Californians and Indians

Call Me Blogwallah

We have three teak bookshelves in our house. They were made for us by a friendly gentleman with a Chor Bazaar shop who calls himself Farhan Furniturewallah.

In English, that basically means “furnituredude.” I assumed someday I’d learn Farhan’s real surname.

But I was in for a surprise: Furniturewallah is his surname.

And he’s not alone: there are many, many Indians out there with these funky surnames: Pfizer MD Aijaz Tobaccowallah; people named Mr. Lawyer, Miss Captain, or Ms. Banker; and the doctor who works on our street whose sign reads, “Dr. Ravi M. Doctor.”

That’s Doctor Doctor to you!

These trade names aren’t too far off Smith, Tailor, Miller or Cooper, of course. But it’s not so far in the distant past – these are English words, after all.

And some folks are still in the same family business that gave them their names – while there aren’t too many smithees still hammering out a living on New York Streets.  

Them's the rules

I’ve lived in Mumbai a year now, and I’d like to think India and I have become fairly well-acquainted. To wit, I’m ready to share 10 of my rules for India.

Rule Number 1: All life is here: In the west meat sits in a vacuum-sealed pack, the dead are tucked neatly into boxes, and grandparents move to greyscale nursing homes to live out their days. The ugly parts of life are kept at arm’s length from the beautiful parts. Not so in India. Someone once said to me of the holy city of Varanasi: “All life is there.” But, really, that could describe all of India. Upside-down chickens hang, terrified, from the handlebars of speeding bikes. Firecrackers go off, for no discernible reason, at 7 pm on a Tuesday evening. Brides sparkle with gold. Grooms arrive on horseback. Lepers hold out their ruined hands on the sidewalk. And in time, you start to love all of it. Even the ugly bits. Because all this is life.

Rule Number 2: Don’t mess with the aunties. An auntie is an Indian woman who is older than you. She often has sharp elbows and an even sharper tongue. She is lethal in airports, on trains, and in the supermarket. She will shamelessly steal your spot in the queue or your taxi from the corner. So watch your step. She is not to be trifled with.

Rule Number 3: Come to think of it, don’t mess with the uncles either. An uncle is always ready to dole out an (often longwinded) verbal smack-down. And the power of a righteous uncle can only be stopped by an equal and opposite force: the righteousness of another uncle. Is there an uncle dominating your panel discussion? Too bad. Unless you’re also a man of a certain age, or an auntie of unusual forcefulness, this guy’s going to keep going until he’s had his say. And only he knows when that will be.

Rule Number 4: Get used to new economics. In a city that runs on small change, nine 10-rupee notes are worth more than one 100-rupee note. And a 1000-rupee note is effectively the most useless of all bills.

Rule Number 5: Walk in the street. You’re still walking on the sidewalk? You must be new here.

Rule Number 6: Happiness is relative. I have never been happier than I have living in India. As a Californian, I have blossomed in Mumbai’s year-round sunshine. But I also think it’s because happiness is relative. I read online that: “1. happiness results from comparison; 2. standards of comparison adjust.” In India, if you’re pretty well off, it’s hard to feel unhappy when you’re so damn lucky compared to everyone else.

Rule Number 7: No bullock carts on the Sea Link. Yeah, you can take your bullock-cart in four lanes of traffic. But don’t even think about taking it on the Sea Link, buddy.

Rule Number 8: Keep your swagger. I read an interview recently on how to have swagger:“Walk and strut your stuff, and be proud of who you are…When you’re on the street, never look down.” Never look down? I was told when I came here that women shouldn’t make eye contact with men on the street, because here only prostitutes do that. It’s hard to feel good and strut your stuff even a little when, if you do, you feel the oppression of a constant male gaze. And I mean constant. The staring, and the comments, are a massive feature of my life here. Men take pictures of me on their phones. Smiling and friendliness are often seen as a come-on. A knee-length skirt? Forget it. Many men here are unaccustomed to a confident, independent woman. And it pisses me off. So hold on to that swagger, girls. Don’t let the bastards get you down.

Rule Number 9: People can eat well without eating animals. I’m a vegetarian and here, vegetarian food is delicious, varied and plentiful. There is hope yet for the planet, and all those poor little chickens.

Rule Number 10: Just let go. I know the drycleaner ruined your brand-new jacket. I know the repairman is four hours late. I know there’s no reason for you to fill out that form. I know you got caught in the rain. But let it all go. You’ll be much happier if you do.

