FRRO, Hibernation and Lost Innocence

Add caption

So I’m back in Mumbai and back in the thick of it. And I literally mean thick of it. Leaving the wide open, blue skies of Ontario and walking out into the density of humidity and heat and people and noise, staring eyes and flooded streets is a little overwhelming. Yesterday I had coffee with a good friend of mine at the local coffee shop which is just a short walk from my apartment and we were discussing that we needed to re assimilate ourselves to the daily realities of India. It really is not as easy as just getting off the plane and re entering your normal life. It’s just so much more than that. It’s a little like entering the wardrobe into Narnia. It’s so different that you don’t know what to do or look at first.  Anyhow I told my friend that it will take a minimum of 5 days. I am on my 5^th day as I write this and I still may need a few more.

On day 1 of my return I needed to go out to the grocery store to restock my fridge with vegetables.  This  is  not as easy as it sounds. During the monsoon, vegetables are not quite up to par and in fact they are quite sub-sub-par. To put this in perspective I am coming back from the gleaming grocery stores of beautifully ripe, juicy and clean vegetables positioned in perfect rows and pyramids with a light mist of cool, clear water falling gently over them. Insert here a screeching halt sound with some breaking glass in the background.  I push my cart through at least 20 people in the tiny veg aisle of Haiko, the local grocery store. There are hardly any veg on the shelves and as I pick up a prepackaged bag of peas I see a number of bugs crawling around the pods. I quickly place it down and move on to the tomatoes. These too, are prepackaged and as I inspect them they are all beginning to rot with slimy goo lining the inside of the bag. I left the store that day with some apples and onions and raced home to hibernate inside the safety of my apartment. Day 1 over and done with.

Day 2- Hibernate

Day 3- A trip to the FRRO

As any foreigner in India knows the annual trip to the FRRO (Foreigner Regional Registration Offices) is never an easy one and if any place will put you back into hibernation this will.  Every year, every foreigner must register at these offices to be allowed to stay in the country. Our 2011 expiry date had come and gone and we needed to head down there as soon as possible after arriving back in India. The first challenge, as always, is the drive down. Because we live in an area called Powai, we are at least an hour away if not more and because it’s monsoon add at least another 45 minutes to that due to roads and highways filled with potholes and crumbling pavement caused  by heavy rains. What does this really mean you ask? It means it is impossible to get and drink a coffee to go for the long journey ahead.  On this particular day it took 2hrs and 5 min. When we arrive and step out of the van, we are immediately the most interesting site on the street for the hundreds or so standersby. We foreigners are always a good bit of entertainment for the locals who never turn away when you stare back. They just continue staring. Definitely need more than 5 days of adjustment  to get used to this. Once inside we have a representative who helps us with the process which is a great help  however he cannot follow us into the waiting room and we must continue the process on our own. As we wait inside with other foreigners from all over the world, a woman beside us begins talking to my daughter. My daughter is hesitant to respond because they are often the centre of attention and they have naturally learned to shy away from strangers. It’s like having paparazzi around you all of the time. You find the need to ignore and not encourage human contact. This woman introduced herself to Ariana and said she was from Nigeria. Ariana kind of shrugged and when the woman asked her her name, she turned away. I was busy filling in some forms online so I was only half listening until I heard Ariana say, “Sorry?” as if she didn’t hear something. I tuned in and heard the woman ask again, “ Do you not like blacks?” Of course Ariana had no idea what she meant and said ‘Sorry?’ again the woman asked , “ Do you not like blacks?” So of course in her innocence Ariana looked down at her outfit which consisted of black tights, black boots and a black top and said, “ I like black.”  I turned to this woman who looked directly at me and asked the same thing of me and I gave her a confused look and said,

“ Yes, we like blacks.”

A few more polite comments back and forth and our number was called to finish the FRRO process. As we left the building I reflected on the comments made by the Nigerian woman and was thinking of just how innocent my children are. They really have no understanding of the concept of racism. They have always lived in a world of international schools where their friends are from all around the world and where everyone is new and different and this in itself makes them all the same. Their differences make them more alike then their similarities. They are truly a generation of children who accept everyone because they don’t know that there is another option. Everyone is just equal.  I love that innocence.

Insert here a screeching halt sound with some breaking glass in the background.

