Time to Put it Away

The other day something fell out of my purse. As I am a lady and a mom, really I can not be held responsible because "things" are always falling out of my purse. This time though, it was not too embarrassing. It was two doses of Imodium- anti-diarrhea meds for my non-American readers. After my May trip back to the States, I had shoved those little caplets EVERYWHERE just in case I ever needed them again. As I stooped down to pick the Imodium off the ground I thought, "time to put this away."

To the day, it has been a month since we have come home. I almost want to cry and rejoice at the same time. Despite my last blog posts, I really do feel like I am home now. I wished I could have written more about my slow adjustment but life was just too busy. It was either blog or find my safety deposit box keys. I should have blogged because I still can't find those darn keys. I am the kind of person that hides things in really good spots, but then I forget where I hid them. Last time I found the safety deposit box keys in my ugliest pair of exercise socks tucked in my drawer. The only reason I found them was because I decided to throw out my ugly socks and I heard something jingling. Really, I should have blogged.

I would have blogged about how reverse culture shock for me this time was like Sid the Science Kid on steroids. I was comparing and contrasting every minute of every day. It was exhausting.

I would have blogged about the drunk, homeless man that approached my family in the subway station in Atlanta and how despite me being incredibly uncomfortable I forced myself to smile and chat like I didn't know the conversation was going to end up with him asking me for money. Like we were equals. In India, I wouldn't have given that man the time of day. In India, he wouldn't have expected it and I wouldn't have been shamed for not doing so.

I would have blogged about my first American yoga class and how much I liked it. But how much I missed my friends, the lady with the GIANT crack in her feet and smelly armpits, my teacher's Shavasana chant,and even picking up my milk on the way home. How that whole morning at the YMCA it was hard to concentrate as my mind was wandering through a vivid memory of living and doing in Sankalp.

I would have blogged about my school where I teach and how overwhelmed and disgusted I was with all the toys and stuff we have there. Seriously- we have a full gallon bag of polar bears. Who has a whole gallon bag of polar bears? A bag of frogs I will give you. We can't sing "5 Green and Speckled Frogs" without frogs, but that is 5 not 15. 

I would have blogged about struggling to make a choice to send Shalini to Bala Vihar at the Chinmaya Mission instead of church, where she wants to go. And how I have to take Flip to church with a bunch of white people and not Chinmaya Mission because crowds of Indians make her anxious and crawling into my arms like a baby. We have had this wonderful 9 months of India- taking in India, how do I keep that alive in my girls?

I would have blogged about the morning I found Star drenched in tears, reading cards from her Sankalp friends, and how I turned into a wobbling mess instead of the strong, backbone Momma that I should have been.

I would have blogged about my grandmother and how I can call her everyday now. That makes me incredibly happy. Her voice is quiet and mostly she listens, but I can let her know how much I love her now that I am closer.

I would have blogged about sitting in my red den in my hideous plaid but comfy couch reading books with my kids knowing that no one was going to knock on my door. As much as I loved having Srinivas and Lakshmi, it was always hard work to have strangers in my home. How that was one of the moments I sighed and felt home.

I wish I could write about all this. I wish I had the time. But the truth is, I still haven't finished unpacking from India. I have one more suitcase sitting in my back room. I still haven't finished unpacking the items I packed up from Dec 2011 before we left our house. I haven't gotten my work paperwork turned in. I haven't synced my phone which seems small but I still have India numbers and duplicate American contacts, no Calliou videos to keep Flip busy during Star's violin lesson, and no music. And even the last two posts I managed to get out were not like I wanted them. They were short, condensed versions of the ones I had in my head.

So for now, just like the Imodium- it is time to put it away. So many folks have told me they have read along and enjoyed my writing. And honestly, I am flattered. Thank you so much. I hope to come back to writing someday, but I feel like to keep this blog going would wrong. It would not be what I want to present of myself to the world. So thanks for reading along. Until our next Setty Family adventure...

 

The reality of excess

I really can't complain about the excess in America anymore because truth be told I have been eating like I was on holiday for the past month and now the excess is on me. On my bum to be exact.
While I was in India I thought I was losing weight because my pants fit more loosely, but then I came home and dried my pants in the dryer (instead of months of line drying) and guess what? They fit. Well, now they fit a little too well. Perhaps I should go back to line drying.

Excess

A friend asked me to write about all the foods I was enjoying now that I am back home. I love this topic. Often when a friend is traveling back to their home country I always ask, "What will you eat first?" But I told this friend, I couldn't write about food yet because I was still overwhelmed by the excess in the U.S. Going to the grocery store was a challenge for me. Just seeing all the choices made my brain hurt. I had expected the unnecessary amount of choices of cereal- a whole aisle just for a box of sugar, wheat and food color? But I had not expected the excess of choices for things like peanut butter.
Things get fuzzy when you are away. In the U.S., I function on auto-pilot a lot of the times. I buy the same brands I have bought for years- sometimes not because I have made that conscious choice myself, but perhaps because my mom bought that brand. So when I went to the store to buy peanut butter I thought it would be easy. Go in, pick a smooth variety and come out. The names JIF and Skippy were ringing in my ears, but I couldn't recall if I bought either of those brands. I thought I would see the label and the container, no problem.
In India, I was lucky to find peanut butter in the store. I had bought it at Easy Day and then the next time I went I couldn't find it. I looked in the places I thought it should be, but it was not there. I asked and tried to describe it to the staff, but they couldn't find it. In the end I gave up and only went to Loyal World if I needed peanut butter. And even at Loyal World, you couldn't count on a certain brand. I had to be flexible and get what ever brand of smooth they happened to have (if they happened to have it).
So back to Kroger. Back to me standing in the enormous aisle with bright lights and a huge shopping cart. Back to me, trying to block out all the conversations going on around me in American English, a language I know so deep in my heart I can ease drop and not even know I am doing it. That never happened in Kannada or even in Indian English. In India, I could turn people's chatter into background noise and get lost in my own thoughts. I stood in front of the peanut butter section waiting for the light bulb to go off in my head that let me know I had found my jar of peanut butter. I looked.
I saw reduced fat peanut butter.
I saw simply peanut butter.
I saw natural peanut butter.
I saw Omega-3 peanut butter.
I saw extra crunchy peanut butter.
I saw crunchy peanut butter.
I saw low salt peanut butter.
I saw no stir peanut butter.
I saw peanut butter with honey.

I spent at least 5 minutes with my eyes wandering the shelves until finally they began to hurt and I was brought back to reality by Star asking to buy some ridiculously overpriced, overcolorful, plastic item hanging on the end cap. I just grabbed a jar and went. In the end, it didn't really matter what jar I bought.We are more than half-way through it and I will soon have to repeat this process all over again.

Proud Momma

During the last night of the AKKA conference they named the winners of the AKKA Idol contest and offered the three girls a chance to sing their winning songs for the crowd. And man, could the girls sing! The youngest singer kept her hand raised next to her face, so if you weren't completely awe struck by how her voice could sail like a kite on the wind you could watch her hand raise and fall as she flitted up and down the scale. I didn't even know these girls and I was so proud of them I clapped so hard my hands hurt.

And then the MC came out and made the strangest comment. She said, "I am glad we have the chance to show them especially in Bangalore that our kids are as good as theirs."

First off, see ya later Mysore or any other place in Karnataka for that matter.  You don't count in the game of one-upmanship.Oh wait, you didn't know you were playing?
But secondly, when did we sign our kids up for this competition? Did they start at a deficit because they carry a US passport? Does each Indian cultural activity earn the child credit? Or do you have to do it well to earn credit?

Our kids aren't Indians. They never will be. But this doesn't mean they are as good as the kids in Bangalore. They are different. They are children of two nations and if we do our job whole-heartedly (as the parents of the fabulous singers have done) they will be an example of what is good from both nations.
The first night Star stood up, placed her hand over her heart and sang every word of the US national anthem. She followed it up by standing up straight with her hands by her side and sang every word of the Indian national anthem. I am one proud Momma.

Oh AKKA, how could you?

