what grade I learned multiplication and cursive writing, but I'm pretty damn sure it wasn't 1st grade. No wonder when Indian kids move to the U.S. their parents complain the homework isn't challenging enough! 

The biggest difference, I would say, is discipline. In the U.S. today, many parents don't even spank their own kids, let alone allow a teacher to do it. Parents are so quick to jump all over the school if their child is reprimanded in any way, that teachers are left with very few options to discipline their students. Not so in India. When one child continued to chatter after the teacher silenced the class, the teacher called the student a mouse and drew whiskers on his face with such force it broke the chalk. When one student hit another, the teacher smacked him on the head. Students who misbehaved were made to stand on their chairs for the remainder of the lesson. But very rarely did any of the students misbehave, so it must be working. Even with a person who was not just new, but also foreign, in the classroom, there were only a handful of incidents of misbehaving or not paying attention.

After the morning session ended at 12, and before the afternoon session for the older kids began at 12:30, I was able to speak with some of the teachers. They wanted to know how schools work in the U.S. and how different subjects are taught. They wanted to learn how we Americans do things. Unfortunately, after watching them all morning, I felt like they had more to teach us than the other way around. Each teacher is responsible for a class probably 2 or 3 times the size of a class in the U.S., and yet they always maintain discipline, the kids always learn and remember the lessons, and they always manage to give each child some individual attention.

Keep in mind that these are kids growing up in a slum. They know nothing of the world outside their slum, and they've never been given any opportunities. The teachers could make them memorize just a small thing to recite to their parents each day, and the families would be satisfied that their kids are learning because they don't know any better. But instead, the teachers give their all and do their best to ensure these kids get a real education. Thanks to them, these kids will receive all of their schooling, something that rarely occurs in the slums as many children are sent to work instead, they can't afford tuitions or schools just won't accept them. These children will also be proficient in English, something that is now required if they are to have a fighting chance of getting out of the slum.

Sunday, July 17, 2011

Rain rain go away...not a tune Indians sing

Indians seem to be obsessed with rain.

Hubby has told me stories of how he would go outside and dance in the first rain of monsoon season. I just figured it was so oppressively hot and humid leading up to it, that the rain would bring relief and everyone would be happy...but then return to a normal state of avoiding getting wet at all costs.

Wrong.

In my two months here, I've become used to having to walk or work outside while it's raining, and not just making a mad dash from the house to the car and back again. It's now ok when my flip flops get all wet and dirty and make my feet slide around. I still don't like it, but it's ok. Life must carry on even though it rains like crazy. I guess when there's an entire season of rain, you can't really blow off going grocery shopping until the weather improves.

But nothing could have prepared me for what I witnessed today.

This weekend the in-laws and I went with several of Papa's tennis friends and their families to Aamby Valley. This place was described to me both as "a rich people's retreat" and "a hill-station version of Beverly Hills." So obviously, I was super excited to be going. (There really should be a sarcasm font.)

I have many stories about how crazy rich you have to be to go to this place (several Bollywood stars apparently have places in Aamby Valley) but I'll save that for another time. Long story short, I do not get on well with the super rich here.

We arrived on Saturday late afternoon, and spent the evening just exploring all the place has to offer. Which is  a lot. It rained off and on but not hard, and for the most part if it got too hard we all took cover.

But Sunday. Sunday was a different story. We set out for a "water safari," which I was under the impression was just a ride around the lake on a pontoon boat. Oh, no. It was actually called Monsoon Safari, and is an activity only offered during the rainy months. You do take a ride on a pontoon boat, but only to get to the other side of the lake. Then it's all hiking along a river, crossing swinging bridges, sliding down the river, climbing up waterfalls and scaling rock walls like military bootcamp.

You might be thinking that this sounds like something I would enjoy doing. And you'd be right. If it was a nice sunny day and the temperatures were high so playing in the water felt good. But this was not a warm sunny day. In fact it was a cold day, and the rain poured down so hard that literally I was wet through to the bone after 5 seconds.

This was was not the type of rain where you can carry on strolling down the street. Or so I thought. Apparently to Indians, this is the type of rain where you just stand out in it talking even though there's a shelter not five feet away. This is the type of rain where you walk at a leisurely pace. This is the type of rain where you play in waterfalls. Everyone was soaked through and through, yet they could not have been happier.

They say it's because for so much of the year India is so hot, everyone really enjoys the cool rains. Ummm....I grew up in the south. It gets hot as hell there. Never once have I ever wished for a cold rain. Never. Ever. And I certainly wouldn't go play in it if it came.

