we're an amrican band

"..we're comin to your town, we'll help you party it down.."

Saturday, we saw a band made up of ex-pats from Europe and the U.S. at Q'BA, the club my cousing Atul is a partner in. Though I normally don't go for bands doing coffeehouse style covers of eighties hits and classic rock, they had decent taste in song selections, including one by Joy Division and the song Tainted Love. One by The Frogs would have been great to hear, but that's asking a lot. Anyway, the resident DJ, Boo, is really solid and held things down before, after, and in between. The food is REALLY good. Go there.

Vikas, I hope you're still not mad about the hole we burned
in your back porch at your party. thanks in advance for bringing our mail over with you in December.

It's really amusing that I refer to Mitra as 'madame' when speaking hindi to various people, taxi drivers, hotel staff, the guest house staff. That's only because that's how they identify her. Otherwise, i would beat them with sticks, just kidding. I bet Naya will start calling Mitra 'madame' soon also since she picks up and freely uses whatever she hears us being referred to as these days.

The guest house has been much better than the hotel. The home cooking is great. One of the 2 boys who works here is Assamese and Mitra was thinking of hiring him away to our flat when we move in - that's right we found a place! It's in Safdarjung Enclave, apparently one of the oldest hoods in New Delhi. Vikas, i'm sorry you won't be able to burn a hole in our floor because the whole thing is made of marble. It's got great light for the room where i'll be setting up my painting studio, plus other modern conveniences, like an elevator to the second (aka top)floor so our elders don't need to hoof it up 4 flights. Best of all it's close to Connaught Place, near a clean green park for Naya to play and explore, and relatively mellow and uncongested compare to the other areas where we were looking.

Bird is the Word

We had a Thanksgiving dinner in our hotel room. A full tandoori chicken, 1 naan, 1 raita and 1 Kingfisher. This definitely isn't Kansas, but thank Rama for that, Kansas REALLY bums me out. A turkey dinner with some other family or friends would have been nice though. We were too tired from the preceding 5 hours of looking at rental flats to attempt more than room service. Many of the places we've seen are starting to blur together and i'm tempted to flip a rupee coin and just take one. This is getting depressing. Everyone seems to want in on the action to hook the NRI's (Non Resident Indian) up with a place, even the taxi drivers who overhear conversations start calling up their friends who might know of places and tell us they have something we can check out en route. The stakes are must being high.

I'm starting to appreciate the advice Mitra's mom gave me - 'don't trust anybody'. It's been about a week since we got here today, and I still feel like we just got off the plane. It's tough to feel settled when you live in a hotel. My parents got into town Tuesday so we spent the day with them at my grandmother's place in old Delhi where my Guddi Masi still lives having home cooking. It was a welcome change from the hotel living. It's not that the hotel stinks or anything, the gym is all digital, the exercise machines brand is 'technogym' and they have a DJ, the restaurants are Afghan, Korean, Chinese, Russian, 2 Indian and a Lebanese, plus 2 clubs that the youngsters clamour to get into on the weekends - you could do a lot worse as hotels go. We are moving to a guest house in 2 days for a more home grown lifestyle until we find our own place.



Naya played with some swans outside yesterday (video clip here) and today she went to a huge playground next to India Gate built by Suzuki/Maruti. It's good to see a well maintained recreational place where all kids and families are welcome in Delhi regardless of economic status, caste, etc. - I guess that's something to be thankful for.

Tandoori Turkey?

I wish... We are awaiting room service and an order of tandoori chicken and naan. Nitin ordered apple pie a la mode to appease my longing for Thanksgiving. But room service just called and said it is unavailable tonight. Still no flat found so I don't feel as thankful as I could. It's not that we can't afford some of the things we're seeing but it's more the idea that we are being taken for a ride. I often hate that part of being a foreigner, even in a land where people look like you -- you'll get in a car with a driver, spend a lovely eight hours together and then at payment time, somehow the distance between Connaught Place and Purana Delhi has become 100 km.

Dupatta or pants-suit?

Getting dressed for work today put me in a quandary. A few years ago, when I reported a series for Newsday on the new Indian economy, I wore salwar kameez to most of my interviews. In years past, I have switched between pants and salwars, depending on the setting. This morning, I wondered.