And a bonus - Rule Number 11: You’ll never understand it. I thought after a year I’d basically “get” India, the way I could suddenly participate in pub quizzes and understand Private Eye in England after 12 months were up. But India is still a total mystery in so many ways. Many of the signifiers of class, community, religion, taste, are lost on me, even if I can tell my Kakas and Banerjees from my Makhijanis, Singhs and Krishnamurthys.

On a nearly daily basis I think: “What the hell is going on right now?” And I guess that’s what keeps it interesting. 

The most important question

I have a theory that in every culture there is a single “most important question”: the one that, when a stranger turns to you on a plane or in a lecture hall or at a bar they may not ask first (so as not to appear too eager) but one that which, eventually, will always get asked.

In answering this Most Important Question you deliver to the questioner not only a juicy nut to satisfy their curiosity but also the sum of much of your social worth: What kind of person are you? Where do you fit? And really, do you fit at all?

The Most Important Question also reveals something fundamental about what the culture values most. Apparently the status-conscious Chinese think nothing of asking you how much money you make. And I’ve heard that for the Balinese, residents of an island where place is everything, the Most Important Question is also the most common greeting: “Where are you going?”

In workaholic America the question is, quite obviously, “What do you do?” LA and DC are both fond of their own particular versions of this, some variation of “Do you work in the industry?” If you say no, your interlocutor might feel it’s an important moment to go check out the bar.

In Britain, the Most Important Question is one you can’t ask. So Brits get around this by parallel parking into conversation, entering sideways into chat: starting not with introductions or Q and A but in talking self-deprecatingly about their worlds: the articles they’ve read (in The Guardian or The Sun), or their neighborhoods (Chelsea? Dalston? Lewisham?). This is important, because these conversational topics are class totems. And in describing them, you have to speak, and your accent reveals you too. These all help people answer Britain’s Most Important Question about you: What your class background is.

And in India, I’ve now realized nearly one year in that the Most Important Question is “Are you married (yet)?”

I have been asked this question by pretty much everyone in India: from cab drivers to random ladies in Goa restaurants. Marriage keeps the wheels turning. It is the heart of the family, which is the heart of everything. Marriages seal alliances and deliver babies and offer people a chance to fulfill their key social roles: devoted wife; warm husband; doting grandparent; opinionated auntie.

Being married in India, my friend recently argued, is seen more as a choice than a matter of luck. In the west, you most often marry only if you meet someone wonderful and the time is right. In India, you can usually have some help in speeding things up, by asking your parents to help find someone suitable. If you’re not married in India, common wisdom dictates, it’s probably because you are being obstinate: you should want to get married, and if you don’t, there’s something wrong with you. Or, more worrying still, you might not be married because you’re damaged goods.

I’ll be married at the end of this month, but for a year I’ve been calling James my husband; it’s just easier that way, but I’m happy I get to stop lying.

But now I’ll have to answer the Second Most Important Question which is, of course, “Do you have children?” Our cook asked this once, even after working for us for two months; the spare bedroom with the made-up beds had kept her hoping against hope all that time.

I'm done for.

About ten days ago, controversial Shiv Sena leader Bal Thackeray, the Tiger of Maharashtra, passed on. Within an hour of his death on Saturday afternoon, you could hear the birds sing. By which I mean, as opposed to the normal din of traffic and life on the street, Mumbai was a ghost town. It was what’s known as a Sena Bandh. A Bandh-which literally means “closed” (which you yogis will no doubt like)-is a general strike. The fact that there’s such a thing as a “Sena Bandh” shows you just how effective Bal Thackeray was at shutting down the city, in life as in death.

Which meant that those of us with relatives in town were breathing a sigh of relief that we had enough bottled water to go around and enough food to cobble together four meals.

What we didn’t think about was just how telling those four meals would be.

Let me explain why. In Britain, we were doing the dishes, doing the ironing, and going to Tesco like everyone else. I grew up mowing the lawn, picking the weeds, and doing my own laundry from the time I could carry it to the machine.

But since we moved to India, I’ve gotten very used to not doing things for myself. I don’t clean, I don’t cook, I don’t drive, I rarely take the train. We are very lucky, and we are not alone: most people who are middle class in India can afford to hire servants, and most everyone who can afford to does.

And why not? Cooking those four meals during the Sena Bandh—chopping, stirring, running around, cleaning up—it was hard work. I got all sweaty in the hot, unventilated kitchen. By the time we ate, I was ready for a nap.

But the thing is: it wouldn’t have seemed so hard a year ago. The end result of all this coddling and all these saved hours in India? I’ve become terribly spoiled.

My mother always says that there are two kinds of people in the world: the do-fors and the done-fors.