Eleven days after I gave birth to Star I had to take Mary Jane to the vet for her yearly check up. Heaven knows why I scheduled this appointment or why I kept it, but I did. It was the first time I had ventured out of the house without Star in tow. I remember putting my cat carrier under the seat and waiting for my turn with the doctor. I remember looking around at the other cat owners and thinking, "Not a single one of these people knows that I am a new mom. No one knows that I can still tell my daughter's birth story word for word, pain for pain, and joy for joy." There I sat feeling like my body was a miracle and that my world was turned inside out, but for those looking at me all they saw was a badly dressed lady with a jiggly belly and sagging breasts.
This past weekend my family went to Atlanta and attended the AKKA conference. AKKA is a conference for Kannada speakers all over North America. Every other year on Labor Day Weekend, Kannadigas flock into a major city to be hosted by that city's Kannada Kootu (chapter). Heaven only knows why we thought it would be a good idea to pack up again after just 2 weeks of being home and lug it all down to Atlanta the weekend before school starts, but we did.
The weirdness started the moment we entered the hotel lobby. We all bucked the system and showed up in western clothes. We had spent the night with my sister and family so we weren't quite in the Indian mindset yet. I stood with our bags and the girls while Marvel went to give his folks a call. I look over and this Indian guy, probably 25years old or so, with a long ponytail is unabashedly staring at me. I look at him and smile. He smiles and keeps staring. Oh! My brain clicks in- he is the real deal straight from India. Might be an artist, might be someone newly arrived and trying to keep the ties to Karnataka alive, or might just be an Indian-American who didn't get the message that we don't stare here in this country. Marvel returns, man stares, in-laws join us, man stares, we walk away, I turn around and the man is still staring!
At the conference center there are more stares, although these are the American variety done on the sly or quickly ended when I tear them out of their trance with a friendly "hello". There are also the completely uncomfortable, pretend we don't see you, passes with the other white people at the conference. I know we don't know each other but the least we can do is smile and say hello or even offer up the meaningless compliment on each others' clothing as we watch our children run around the lobby. And then there are the unassuming Aunties who corner me and complain about their "white daughter-in-law" who doesn't attempt to incorporate any Indian culture into her granddaughters' lives at all, followed by a torrent of compliments based on what she assumes of me from our 20 minute one-way conversation.
But do you know what had me rolling my eyes and acting like a petulant teenager? The folks that innocently asked, "What do you think about all this? Do you like Indian culture? Is it overwhelming?" Just like I was sitting back in that vet's office, my world was turned inside out and no one could tell. I was overcome with emotion and no one knew. It took me 2 days to stop scanning the crowds for one of my friends' faces. It took me 2 days to remember that this was not India. I was not home.  I was in some strange middle place where people looked like incredibly over-dressed Indians, but acted like Americans and still treated me like an outsider. I wanted to plant a tattoo on my forehead that read, "I lived in Mysore for 9 months, not took a trip there for 2 weeks. This one weekend doesn't count as Indian culture. I saw a man clean his bottom in a pothole on the street with rain water. You can't overwhelm me. And I can't sum up what I think about all this in one, nice, neat package without crying for a place that I didn't want to leave."

Bobble me this, Bobble me that

The Indian head bobble is famous. It has confused foreigners for centuries. Instead of a nod, an Indian will bobble his or her head from side to side in agreement with varying degrees of enthusiasm depending on their personality, social status, and always the situation. Probably the amount of head bobbling their mothers did in the home plays an important role as well because this head bobble is rather contagious.
When Star was 4 she picked it up rather quickly and then lost it again when we return back to the US. Flip followed her big sister and was a faithful head bobbler, although I can see it fading already. But if I bobble at her, she quickly bobbles back. I, on the other hand, chose to employ the head bobble. It just made life easier when talking with auto drivers, cooks, cleaners, assistant teachers in the girls' school, etc. Also secretly, I enjoyed practicing while friends were talking to see just how little movement I could do and still produce a quality head bobble. I thought I was in control of the head bobble, but apparently not.
Yesterday, while setting up our classroom with my new co-teacher she suggested an arrangement of furniture. I agreed it looked nice and she gave me the most peculiar look and responded, "What? You don't like that?" For a moment I was confused. I had said yes.  I had agreed. And then I realized I had head bobbled her.

Stuck between

Everyone keeps asking, "Are you happy to be back?" Or just assuming, "You must be glad to be back." And yes, I am, but I feel like a traitor if I say it.

This past weekend we gave my father in law a surprise party. It was absolutely fabulous. The surprise went off well. The venue gave us all a gorgeous view of Washington, DC. My sister in law had organized everything so well. We saw so many old friends. It was so much fun to catch up.
And my folks came. Both sets. This is always a blessing and a curse for a divorced child. Of course, I was overjoyed to see them both after 9 months and the fact that I got to see them immediately after returning home was a bonus. But then the uncomfortable part sets in.

As a divorced kid at a party with both of your parents plus spouses I always feel pulled. Spend some time with mom, now spend some time with dad. Make sure I don't spend too much time with mom. Is dad ok? Did my step mom and dad find a place to sit? Are mom and step dad having fun? Oh ok, now all four parents are together. Is this good? Is this bad? Do I need to join them?

My sister tells me it is my choice if I want to do this. I am an adult and they are adults. And she is right, but there is always a part of me that feels between these two parents, who I love so deeply and I feel very strongly that I want to protect.

This is also the way I feel about my Indian home. Yes, I am happy to be back, but I am also so so sad to have left my friends and my home. If there had not been a deadline we could have carried on indefinitely. I try to balance my FB posts between "happy homecomings" and "missing you". I want to let both sides know how much they mean to me and my family. I feel like that divorced kid again, stuck between two parents who I love deeply.

Heading to the Play Area

If I were in India right now Star would be rushing through the last bits of her homework trying to get outside. We would hear the laughter of the girls down at the play area. I would be checking out the window to see if Bhanu had convinced Vishal to quit playing cricket and come to the play area. I would also be trying to convince Flip to stop doing extra pages in her homework book and go outside with me.
We would once again discuss the Setty rule of "if you ride bikes you wear helmets" no matter if you feel different from the rest of the kids because they don't wear helmets. I would fight with Flip to try to get her to wear anything but flip flops and most of the time I would lose. The girls would decide between scooters or bikes. I would run back in to fill the forgotten water bottles and we would head down with my girls fighting over who gets to push the lift button.
This early, it would usually be just Bhanu and I, but if we were lucky Sumita and Surahbi would be there.  Maybe Sujatha and Anaya. Flip and Ahbi would climb on the swings and begin their calls of "Auntie- Under Dog!" It had become "my thing" and no one else was as skilled as I in pushing the little ones high and then running under the swings shouting "Under Doooog!" as I went. Star and her gaggle of friends would come and go. They would ride bikes or scoot around. They might go to the chit-chat area and play Crock-a-Chain. Or they might sit by the pool and just talk.
After a bit Lakshmi would come down with a big "Hi Girls!" And Bhanu and Lakshmi would have their daily complain-fest about folks hanging clothes on their railings. I would roll my eyes and laugh at them. Bhanu always laughed back. Lakshmi would start her explanation with, "No, you see...." Poornima would come strolling down from the pool entrance, just suddenly appearing between the trees. Bala Auntie would join us after her 1 or 2 rounds. We might see Sowmya on her balcony.
And just as we are all deep in discussion about some recipe or new Chinese restaurant Bhanu would let loose with, "Vi-SHAL, Vi-SHAL!" as she tried to find her forever wandering son. Most of the time we would spot him or his big sister would be sent to locate him. And the conversation would continue.
Sanju would come sauntering in with Niru behind holding some toys but full knowing that Sanju would not play with her own toys. Her toys would be placed in the sandpit or her bike on the edge. Sanju would saunter off to find someone else's sand toys or bike to play with. Just part of her charm.
Around 6.30 the menfolk would come. The menfolk only consisted of Marvel, Chida, Subash and maybe Suraj. But the conversation rolled on, taking time to greet and welcome each friend as they joined the circle. At times the conversation would be serious as the residents discussed some problem with the complex, while us "renters" just hung out and waited for them to finish. But most of the time, this time at the play area was just a way to come together and laugh. And man, did we do a lot of laughing.
So while my body is here in Michigan, looking at my suitcases that have exploded all over my house, my heart is in Sankalp heading down to the play area. I miss you all dearly! You know who you are.

My To-Do List

When I go to the grocery store I always make a list but then when I get to the store I never pull it out. I usually do very well at remembering what I wanted but I of course go home and curse myself for forgetting one or two things.
So when I came to India I had a list of 5 things
1) family portraits. A cousin had posted hers and they were so lovely. I thought it would be a great idea to get some made as I know it be cheaper.
2) a stamp with our address on it. Not our name, but just the address. I figured this would save my hand at Christmas time. And we could just pass it along with the house when we move.
3) small dessert forks. No explanation needed.
4) passport photos, a whole stack of them. After the adoption and PIO and passports I have almost gone  broke at $12.95 for 2.
5) jewelry fixed. We have an array of chains that have broken and they sit useless in a box.

So what did I remember and what did I forget on this next to the last day in India?

1) Never happened. Didn't even come close. I got a horrible haircut for G and kept waiting for it to grow out and then I lost the motivation.
2) mmm, might be in the works. It depends on Indian Standard Time.
3) YES, at home  in a suitcase!
4) We had one set made by the only background that was offered was red and blue- no go for any official US business. Plus I looked a bit angry.
5) still broken. Still in the box. I considered trying to go tomorrow but instead I just repacked it in my suitcase.

Guess that means we have to come back.

Last Monday in Mysore

We threw a Good-bye Party today. It was a casual drop-in for some folks from the complex, school friends and family. It is hard to get the chance to say good bye to everyone when life is going, so we figured the best way to see everyone was to invite them home. We decided to make pani puri so folks could make their own and I wouldn't have to serve everyone. ;-) And I hired Srini to stay late and make pizzas.

At 9 am, I rushed the girls off to school.
At 9.15 am I pried Flip out of my arms and into the arms of her teacher feeling like the worst mother in the world.
At 9.30 am I visited the fruit/veggie market for the very last time. After I bought all my fruit for the gift bags I told the fruit vendor good bye and he carried my bags to my car for me.
At 10.15 am I joined Srinivas in the kitchen prepping everything we needed for the evening.
At 12.15 pm We finished and I lucked out by grabbing an auto rickshaw driver who actually turned the meter without me asking.
At 12.30 pm Flip greeted me with a big hug and assured me she did not suffer all morning long. I felt slightly better.
At 2.00 pm I finally got a shower and began to stop cleaning and started shoving things in closets and under beds.
At 4.00 pm I thought, "What a stupid idea!"
At 5.00 pm I had a gin and tonic in my hand and was teaching Srinivas how to make pizza.
At 6.00 pm The room was filled with friends, food, laughter, and kids. Perfect chaos.
At 7.00 pm The place looked like play doh has exploded in every corner and people were still "dropping by".
At 8.30 pm My lack of food and my excess of gin had caught up to me in the form of a headache and I was sending secret messages for everyone "get out of my house".
At 11.25 pm Everything is tidied. Advil has kicked in. I am ready for bed and thinking, "Why didn't people stay longer?"