So I settled on a lime-green and blue suit that has a Nehru-wannabe kind of collar. As I did my makeup, I looked at the Lakme sindoor stick in my bag with a pang. Should I put a drop of it on my hairline so folks know I am married?

I had the same question last fall, as I reported on the new India for the Washington Post, and my sister-in-law dragged me with her to a Diwali party. About to sport the sindoor, my niece Ananya said with exasperation, "Mitra Chachi, do not put on the sindoor. It makes you look old and this is Delhi: Nobody wears sindoor anymore!"

I put it on anyway and retorted: "Ananya, without the sindoor, I would not even be your chachi!"

But this morning, I passed and tried to part my hair to the side. The wedding ring's enough, I reasoned. Although all the forms I filled out did ask me for the name of my father/husband...

The Eagles Have Landed

Get it? it's code for us Americanos.

So far, it hasn't been hard to shake the usual mindset i fall into when i visit India, when you might be on vacation, supplementing most meals with a Kingfisher (they have an airline?). Rather, the last 2 days have been more like a continuation of the 60 day evacuation drill we began in DC, and now we're trying to find a place to live other than this hotel. It's not so bad staying here, but for some reason, on the way to the Coffee Shop on the 1st floor where we dine every morning, there's the same eerie violin music playing which i know is from a famous horror movie, and makes me feel a bit like Jack Torrance.

I took Naya to Nehru Park across the street yesterday, nice, however we never found the swing set or jungle gym. There were lots of rocks to climb to make up for that, and we caught the tail end of a classical concert.















We had dinner with cousin Gaurav and his wife Mrinalini on Saturday night at a place called Punjabi by Nature. Mitra joked that she and Mumi were Punjabi by Nature because of marrying us, but i guess that would be by Nurture. I joked that the name would be good for a band, with a song called O.P.P. - these have been the only real breaks thus far in the house hunting missions we've been embarking on in the 48 hours since our arrival. the verdict is still out on where we're moving, but the cast of characters has been colorful. The last agent who showed places had us follow him around on his motorcycle while he talked on his celly - conjuring a renegade Delhi real estate guy, if there is such a thing!

We all pass out at 6:30pm after the day's house hunt, waking up at 1:30am today, our bodies just as confused by the 1o.5 hour time advance as the night we arrived. The Coffee Shop opens in 2 hours and we are starving.

Goodwill (House) Hunting

Rents here seem jacked up because of a) skyrocketing value of land in Delhi; b) increased wealth among middle-class Indians; c) more expats moving in who ruin the game for everyone else. Wait, do we fall into the latter? We're trying hard not to so if anyone knows of a four-bedroom flat near parks (with jula jula for our daughter, please), schools (Montessori preferred), lots of light (for artiste husband) and 20 minutes to Connaught Place (for working mom), please let us know... Although if you are like our family and friends in Delhi, when we list the options we like, you will pronounce: "Terrible!"

I think it's kind of like naming your baby. You just need to commit and then tell everyone.

Arrival

Someone should write a ballad and call it Flight 82. (That’s the nonstop Continental flight between Newark and New Delhi.) Much on my mind (and yes we are here!) but some thoughts at the forefront: These nonstop flights are drastically changing the immigrant experience. As a child, India was a destination saved up for, talked about and anticipated every three or four years. Our family of five flew the cheapest way possible to Calcutta – Royal Jordanian and Tarom (THE airline serving Romania) were my thrifty father’s favorites. Sample route: JFK-London-Bucharest-Dubai-Calcutta. And then of course we would have to halt and catch the infrequent flights to Guwahati. (That’s why I so I identified with Kiran Desai’s Biju in “The Inheritance of Loss” as she described his flight as a ‘bus in the sky.’)

In the last year alone, I have been to India three times – and twice on Flight 82.

Some things remain the same: Women will always jam the bathrooms 45 minutes before landing to wash their faces, put on makeup, maybe even wrap a sari in that tiny 2-by-2 space (that should be an Olympic sport). Their Charlie perfume wafts down the aisles just as the ‘fasten seatbelts’ light goes on. That baby you think will not stop crying finally does and goes to sleep. There is never enough space in the overhead bins and you wonder how some frail desi lady in a sari lugged the beast on in the first place. And then there’s the smells: sterile plane bad Indian food body odor perfume baby poop vodka sweat rosewater. When I finally stepped off the plane, it was as if a little of all of that hit me with the scent of India - put aside liberalization, my aging, the faster journey, that scent has not changed.

