My daughter and I had been living in Spain for 8 years when I was laid off from my job along with half the company back in May, 2010.  For almost a year I looked for a new job but Spain’s unemployment rate rose to 21% and companies were giving top-level executive positions to middle managers in an effort to cut costs.  It became clear that I could no longer provide for us in Spain and I needed to widen my search for work.  My daughter and I make important decisions together so we turned on the computer, opened up Google Maps and short-listed a handful of countries where we both felt life would be a fun adventure for us if indeed we were being forced to leave home, which was Barcelona.

And that’s where our Indian adventure –and my working with Indian men– began.  I hopped on LinkedIn and other job portals and within one week I had my first solid lead with a company looking for a chief marketing officer to launch them into 14 new markets over the next couple of years.  After a friendly email exchange with the CEO, a phone interview was setup.

From the first few seconds on the phone I liked him.  The phone is a funny thing.  Someone could be wearing fuzzy kitty slippers and still have on their bathrobe and no one would ever be the wiser.  But there is ONE thing that is 100% silent but can be detected and heard through a phone line…and that is a smile.  I could tell right away that the CEO was smiling and had a genuinely vivacious character during our first call.  The energy I was feeling across the line to India was a nice treat compared to the more serious European personalities and offered up my first sample of what was to come.

I am the first foreigner ever hired at the HQ in Bangalore at both that first job and with my current company and I am treated very well at work.  Some of the ‘special’ treatments are things that I’ve experienced at both jobs so my guess is that these are customs in India.  For example, the security guards will stand when they see me approaching – at least the first time each day and say either “hello, madam” or “good afternoon, madam”.  I find it sweet and actually really like it. Although at the first job it bothered me a bit because I already stood out so freaking much that having the security guy stand and draw more attention to me wasn’t a really welcome thing.  But now I enjoy it and hope they don’t eventually stop.

In Spain, I worked for a couple of men who had a combo of huge egos plus zero or minimal marketing experience and it actually played a huge role in our daily exchanges and made working with them a nightmare.  Yet here, my work mates and my superiors are quite different and they appreciate my experience and expect me to lead and consult every day, with no ego.  I work with hundreds of Indian men and I’m happy to say that I’ve only had an ego issue with one so far in nine months. Not bad if you ask me!

Generally speaking, Indian men don’t get right down to business. There is an inherent trait built into the men here that makes them natural conversationalists and they don’t start a meeting without some light chit-chat and banter first about personal topics to catch up a bit or nurture a relationship.  I’m more of a ‘jump right onto the agenda’ and get right down to business kind of woman so it is a bit tough at times to kick out of high gear and slow it down.

Indian men are fun to work with.  My own AMAZING team is comprised of all men so far and we form a fantastic unit.  I have never once felt any attitude like they don’t want to work for a woman and I have to admit that I wasn’t quite sure how that was going to play out given the fact that India is still a very male dominated country and women are not equals.  Unlike other countries where there is complete equality, here there are still two very different sets of rules for men and women. This is neither right nor wrong, it is what it is.  But it is something new for me and I simply wasn’t sure how it would affect me at work but it doesn’t in the least I’m happy to report.

The men here in Bangalore don’t use clothing as an extension of power – at least not like in Europe or the states where the Prada, Diesel and Hugo Boss labels dripped from my colleagues.  Here guys have a much more casual approach to dressing.  Senior players and junior team members alike look sharp at the office but without the power suit 99% of the time.  One thing that does make me half smile, half giggle though is when the guys come into work with blingy, shiny shirts that I have only ever seen at dance clubs.  Some walk in looking like John  Travolta in Saturday Night Fever! Maybe the most distinguishing physical attribute I adore is from the Hindus at work who go to early morning temple and arrive wearing a tilak.