White Warts and All

Good friends had a house warming yesterday. They had been renters in the complex when they first moved back from the US but after some time they decided to purchase a flat for their own. From what I understand there was a series of poojas that were performed by a priest and with the owners, but as the pooja started at 4.30 am I was not around to testify to what actually happened. The girls and Marvel dropped by before school and then Marvel and I returned mid-morning. I borrowed simply lovely sari from a friend and managed to get some help making it look “model like”. All of our Sankalp buddies had not shown up yet, so mostly the people present at the pooja were family of our friends. People we hadn’t met before (a.k.a. people who haven’t been up close and personal with a white woman married to a brown man). As we walked out of the elevators I could feel the eyes on us. And they didn’t leave us the whole time. The way Indians stare it should be an Olympic Event. There is no shame. There is no blinking. There is no smiling. There is no looking away to avoid being caught.

One long wall of the main room was lined with plastic chairs stretching from the entryway the whole length of the room. All the plastic chairs are filled with woman. As we walked in the door all eyes looked up and followed us. I try to accept the fact that folks are just curious, not malicious, and carry on. We found our friends and said hello. We found their daughter, who is Flip's best buddy, and assured her Flip would be back for lunch. We checked out the new flat, which was of course gorgeous. And then we sat on the floor. And as I looked up I found all of the woman in the plastic chairs had turned their heads away from the pooja and were staring at us. Marvel and I carried on as we do, sitting close and discussing what needed to happen in the day to be ready for our trip to Bangalore. Flip's buddy, Surahbi, came up frequently to me for help tying something on her skirt, to throw away trash or to just ask a question. When the photographer took her photo, and I asked her to, she gave a BIG smile- the kind of smile I know her mom and dad would love to see in a picture. Surahbi is a kid. Without a doubt I know she sees my white skin. She has asked me about it. But mostly what she sees is Flip’s mom. I am the lady who has given her popsicles, set up tents made of sheets, helped her go potty, wiped away her tears when her friend, Flip, wasn’t being nice, told her NO, and let her make a mess of my house.

I firmly believe everyone should embrace the chance to be the minority in their life. It is hard to be the “only one” in the room. It is hard to realize no matter what you do you will always be the odd one out, you will be judged by some unknown standards, or you might be asked the most uncomfortable questions. It is hard to accept that most of the time this is done not out of ill will, but out of ignorance from the majority. But it is even more difficult to accept and to reflect on the fact that you have probably done this to some other minority in your ignorance. But on the other side, I pray everyone has the chance to feel completely accepted, white warts and all, for exactly who they are and what they can honestly offer up to others. 

Am I checking out?

My friends around here tease me that I have already checked out. I didn't make the effort to wear a sari for a baby naming function yesterday. I wasn't front and center watching the pooja. They are joking on me, but part of me thinks I am checking out.
We had a super lazy Sunday yesterday. Star had her last dance class. We had a function to attend and a bucket meal to devour. And then we did nothing. The girls ran in and out of the house. We watched TV, a lot of TV, which is rare for us. We watched all of Forrest Gump. Man, I love that movie. And when it was over- after I cried all my make up off- I went downstairs to say hello to friends. I was doing all my normal things- dropping off my milk jug, saying hi to passing kids, and giving polite nods to the older generation who still just like to stare at me- but it felt like it was one of my first days in India. I had spent hours in "America" with Forrest Gump and waking up back in Sankalp felt strange.
Today I put on my IPod for the first time in months and went for a walk. My playlist is an eclectic mess- the Drifters, Snoop Dog, Bon Jovi, Buddy Miller... But listening to all this music, my music, made my heart happy. So happy I started singing aloud and didn't stop even as I passed the guard house and the security uncles all cringing from my off key voice.
I think I AM checking out. I think I am longing for the US and my old self. I am really going to miss Mysore, my eyes tear up as I write this, but for the first time in 9 months I am ready to come home.

Delhi and the Metro

We headed to Delhi over the weekend. Marvel had some work and the girls and I tagged along.  Even though we have been here for 9 months everyday life has taken a hold of us and we have not had a chance to travel as much as we would have liked.  We assure ourselves there will be many more visits to India and many more chances to travel. But as we are stuck neither here nor there, a visit to Delhi seemed like a good way to spend part of our last 3 weeks in India.

We arrived the day after the blackout of the Northern Grid, so we were quite lucky the power had been restored.  Unfortunately for Marvel, though, the traffic was still horrid.  He traveled 8 km in an hour and a half and missed his first meeting. The concierge in our fancy shmancy hotel advised the girls and I to stay put and not venture out. We were only too happy to comply.  We swam. We ate lunch at an amazing Italian restaurant and followed it up with a nap. At 5, I tried to convince them out for a walk but they firmly protested and spent the next 2 hours splashing in the bathtub.  It had been 3 months since they had been in a tub and obviously that was too long.

The next day we ventured out in a hired car and faced the traffic which thankfully wasn't as bad as the day before. It was a holiday, Rakhi, so perhaps that helped. Rakhi is a festival which celebrates the relationship between a brother and a sister. The sister ties a sacred string (or a shiny string with a trinket these days) on the brother's wrist and the brother gives sweets or chocolates to the sister. The feeling of the festival was really driven home when we drove past the large prison in Delhi. The outer wall was lined with women for almost a km waiting to get the chance to tie rahki for their brothers.

The following day I convinced the girls to take a Metro ride with me down to India Gate. We bought our tokens, found the correct train and hopped on the last car just as our train was pulling out. It was crowded but we had done crowded in Japan. But then more and more and more people got on. As the Metro had be immobilized by the blackout I was determined to stay near the door in case another blackout happened. I did not want to be stuck in the middle of the car. And still more people than I possibly imagined continued to get on the car. But thankfully due to my white skin or my 2 adorable girls, we rode with a 6 inch buffer that no one seemed to want to cross. As we traveled we heard the announcement about the "Ladies Car" being the first car on the train.  It was then that I looked around and noticed every other person in the car with us was male. Not that it really matters to me, because I have found in India, when I am with my children I am never approached or made to feel uncomfortable. I am seen as a mother and men go out of their way to be nice or to help me. But as more and more stinky, sweaty men crowded into our car I decided the "Ladies Car" was the way to go on the way home.

We landed at Ragiv Chowk and Star's mouth dropped when she saw all the people moving around the station.  She asked me, "Did you know there was going to be this many people in Delhi?" We slowly made our way to India Gate via an extremely expensive auto rickshaw. As Star's cheeks redden from the heat and sweat beaded on her nose and Flip's body hung limply on my hip, I insisted that we stand in the blazing heat and admire the beauty of India gate for at least 3 minutes, and then we retreated to the shade to find a white dad and 2 girls doing the same.

The mom joined and we started chatting. I offered them banana bread. They offered us cold water. We learned the mom and dad were teachers and lived in Tamil Nadu for 3 years while working at an International School.  Their eldest daughter was born in India and they had brought her back to see her birth place. They were on a whirlwind 2 week trip around India which reminded me so much of our whirlwind trip around Japan. After both families had recovered from the sun and the heat, we said good bye and walked away. I told Star, that is what I love about traveling. We were in the same place at the same time. We shared a moment and now we both disappear back into the world.

Our trip home on the Metro was definitely less crowded as we rode in the "Ladies Car". And it was a beautiful sight to see our hotel just outside the metro stop gates. As we walked up the hill back to the hotel little Flip said, "We will be alright once we get back into the hotel." I might be raising worldly kids, but they are still soft. 

Six Ways to Kill a Mosquito

1. The Feel It and Slap It Method
This is the original way to kill the blood suckers. You feel that prick on your leg and you react with a giant slap to find your blood on the outside of your skin instead of the inside. As you wipe the bug carcass on the grass you feel vindicated.

2. The Spot It and Clap It Method
Behind the Feel It and Slap It Method, this is a traditional way to kill a mosquito. Most of the time it involves a bit of hand eye coordination and some willingness to observe and move quickly. Out of the corner of your eye, you will see the black bit fly by or you might here the bzzzzz in your ear. Your next step is to scan the area looking for the mossie. The mossies of course are very tricky and they can disappear into thin air so you must also have dedication and good eye sight. When you see the mosquito, move quickly, clap it between 2 hands and then inspect your hands to see if you were successful. If you were successful, most likely you will need clean your hands as the mosquito's previous victim's blood (hopefully not yours ) is now on your hands.

3. The One Handed Gotcha
This method is similar to the Spot It and Clap It method and differs due to the fact that you only use one hand. If you find yourself in the elevator with a package in hand and a mosquito bearing down on you, use this method. If you have a child you are trying to drag out of the sand box because no matter how many times you told her the "solle banthu" she doesn't care. The downside of this method is you must make sure the mosquito is dead before you open your hand or you have just done a catch and release which serves no purpose.

4. The Sit and Spray Method
This really isn't a method of killing the mosquito because it is not effective at all, but it can be used in a pinch as a deterrent. If you find yourself on the potty and unable to remove yourself from that location while at the same time you discover you are involuntarily sharing the space with a mossie you can use the hand sprayers (only available in some locations) to aim at the mosquito. As I said, it does not kill the mosquito so you must continue to keep on guard and ready to spray again until you are pants up and mobile again.