Shout Outs from the Clouds

OK, so i'm squeezing my second post offline on Continental Airlines. welcome to the world of laptops. welcome back, Mac - it's been too long Steve, but now i'm back from the Gates-cide on my wizzay back to the fareastside. the illuminated keyboard is one of the sexiest things i've seen on a machine in a while... i'll be writing fast as i'm running against the battery up here above Moscow. 14 hour non-stop flights rule.

just for the record, Naya is hands down the best 2 year old in any situation involving 2 year olds, and i'm not saying that just because i sired the little squirt. sorry, i've heard just about every infant on this flight wail about something and Naya just managed to sleep through it or be content to play hide and seek through the blanket they still give you free of charge these days. apparently, the drinks aren't free on international flights anymore...i had to drop a five spot for some shabby merlot at 6:45 (am) because i can't even sleep on the longest non stop flight i've ever taken in my life. i'll check if it's the longest one in general when i'm back online. it's been OK so far, the worst part was a steward dropping half a pint of milk on me - they shouldn't let guys do this job if you ask me, but the rest of the crew i dealt with weren't so cheery either.

The fact we are even on this flight amazes me with all the logistics dealt with since we decided to relocate to Delhi in September. this afternoon was an exercise in load balancing beyond the bounds of most - baggage space was being allocated by the square inch, most bags were within a pound of the max weight limit. I need to give a shout out to Steve, Karen and Celia at K12 for giving me that extra 2 weeks to deal with everything - i think you all had a better idea of what i was up against than i did regarding the prep time - which is what makes you great people to work for and with i guess. As for the rest of the K12 posse, I am sorry that we didn't get to have one last toast (or waffle for that matter) before this all got going. Hope we can make it up when we're back for a visit in September 2007.

I thought the last movie I'd seen stateside was Art School Confidential, based on the brilliant comic by Daniel Clowes. However I manage to squeeze in Talladega Nights - The Ballad of Ricky Bobby, which seemed almost more apt as my last flick - not the best Will Farrell work - but hey, that's what plane moves are for.

The Last Night...

Skype. Vonage. Deed to our house. Title to our car. Checking account to Papa. Phone calls to say 'bye. Sent off videos of babysitter's daughter's quinceanera. Wooed book editor. Dodged source. Switched cable to the tenants' name. Shopped at Costco again. Ate spaghetti and chicken marsala NOT masala. Mommy only cried twice. Bought work clothes and prayed for perfect East-West blend like in matrimonial days. Telepathically thanked Macy's for one-day sale in honor of our departure. Bought out Mac counter at Nordstrom; my face will be dotted with No. 43 foundation and my lips will be lined in mahogany -- but my eyes, oh my eyes, will always be Lakme. Packed and weighed suitcases. Shifted clothing to another. Tipped scales again. Shoes grew apart. No luck. Gave up around 3 a.m. and will likely kiss $25 goodbye for excess baggage. Kisses, America. Not so fast. Still need Halls Max, Q-Tips, Annie's Cheddar Bunnies and Annie's Mac and Cheese.

What goes around...

My mother spent all of yesterday crying. She fried up some turkey sausages for Nitin, and I asked him if they were extra salty -- that's how bad it was.

She says she is going to miss us so, that we are going too far away, that Naya will grow up and forget them, that we will be missed at holidays and average-days alike.

Funny how she forgets. She did the same exact thing to her parents more than three decades ago -- and when my elder brother was about the same age as Naya.

Some quick background: My father emigrated from India in 1971, to the YMCA on Manhattan's Upper West Side to be exact. He was 30 and sought greater opportunity.

On Thursday night, I leave for India to join a business publication. I am 30 and seek greater opportunity, as well.