The next day we were sitting in the mall on the 4^th floor having lunch waiting to go see the Smurf movie. All of a sudden a huge crash is heard and people run to the glass railing to look down to the floors below. Of course my children run, well roll actually, they are wearing their Heelys, to look along with the crowd. They came back disappointed that there was nothing to be seen but my younger daughter said, “ I thought it might have been some terrorists with some bombs like a few weeks ago.”

I guess they are not so innocent after all.

Happy Currency in London

Currently I am sitting in the London Lounge at Heathrow airport waiting for a connecting flight to Toronto. My journey home is half way completed and so far very average and uneventful. No screaming children, no lost passports and no delayed flights. Now the reason I felt compelled to blog right now is, well one, I’m bored and need to kill 5 hours but more importantly I am stuck by how the smallest things make life just that little bit better. For me, today, sitting in this airport, it’s individually wrapped packages of cheese. Edam, Gouda, Cheddar… Oh my god they are so delicious. I know that sounds crazy but finding real, fresh and tasty cheese in Mumbai is not always an easy thing to do and certainly not cheap. My girls are feeling the love too filling up on fresh ham with crackers and hot chocolate. They are giddy with excitement with every bite.

However as I am savouring every orgasmic morsel, I happened to glance at the tv across the way. CNN is on the screen and they are showing graphic footage from the fighting in Syria. And it made me start thinking about what do people really need to be happy. In the Middle East and many parts of the world it’s as simple as peace, safety and a place to call home. Actually let me rephrase- it’s not very simple in fact, it’s almost impossible as country after country fight to find their way towards a better future.  Again as I am writing this I accidentally eaves drop on a conversation behind me. An older woman is talking about flying home and seeing her daughter who she hasn’t seen in 5 years. This is her happiness- time with family. On the other side of me is a baby who is just being pacified with a warm bottle. A warm meal;her happy currency. And as usual, in my abstract way, I started thinking about the idea of happy currency. If like other currencies, they can be traded, valued and devalued, stolen and recovered what would this mean for happiness? Is it worth investing in a highrisk investment of happiness knowing that the consequence might mean losing it all? Or is it smarter to stay safe and invest your happy currency in a low risk steady growth savings bond? And if you lose it all in one bet, can you recoup your losses?

One small piece of cheese is making me incredibly happy right now in this one moment so what does that say about me. Does it mean I selfishly, only focus on spending my currency as soon as I get it without investing in the future? Or does it mean I am one of the many who have no idea what to do with their wealth? I don’t think so. I think I am a savvy investor who has placed a huge chunk of my currency in long term safe investments like my family, friends and health so that I can spend a little freely on the smaller things in life to make it just a little bit easier. With that said, it also means that when I am feeling broke in the happy bank, I need to realize that I already have a lot more happiness than many and that if for some reason I don’t have some of my smaller comforts then perhaps I don’t need them so much after all. 

Yogi Bare and Grin It

See, I have just figured out why everyone does yoga in India. I know it’s only taken me 2 years but I will attribute that to old age. Today I found myself on the brink of such all encompassing debilitating frustration that I actually found myself praying for a means of stress release beyond the massage of a good Cabernet Sauvignon. I know, I know, very hard to believe but I was at my wits end plus it was only 10 in the morning. 

This morning I went down to the gym to workout as usual. I have a routine which I follow fairly religiously and today was no exception. I went downstairs in my apartment to the gym to find it locked which is not a strange thing as it’s happened before. Normally I can ask the guard for the key and they open the gym and all is well. Well not today #!$#?#

I asked the guard for the key and he apparently went to get another man to talk to me. This man, who introduced himself as part of the society, told me that the gym was closed on Mondays and I couldn’t go in. I very kindly told him that I had come down on Mondays before and they opened the gym and all was well. This guy just pointed to the sign that said the gym was closed and repeated what he said. I asked him why, of course, and he responded that the instructor had a day off on Monday so nobody could go in. So I was starting to get a little irritated, ok maybe a lot irritated because this ‘instructor’ is a chunky Indian guy with a gut who sits behind a desk and knows nothing about training with weights or good nutrition, obviously. So I told as much to this guy and said I was fine in the gym on my own. So I continued to explain that many people work out on Mondays because it follows a weekend of indulgence and that some people, amazingly like working out everyday of the week. So this guy replies that I need to write a letter to the society to which I replied, “ Well aren’t you the society?” to which he said yes and walked away.