I don't know what I believe about Heaven and Hell; whether they exist or what they're like. But if Hell is different depending on what would make each person the most miserable, today I glimpsed Hell. It's enough to make me want to go to church.

Friday, July 15, 2011

AWOL

Today, I did a bad bad thing.

I lied. To my mother-in-law.

Oh, wait, everyone does that.

The past two days, I went to a training seminar with Janvikas. You remember that class in school where, no matter how hard you tried to pay attention, it always seemed like the teacher must be speaking some other language? For me, it was physics. And most math classes. And probably some others I have blocked from my memory. Well the last two days were a lot like that, except the teacher actually was speaking another language. Two days of development training fully in Marathi, with maybe three or four breaks throughout the day of just a few minutes to sum up what had been discussed for six hours. Did I need to be there? Obviously not. But it was something to do.

By the time I came home yesterday, the night of the big party, I was in a foul foul mood. You see, the training was located close to where my father-in-law and brother-in-law play tennis. So both mornings, I went with my brother-in-law when he went for tennis, more than an hour before I had to be at the training. I did this so that no one would have to change their schedule to accommodate me.

On the morning of the first day, I told everyone that I would be done at 6pm. So at 6, I called my in-laws to see who would be coming to pick me up and see where I should meet them (I had walked to the training site from the tennis center, so no one really knew where I was). My mother-in-law was at home, as always. My brother-in-law was at the gym, as always. Papa was at work, as always. No one could make any adjustment to come pick me up. So I took a rickshaw, and, being a foreigner, was horribly overcharged. No one cared about that either.

On the second day, the day of the party, I asked if I needed to come home early to help set up. My mother-in-law told me to come back with my brother-in-law when he finished with tennis, so that no one would have to go back to get me. He only plays for one hour, the training would not have even started by that time. So she said someone would call when they came that direction, and I would just have to leave then. Ok, no problem. The whole day passes with no call. So when I'm done, I call them. Again, no one can pick me up even though that night everyone was at home. So again, I took a rickshaw and again got overcharged. After many many requests, still no one would give me money to pay for the rickshaws, so I had to draw money from my U.S. account for a pretty fee. Even though my brother-in-law has been given money every night to go out drinking with his friends, I can't get money for a cab.

As I waited by the side of the road for a rickshaw, two little girls in school uniforms walked past. They smiled up at me and said "hello didi (sister)." I smiled back at them...and then started to cry. It was the most polite thing anyone had said to me pretty much since my arrival here.

When my husband called, I cried to him about how I have never felt so in the way in all of my life as I do with his parents. His aunt and uncle and cousin never made me feel like a nuisance even though they had to go hours out of their way to accommodate my trip into Mumbai from Thane. His best friend and her friends never acted like I was in the way, with someone always dropping me home at the end of the night even though we stay far far away from everyone else. But with his parents...I don't even feel like they want me here. And so I cried.

Then I washed my face, and went to host a party!

The last day of training was to be today. This morning, while I was in the shower, my brother-in-law left for tennis. Without me. I gathered my things, and went to tell my mother-in-law I was going to take a rickshaw to training. I didn't expect her to offer to drive me, but I assumed she wouldn't let me take a rickshaw either and I would be stuck at home.

As expected, she would not drive me. She was going to take a nap. She told me to take the bus.

I don't know who had invaded the body of the woman who won't let me out of the house alone, but I wasn't asking any questions. I ran for the door.

Once outside, I decided I needed to decompress. Not sit through hours of things I can't understand just to battle another rickshaw driver home.

So I sat and had a coffee. And then I called a rickshaw driver that B often uses. He had picked me up once and taken me to her house, even walking me to the door because I didn't know which apartment it was. So I called him, and he came to pick me up.

I asked him to take me to tulsi bhaag, a large market where I'd heard I could find good inexpensive kitchen items. Hubby and I are in need of a small pot for making tea, and nothing in the U.S. seems to sell a pot small enough for just two cups of anything. I also wanted a new...whatever it's called that you roll out the chapatis on...because the one we have (that my mother-in-law brought for us last year) is poorly made and the paint is peeling. (This is another sore spot. I had told my mother-in-law that I wanted one just like hers, which is unfinished wood so the dough is less likely to stick and it's very sturdy. She said she would take me to get one. Instead, she brought one home as a "surprise" for me...it was painted and shellacked and nailed together, exactly what I had not wanted.)

So we go to this market area in the middle of the city so that I can buy the things I want. When we arrive, the driver asks if I know the area. When I say no, he offers to park the rickshaw and accompany me. Since he's a very nice man and speaks excellent English (and therefore is easy to talk to), I agreed.