My mother arrived in 1974, with a baby who had never met his father. I don't kid myself that our migrations are that similar. They were poor, living in an ungentrified Brooklyn, working hourly wage jobs from the DA's office, Burger King and eventually Citibank, where my father would work for most of his life. Neither of their parents, left behind in Assam, lived in homes with phones or sit-down toilets. Blue aerograms sent their news back and forth, usually in a language I couldn't read. My mother always saved the back flap for me to write a few lines or draw a picture. I usually drew a stick figure of a girl with big teardrops "because I miss you sooooooo much," I would write.

Yesterday, we set up Nitin's new Mac, which comes with an inconspicuous camera that allows us to shoot video of our child and her antics that we can email my parents. So they won't miss out on everything.

It's the Final Countdown...

Sitting in our friends Pete and Ericka's wedding rehearsal at the Red Rocks Chapel on November 3rd, this was the ring tone from the band 'Europe' that emitted from the mobile of someone who forgot to do the courtesy of turning it off. Still, I found the incident it to be very appropriate for the occasion at hand, as well our current predicament of departing the States in less than 3 days.
Colorado was a great getaway after meeting the November 1 deadline to vacate our home in DC, sell our car, donate, sell or otherwise dispose of as many of our possessions as possible. This act of purging was a liberating yet exhausting experience. Given the context of being on the verge of leaving the country for a couple of years, I observe and relish the American landscape with a sort of pre-nostalgia - everything from the Rockies to redneck bars to giant grocery stores.

Let's start with the shopping...

It’s fitting that we arrived at Costco the morning after we watched “Supersize Me,” the documentary about a guy who eats McDonald’s for 30 days and could never, ever refuse an offer for a larger Coke, fries or burger.

Such offers silently haunt the wide aisles at warehouse-style stores as Sam’s Club and Costco - and we always overdo it when we go. But somehow the idea of not having access to such a place in India turned us into maniac shoppers in search of big boxes, tubs and 12-packs of Americana. Like the protagonist of the movie, we could not even feign experiment.

Let me not bury the lede: We filled three shopping baskets and our bill came to more than $700.

When you first ask, everyone tells you that post-liberalized India is no longer lacking. “Eyah amar notun India, Mitra,” a cousin told me. “Sap bostu pai.>” (Translation: This is our new India, Mitra. You can get everything.)

And then you probe and the list of luxury trickles out: Ziploc bags, Splenda, Tampons, fat-free puddings, salad dressings, stain remover, instant foods like mac and cheese and Hamburger Helper. We stopped eating beef, though, so that one never made it on the list. Not like we really care for any of the other stuff but there's just something about being told you can't have something... It makes you horde it by the dozen.

Our friends and family already in India, a combination of native Indians and expatriate Americans, also mentioned items you can find in India but that are poorer quality: pancake mix, bras, underwear, gym socks, flannel pajamas, fleecewear for kids, diaper wipes. "Buy Naya's clothes for a few seasons," one sister-in-law told me. Another: "Don't buy Naya's clothes there. You can get them cheaper in India." A friend who lived in Delhi last year: "Jeans, just get a bunch of pairs of jeans."

After lifetimes spent lugging items to India from Tang packets to 220-volt microwaves purchased in Queens, Nitin and I racked our brains to figure out what we would need. We made lists, lots of them, in anticipation of our shopping spree. The weeks before Costco, every time I cooked a dish, I’d wonder if the ingredients could be found in India: olive oil, worcestire sauce, lasagna noodles, oregano, vanilla extract, tofu. And I confess, I wondered if I would even be cooking.

The doubts got worse as we wheeled our carts, even their storage shelves underneath stacked, through the aisles and we just kept piling atop the wobbly assortment. We nearly cried when the bill came to $700 and when the cashier raised her eyebrows, Nitin spoke up, "Overseas," he said. "We're moving overseas."

Once home, we put Naya to bed before we brought the stuff in and stacked it in the dining room. Is this what we would miss about America most? Is this what we wanted to be reminded of on the nights that curry wouldn't cut it? Why did we spend $60 on plastic sandwich bags -- ahem, Ziploc -- when I usually buy our year's supply at the dollar store for less than $5? Was moving to India already making us more brand-conscious? More (gasp) bourgeois? Nitin and I looked at each other. "Are we moving to India to eat barbecue sauce and mac and cheese?" We laughed. "I'm getting the video camera out," I said. "This is where our story has to begin."