See the way it works here in India is that every apartment has these societies who decide on the rules of the building indiscriminately and then ask for more fees. There is no rhyme or reason, logic or purpose. It’s all random. Now I can take abstract, wild, freewheelin’ even lackadaisical, but I hate random especially when it interferes with my workout routine.

Now as I mentioned in a previous post I am not the type of person who has come to India, only to find myself on a spiritually journey of self discovery and acceptance as many have. This journey often starts in a yoga class and leads to a life time of peace and happiness. Not for me. Lifting weights and getting on an elliptical gives me a sense of tranquility that allows to me to see the beauty of India. Unfortunately, however, I can only be peaceful from Tuesday to Sunday and on Mondays I’ll need to find my own personal Yogi.

Grumpy Old Bitch in Bombay

Last night I had dinner at Peshawari restaurant with friends who were leaving that night to move back to Norway. Over some Kingfisher draft we discussed their move and the sadness that comes along with it. My friend had said she had been depressed and crying off and on for the past week  as had her children  especially her eldest teenage daughter. These conversations are common among expats who regularly move from one country to the next and just as quickly make and leave friends. This often leaves me to reflect not only on my own moves and friendships but also on the long term effects of that kind of lifestyle.

On Friday when I picked up my children on the last day of school they too were crying. I immediately asked them what had happened or were they hurt when they replied, “Our friends are leaving!” Now in hindsight I guess I should have prepared for this however up until this point they barely batted an eye when leaving a country. When we left Canada for China they were too young to realize what was happening, and when we left China they were leaving their friends and not the other way around. Now that they are old enough to have really strong relationships they can fully comprehend and feel the loss.

Ironically, I find myself in the opposite situation. When I first left Canada I was very upset. The night before we flew out from Calgary, we had dinner at good friends and when we had to leave I was balling my eyes out. Not a pretty sight (picture running mascara) and totally out of character but nonetheless. When leaving China, I definitely left some very good friends and there were a few tears but not nearly as traumatizing as the first move.  This year I have been to many leaving events and said goodbye to many friends but I am not feeling the same loss or sadness. This, of course, has made me think hard about the why, as I am sure you can imagine.

I was having this discussion with a friend of mine over coffee who was feeling the same way.  We discussed why we thought we did not feel so much sadness and we came up with 2 answers. The first and probably the easiest explanation is that we are just grumpy old bitches who don’t care. This explanation requires little reflection or soul searching-much easier. The second, however, is probably more realistic. The feeling of loss is not as strong because the connection with friends is not as strong-on purpose. I think naturally, and I know this is very true for me, in attempts to protect yourself from the pain of leaving friends and family, you just don’t get too close to anyone. Almost all of my friends stay very near the surface so when they are torn away, they don’t rip off too much skin. The scars are minimal and recovery is quick. It sounds very sensible indeed but it makes me worry about the long term. Will I become this unfeeling robot, with no real friends and a few extra names on my Facebook? Or will I fight against nature and focus on building tighter relationships or better yet… do I just write about my experiences and build a better relationship with my laptop? Hmmm….

The Fabric of My Life

It never ceases to amaze me how the human brain can adapt to change.  I often sit back as an observer on my day to day experiences and wonder that I am no longer surprised or shocked by the things I see going on around me. This week was no different and I feel the need to share just a few of the unique experiences of my week.

The first was not so much an experience as a recognition of what  has now become routine in my life. I regularly drive my children to school which is approximately 13 km away so it takes about 25 minutes without traffic and an hour with. In an effort to avoid said traffic, Javed, my driver, takes a few back roads and alley ways. Now for those who have never been to India, many of the streets have shanty’s haphazardly constructed along either side and will often include animals like cows and goats who lie lazily on the road in front. This is normal and expected and truly amazing how that becomes ‘same old, same old’. Now on this particular stretch of road that we drive through, there is a family of pigs. Pigs are not a regular site in Mumbai because the large muslim population of Mumbai do not eat pork. So as you can imagine, when I first went by these pigs on this street, I noticed and remembered them. Now these are more or less free range pigs who graze all day long on the piles of garbage on either side of the road and are not cute and pink but big, black and dirty. Quite a site really. Now on Monday of this week, I was driving by the pig family and turned to my husband and said ‘Look the pigs have had babies.’ My husband looked at me like I was crazy but I felt this little twinge of maternal instinct as I realized that these pigs have become a part of my daily fabric.