Boy am I glad I did! The market is located in an already busy shopping area. The main road and side streets are all lined with shops. And then you turn down an alley and find yourself in a labyrinth of shops and stalls. This is tulsi bhaag. I would have gotten lost within five minutes and never found my way back out again if it weren't for my rickshaw driver.

He alternately led and followed me around to the stalls. He was amused by the fact that I make chapatis, and entertained by my attempts at haggling over prices. In India, for the most part there are no fixed prices. They expect you to bargain. The problem is that, being American where every price is fixed, I have no skills in this area. And, being American, the price they state is so much higher than they would charge an Indian, that I'm lucky if I can bargain my way down to the starting Indian price. So, rickshaw driver from heaven threw his weight around and made sure I got Indian prices for my things.

I found everything that I wanted, and when we were done he drove me back home. During the drive there and back, he also acted as a tour guide, telling me what the road names are and what the important buildings and landmarks are, as well as some history and dates of the architecture.

In short, I had more fun in a few hours with a rickshaw driver than in nearly two months with my in-laws.

When hubby called this evening, I told him about my day with the strict instruction that he not mention any of it to his family. They think that I took the bus to training, and took a rickshaw back home. No wandering through the city on my own with a random stranger.

What they don't know won't hurt them ;-)

How to host a party that's not your own: an introduction to the role of an Indian daughter-in-law

When I returned from Mumbai, I asked the in-laws what we had planned for the week, so I could schedule anything I managed to do accordingly. They told me a bunch of their friends were coming over on Thursday night.

Something different happening? Excellent!

And then I realized, I have to hang out with all my in-laws' friends for hours with no one speaking English...but we're hosting so I don't even get to eat someone else's cooking? That kinda blows.

And then I realized, we're hosting. I'm an Indian daughter-in-law.

Oh shit.

I am hosting a party.

Sure enough, before the guests arrived, mother-in-law and I went step by step through where to keep the water glasses, how to refill the water glasses, how to keep washing the glasses as they get used because we don't have enough, where to put each food item, how and when to refill the serving dishes, on and on and on.

And then the guests began arriving.

And I was in charge of a kitchen that is not my own. And that she has gone out of her way to keep me from learning my way around. I was a fish out of water.

Periodically throughout the night, my mother-in-law would tell me to leave whatever it was I was doing and enjoy myself. But I know enough now to know that she was just saying it for appearances. So I continued running around refilling drinks, scooping up empty glasses and washing them, refilling snack bowls, refilling serving dishes, cleaning up any messes, etc.

One man seemed impressed with all that I was doing, and told me so several times. I didn't let myself take offence to his statement that he'd never seen a foreigner who could do all these things. Though I inside I was thinking "really? you've never seen a foreigner serve a drink? you don't get out much do you?" And when he told my mother-in-law, in front of me, that I am kind and taking such care of everyone, I acted humble and embarrassed at the praise the way I was taught to.

Then my mother-in-law responded, and I quote, "she is a very sweet girl thanks to my son."

I felt my eyes cut to her in a look of disbelief...I couldn't seem to stop them.

I thought the man was going to save me when he cut in with "no, she is sweet thanks to..." I expected...well I expected him to complete that statement with something that actually had some bearing on my personality. But no. He said "she is sweet thanks to you also," directed at my mother-in-law. And then they hugged and laughed. And then I turned my back.

I'm telling myself that they don't actually understand what that expression means. But I know they do. And I know they meant it. Because I've learned nothing if not that people here (at least within my family and their circle) are completely irrational.

The night managed to go off without a hitch. Most of the time was spent sitting around singing, because these people love to sing. My mother-in-law did not even stop to eat dinner until after everyone left at 1:30 in the morning!

When alcohol appeared, I thought I was saved. Everything is more tolerable with alcohol in you right? The only party I've ever hosted I was completely drunk the entire time and it was a fantastic party. For me, anyway... But no, I could not drink and mingle and live up to my dear mother-in-law's expectations. So that was out.

I must have done something right, though, because today, with no one else around to witness so it couldn't have been just for appearances, my mother-in-law thanked me and told me I did a good job. And she sounded sincere! Either she's getting better at bullshitting me or we actually had a nice moment. I guess only time will tell.

Wednesday, July 13, 2011

And the death toll is...decreasing?

Tonight, we're glued to the news.

Correction:  I'm glued to the news. Apparently my family loses interest quickly when their country is under attack. Maybe because it's always under attack.

During rush hour this evening, three separate bomb blasts went off in south Mumbai.

I was nowhere near this part of town when I was there over the weekend, and I've been back in Pune for two days already, so everybody breathe easily.