5. Use Yourself As Bait
This is the Marvel method. When you wake at 4 am with 2 bites already on your face, flip on the lights to wake your spouse and alert her to the danger and include her in your sleeplessness, cover up your entire body with the sheet except for your face. This will entice the mosquito closer and you can kill it. Although I am not sure how you are suppose to kill it as your hands are tucked under the sheet, but at 4 am and you are half asleep it is really the best plan you can come up with . And it makes your wife laugh hysterically the next morning when she remembers.

5. Hungry Hungry Mosquito
This method requires you and several other members in a closed area, such as your living room. It is played very similarly to Hungry Hungry Hippos. One person spots the mossie and begins the game by jumping up mid-sentence using his or her preferred method to try and get the blood sucker. If she succeeds, game over. If she misses, she returns to her seat and everyone continues the conversation as before. It is very important to not clue in the mosquito by mentioning that the game has started. There will be a catch up time at the end to discuss the play by play. The game continues as another member sees the mosquito and jumps up to have his turn. When the mosquito is finally caught and killed it is shown to all members. Everyone cheers and the especially tasty members show off their swelling bites. Now you may talk about how you killed the mosquito, but be careful as another little sucker might be squeezing in the screen door as you speak.

6. The Silent Kill
One must use this method when it is of upmost importance to be quiet, such as in yoga class or sitting in the back of a preschool classroom trying to make a successful and positive separation from your kid. It is very similar to number 2 but it must be performed in absolute silence. The danger is that with silence some people mix in slowness which greatly affects your success rate. The Silent Kill can also be somewhat of a let down because if you are successful you are unable to share the story of the dead mosquito with anyone around you as quiet is still of the upmost importance.

Here and Now

A long, long day ago (as Flip would say) we were trying to rent our place in Michigan.  We wanted to rent it fully furnished from January to August, a timeline that does not match up with the academic year. And considering our town is a college town it mainly runs on the academic calendar.  So we put it on Craigslist and had a couple folks show up. Mostly these people did not read the advertisement regarding the timeline and so wasted our time and theirs.  But then we found Ed and Cat, our current renters.  They were moving from England to the US.  They wanted to live on the Old West Side.  They have a 3 year old son.  They were looking to buy their own home and wanted a place to live, fully furnished, while they did that. Just when we thought it couldn't get better, it did. They agreed to care for our cat, Mary Jane. And they rented our car. Perfecto!

As we exchanged emails back and forth, Ed told us he had a conference in India in July.  Guess where?  Mysore! So last Saturday, we met Ed for the first time in our home. He came for the COSPAR conference at Infosys and was able to stay with us.

My time in India seems to dragging right now. I feel like I am stuck in between. 4 more weeks until we return home. We can't start packing because we need to use all our things. We can't make any more plans here because, well, we don't have any more time to do anything. I sit.  I wait. I attempt to spend as much time with the people I love here, doing our every day stuff.  I count the days and mourn the time past.  I count the days and get excited about returning home. Stuck in between.

So when Ed came it was a welcome distraction. I ditched my regular cereal and cold milk breakfast for tatte idli. We made pani puri. We did the Mysore Palace, for the 5th time. We took him to an ancient temple in Srirangapatna. We did our best to make sure his 5 days in India felt like 5 days in India, not just 5 days at a conference. And I realized how comfortable I have gotten in this place and how things seem such commonplace now.
A family of pigs running across the road.  Seen it.
A truck overflowing with hay and 3 men balanced precariously on top. Seen it.
A man driving a scooter with bags and pipes and boxes on every available space so that he must stand to drive the scooter. Seen it.
A family of Indians 2 feet away unabashedly looking me up and down. Seen it. Felt it.
Monkeys climbing on the temple. Seen it. Ran from it.
Elephants relaxing after a hard days work at the palace. Seen it.
Crazy driving. Seen it. Done it.

So it was good to be with Ed and feel the newness and excitement of India again. For 5 days, I didn't feel stuck.  It helped me move back to the here and now. 

Confessions

I am reading Shades of Grey. There, I said it! Honestly I knew nothing about it until a friend posted a summer reading list on her FB page which included a title that read "What to read instead of Shades of Grey". And then as I was checking out a book at the library I glanced at the return shelf and saw Shades of Grey and immediately I felt a tug of homesick. This book is obviously so popular in America that it has become unpopular and I am clueless about it all. Nothing can make you feel further from your own culture. So I grabbed it without even looking at the back. Yes, that is right I had no idea what my sweet unadulterated mind was getting into.
And I was shocked. This is what America is reading? But if you know me you know I rarely ever put a book down once I start it.  Some part of me feels guilty for not letting the author finish the story. I feel like characters are just sitting there in purgatory until I crack the pages open once more. In the end, I liked it. It is a kinky Cinderella tale. Perhaps the sex scenes should have horrified me, but you know what actually horrified me?
The talk of feet. He removes her shoes and rubs his nose on her instep. He sucks her toes.  Multiple times she refers to his bare feet as sexy. I even find myself cringing as I type it. Perhaps if I was in the US it would not affect me so, but I am in India and here feet are dirty.  Not dirty like Fifty Shades is a dirty book, but down right gross.  Cracks like the Grand Canyon. Toe pads that look more like coral than actual skin. Yellow toenails. And the dirt.  I scrub my feet with a pumice stone every night just trying to break through the black layer that seems permanently attached.
Not that I can blame anyone, unless you count Mother India, who seems to want to drag us back into the earth by our feet. Many people here don't have shoes, so tough callused feet are a bonus on hot, hot pavement. Many people don't have access to water in their homes so taking time to scrub your feet with running water is a luxury.
So talk to me about spanking, cuffing, or sexual accessories, but please please do not talk to me about feet.  My sweet unadulterated mind can't take it.

Good Byes All Around

When we first moved in one of the apartments on the ground floor was having its cabinets put in. There were two carpenters working everyday, all day for about 3 weeks.  They spoke Hindi, so our conversations were severely limited but they learned the girls' names and said, "Hello!" every time we passed.  And they were seriously all smiles.  They made my day most days and I even though I knew they were not, I began to think of them as neighbors.

And suddenly they were gone. Their work was finished so they moved to a new place.  I still miss them.  No more smiling faces looking back at me through the windows.

I think about this as our return to America comes closer.  There are so many people in our lives here. We of course have family. We have Sankalp friends.  We have teachers and school friends.  We have dance teachers and dance friends. I know we will have good bye get togethers and lunch dates, but there is also a myriad of folks who have become part of our lives purely by doing what they do and us doing what we do.  There is the banana man who insists I say all numbers in Kannada.  There is the ironing man who never charges me for my daughters' clothes. There is the chicken foot/mango man with the little kitty. There is the man in the next vegetable stall who keeps telling me that soon my Kannda is going to be good.  There are the ladies who sell the herbs and peas who call to me to buy from their stall.  I have my own special rotation in my head trying to be fair and purchase from each one of them. I do not want to just disappear on them.  I want to say good bye in a meaningful way.

When the Grandparents Came

This post is long overdue.  I can hardly believe it has been a month since we said Good bye to Avva.  We had a lovely month of grandparents- Taata, Avva and Hop.  And unfortunately since Avva was the last to leave she got the full brunt of the emotion.  I wasn't sure how we were going to pry Star off of Avva, she was crying so hard.  The girls loved having all their adoring grandparents here and the homesickness when they left was difficult to manage.  At one point I found Star completely wrapped up in one of Avva's sarees she had left here.  We compromised by letting her snip a corner and letting her make a hankie.

Even though it was hard to say good-bye we would not have traded those visits for anything.  One of my favorite memories was the 70th Birthday pooja we had for Marvel's father before I left for the States. So many family members came to wish him well and only one person put me on the spot by asking, "Do you know who I am?" This question used to throw me and I would get embarrassed but this time I simply replied, "No, please tell me who you are." Ha! Take that! Hope you feel embarrassed now! But also the truth is, I know so many more people now, so that even if I can not recall their name I at least know how they are related and I can ask a pertinent question or two.

I am mostly familiar with Avva's side of the family as we spend most of our time in Mysore and Bangalore.  So this day was special because many of the guests were from Taata's side.  And as we held it in Bangalore many of my in laws' old friends came.  Old friends who lived with them in the US in the early years and have moved back to India.  It was simply lovely to see the smiles on Taata and Avva's faces.

The girls really got into the celebration as well, both in their own way.  I wish our internet connection was fast enough to show you all the videos Star took on my phone. And Flip just did what she does best, got right in there.

The pooja began before 7 am and went past noon with one break for breakfast.  It was a long morning, but it was a great pooja.  These particular priests were incredibly enthusiastic, actually taking time to enunciate. Not typical in my limited experience.  Most priests mumble only stopping to speak clearly when they need to direct their pooja participants to do some physical act such as throw something or hold something.  And Marvel's mom said she was at first pleased with the head priest's answers when she asked a question.  He was more than happy to explain all she wanted to know and MORE. That was when she realized he might be too enthusiastic and if she wanted to feed folks on time she had to keep her curiosity to a minimum.