On another day, not far from my pig family I saw a second strange sight and I actually don’t know what it was but it was definitely a new experience. At the side of a bridge which we drive across daily, I saw 4 men carrying a huge wooden pole horizontally. On this pole was hanging a large cow upsidedown with all four of its hooves tied around the pole with twine. The cow’s head was hanging over the side of the bridge wall and the men were jiggling the pole up and down. Now to be fair I did not actually see the head and so my best guess was that they were draining the blood from it’s body but who knows. It could have just as easily been a religious hindu ritual. Again even though I hadn’t seen that before I certainly wasn’t surprised by it.

And then yesterday, I saw the strangest sight of all.  My driver was driving me to school when his phone rang and he began speaking in Hindi. Now normally this is not a big deal but I could tell because he was interspersing his Hindi with English, that he was telling someone exactly where he was on the road and that he was taking madam to school. Strange but ok. Then he slows down by the side of the road and stops beside an old man, barefoot and in white robes, and opens the passenger side window. The stranger leans over and hands my driver a small plastic bag with brown powder inside. As you can imagine, based on my western upbringing, I’m thinking this is some sort of drug exchange. Javed says a few words, closes the window and drives away. So I immediately ask him who that man was and what was in the bag. He tells me that it was medicine for his mother. So still a little skeptical, I ask what is wrong with her and from what I gather she has some type of arthritis which acts up in the rainy season. I ask to see the powder and open the bag to smell it. It’s strong and spicy smelling and Javed tells me its Ayurvedic and he gets it for his mother every year. Yes, this in itself is strange but not as strange as what he said next. He proceeded to tell me that this old man in the white robes and barefeet is very poor and sleeps on the streets but refuses to take any money for his medicine. He says God has given him the gift to heal people and that he must not take any money for this. In a country emerging as a global economic leader and with a caste system based on those who have more money than they know what to do with and who rarely share their wealth with those in need, here is a poor individual who chooses to help others in pain instead of help himself. From all of the strange things I have seen including elephants beside my car to upside down cows, this by far, is the most memorable thing I have witnessed and would love to say that this selflessness becomes a  part of the daily fabric of my life.

03/11 The Awakening

Now my plan for my next blog was to be very true to me and discuss the shopping highs and lows of Bombay.  However,  I have had to put that aside.  Today Japan was hit with a devastating catastrophe  which has impacted the world exponentially. I, like my mother, was glued to the news to watch developing stories as information poured in from major news stations as well as individuals transfixed to smart phones and tablets. I, of course, am one of them. Shortly after I caught wind of the earthquake, I searched on my tablet and read the updates to my friends as we sat around a table at The International School of Bombay.

Within seconds, my worries and issues of the day were dissolved in the tragedy and chaos of others and it made me start to realize/recognize the value of my current life. I am not keen on living in Mumbai but.. my husband and children are safe....full stop.  If there were a tsunami, I  am on high ground.  If there were an earthquake, I am starting to plan, and if there were terrorists, I know that I have the Canadian embassy to fly me out when needed. IF, and I cross my fingers as I type this, I am not so fortunate, I have the belief in fate and that it is meant to be.

What I find perhaps ironic/ coincidental is that as we praise the impact of social media and its ability to inform us in real time of global events, we also believe we are conquering the planet that we live in. We believe that the distance between places has been reduced to inconsequential and that it will only get better and faster and stronger. 

Today, the world has fought back. Within a moment…2:46 pm to be exact…the world has said, “ Not just yet, my friend.”

Technology will never be stronger than nature because nature is a force created over millions/billions of years with the strength, experience, fortitude and humility to  infinitely exist within it’s environment.

Man is but a fleeting entity, eager to make it’s mark in the moment but not focused on eternity.

Brian Adams and a nasty little pill

As you may have guessed, every outing or event in Mumbai is a memorable one and our experience last week at the Brian Adams concert was no exception. Not only was it comforting to have a little piece of Canadiana brought to me amidst the chaos and confusion of Bombay but also it was a really interesting way to compare and contrast the differences between a concert in Canada and one on this side of the world.