One blast was in a jewelry shop in a busy market area that has been targeted several times before. One came from a car parked in the business district. The third went off in a taxi by a bus stop in the city center.

It was rumored that today is the birthday of Mohammed Ajmal Amir Qasab, the sole surviving gunman of the 2008 attacks. But it turns out that some sicko changed his birthday on Wikipedia after the attacks. I'm not sure which I find more disturbing.

I remember being in Mumbai almost a year after the 2008 attacks and visiting the sites. We sipped our iced coffee beside a wall splattered with bullet holes. At the time, I liked the fact that the holes had not been patched as a tribute to those who died. I liked that Leopold's reopened for business a mere few days after the attacks. It was like a big "F... You!" to the terrorists. As hubby explained it to me, this is Mumbai's way. The shit keeps coming and they keep standing back up.

Tonight, that attitude is almost as unsettling as having just been in a city now under attack. When we first heard, we immediately turned on the news. Papa immediately called his childhood friend whose office is right next to one of the blasts. Once it was confirmed that everyone we know is fine, and the newscast started repeating itself because there was not yet any new information, everyone seemed to lose interest.

My husband at home in the U.S. is beside himself. I'm completely shaken. The news stations can't seem to get their shit together, reporting 10 deaths, then 8 deaths, then 2 deaths. People are coming back to life? WTF is going on!?

And my in-laws sit watching their nightly reality television competition, cool as can be.

I repeat: WTF IS GOING ON!?

I'll admit, I wasn't the most observant of the news when the 2008 attacks were happening. That same day, my father had been handed a death sentence by his doctor. I cared that people were dying and a city where I know people was under attack. But at the same time, it was on the other side of the world. My dad, however, was right here. I could catch up on the news and express my outrage later.

In any other situation, I would've been glued to the news. Just like I was on 9/11. Just like I was in early 2010 when there was a bomb blast in Pune, hubby's hometown, in a cafe we had visited just months before. Just like I am tonight. Yet the people around me, who have nothing more important going on, couldn't seem to care less.

Part of me gets it. This is a country that has constantly been attacked and invaded throughout history. This is a country where terrorist attacks have become almost commonplace. It is sad and unfortunate, but it is the truth. To get overwrought with emotion every time something happens, in a place where something is always happening, would probably only result in even more deaths due to heart attacks. After a while you become numb to it. I get that.

But at the same time...I don't get it at all.

Tuesday, July 12, 2011

Mumbai

Sometime last week, hubby's aunt called and said why don't I come visit for a few days? And I said why the hell not? I've got nothing going on.

So Thursday afternoon, Dadaji and I departed for Thane. Traveling with Dadaji is a lot like I imagine this kind of travel would have been like with my dad:  bare bones. Even though my mother-in-law was sitting at home pretty as you please and a car was parked in the driveway, we set out down the street on foot to catch a bus to the train station.

If you want to see a group of Indians completely speechless, stick a white chick on a city bus. The fact that I was traveling with an 87-year-old Indian man only seemed to amaze them further.

At the station, Dadaji parked me on a bench while he went to find out which car we would be riding in so we could wait in the appropriate spot on the platform. Granted, I'd only ridden a train in India once before, but I was completely unaware there were assigned seats and proper places to stand. That seems very...un-Indian.

As I mentioned, Dadaji is 87 years old. He was a Freedom Fighter. He spent some time in jail because of it. He takes no crap. If he wants your seat, he will leave you no option but to give it to him. If he wants a seat for me, same deal. Our seats on the train turned out to not be together. It took him all of 10 seconds to fix that. Not with a polite pleading "we're traveling together so could we please sit together" but with more of a "this is my seat and I want the seat next to it too so move your ass right now."

When we reached Thane, we hopped on another city bus which, to my enjoyment, garnered the same bug-eyed response as the first. From the bus we walked through the craziest intersection ever to get to Foi's shop. I remember watching in amazement on my last visit as Dadaji crossed the street with his eyes closed and his hand out, palm facing the oncoming traffic. He crosses the street in much the same way this time, only now he points his ever present walking stick at the cars, which invokes a little fear of God in the drivers.