Again I wish I could post a video of the pooja because if you have never seen one it is fascinating. It is such a physical worship which I love.  Sometimes it gets crazy such as one point when Marvel and I were holding a strainer like item over his parents' heads.  Inside the strainer was a couple of necessary objects, one of which had to be silver.  The attendees made a line and took turns to dip leaves into holy water and shake the water through the strainer onto their heads, like a blessing.  Yes, I would love to know the backstory of that particular act, so if anyone devout Hindu blog reader out there is willing... As crazy as it looked and as tired as my hand became from holding that strainer over their hands, it filled my heart with joy to see each family or friend come up and wish their blessings on my in laws.

At the end of the pooja the priests passed out rice and flowers to all the attendees.  Even the folks who had wondered outside were beckoned in and the handfuls are shared amongst kids and late comers. We all stood holding the rice and flowers in our hands listening to the last prayers being said, ready to throw the rice and flowers onto the idols. Everyone was crowded together, shoulder to shoulder, listening and waiting.  So it was hot. Add a kid on the hip and it was super hot.  Like I said, it was long morning and I was having trouble keeping my impatience at bay. At this point Marvel leaned over to me and whispered, "I can't count the number of times I remember being a kid holding rice and flowers in my sweaty hand and praying for it all to end so I could throw my flowers, end the pooja and go eat. I am so glad our kids are having this experience."

Flip's Morning Out

It is not often we get the chance to spend time with Flip alone.  So on Saturday when Star had a creative writing workshop at school Marvel and I took Flip to a new park in the city.  Flip is quite the biker now, reminds me of her big sis, so we packed her bike in the back of our little Zen and took it along. She had a great time cruising along on the dirt path around the park.

When she became tired of biking we began exploring the old fountains which don't contain much water anymore- mostly weeds and trash, but their edges made great balance beams.  And honestly the tile on the old fountains looks better than the tile on our own Sankalp Pool.

We also came across a gazebo up on a hill.  It was perfect- in the shade and high enough to catch the breeze.  Flip immediately decided it was perfect for dancing so Marvel pulled out his phone and put on some music.  The three of us had a great time just dancing and laughing.  And then... I looked up at the houses surrounding the park.  There were folks out on most balconies looking down at us. So I did the only thing a cultural ambassador could, I waved and continued dancing.  Soon two cute kids came to join us. Vinod dresses in a polyester brown suit and Puja was still in her white school uniform happily looked almost like a little bride and groom heading towards us.  Well, western style bride and groom.  They joined in and we danced until we were tired.  We all gave a bow and a wave to our audience and kept moving around the park.

In the middle of the park is this great statue of Gandhi-ji and Salt March. Later that night at bedtime, the girls and I had a great conversation about Gandhi-ji. I loved listening to Star describe to Flip about the Salt March.

We spent a long time just standing and admiring.

And then we found more fun.  A cement slide on the way out.

This is what living is all about.  Just being together and having fun.  We are so so lucky to have this chance to live in Mysore.  Sometimes I could just pinch myself.  

Chicken Foot

There is this great alley with veggie and fruit vendors that my friend Bhanu showed us. If you can make it past the ladies shucking peas and beans and pleading for you to buy them, you are in. The produce is fresh with a ton of variety. And because you are dealing one on one and I happen to be a white lady with 2 daughters of varying skin tones they remember me. I have built somewhat of a working relationship with the vendors. But I think today I put that relationship to the test.
Flip and I visited the mango stall today. Mangoes are almost out of season so we are buying and eating like mad. We eat 3kg in 2 days. Yes, it is a little sick. As we walked up to the stall I heard a sweet little kitten mewing. I had see this kitten the time before and I was glad it was still hanging out. As I got closer though I realized what the kitten was mewing about. The mango vendor had a chicken foot in his hand. A real life, cut off chicken foot. Now people, I can barely walk past the meat section in the grocery store. I close my eyes or look away until all that flesh is out of view. I could not contain my ewwws and yucks. I tried to look the other way but movement in the air caught my attention. The man had thrown a nice arc and there was the chicken foot moving through the air and the kitten sitting on its back legs was eagerly awaiting its prize. They had done this before.
The man laughed at my wrinkle up faced and asked,"ennu beku?" and proceeded to rinse his hands with some water. I still wanted my mangoes but I definitely did not want his chicken foot hand all over my fruit. So I did the only thing I could think of. I pulled out hand sanitizer and asked, "hakuthira?" and before he could respond I squirted an extra large squeeze right into his palm and gestured for him to rub vigorously. He spent most of his time smelling it.
But the good news is he still sold me my 3kgs. Hoping he doesn't cut me and my weirdness off.

Treat of the Day

When we lived in Japan we lived in a place called Ishikawa-ken.  If you look at a map there is a peninsula on the Korea side that sticks out of the main island of Japan.  We lived more than half-way up that peninsula. It took us a little over an hour to drive to the big city.  If we were picking folks up as we made our way down the peninsula, which was usually the case, it took us about 2 hours.  We didn't travel into Kanazawa City very often, but when we did I always had dreams of the treats that lay in store for me.
When I lived in America, I didn't realize how spoiled we are.  Drive through any town and you will see the diversity of food which represents our population.  Come to a big city and shop at a multitude of ethnic grocery stores.  Going to Japan and eating Japanese food day in and day out was a shocker for me.  So heading into Kanazawa City always included a meal at the 1 Indian restaurant. By this time in our relationship, I no longer thought Indian food was "mushy, like baby food".  Yes, I said that once upon a time.  By this time, I had made 2 trips to India and I had a ring on my finger proving I was willing to proceed with this Indian-American man for real.  The first time we walked into the restaurant the Indian cooks went nuts when they saw another Indian. They came running out of the kitchen yelling in Hindi in what almost looked either like a Bollywood dance scene or a street fight.  It all ended very quietly when Marvel couldn't speak Hindi and they couldn't speak Kannada, but every time after that when we came Marvel and the cooks exchanged greetings and big smiles.
The food was of course North Indian and they had a tandoor to make naans and all kinds of breads.  But the other interesting part was they had to cater the Indian dishes to the Japanese palette, which is almost zero spice.  This must have tortured the cooks and I am sure they were just waiting for the doors to close so they could throw some heat into the pan and cook Indian food how it was meant to be prepared.  But to me, it didn't matter.  The curries were 800 yen and even though I had tried I could not manage to eat more than one at a time.  That meant I had to make a choice until the next time we came to the big city.

Mysore has become a big hub for yoga students. There are many ashrams and folks come from all over the world to study here. With the major increase of white folks in Mysore I have noticed one big difference- the auto rickshaw meters.  They are all broken and I must haggle my fare.  No matter what anyone says, I blame the yoga students. They were too generous with their tips, they threw their rupees around too freely, and now I am suffering.  Oh I am not saying, 10 years ago, when I came on holiday, spending American dollars and Japanese yen that I was not generous with my tips, but there was only one of me so I was like a lucky penny you find on the street.  Now those American dollars, Euros and Yen are everywhere and finding one is more like finding a piece of candy in a piñata.

But the let's not all be down on the yoga students after all I am one of them now with my new found love of yoga. And they have done some good for Mysore. Without them, we wouldn't have Namaste the Gourmet Shop on Kalidasa.  I finally went in the other day and not since Japan when we were cruising into Kanazawa City had my heart done little flip-flops like that- tortilla chips, Pepperidge Farm cookies, Skittles, rice paper wrappers, Japanese snacks, and Walker's Shortbread. They were of course all pricey. Skittles are 85 rupees, that is over $2 for a small bag.  So I just picked the bag up and held it gently in my hand.  But I did splurge and buy tortilla chips.

Oh, it is the little treats like this that make me smile.

Is yoga still cool? I am a little late to the game but I am ready to play now

When a friend initially asked me to join I thought, "No way, I can't take yoga and all that hokey breathing stuff they do. Not to mention I can never make my mind slow down enough to 'enjoy the pain'. And seriously? 5.45 am yoga, you gotta be kidding me." But I joined. And 3 weeks later, today, when my alarm went off at 5.35am I didn't want to but I drug myself out of bed and into suitable attire. I ate my baby banana, brushed my teeth, took my water bottle, snuck out the door and shuffled off to yoga in the club house.
I still find the breathing hilarious but luckily for me the rest of the class is Indian and they have grown up with yoga in their blood. So if I look around the room I find everyone seriously engaged in the breathing. Not one giggle no matter how the enormous sound, the snot arriving, or the chests shaking. That tremendously helps me to put away my inner juvenile and get back to focusing. Every morning I walk away from class promising to do at least one sun namaskar over the weekend (I never do). Never thought I would say it but I like yoga.

Why India? (a bit delayed in posting, sorry!)

When we first moved in, Gayatri was swinging along side a little girl. This little girl, whose name I later learned is Savi, looked at me directly in the eye and announced.

"I have a secret."

"Wow, a secret! Secrets can be fun. Are you going to tell me your secret?"

"Yes. My mom has a baby in her tummy."

On May 10th Savi became a big sister to a baby brother and I was called over by their mom, Sowmya, for a small function to meet this beautiful baby boy. Now I must admit I spent a good 7 years offering excellent lip service to new mothers in my life. The truth was as cute and adorable all those babies were, I honestly wanted nothing to do with them. I had enough small human beings pulling on me, sucking from me, climbing on me, demanding from me, loving on me, drooling on me, hugging on me, and slobbering kisses all over me. I had no desire to hold anyone else's small being until about a year ago, when Gayatri finally let me out of her baby grip and granted me a bit of freedom. So a couple of days ago when I saw my chance I quickly grabbed tiny Samarth ripped off his blanket and admired his sweet little feet. I cooed at him and welcomed him wholeheartedly into this world. And when it came time for the arthi, I made sure I had a front row seat to watch my friend.