I’ve always been a do-for, and I’d hate to be called spoiled, that word we usually apply to children who’ve had too much of a good thing. It calls to mind a piece of soft fruit that has stewed in its delicious juice so long it’s gone off. The spoiled child balks at pulling the weeds or helping set the table because he has gotten accustomed to having all the sweetness of life, without any of the grit. And India’s made me soft: a done-for, like that piece of overripe fruit.

Let’s hope I can remember what hard work is like-in time at least.

This country is having too much money

Last week I was in glitzy little Qatar for a glitzy big conference. From the start, I knew there was something interesting going on: I was one of the only women on a packed flight to Doha. No business people either, just young dudes, mostly south Indian, all wearing the same shiny jeans, knock-off shoes, and big plastic watches.

That’s because a lot of Indians live in Qatar. Over 95% of the working population of Qatar are not nationals; the Indian population alone is over 500k. Most of them are young, most of them are men, and all are very far from home.

In geographic terms, Qatar isn’t all that far from India; just a 2.5 hour time difference. But I can’t think of two countries more different. India has it all in abundance: squalor and glory; potholed roads and slick toll bridges; Ferraris and ox-carts on the city roads. It may be full-on, but India has more soul than anyplace I know.

And the slice of Qatar I saw seemed, well, sort of like landing on the moon. The Qataris themselves are warm and charming (not to mention good-looking; I do love a man in a keffiyeh), their history rich, and their ambitions for the country exciting. I’m part Arab, and being around Gulf Arabs makes me feel right at home.

But, it should go without saying, this place was nothing like India. Business districts in Mumbai are all honking and overcrowded buildings; the trains burst with people. But Qatar’s population can’t yet fill out its ambitions, and the glittering buildings in Doha’s downtown are said to be, as yet, largely unoccupied; a skyline without a city.

I commented on this dichotomy to a taxi driver, how different these two places are.
“The problem with this country, madam,” he responded, “is that it is having too much money.”

Certainly more money than much of India. I met a handful of Indians during my three-day trip. When they learned I lived in Mumbai, there was inevitable cheer; the night I arrived, the hotel receptionist beamed and said, “Mumbai, that is my place!”

I talked to two drivers, both Muslim Keralans recruited in India for driving jobs in Qatar. Driving in Doha was a good job, they said, but they missed India.

“Where do you eat? Do you make Indian food at home?” I said to one.
“There is Indian restaurant near my house with very spicy food.”
“You eat all your meals at the restaurant? Breakfast?”
He paused, and laughed. “Almost all, madam.”

Both men are planning to return to Kerala, their pockets a little fuller, early next year. But for now, it’s hard to be away from India. They had just one week of annual leave each year, and both had infant children.

One scene I saw at the airport will stay with me a long time. A large Indian family group was saying their goodbyes at the security gate. The father and son hugged for many long minutes, clutching each other tightly. When they pulled apart, the son wiped away his tears with the meat of his palm. When he hugged his mother goodbye, she had her head to his chest, and he rested his chin on her hair. They both cried openly and talked out loud to each other, saying how much they loved and would miss each other.

Sometimes I miss my family like that too. I’ve had that scene at the airport (perhaps with less demonstrative crying) maybe 30 times, maybe more.

But at least when I miss them, I’ve got the light and life of India to fill the dark corners.

One of the boys will do it

Before I moved here, a friend said, “So, after about three months in India, whether or not you have a job, you’ll probably have two things: business cards and a boy.”
“A what?”
“A boy. To do random stuff for you. You know, stand in queues, get those business cards, pick up your lunch, that kind of thing.”
“Right,” I said. Inside I’m thinking: I’m never having THIS. Nope, not me. I’m independent! I’m willing to get my hands dirty! I’m happy to stand in long… hold on a second. There might be something to this.

So now, while I don’t have a personal “boy”, I have recently entered the world of work, where every office has at least one. Or five. Forgot your power cord at home? “One of the boys can get it.” Going to an event with a lot of boxes? “One of the boys will help.” Spilled liquid soap all over the bathroom? “One of the boys will clean it up.” The new Starbucks in Mumbai is apparently clogged - with lines around the block - because offices across the city are sending these guys to go get personalized coffee orders for 40 people.

But like many things here, it can be troubling if you scratch just a bit below the surface. Take this Starbucks order. If you imagine that these “boys” are taking coffee orders for 40 people, for 200 rupees on average, that works out to 8000 rupees they’re paying for a non-essential luxury item for the office, on a single afternoon. Equating, probably, to about 3 weeks’ salary for them, if not more.

Moreover, I can’t bring myself to say “one of the boys will do it”; I tend to use the euphemistic “fellows” or “gentlemen” or “guys” or occasionally “dudes”. This is a) because they are almost all older than me and b) because the word “boy” used to describe a grown man has hugely troubling connotations, particularly for Americans.