Note: "Foi" denotes father's sister. Though I've recently discovered this term is not used by all Indians. I don't remember if it's a Marathi thing or a Gujarati thing or a my family is crazy thing. But for us, "foi" is father's sister and "foa" is her husband. As Papa has no brothers, I don't know what the term for that would be. "Mamma" is mother's brother, somehow not to be confused with what you call your mother, and "mammi" is his wife. "Maasi" is mother's sister and "maasa" is her husband.
I had begun to think this system was simpler than the American way of calling them all "aunt" and "uncle", because you would never feel the need to elaborate on that. However, when my foi and cousin were visiting Pune I realized it is in fact a far more confusing system. I call my mother-in-law "mama" (at her insistence) but my cousin calls my father-in-law "mama" because he is her mother's brother. So we'd all be talking about "mama" but not the same person. Con.fus.ing. Further complicated by the fact that any elder is referred to as "auntie" or "uncle" regardless of whether or not you even know them, everyone is considered to be a relative of some sort whether or not they really are, and cousins are considered siblings which seems straightforward enough until you realize you forgot each cousin has a whole other side of the family to worry about. Moving on...

So this foi owns a shop where many of my Indian clothes were purchased or made (you can choose fabric and have items sewed by a tailor). This time I actually got to pick things out myself! Exciting. So I had a new kameez and churidar pants made so that I have a dressier one on hand...for whatever. I just wanted one ok? I also had a new kurti made, so now I have two Indian outfits that I actually like. Yay me.

On Friday I realized there was something strange going on...people were actually talking! To each other! And to me! There was conversation! It made me a little sad to realize just how unaccustomed I am to having people to talk to during the day.

It's not that I don't want to talk to my mother-in-law. It's just that almost everyone else I've ever met is so much easier to talk to. And there's the tiny detail that even if I spend the entire day following her around, there's very little in the way of conversation. At most I'll get the usual lecture about child-rearing and the like, but I'm not allowed to respond in any way. But most of the time it's just silence or she leaves the room. So I return to my room to at least kill some time on the computer or read a book or something. So very little talking goes on in this house. Hence my amazement at a full day of conversation.

So we talked, I explored Thane on the back of my cousin's scooter, I got soaking wet in the Mumbai monsoon (which is helluva lot different than Pune monsoon, just fyi), I rode in a horse drawn carriage around a lake in the middle of the city (a carriage drawn by a very scrawny horse whose ribs I could count, around a lake complete with a giant temple in the middle framed by enormous statues of gods), I went for ice cream, I had incredible food...and this was just the first day!

Saturday morning I went to meet a friend of my other foi (who lives in the U.S.) who works with an environmental conservation non-profit in Thane. That morning they were doing tree planting to help reforest a large hill area that has seen far too many trees cut down and results in mudslides in the villages below. So I destroyed my second pair of shoes since arriving in India by hiking through mud up a hill and planting trees in the rain. But it was fun, and doing things like that is apparently the only way for me to get physical activity here.

In the evening my cousin and her cousin took me to Mumbai to meet my friend B who was visiting her sister.

Now, I've always thought of Thane as a suburb of Mumbai. Like Thane is to Mumbai what Arlington is to DC. Except it is apparently more like what Richmond is to DC. You can commute from there every day, but only the absolutely insane actually do it, and odds are good that 95% of the population hasn't been to the city in a decade.

The three of us took a rickshaw to a bus stop, where we caught an air-conditioned bus to Mumbai. That took two hours. And even then we got down at a train station and had to take another rick for about 30 minutes to the actual house. But not once did anyone tell me that it would take too long to go or make me feel like I was inconveniencing them. So different from being in Pune.

Saturday night and Sunday were spent in Mumbai. And were fantabulous. We had mexican food for dinner which was divine. I was even able to have a Hoegaarden for the same price you get a cheap local beer that tastes like piss in Pune. There was lots of talking and laughing. B made me once again do my impression of my mother-in-law when she cooks. I'm told I should do stand-up, but I'm guessing it would only work in India as all my funny stories are Indian mother-in-law related. I guess I know what I would do if we ever move to India!

Sunday was ridiculously chill. We did some shopping. We got a crazy good foot massage. We had a leisurely lunch. B was taking a hired car back to Pune that evening, so I rode part of the way and got dropped off near Thane. Foa met me there and we took a bus and rick back to their house. And again, no one made me feel like an inconvenience.

More good food was had (and yes, recipes were written down). On Monday, my cousin was returning to Manipal in the south of the country for school. So several of her friends came over for lunch before we all left for the train station. Mine and Dadaji's train was first, so we said our goodbyes and took off for Pune. The ride back was pretty much exactly like the ride there.

It was a great few days. I feel like I actually got to know people and they actually got to know me. Well, as much as you can in four days. But it's more than I feel like has happened with my in-laws in almost seven weeks. I also learned a whole host of new card games that I will have to teach someone when I get back so I don't forget.