Strangely, there was very little build up in the weeks leading up to the event and I only discovered he was going to be performing exactly 1 week before the event. I was in the car on the way to gym one morning and just caught a glimpse of Bryan Adam’s face on the side of a bus. I looked twice as I was startled to see something Canadian but as the bus drove past I didn’t have a chance to read what the advertisement said. I quickly assumed it was for a new CD being released and didn’t think much more about it. Later that day I received the regular weekly update from my daughter’s school which notified the parents that Brian Adam’s was going to be playing in Mumbai this coming Saturday and that VVIP tickets (I have no idea what the extra ‘V’ is for) would be available through our neighbouring school, Save the Children India, in support of their programs. The ticket prices were a little steep but it was for a good cause and the thought of purchasing the cheaper tickets and being crammed in with thousands of other people in an Indian make shift stadium did not appeal to me. I had visions of stampedes, fires or worse yet, bombings and I did not want to squished/squashed in anywhere. So I purchased our tickets, arranged the babysitter and looked forward to the concert.

On the day of, we made our way down to the field, which literally was within walking distance of the school and behind the National Stock exchange. This is always the most interesting thing about events in Mumbai. The venues are always just empty fields somewhere unremarkable and hundreds of local workers just erect tents or stages to accommodate whoever is performing. Anyhow, our driver Javed, dropped us off at the wrong gate so we were forced to walk around the outside of the field to reach our section. As we walked along the rubbled sidewalk we were shaking our head in a combination of amusement, horror and acceptance at the rickety corrugated metal fence which surrounded the area. It was rusty old pieces of tin, stabilized by rotting pieces of bamboo and large pieces of rubble and should a gust of wind decide to blow through, it would by no means hold back the forces of Mother nature. We continued to walk past three cows lying unfazed in the middle of the road, a few local dogs and a goat. I love the Indian goats and at some point in the future I will discuss my fascination with their unique culture. We finally made it to our VVIP entrance only to have it prefaced by a weathered looking green carpet as a sad replacement for a red one laid loosely across a very bumpy stretch of dirt. Now this VVIP section had been advertised as the place ‘to be’ along side the who’s who of Bollywood. So as we walked along this green carpet we disappointed many an Indian paparazzi who realized that we weren’t anything special. Sad to say but two nameless white people just didn’t cut it. We made our way up to the raised platform where there was a section of chairs in a row and then a slightly lower area with some wobbly bar tables.  Along the side and back of the area was a sparce buffet of some sorry little finger sandwiches, nachos with some very runny cheese sauce and some breaded fish nuggets. Not really a VVIP spread but we weren’t really all that surprised. What was sad however was the lack of any tasty alcoholic beverages since they are not allowed at these sorts of events so water it was.

What was very interesting to observe was the sort of people who were sitting in the seats behind us. It was such an eclectic group of people including the expected 20-30 year olds but dotted by older couples including women wearing their best saris, 5 year olds running around playing games and groups of local teens dressed to imitate their favourite bollywood stars all engrossed in their Iphones. I am sad to say that I did not recognize any of the Bollywood stars even though they were apparently there. We stood right at the front of our raised section leaning against our unstable glass bar table protecting our territory from pushy teens trying to take our prime spot. In India, you quickly learn to protect your space, as the locals will quickly bud in wherever they want to. The front of the platform was surrounded by a make shift railing made of 2 by 4’s nailed in place and covered with black frayed fabric. As the area began to fill up and people began leaning against this railing, the security personnel soon realized that this could very quickly fall over taking all of the concert goers with it. Suddenly an army of workman with hammers and nails began trying to reinforce the railing to prevent a collapse and continued to do so throughout half of the night. The other half of the night saw the police with long wooden poles pushing individuals back who dared to lean on the railing. Again this was not alarming because we have come to expect the unexpected and more importantly know that many things in India are done in a ‘uniquely Indian way.’

Back to the main event- Brian Adams was incredible and I was truly impressed by how accessible he was to the crowd and so very personable and likable. All of the local Indians were singing along to his songs, chanting his name and thoroughly enjoying themselves which made the atmosphere electric. However this is not what struck me the most. The stadium itself had been divided into three sections. The VIP sections were on either side, then there was the Gold ticket section which was in the front of the stage and then behind them was the Silver section separated by a wooden fence. Now as you would think, the Silver section should be directly behind the Gold section so that the stadium was full. This was sadly not the case. The gold section people were all standing close to the stage and filled not quite half of the allotted area. There was an empty space behind them of at least 150 metres before the wooden fence that separated them from the silver section who were in turn all squished into a smaller area. In my mind, if you are hosting an event like this in an open field, you know approximately how many tickets you have sold and you plan the space accordingly allowing the best viewing for all concertgoers. This was not the case and to me, it clearly demonstrated the strength of the ever-present caste system which still exists in India. It was glaringly obvious who had spent 4000 rupees on a ticket and who had only spent 2000 rupees and this is the one pill I find very hard to swallow. Although some efforts have been made to put support in place for those less fortunate, it is always about who has the most money and who can flaunt it the most. Now I am not so naïve as to believe that this does not exist in the Western culture. I am the first to carry my Prada bag and wear my Versace sunglasses, however I do believe we try to tone it down a bit with facades of equal rights and opportunities. I also know that the type of wide spread poverty which exists here in India does not exist in Canada.  Now I want to say I am most bothered by how blatant the divide is between the haves and have nots nurtured by corruption and perpetuated by arrogance but… I cannot. I think what truly scores my flesh is that the vulgarity of truth here in India is a just a reflection of what we try to hide through conservatism and democracy back home. I haven’t changed my ways or given up my wants to become an agent of change to help the less fortunate. If nothing else, I have become more covert with my life to preserve what is comfortable and familiar.