I was not the only one who wanted a front row seat. Savi and her friend, Sia, secured front row seats and then spent there rest of the time being scolded by their parents to step back when they got in the way and called to come closer when they drifted too far away. Sia reminds me so much of Shalini a couple of years ago. Whenever I join the group at the play area, Sia is the first to welcome me with a giant, "Hello Auntie!" and a big wave. And Sia never misses a chance to dress up. She is always dressed in the fanciest of Indian clothes or the prettiest of western outfits. So you can be sure Sia did not disappoint this time. She had on a beautiful langa and bangles stacked up her wrists. As I listened to a mother and daughter sing a lullaby about Baby Krisha I noticed Sia watching the singer. She, too, was mesmerized by this beautiful song and she did just what Shalini would have done. She kept her eyes fixed on the singer, opened her mouth, bobbled her head and tried to sing along. Then Sia stood watching as the ladies of the house performed the arthi, blessing the new mom and baby.

There have been many times that I have been questioned by Indians asking why we want to bring our family here to live. These Indians are usually the ones that have been abroad and are quick to point out all the things that are "right" in other countries and all the things that are "wrong" in India. I can't deny there are many things dysfunctional and frustrating about India- remember my re-entry post? But there is so much that is right about India. Things one can't do justice in a simple description. But if I could capture that look in Sia's eye as she watched the women. Or if I could explain the strong beauty in the scene of Sowmya with her hand over her newborn's face as her mother in law sprinkled rice over both of them. Perhaps then, I would not get these questions. India is such a beautiful place- steeped in ritual, love, tradition, and warmth. I am lucky I am able to live in this country and to return year after year. I am able to make friends and have family who include me and my children and welcome us into their homes. This is why we choose to insist to our kids that they are Indian. We try to show them ways to be proud of their heritage. And we try to instill in them a sense of belonging in this country, so they can gently move between the two countries.

The Water Bottle Dance

We never leave the house without a bottle of water. I don't think anyone here does. We do our best to drink only filtered water because I can't stand the thought of all those plastic bottles going into the trash. Plus the last time I bought bottled water the person jacked the price up even though the price was clearly printed on the bottle. I am just too stubborn to dole out 3 rupees more than anyone else.

So when we packed up to come here back in December we all had water bottles. Rohit and I had those convienent roll up ones. The girls had bite valve ones we had picked up from REI for soccer season. So why did I have to mediate a 15 minute conversation regarding who takes which water bottle to school? Follow along.

The bite valves get moldy so Avva sends BPA free replacements for both girls. Gayatri happily takes her pink Nalgene. Shalini takes her pop-top LL Bean. We go to Bangalore and stay in a hotel. They have small bottles of water in the room. Shalini leaves her water bottle at someone's house so she reuses the bottled water bottle. Gayatri complains and wants one, too. Somehow we only have one. Everyday Gayatri cries for it. Everyday I pack her Nalgene. One roll up gets moldy so into the trash it goes. We go to Japan and take a roll up and the Nalgene. We collect several bottled water bottles and bring them home. We all think it is cool the bottles have Japanese writing on them. Shalini claims one. Gayatri claims another. They lose them. We discover we left our roll up bottle in Japan. I use the pink Nalgene. Rohit continually leaves home without a bottle of water and suffers all day. Avva and Taata come. The LL Bean bottle is returned to us. They buy Shalini a roll up Angry Birds bottle. I saw it once and now she has no idea where she put it. I come back from my flight on Luftansa with a miniature bottled water bottle. Gayatri loves it for 2 days. Avva takes the girls school shopping. Gayatri gets a Thomas the Tank Engine bottle. Loves it for a week. Loves it so much she breaks the top. Shalini picks an extra large bottle then discovers she can't get the top off herself. Shalini returns to the LL Bean bottle. Rohit claims the big bottle that can't be opened in hopes that he can remember to take water with him. Gayatri is back to the Luftansa bottle. Gayatri cries when Rohit takes the big bottle with him to Hydrabad for 2 days. Shalini complains the spout on the LL Bean bottle is rough and it hurts her mouth. She requests the Nalgene. Gayatri screams, "No!" and refuses to share. Shalini reclaims the big bottle. Rohit takes the LL Bean bottle. Gayatri is stuck with the Luftansa bottle until the day she actually drinks the water and proves she needs a bigger bottle. Perhaps I should take the Nalgene now that no one is looking?

MJ

Do I really take time to write an eulogy about my cat? Do any of you want to read 5 paragraphs sopping about how I rescued her from a group of boys who put her in a bag and forced her to inhale marijuana smoke? I kept her name regardless because with her sweet little face and petite paws she looked like a cute Mary Jane. You might get a kick out of the fact that I put her on a diet making her run up and down the stairs in our condo for 20 measly pieces of food? It was a vet approved diet and she was mighty happy and playful after her belly no long drug the ground. Santa always brought her a can of wet food for her stocking to make up for it. My family members could all tell you a tale or two about the times they hosted MJ while Rohit and I globetrotted. Rohit still claims he wants to write a song or a book or perhaps just a title called "A Man and his Cat" about how the 2 of them bought a Subaru and camped their way back east from Arizona, praying they were not going to be coyote feed. Maybe MJ is the only cat to have seen the sunset over the Grand Canyon?

Or we could tell you the other side. How Janie refused to be picked up by anyone. How Shalini had to feed her for 3 months before she would even let her pass on the stairs without hissing. She never, ever bit but she loved to make some noise. How I had to stuff the closet full of litter boxes like a Tetris game because MJ had bad aim and hung her bum outside of the box. How every time we went out of town I had to make a spreadsheet to figure out which neighbor I had been asked the least to care for her.

I miss Mary Jane. She was my cat. I loved her and I was willing to love her good stuff and bad. The girls were tired of her. They want a pet they can love on and that will love them back. I understand that and I want that for them as well. MJ was 17 years old. Her time was coming and I am ok with that. When I said good bye to her back in December I partially knew it might be the BIG good bye and I partially hoped for that even though I feel awful about that now. It was one thing to receive an email telling me my cat is dying but it was entirely a different emotional realm to make a decision to say Yes, put her to sleep and not be able to take her myself. I am so sorry for that.

Elephant Camp

When my dad told me he was coming to India I was so excited to shock and surprise him. Sure this guy took his whole family to live in the Philippines in the 70's but that was 30 years ago and we lived on a military base. I have seen those military folks-eating their American snacks from the commissary, living in western style houses and getting by with English the whole time. That's not "real" international living.(says the lady who has ranch dressing and Kraft Mac n cheese in her cupboard and lives in her gated community) I had dreams of putting my dad in the front seat of the car and seeing the panic on his face as scooters and large buses came barreling at us. I wanted to see him turn up his nose at the open ditches and cow patties that mark the boundaries of our roads. I was sorely disappointed. My dad, without an ounce of fear in his voice, kept telling our driver, "You are a really good driver. Really!" Whenever he saw something, like a family of pigs crossing the street, which I was sure was going to shock him all he would say was, "Well look at that." Perhaps I coddled him too much. Perhaps we should have skipped the 5 star hotel in Bangalore. We should have taken the train down instead of hiring a car. I should have made him go to the grocery store alone in an auto. Maybe that would have done it.

Even if I did not manage to shock him, we did manage to impress him. Since he was only here for a little over a week, we took him on a 2 day trip to Coorg. Again we spoiled him with a super fancy resort and all you can eat buffets every meal (a.k.a. gave him a chance to eat some meat). Coorg is super lush, beautiful area with lots of wildlife and is known for growing coffee. It was perfect to be right in the middle of the hillsides and shaded by loads of trees while the summer sun beat down.

The real highlight of our trip was visiting an elephant camp. We paid our 50 rupees a head to be shuttle across in super duper inflated white water rafts.  Seriously, I am not sure I had ever touched a raft that taunt. I lived in fear it was going to pop just like a balloon as we all got in.

When we arrived on the other side of the river- 2 minutes perhaps, we vowed next time we came we would walk across and save our 50 rupees. Then, we saw the most amazing thing on the beach.  There was an elephant on its side lying in the water.  The elephant keeper had a brush and was scrubbing the animal all over. There were visitors standing in the water all around splashing water on the elephant.  We had come completely unprepared for this experience.  My mother in law and I were in long pants.  Although I usually carry an extra set of clothes for the girls, today I had none. So we did the best we could. We hiked up our pants and just decided to get wet.

Star next to the elephant's head.  The elephant kept his trunk just out of the water so it could breathe.  Every once in a while it gave us all a great shock by spraying air and blowing water all over us.

Marvel and Flip helping to bathe the elephant.

After a while more elephants were brought down to the riverside and this elephant was urged to get up.  It did and then it just flopped right back down into the water like it just couldn't be bothered to move, so everyone kept on splashing water over its back.  We heard news of a baby elephant so we made our way up the hill to check it out.  We found 2 sweet little calves. Flip immediately found the mommas due to their hanging breasts and full mammary glands. I had a secret little giggle as she pointed and shouted, "Look at that momma's boobies!" and the Indians around me moved away from us.  Now, I was happy to watch these beautiful animals but my kids were not. After the calf did not come over to drink from its mother's breast, like Flip wanted she went off in search of a good stick to dig in the dirt.