Thane and Mumbai are both very different from Pune. I would expect Pune to be calmer and cleaner, but the reality is much different. Yes, there is less traffic. Yet somehow there is more exhaust on the streets. I can't be near a road in Pune and breathe comfortably. In Mumbai I had dinner by the side of the road and was perfectly fine. In Pune I wake up every morning feeling as though my throat is swollen shut, a feeling that lasts for hours. In Mumbai, no problem. In Pune, there does seem to be a slower pace. But it's boring. In Mumbai, things are a bit more frantic, but there's so much to do and see. If I have to choose between the two, Mumbai wins hands down. Even Thane wins over Pune. (It doesn't hurt that even in monsoon season I saw only one mosquito and received no bites even without mosquito netting, while in Pune I get eaten alive each and every day even with insect repellent and mosquito netting.) Luckily there is one more trip to Mumbai before I go :-)

Monday, July 11, 2011

Back in Pune...with a heavy heart

I expected that my first post this week would be all about my trip to Mumbai (duh). But tonight, telling lighthearted stories about riding a scooter through the rain, the complete absence of mosquitoes and how my friend B makes me do my impression of my mother-in-law cooking for everyone I meet just doesn't seem right.

Because tonight, I suddenly feel so far from home.

Yes, I have been aware the entire time that I'm on the other side of the world from my home. And yes, I've had days where I felt a little homesick. I even had one day where I was thisclose to changing my ticket and hopping a train to the airport without even telling anyone. But that was nothing I couldn't handle. Minor sadness.

Tonight, I feel like I am so far removed from everything I hold dear. The distance between me and my friends and family and home and all things comfortable seems to big as to be almost insurmountable. And it leaves an aching hole inside me.

While in Thane (outside Mumbai) with hubby's aunt and her family, during one of our routine twice daily phone conversations, hubby said "I have some bad news." My sister's cat had become very ill, which was not unusual for her. She's been through some major health issues, which comes with the territory when you're the feline equivalent of a geriatric I guess. But this time was different. They thought she might have to be put down.

I was suddenly thankful for the fact that hubby's other aunt lives in the U.S. because that meant the aunt I was staying with would have an easy way to make an international call. I called home and talked to my mom who filled me in on the details. Kali had cancer. Because that disease hasn't hurt me and my family enough, it now has to take our pets too? Cancer, 4, Taylor household, 0.

They didn't know for sure yet whether or not she would have to be put down, so I tried to put it aside and spend my energy hoping it was not as serious as they originally thought. I heard nothing more about it, and came back to Pune this evening. As quickly as I could, I got online to catch up on emails and the like, part of my ploy to feel less disconnected while I'm here. And there it was, staring at me from Facebook...my sister saying she had to put her cat to sleep.

This may sound trivial, especially to those who have never had a pet. But my sister had that cat for something like 15 years. That's nearly half her life. They've been through everything together, incredibly difficult things. And Kali has always been a constant source of support for her. For everyone, really. She was the type that could tell when you were sad and would come to cuddle with you to comfort you. There were times when she really didn't seem to like me much (I did, after all, bring another cat into her domain and make her share) but if I ever cried about anything, she would find her way to me from anywhere in the house within minutes. She was a crotchety old lady the last few years, but she was still loved by everyone and we knew she loved us.

I know my big sister's heart is broken right now. Talking to her over the phone when I can finally manage to steal my father-in-law's cell phone (the only way to make international calls) seems woefully inadequate. Because it IS inadequate. I should be there beside her, holding her, supporting her. I know she would do the same for me if the situation were reversed. In fact she already has done the same for me. Way back when my dog was killed by a car, when Kali was still just a kitten, her support meant the world to me and I still remember it to this day. That I can't do that for her is a horrible feeling.

So sitting here tonight, feeling so far away from my family, makes me think about how things must be for my husband living in the U.S. thousands of miles away from his home and family. Like me, it probably feels like no big deal most of the time. But at the thought that something could happen and he wouldn't be here...I wonder what that does to him. He isn't one to talk about these things, or even think about them, really. He's a happy-go-lucky never bothered by anything kind of guy. But he's human.

I traveled to and from Mumbai with hubby's grandfather, Dadaji. Now Dadaji is possibly the most awesome person you could ever meet. He's 87 years old, short and rail thin, and missing all of this teeth. Yet his smile could stop traffic, and he's always smiling. He was a Freedom Fighter back in the day, and for that he gets to travel India's railways completely free of charge. He takes full advantage of this, traveling all over the country on his own and doing crazy things, like climbing mountains, that most people half his age couldn't do. But eventually even the toughest get weak.