India is just an honest mirror of what humanity truly is and begs us to confront our own beliefs, needs and desires.

Rickshaw Mashup

So yesterday, in true form, India interrupted my life and made me rearrange my plans, but I think I have come to an understanding of this dysfunctional relationship we have. It came to me in the form of a mashup.

First let me set the scene. It was Monday morning and I set out from my apartment to go to the gym where I have a set time at 9 am to meet with my trainer. I am fairly religious about the church I call gym. Wait let me rephrase. I have been born again after not going to ‘church’ over the last month of holidays and thoroughly indulging for which I should truly repent. So I am on my way and we have hardly made it around the corner when a rickshaw decides to turn against traffic and slam into our van. As is usual, Javed gets out and approaches the rickshaw driver in a very aggressive manner. Now you may be thinking that I turned around to see what was going to happen- to see if it was going to get ‘juicy’. However these car accidents and following interactions have become fairly regular so really I am checking my watch out of frustration because I have somewhere to be.

Checking my emails and messages and still waiting, I turn around. Javed is grabbing the driver by the scruff of his shirt, a crowd has formed and a few men in matching black, dress-up security shirts arrive on the scene. Now I’m swearing because this is going to take longer than usual. Suddenly my door opens and the rickshaw driver grabs my shirt and starts pleading with me in Hindi, until Javed pulls him away and shuts the door. Again I am not bothered. I just lock the door so I’m not disturbed again and check my watch. After some back and forth, these Hiranandani security guys tell my driver and rickshaw driver to go to the Powai Police Station. Needless to say I was 2 ½ hours late, missed the session with my trainer and was still fuming after a 10k run on the treadmill.

When I reflected on the day’s events after watching a Stephen Hawkings special regarding Quantum Physics, I realized that my experience in India is very similar to the Doppler Effect. In its simplest form the Doppler Effect, or rather my simplest understanding of this theory, is that when a vehicle is approaching, the frequency, (understand sound wave here) is much higher as it approaches than when the vehicle passes you. This has something to do with the frequency waves coming closer together as they get closer to you but move farther apart as they pass.  As individuals, and if you are not a science junkie, this translates into an automatic expectation for you. When you see a car approaching you immediately assume the noise will get louder as it gets closer and more quiet as it leaves you. If this were not to happen you would immediately notice the distortion to your expectation and be thoroughly confused.

Now what I realize as I mashup my understanding of physics and personal relationship to India, is that what I need to do is try to warp my expectations based on the Doppler Effect and think completely outside the box.  When these ‘India’ events get closer to me, the noise and chaos of not understanding the culture forces my immediate expectation of not understanding and being frustrated. In recognizing this, I also understand that as these events pass by with time then my tolerance of them increases and therefore the frequency of frustration reduces relatively. What I need to do is change my expectation so that as these events approach I control the frequency so that as it approaches and comes even with me, I either stop and observe the isolated frequency or expect the frequency to be lower.  This, I realize, requires a huge paradigm shift from my traditional expectations based on my conservative Canadian upbringing to a more creative, organic approach but I remember not too long ago my first frustrating days in China. I returned to China a few months ago and it felt like home. The lower frequency of China after having moved away has allowed me to appreciate the higher frequency noise which existed when I lived there. My goal is to not wait until the frequency has passed in India to appreciate its ‘noise’ but to value  the current high frequency I exist in now.