We did convince our kids to follow the babies down to the water to watch them bathe.  It was here that I got a true lesson in nature.  While my girls were waist deep in the river an adult elephant turned its back to us all and dropped a huge earthy load in the water followed by a massive urine stream.  Enough of that!  We opted to go a bit up stream and play in the water falling over the rocks.

The next stop was to feed the elephants.  What do elephants in captivity eat here you might wonder? Ragi mixed with jaggery and mashed into large balls.  They also eat, right out of your hands, cucumbers and watermelon slices.  The best part for me was watching folks buy a couple cucumber for themselves to munch on as well as a couple for the elephants.  One for me, one for you, one for me, one for you!  Ok, it didn't really go down that way but it would have in an Disney movie.  

We topped off our experience with an elephant ride for the girls and Marvel and then headed back across the river.  After watching the elephant poop, I took back my decision to boycott the 50 rupee ride.  

America Part 2- Happily Ever After

If it weren't for my angelic sister-in-law I might have perished in that house by myself.  She brought a supply of Gatorade, Immodium, and yogurt to get me going on the road to recovery.  She also brought my niece and nephew who kept a self-imposed safe distance and I honestly believe if the opportunity presented itself, they would have picked up a stick and poked me with it.

I had come to the US to attend a wedding, and I was determined to get there. So one day later than I intended, I donned some sweats and hit the road to Portsmouth, VA for the weekend.

I arrived just in time to join the other bridesmaids at the nail salon. As I walked in, Rebecca introduced me as her friend who flew in from India.  After brief hellos, the conversation quickly turned to, "How are you feeling?" And this is how I would be known for the rest of the weekend, the friend from India with diarrhea. Good thing I have a decent amount of confidence and can make a good potty joke.

But honestly, being the one who flew in from India is pretty exciting.  I know most folks don't get the chance to travel as much as I do and people are generally very flattering with all their attention and questions.  I am not going to lie, it is fun to be in the spotlight and play the exotic traveler.  Well, that is until Rebecca's cousin arrived.  Her name is Stephanie and she is a real India traveler.  She is Tibetan settlements and India-based Women Entrepreneurs conferences.  I am toilet bowl cleaner and potatoes.  She is thinking of starting a school in India.  I am trying to get my kids to school on time. I asked her where she has been and she begins rattling off a dozen names of cities in the north that I am certain sound familiar, but my geographically challenged brain can't place.  She asks where I have been and I sound feeble when I say, "We went to the north a couple of times, but really we just stay close to home with the kids." Note to self- travel more, read more signs at important places and try to retain that knowledge, don't skip the hard articles in the newspaper, study Kannada and attempt to do something fantastic in the next 2 months. It is one thing to think you are exciting, but it is quite another to actually excite other people.

And the wedding... the wedding was perfect.  Rebecca and Rodney were smiling from ear to ear, when they weren't crying tears of joy.  Depsite all the belly troubles and hours of flying, I was so glad and so proud to be there by her side.  My speech went well.  I managed to suck back my tears and get my words out just like I intended. Someone actually asked me if I gave speeches professionally.  I am still not sure what that means.  Like folks would hire me to come in and give speeches at weddings? Mmm, perhaps.

Until we give it South Indian name- Delhi Belly

Before I begin I must confess I am not a physical risk taker. I never have been. I have also been very lucky in the health department so I can count the number of medically traumatic events in my life on one hand. And my flight to America is definitely counted in that five. I also must tell you this post contains some pretty graphic details regarding my bowels. I recently read an article posted on FB saying that women are perceived to be less funny than men and part of that is because we are taught to not put ourselves out there. Well I can guarantee you this is not a "sit there and be pretty post". I am putting myself out there and hoping you have a bit of a laugh.

The flight started out just fine. Said goodbye to the family, checked-in, and sat down for a beer and a sandwich before the flight. I had a window seat next to a grandmother, a daughter and a newborn baby. Between the three of them they had about 7 carry on bags, all small and all shoved under the seats and on the floor in front of us. Knowing I am a lifetime member of the TWBC (teeny weeny bladder club), I began planning my escape route early. But honestly nothing could have prepared me for what happened next. It began with some passing of gas, then some passing of smelly gas, followed by some worse smelly gas. I looked at the peacefully sleeping baby and the worn out mother and I decided if I were her perhaps I would be willing to put up with some toots if it meant she didn't have to disrupt her baby by standing up to let me out. I watched a movie- more gas. I read my book- more gas. I slept a bit-more gas. Finally it was time, I sat up and waited for my moment. It happened. The baby started crying and roused a bit.

"Excuse me. I need to get out."

"You can't. You will wake the baby."

"Sorry? I HAVE to get out. I need to use the toilet."

"You can climb over. If I stand up the baby will wake." (baby had truthfully fallen back asleep)

"If I climb over you I might kick the baby and that will definitely wake him up."

I won and I made it to the bathroom just in time. With my bowels completely empty I returned to my seat regretting my choice to eat that sandwich with uncooked vegetables. What was I thinking eating lettuce? They probably picked up the head of lettuce that had traveled on the bed of a truck, then stored on the kitchen floor and just tore a piece off to make the sandwich look nice. No one else eats the lettuce. Why did I? Ugh, bad choice.

I remember the days when a lay over in Frankfurt meant getting off the plane, with all the other international travelers, into an non-AC hexagonal shaped concourse with one bathroom, not enough chairs and an open coffee bar in the middle that allowed smoking. Man, that was awful. You walked back on the plane after enduring your lay over kinda like that person who hasn't had a V8, your vision all wonky and the feeling that your body was at a 45 degree angle. Thankfully, Frankfurt has had a major update. There is a major walk involved, down twisty and turny corridors but at the end is a multi-stall AC bathroom with running water that is safe to brush your teeth with. As you walk further, you pass the smokers in their glass box. Why do they make the box glass? I choose to believe it is so I can say to my children, "Look at those yucky smokers in there!" Even though I was kid-free I still found myself making a yucky face at the smokers as if my disapproval was going to suddenly make a light bulb pop and they were going to out down their cigarette and never pick one up again. Further down there are carts with lovely smelling coffee and gorgeous looking pretzels, but considering my sensitive stomach I decided to avoid both. Now here is still one curious thing about the airport. They have plenty of bathroom signs but when you enter the bathroom you realize it is one door to a sink and then another door to one toilet. And you can't lock the door into the airport hallway. Stay with me on this description, please. So that means, if you are like me-in need of some quality toilet sitting time you must do so with a one or two women waiting by the sink and a steady stream of ladies opening the door asking, "Is the toilet taken?" I wasn't ill enough to have left all my embarrassment behind, so I kept slinking from toilet to toilet like a stray cat trying to go unnoticed. I finally made it to my gate so I pulled out my travel pillow and crashed on the bench.

I awoke with my body shaking from chills and found a white man across from staring me down. I tried to pull my dupatta tighter around my shoulders and stood up to get in the sunshine. When my strength wore out, I sat down shaking again. The man looked at me, leaned over and asked, "Are you sick?" Now my brain started racing. If I am sick they will not let me on the plane. They will quarantine me in Germany. "No, I am just tired," I offered with a big smile. He looked satisfied and I went back to lying down working to hold my teeth from chattering. I again got asked on the bus out to the plane and I repeated my "I'm tired" line. But I barely made it out of the bus without fainting and then I discovered I had to climb the steps to the plane with my suitcase in hand. I gave up and stepped aside, hoping a surge of strength would come. It doesn't but the man returns. Without saying anything he picks up my suitcase, carries it to the top of the steps and puts it down. (When I tell my mom this story later she tells me "That was Jesus!")I somehow found my seat, shoved my suitcase up top and made it to the toilet again just in time. The rest of my flight I spend laid out on a row I was so lucky to find. I tried to wake several times, lifting my heavy head. Every time I did, the Indian lady across the aisle from me was staring me down. Perhaps she thought I was dying or perhaps I was passing gas in my sleep, but by this time I was too ill to care. I was also too ill to care when I occupied the bathroom for 20 minutes and was so hot that I stripped all my clothes off and doused myself (and the bathroom) in water. I was too ill to give the 5 people waiting in line even so much as a look, much less a sorry.

The rest of the flight went about the same-toilet, pass out, toilet, pass out, toilet, pass out. The flight attendant tried to get me to sit up for the landing but after the 2nd time asking and seeing her expression turn to absolute disgust/pity after looking me over I assume she thought even a fall from the seat couldn't possibly do anymore damage to my physical state. I dragged myself through customs, again hoping they wouldn't quarantine me or spend 20 minutes asking me about various forms of mango I might have been smuggling in. This time I had none. I managed to find a Washington Flyer, give my address, pass out, wake up to pay, unlock and disarm my inlaws' house (they were back at my place in Mysore), drop my bags, grab some fizzy water and hit the bed. I spent the next 48 hours trying to recover and saying aloud to no one except myself "I can't believe I made."

Trying to Build Little Open Minds

Oh, the ofuro of Japan! So deep, so warm and so, so lovely.  When we were in Japan, we took a bath every night.  It was like a tour of the ofuros- a traditional hinoki wood tub in Anjo, an almost square shaped, space -saver tub in Tokyo, a modern metal tub in Machino, a peaceful, tucked way in the back of the house so no one can hear you when you are yelling for a towel tub in Wajima, a packed with toys and little girls tub in Hiroshima, and western jacuzzi style tub in Fukuoka.  As most Japanese houses only have one ofuro, everyone takes turns. Every night, as the guests of the house we would be offered our turn first. The girls and I would collect our pajamas and bath things and head for the bath.  Next to the tub there is a place with a shower head and a spout, along with a bucket and a stool, so before getting into the tub we scrubbed and washed the day from our bodies.  Then either as a group or one by one we took our turn soaking in the neck deep water, always feeling like we wanted to stay just a bit longer but knowing everyone else needed a turn as well.  I remember when I lived in Japan by myself, in the winter I would take a bag of mikans (clementine oranges) and just sit in the tub for hours eating, reading my book and soaking.  Pre-kids, of course.  If we ever get the chance I will with out a doubt put a Japanese style soaking tub in the bathroom.  Such luxury!