I had been noticing since I arrived in India that he seems more frail now. When he goes to stand up, he has to lean on things now and it takes him some time to find his balance. He occasionally stumbles. I should probably explain that this is a man who can sit on the floor in the lotus position for ages no problem, and has always been ridiculously graceful and spry. So this, to me, is cause for concern. Then today, as we went to board the train, a crowd suddenly pressed for the door, knocking into Dadaji. He fell backwards, luckily into me, and I held him up until the crowd moved on. Only then was he able to regain his balance. While on the train, every time he stood up, someone would appear from nowhere and slam into him. Twice he nearly busted his ass, and several times he just barely managed to grab the back of a seat to keep him upright.

In light of that, and in light of how I'm feeling about being so far from my family, I feel a huge amount of concern for my husband as well as his family. I'm far from my family for two months. He's far from his family all of the time. I always thought my mother-in-law was a drama queen to cry every time he leaves (or even when she just remembers times when he's left), but I'm starting to understand. "Home is where the heart is" is an expression for a reason.

Thursday, July 7, 2011

A short hiatus

I'm heading to Mumbai for a few days so I will not be blogging again until next week. But don't worry, I'll fill you in on my trip when I get back to Pune. Should be an interesting adventure, starting with today's train ride.

Tuesday, July 5, 2011

Children and the Cultural Divide

When you're married, the topic of children will inevitably come up. Namely, whether you want them and how many. Until a little bundle of joy arrives, though, you don't generally have many discussions about how they will be raised. You may both have given it some thought, but hashing out the details with your spouse well before you're ready to start planning to conceive seems a little overboard doesn't it?

I guarantee you nothing could change your mind about that faster than living with your mother-in-law.

From the moment we first met, I have endured many many many x100 many lectures about the woman's role in a family. I have learned to mostly ignore her comments about how I must do everything for my family.

Note: When I say do "everything," or "all the things" as my mother-in-law says, I mean literally everything. It is her belief that children should not have to do anything for themselves. Even, apparently, once they're grown. I am constantly baffled by the fact that her two sons are completely self-sufficient (at least when not in her house anyway). I don't know how that can happen when they were never given the opportunity to learn to do anything for themselves. It is a wonder they didn't spend their first years in the U.S. just throwing out their clothes when they got dirty and replacing them with clothes shipped from India by their mother.

So, while I occasionally want to turn around and lecture her about how children should learn how to do things for themselves from a young age, for the most part I manage to turn a deaf ear to these lectures.

Last night, however, I received a more elaborate lecture that makes me consider ways to keep my future children far far away from my mother-in-law at all times. As I was mulling this over in my mind, a friend shared this article about parents who let their children run amok with no discipline whatsoever. Clearly, someone was sending me a message that I need to blog about this topic.

(Sidenote: while checking to make sure I spelled "amok" correctly, I learned it has "traditionally been regarded as occurring especially in Malaysian culture." So there's your interesting factoid for the day. You're welcome.)

Last night's discussion started out innocently enough. I informed her of my plans to go to a movie, she subjected me to her singing practice, we traded stories about music in our families...and of course from there we moved into her usual lecture about families, a combination of bragging about how she raised her children and ordering me to worship at her feet so I can learn to do things like her.

From there it went quickly downhill. I suppose because I had placed a time limit on our discussion by telling her I would be going out, she felt the need to take full advantage and elaborated beyond her usual speaking points.

I knew that both my husband and his brother had traveled a bit playing tennis growing up. What I learned last night is that my mother-in-law accompanied them on these trips. All of them. Even though they were chaperoned by coaches, etc. She would find the local market in each location, buy veggies and whatnot, then take over the hotel kitchen to cook food for them. She also packed for them before every trip, and if it was a long trip she would wash their laundry in the bathroom of the hotel room while they were at practice. I guess she had to travel with them since they were still attached by the umbilical cord.

Once she had me sufficiently terrified by this story, she moved on to the topic of discipline. I have heard enough stories from my husband and his brother to know that they were rather mischievous children and got away with a lot of things. So I know they were no angels. My mother-in-law is not only adamantly against any sort of physical punishment, like spanking, she is also against punishment in general. And if anyone else dared to raise their voice to her children, the mother lion would tear them to shreds. In her words, "they never did anything to anyone, they never misbehaved." Which I might believe, if she had raised them in a disciplined manner...and if I didn't know them.

If any child of mine ever acts up in public and I am not there to catch them in the act, I give permission to the nearest adult to lay down the law and discipline the hell of out them. Just sayin.

Raising children to be decent, respectful, contributing members of society is difficult enough. And every mother has to deal with unsolicited advice on how to raise her children from everyone from her mother-in-law to the cashier at the grocery store.