Temples, Mosques and Shoe Stores

 Well the holiday season is over and I am 100% guilty of being incredibly indulgent not only with baked goods, cheeses and yes even white, crusty bread but also copious amounts of wine. Add to that a good dose of laziness and finding every excuse not to get to the gym and I am officially a glutton. No mind. It will be back to grilled chicken and raw zucchini tomorrow once the kids are back in school and I am back to my old routines.

So in the course of becoming a sommelier consumption engineer-like that?  I have had a lot of time to read some good books. Unfortunately, as a hazard of being a Language Arts teacher, I often not only analyze those pieces of literature but also make connections to my life.  Introspection can often get in the way of fluff and ignorant bliss.  I have just finished the novel Holy Cow by Sarah MacDonald on the suggestion of a good friend. The quick premise of the book is about a protagonist who has gone to India once and hated it but is forced to go back years later.  She ends up  going on this intense spiritual journey to find herself.  As I read the first few pages I was almost laughing out loud about haw raw she is when describing the hardships of India and I immediately connect with the character. In my head I am thinking, “ This woman is saying in print everything I would love to write without tempering or softening the blow.”  Unfortunately page after page leads her further down this search for her true spirituality and the story becomes more and more serious.  So as I finish this book a little disappointed that it didn’t stay raw and in your face, I am forced to look at  my own understanding of my reaction to the book.

I didn’t  feel like maybe I should go on a spiritual journey or admire the woman for looking deeper into her soul, I actually just felt like “ Well that’s a waste of a read.”  Sad but true. I started to think that maybe I really am just a superficial, spa-loving, shoe-shopping, hair-product buying sad excuse for an expat. But I do love my Nine West Temple. However I continued to think about my reaction to religion as illustrated in this book and realized that it started way before India and instead of India initiating a religious, spiritual journey it has only confirmed my original ideas.

Years ago in my university days, where I began my journey to become a sommelier consumption engineer, I decided that maybe I needed to figure out what this whole religion thing was about. My mother is a firm Anglican who believes in God, taught Sunday school in her youth, and to this day meets up at the church with her friends to knit hats for the poor and bake for holiday bazaars. My father not so much. He is the consummate, academic who worked as a classics professor at the university and strongly believes in the whole philosophy that ‘facts don’t lie and everything else is rubbish. When I was young I went to Sunday school to learn about god but that only lasted for a few years and it soon became dull. After that religion fell off the face of the earth for me.

So while in Uni, I went on my own voyage to figure out what the fuss with religion was about. I went to different churches, read biblical and religious works from a number of faiths and talked to friends. What did I discover you ask? Well initially I was impressed with people’s blind faith in a higher power but I soon realized that although people said they believed in god it was also joined with a great deal of hypocrisy. Many people sit in church, temples, mosques, and prayer but soon forget when beliefs don’t coordinate with  wants and needs. Or they  find a way to justify a choice under the guise of forgiveness. This did not make sense to me then and it certainly doesn’t now. To me any belief is a great one so long as it guides an individual to make good choices. End stop. One religion is not better than the other but certainly there seems to be a huge difference in believers.

So in my adventures here in Mumbai I  discovered that Indians quickly define themselves as a great country because people of all faiths and religions can live together peacefully. Muslims, Christians, Catholics, Hindus and Buddhist all live in this over populated, crowded city and on the surface they do it well. But there are cracks.

My first driver Sayed, was a self professed good Muslim man who didn’t smoke or drink, completed his ablutions faithfully and went to mosque for prayer regularly. But I’ll tell you, he was the first to look for a way to ‘fool  madam’ and make a few bucks. As you can imagine he did not last long and now we have Javed. Now Javed is also a good Muslim man but he walks the walk. He is proud and quiet,  eager to help me out, goes to mosque every Friday without fail. I have never felt like he has taken advantage of our generosity and so ultimately he would qualify as a good believer. However, on a dime,  he will  turn around and punch someone in the face  who has rammed his car into the back of ours as a form of vigilante justice. Then there is my maid who is a devout Christian who again is quiet and proud. Within the first few weeks of her employment she asked about whether I believed in God and did I know I needed to be saved by Jesus. As nicely and calmly as I could I told her my beliefs , which she was horrified with and preceded to give me a new bible the next day. Currently, we have a silent understanding that we don’t speak of it but every so often  I find a mysterious piece of religious literature hanging around the house.  Again, she would qualify as a good believer except that she has decided that she doesn’t like Muslims- any Muslims whether they are nice or not.