When we arrived back in India, I definitely did not want the hot water, but I missed the tub desperately.  One morning I was talking to Srinivas and telling him about Japan the topic of the tub came up.  As I was describing the tub and how everyone took a bath at night, I watched his face slowly change into a face of disgust.

"Everyone shares the same water?"

"Yes, but they wash before they get it so it is clean."

"But, Akka, they all get into the same water."

It didn't matter how much I tried to describe how nice the tub is or how Japanese have very strong rules about what you can't do in a tub, Srinivas' face never changed from one of digest.

Later as I watched him remove the layer of fat from the milk with his hands and then roll his finger together to make all the left over fat move down to his fingertips and then scrape his fingertips on the side of the bowl to make sure he got all of the fat into the bowl, I remember how that practice used to absolutely disgust me and make me loose my appetite for a whole day. I avoided the kitchen so I could not have to see people's hands touching and scraping all over my food.  Now, I am amazed by it and I try my best to emulate this only-Indian talent without much success. It saves washing a spoon and it is much easier to get your little finger in and under places to get all the food out of the bowl.

Different is a word we try to use a lot of in our house.  We do our best to not describe things as wrong or right, especially when referring to another person's practices.  We hope it help our kids open their minds to a "different" way of doing something and it constantly reminds Marvel and I that our way is not always the right way.  And we need a lot of help sometimes in that department.  It has taken me years, years I tell ya, to be able to back down from the argument that cold water and ice cream can give someone a sore throat. Biologically, it makes no sense to me. But you know what, it doesn't matter.  I have a bottle of water always in the fridge.  My kids eat popsicles whenever they want.  And no one is forcing room temperature Coke down my throat -eww, the thought! But it has taken me years to get here.  I can't even count the number of times I have probably hurt my relatives feelings dismissing their very real arguments about how they became ill.

I think every parent has a dream for their child. They want their child to succeed at something they themselves were not able to do.  For me, I want my children to be more flexible in their thinking.  I want them to think of ideas as "different" and ways they haven't learned yet.  I want them to want to try something new before thinking of the reasons it won't work or how it is flawed.  I want them to want to say "I told ya so" a little less.  

The Busy Days of Summer

April and May have been insane. The girls got out of school and just as we were getting in our summertime groove we took off for 2 fabulous weeks in Japan. 2 days after we returned Avva and Taata came. 5 days later we had a 70th pooja for Marvel's dad. 12 hours later I left for the US. (While 2 days later Marvel, parents and girls left for Goa.) 6 days later I met my dad in DC. 1 day later we boarded a flight to India. 24 hours later we stepped off the plane in India. 2 days later we had 20 kids packed in our place for a pizza and movie birthday party for Star. 10 hours later we put Marvel's dad in a cab for the airport and then home. 2 days later we drove to Coorg for a lovely little stay in a resort. 2 days later we returned to Mysore. We did a bit of shopping and then 5 hours later we put my dad in a car heading to the Bangalore airport. 2 days later we put Marvel's mom in a car heading to Bangalore and then the airport. Yes, I believe a bit more coordinating on the return flights would have left more dough in our pocket and a little more tred on the tires.
So here we are, back to us 4. The girls are tired from all the traveling and out of sorts from all the candy-giving, gift-receiving, attention-getting, and instant give ins that came with 3 grandparents in the house. We have one more week of summer vacation, but Marvel has already hopped on the work train trying to make up for 2 months of frivolous fun. The girls have their new backpacks, snack boxes and water bottles and they are ready to return to school. I think school will do them an enormous amount of good as 3 good byes in such a short time is making them deeply homesick. Flip asks everyday when we are going home and Star made a hankie out of a corner of Avva's old sari to wipe her tears. And I am ready for an hour or two to myself in the morning. I have many blog posts floating through my head from the past 2 months so give me a week or two and then start checking back in. I promise to be a more reliable writer as it makes me so happy to know so many of you are journeying along with us.

I am sad...

Today my grandmother left. I was very sad. I went down to the car and we were crying our eyes out. I am so sad but at the same time I am so excited to go back to America. We are going to get a shirt made out of her old clothes, so I am excited about that. I am hoping that my sadness will soon go away.

School is starting soon. I am excited for that, too. We have two and a half more months in India!

I made a joke up with my cousin it goes like this:
Do you know Satvik?
Yes.
Well, in Satvik's class there is a girl named Thrisha. Do you know Thrisha?
Yes.
Thrisha's friend is named Shalin. She is living in Mysore for two and a half more months. She is studying at I-Can school. She will go back to America, Michigan, in August. Can you guess who Shalin is?
(Tee-hee-hee)

It's me!

That's it. Have a nice day.

Star

What I do....

Today my mom got new shawls. Today I got a pencil case, a water bottle, and a lunchbox. Today, my sister got a backpack and a little froggy lunchbox. Today, we got some bangles to give out to my friends. Today, I dressed up in my mother's shawls to make it into a sari, which is what women wear. It is a big long piece of cloth with a skirt and a top. First you put on the top then you put on the skirt and then you take the big long fabric and you fold it into the skirt and then you take it and wrap it around your body and then you PUT it over your shoulder.

I am reading lots and lots of books now. In our apartment complex all of the girls each have a name according to our talent. All of these names come from the series that Enid Blyton writes. One of them is called Mallory Towers. The other is called St. Clare's. They are both boarding schools. My name is Felicity, the head girl of Mallory Towers. Her talent is that she is a kind-hearted loving person that is especially good at science. She has an older sister named Darrell. Darrell's best friend is named Sally Hope. In the last book when Felicity becomes the head girl, Sally's little sister Daffy (Daphne) arrives. She is quite naughty at first, but then Felicity and June the captain of sports who has a cousin named Alicia, who was in the same class as Darrel and Sally soon put Daffy in her place....

My grandparents came to stay. First my dad's parents. With them we went to Goa, then when we got back my Mother and my mother's father arrived from the USA. Then with all of them, my father's father left and then we all went to Coorg. We just got back. It was really fun. Now my grandmother is still here, but both the grandfathers have left. My grandmother is leaving on Saturday. I am so sad, but I am so excited as well, because I will be going him soon too. I can't wait to come back to Michigan to see you all. I am so excited. School is starting June 4th. We have got our supplies. My sister says she wants to go home this very second.

Going Back

When I was 3 years old, I started Pre-K at Court Street Academy in Portsmouth, VA. I met a friend in that class named Rebecca. We cemented our friendship by swinging on the swings and singing "Kiss on List" every day. We spent 2 years of kindergarten together before my family moved back to SC. Somehow, Rebecca and I stayed in touch. We wrote letters back and forth. Rebecca held onto one of these letters. It was typical little kid writing- big and messy. It read, "I hope we move bake soon." There were of course no plans to move back to VA, but as a little kid I didn't know that.

Once my family had a cookie jar that was shaped like a gingerbread house. My sisters and I collected all the change in the house and put it in that jar. It was for a return trip to P-town. And one magically day, we found $100 bill in the bottom of the closet. My mom let us add that to the jar, so we finally had enough money to make a road trip back. We piled blankets on the floorboard and that was where middle sister rode. My oldest sister got the backseat. I sat in the middle of the front with my parents. I remember wondering, "Why does my dad always get my feet but my mom always gets my head?" We drove the 7 hours, which seemed forever away.

We stayed with old friends. We saw our old places. My sisters even got a tour of our old home. Our home was a 3 story pink house in the historical district. It had 2 sets of stairs- one curly and one straight. It had a big tree with a rope swing in the backyard. I used to put on my Wonder Woman underoos and my buddy Mitchell used to wear his Spiderman underoos. We would swing on those ropes for hours. I am still hoping underoos will make a comeback while my kids are young.

I visited Rebecca during this visit. She didn't know I was coming. I gave her a Christmas present. She didn't have one for me. She quickly scratched someone's name off a poster with 3 puppies and added my name. I kept that poster in my room for years.

As Rebecca and I got older we continue to write letters and we started making long-distance phone calls. Her parents let us talk for as long as we liked. My parents cut me off after 30 minutes. We also started spending a week at each other's houses in the summertime. These visits were a year in between, so it would always take a couple of days to warm up to each other. About mid-week though, we would find ourselves either curled up on the couch or snuggled in bed telling stories.

We would take turns telling stories about when we were little, each time adding details. Over the years, we told those stories so many times they were no longer Rebecca's memories or my memories, but they were our memories. I can't remember which ones I actually remember and which stories I have heard so many times it is just a part of me.
Next weekend, Rebecca is getting married and I am traveling back to stand up beside her. I get to give a speech about her. I am still not sure how to sum up our friendship, make her feel how special she is to me, make people laugh and toast her new husband all in 2-minutes. I am sure the folks working out with me in the gym are tired of hearing me practice my various speeches. I get the chance to express my love for her to her. And for that opportunity I am glad.