Few, I suspect, are genuinely expected to allow their children to live with their in-laws though.

If I were an Indian woman, and we had stayed in India, my husband and I would be living with his parents. And once we had children, we would all continue to live together. Judging by that tradition, I would think few Indian women get to actually raise their own children. As long as there is a mother-in-law around, she will think she knows best and will undermine everything the young mother tries to do.

I've always been all for the grandparents spoiling their grandchildren. If your parents have raised you well, they should now get the opportunity to give a cute kid everything he wants. After all, they spent your entire childhood walking the tightrope between ensuring you get everything you need and ensuring you don't turn out to be a spoiled brat. So let them have fun with their grandkids! The hard part is now your job, not theirs.

But when parents seem proud of the fact that they spoiled their own children to within an inch of their lives...well, it would make me rather hesitant to give them free rein with my children. Of course, "give them free rein" is a delusion in itself, because grandparents will do whatever they want and nothing you can say or do will change that. That's largely accepted in the U.S.

But in the U.S., grandparents generally play a minimal role in a child's life. Grandparents are seen on Sundays after church. Grandparents don't move in. Grandparents don't "visit" for six months out of the year. The amount of influence they have on how a child is actually raised is limited in the U.S.

But in India...

Monday, July 4, 2011

What every little girl dreams of?


The only thing that sucks worse than being out of your home country for your favorite patriotic holiday (ok, favorite holiday period, but it being a patriotic one means it definitely won't be celebrated anywhere else) is being away from your spouse on your wedding anniversary. And the only thing that sucks worse than that is spending said wedding anniversary with people who refuse to acknowledge that it is in fact your anniversary.

You see, my in-laws cling steadfastly to the idea that our wedding anniversary is October 2nd, the date of our Indian wedding. For one, I would not have selected that date for us even with a gun pointed at my head. October 2nd is Gandhi’s birthday and therefore a popular date in India for all things “auspicious". Something akin to all Americans wanting their children to be born on George Washington’s birthday. Not that any of us know when that is exactly, but you get the picture.

Most importantly, our Indian wedding was in no way legally binding. Even the Indian government would not recognize us as having been married on that day. There’s no certificate, there’s no legal documentation of any sort. It was essentially just the world’s most boring and expensive party. And an ambush at that. Like a surprise party that requires you to do all of the work and have none of the fun.

So when my in-laws called us this past October 2nd to wish us a happy anniversary, I bit back any snarky comments and kept my responses as non-committal as possible. I managed (I think) to sound appreciative of what they were saying without actually agreeing that it was our anniversary.

When my husband and I began discussing this trip, we knew it would be difficult for me to be gone over this weekend. No cookout or fireworks on the 4th of July!? Blasphemy! Oh, and the anniversary…yeah I knew I would miss him even more on that day. But we suspected that if I waited until after this weekend to come to India, something would likely come up and the trip would never happen. So we’d sacrifice one anniversary together in favor of a lifetime together improved by my developed relationship with his family and home country. To be honest, it didn’t even occur to me that it would be extra difficult because no one here would acknowledge it.

Until this weekend, that is. It suddenly dawned on me on Saturday morning. Not only was I missing my husband terribly, but I was about to spend what should be a happy and romantic day with my in-laws (buzz kill) who most definitely would not volunteer a ‘Happy Anniversary’ (meanies) and would quite possibly respond with ‘this isn’t your anniversary’ if I mentioned it to them (downright evil). So I sulked for a few minutes, then got busy distracting myself for the entire weekend.

Hubby claims that he didn’t say anything to his family about this, and that they must have overheard me tell him ‘happy anniversary’ on the phone Sunday morning. To be fair, I was in the car with all of them when this occurred, but they were all talking over top of each other at that time so I know there was no way they heard anything I said. As the phone was then passed around so that everyone could tell hubby hello, a funny thing happened. As each person handed the phone over to the next person, they wished me a happy anniversary. Not even one person said it before speaking to hubby on the phone, but everyone said it immediately after. And yet he supposedly didn’t say anything.

Normally I would fuss at him not to lie and try to pull one over on me. But in this case…I’ll take it. Sure, nobody made a big deal about it still. But they had acknowledged it, which was far more than I was expecting, and with no inappropriate or snarky comments, which I had begun to think was an impossibility in any conversation.

Hubby had saved the day. The fact that he called just after midnight east coast time just made it even better. Yes, it still bites to be away from him on our anniversary. But we made it through, and I know that the many more years we have to celebrate together will be all the better because I came here.

And as for the 4th of July…I’ve requested firecrackers, so we’ll see what happens.