But, as with most things in India, my opinion doesn’t really matter one jot when I’m facing the tide of culture and convention. And, I’m human, and there are parts of this set-up that are easy to get used to. For example, I now enjoy a cup of tea at my desk within 5 minutes of arrival, delivered by Manoj, who got the “Smiliest Colleague” award at the office away day, who knows exactly how I like it: milky, no sugar.

“Black coffee with no milk and lots of sugar,” he says, straight faced. Then when I look at him quizzically he breaks into a big goofy grin. “Haha! Just kidding you!” and he goes off to do the rest of his rounds.

Expat extravaganza

Sunday night. A ballroom at the Trident/Oberoi Hotel. 500 expats dressed to the nines, and yours truly, with something sticky on my foot. I am a little grossed out, because I can’t get it off or see what it is.

The problem is, I’m balancing a glass of (surprisingly good) Canadian wine in one hand and a plate of food in the other, including sushi, American potato salad, Dutch cheese, some kimchi, and various Singaporean noodles.

You see, I was kindly invited to a rather swish expat extravaganza on Sunday, the “Oberoi Melting Pot”, an annual charity fundraiser. Basically, the consulates of all nations put up booths in a ballroom and provide their nation’s food and drink to guests. Kind of like the fair you had for your school’s ethnic heritage day. It raises a bunch of money and gives the governments of these countries a chance to put their money into something useful. Like showing off.

There’s everything you might expect: deeply stereotyped national food offerings (shrimp on the barbie? really Australia?); cutesy national dress (worn primarily by the Indian serving staff, cue Gujaratis in keffiyehs); and extremely drunk expats who’ve had too much sake and Pimms. Case in point: a senior political analyst said to me, “It’s 7:15 and I’m drunk and full already, and it’s only going to get worse.”

And also, there were things you might not expect: everyone went out of their way to provide vegetarian offerings, given the “weg” proclivities of many in attendance. Even the Ethiopians made the effort, though it was reminiscent of that scene in My Big Fat Greek Wedding (“You don’t eat meat? Okay, I make goat curry.”) The French skipped the fussy amuse-bouches for the most part and invited a popular crepe restaurant along to provide the food. The Canadians, as I mentioned, had wine. Wine! Good wine! From Canada! And, best of all, the Koreans had a display including a video loop of Gangnam Style.

The sticky thing on my foot? A hunk of Turkish delight.

It was a good night.

Serendipity in a city of 20 million

My night has been full of surprises.

It started with an event by the Mumbai+ Acumen chapter who hosted an intimate evening with the Acumen Fund’s charismatic and inspiring leader, Jacqueline Novogratz.

Novogratz tells a story that has become totemic among her tribe of social entrepreneurs. She talks about “The Blue Sweater“—also the title of her very popular book. The sweater in question had a picture of Mt Kilamanjaro and some zebras running in the foreground, and she wore it religiously through childhood until teasing in her freshman year of high school made her consign it to the Goodwill bin. Ten years later, working in Kigali, she spotted a child wearing that same distinctive sweater. She had him turn around and she looked at the tag. Her name was still on the label.

The story, Novogratz says, illustrates how small the world is, that we’re all connected, and that our lives intersect in ways we can’t always foresee.

At the event, I had this experience in a small way—talking first to a woman who used to work at the organization I’ve just joined, and then to a lady who looked familiar, only because I’d seen her at events in London.

But my Blue Sweater moment came when I left. I got in a random yellow cab, after a small negotiation with the driver over the fare. Once in the cab, I realized it looked awfully familiar. That’s because I had the exact same driver last night. The odds of stepping into the same cab, within the same 24 hour period, in a city of 20 million people and 100,000 taxis, is pretty darn unlikely. Not quite as unlikely as seeing a child across the world wearing the sweater you discarded as a teenager, but still pretty magical.

“Are you married?” he said.
I lied and said I was—people here don’t really understand long-term partnerships.
“You have babies?”
“Not yet, just cats.”
And he said, “New marriage?”
Perhaps that would explain my failure to produce children at my advanced age of 32. I lied again.
“Congratulations!” he said.

Mr. Gupta has two daughters, seven and one. He’s a life-long Mumbaiker, and his family all live here too. He’s driven a cab for ten years.

He tried to keep me from paying him, saying the ride was on him, but in the end I gave him double what we’d agreed, just because I had felt so oddly, brilliantly happy talking to him. That serendipitous little connection was a gift, a little piece of evidence, like that Blue Sweater, that we’re all in this together.

I have been smiling ever since.