This hypocrisy is everywhere in India and I do not judge them.  They are working under the umbrella of survival and things need to be done to live.  Realistic yes. Inspiring no.

In 3^rd year university, I read a book called Pilgrims Progress, which, ironically is a Christian allegory from the 1600s and an image from this remains in my head to this day.  It is a picture of a tree where each branch represents a moral of life- honesty, loyalty, commitment, love, hope and that every individual’s goal in life is to aspire to these morals. Branches grow from their youth and are nurtured by those around but inevitably some will break along the way. However the beauty of nature is that broken branches grow back often stronger than before and will still  produce flowers and fruit throughout the seasons.  This tree keeps me grounded and on the right path and although I have had my fair share of broken branches I have also produced some sweet, sweet fruit and am waiting for a new season.

Clarity in the Hills

Just back from a fabulous trip up to Matheran for New Years with friends. I have a very generous friend who owns a stunning renovated villa up in the cool, breezy forests of this historic Hill Station and every time we join them we have an incredible time and always come home with something to talk about. We were last up there visiting a few months ago and had the unique pleasure of running into (and I mean that literally) a Black viper snake, a huge, hairy brown tarantula and, a shiny black scorpion. Just an average day up in the jungles of India. Actually my friends had said that in all of the years they had been going up to Matheran they had never seen a tarantula or a scorpion that big. I guess we bring good luck but my daughter was not so positive about the experience and we needed to do quite a bit of convincing to get her to go up this past weekend.

So this venture up he mountain brought new adventures which, as always included the antics of the wild monkeys who come out of hiding around 9 am, play around the yard for a few hours and then sneak away back into the trees. Just a quick mention of a funny Nat Geo moment with my youngest daughter. As my husband and I were sitting outside on the white cane chairs, reading our books and sipping a cool beer, (I know it’s a tough life) I look over and I see a big, male monkey on top of a smaller money obviously doing what comes naturally and when finished left the female monkey covered in ‘white stuff.” Need I say more. Of course I hit my husband and told him to look but then I also noticed that my daughter was also watching this scene unfold. Tessa, my 7 yr old then turns to her dad and me and says. “ I really like those monkeys because they play so much but I don’t like that king monkey because he just jumped on top of that other monkey and put white poo on him.” From the mouths of babes.

Drinks before dinner out on the lawn

However this was not the highlight of the weekend. On New Years Eve, we all dressed in our finest and enjoyed an elegant meal out on the lawn of the villa indulging in good wine, good food, and great company. It was actually quite cold so soon we joined the children inside and began playing Wii Dance Party. As you can imagine it was quite a site with 8 adults, a little red in the cheek and easy with the moves taking over the controllers. However a good time being had by all. Now on my friend’s property live a family of local Indians who help take care of the villa and the surrounding land. This family have lived their for generations  and my friends continue to allow them to stay there and they have become family. They are a very kind family who have the most adorable 3 year old, Mansi, who does not speak much English but loves playing with the kids, her mother, Sakshi, father, Santosh and a grandmother, Hirubai.  Hirubai is a very traditional Indian woman who wears an understated purple saree wrapped between her legs  and represents the old ways of the hills.  As we played the Wii, Mansi and her mother looked on cautiously as the men tried dancing to Kesha’s ‘Tik Tok’ and the kids tried to outdo them. Before long Hirubai wandered into the room to check on Mansi. My friend immediately asked her if she wanted to play and with no hesitation, she jumped up and grabbed the controller and began to dance to ‘ It’s Raining Men.’  We all sat in shock and awe as we watched this old woman shake her thing to modern western music blaring from an even more modern video game.

It was at this moment that I realized that this was to be a lifelong memory and a moment of clarity. It is very easy in a city of 25 million to forget about the individual lives and personalities of those around me. As I come home ranting and raving about the rickshaw driver who rammed into the back of my car or the electrician who comes to fix something 12 times but needs to leave to get a part, I inevitably make a huge generalization about how frustrating ‘all Indians’ are and how different their culture is. But in a single moment, when I see my 9 year old daughter dancing with an 80 year old Indian woman from Matheran, I realize we really are not so different and that we are just people with our own stories and memories doing the best we can. 

As I write this post in the early hours of the morning I look out my window from the 30^th floor down to the construction slum below and I see three small fires burning. For the first time I do not feel that twang of sympathy for those trying to stay warm as the sleep on the dirt but a curiosity and desire to join them and their families and hear the stories of their lives and the hardships of the day.