Socializing outside work with men is almost non-existent. Throughout Europe and in the U.S. colleagues mix and mingle without really thinking twice about it.  It can be a great way to bond and enrich the working relationship.  In fact, at my last company in Barcelona we even held an annual summer beach party with the entire company…200+ colleagues in swimming costumes with all the girls in bikinis, eating and drinking cocktails, playing football and even dancing on the beach to a DJ.  Now I just shake my head and laugh when I try to imagine that same scenario here in India.  No way!

Interestingly, tea is a part of life here more than even the UK and I love the way my male colleagues on the executive team offer up a cup of tea whenever we sit down together. I remember being jacked up on caffeine the first week I worked in India because of the constant set of training meetings I was in with different team members…and each would act really offended if I didn’t want tea so I drank buckets of it.  Now I only say yes periodically but it still makes me smile every time a cup of tea is graciously offered to me.

Truth be told, I am treated different at work because I am white – I do know this. But something interesting I’ve been told several times now is that because I am not Indian that I will be treated better by my superiors.  I like to believe that is actually not true. I have never personally been on the receiving end of a bad temper since my arrival but I do know that in my last company that my Indian colleagues DID experience this from time to time.  I don’t know how true the idea is or not but I find it interesting – and sad – that this is the perception of my work mates.

Understandably, Indians are different. Some appear to think in binary code, all smile more than any other group of men I’ve known…and when it comes to my Indian cohorts at work…well, they all definitely have that gentle spirit that I refer to in my article about working with Indian women.  Don’t get me wrong, they are still tough power guys but there is something calming about Indian men that I’ve just never experienced elsewhere. It’s definitely a nice change of pace.

Photo credit: suyati.com

Dear NRI readers why not connect with us on the following social media platforms.

Click here to join our Facebook Fan Page

Click here to join our LinkedIn Group

Do your neighbors flock to you every time you visit home? Do they show no qualms in informing you how much weight you have put on, or how everything is now readily available in India? Do your relatives think you are not getting married due to suspicious reasons?

Read on ….

Despite much talk of globalization and snooty relatives in India dutifully informing you that everything you brought for them (from Toblerone chocolates to GAP clothes) is now available at their nearest shopping mall, the annual visit to India is not without its predictable share of amusement. Most neighbors and relatives would pay a handsome entry fee to come check you out, elevating you to the status of a typical baboon eating a banana in a zoo. They do not hide their amazement at how you can still speak perfect Bengali without an American accent. At one point, I was tempted to fake an accent so as not to disappoint them.

The people all came with many questions about my life in America. However, after meeting a few neighbors, I realized that it became easier to answer their questions about “Tomader America” (“Your America”). It was not because they asked easier questions or stopped asking them for a change. It was because they asked questions from the same question pool, like our very own Calcutta University, infamous for reusing and recycling questions from the time Akbar inherited the throne or your grandfather last watched Krishi Darshan on television.

“Baaabaaa, you look so different”

Which euphemistically means you look old, fat, and ugly. The claim to the prolonged and usually adenoidal “Baaabbaaaa” is not from Baa Baa Black Sheep. You are not a true Bengali if you cannot drone a nasal and dragging Baaabaaaa at the beginning of a conversation to show amazement. What it means, or if it was coined by someone great like Tagore, I do not know.

YOU: Nod and smile, wishing the embarrassing moment of visual appraisal would be over soon.

WHAT YOU OUGHT TO DO: Nod and smile. Please do not ask for clarifications, unless you want to be told to your face that you are fat.

“So what have you got from America?”

DO NOT: Start giving an account.

DO: Keep them guessing. Say this and that. Smile surreptitiously. Do not let them anywhere near your American Tourister suitcases. Stuff some Hershey’s Kisses chocolates in their hands instead.

“Don’t you miss home?”

Now this is a loaded question with no politically correct answer. If you say yes, you will need to answer why you did not visit earlier, OPT and visa transition phases be darned. If you say no, you will be portrayed as that insensitive monster of a child who never cared about your old and ailing parents, and while the poor father was toiling hard and the poor mother was cooking for the family in the heat and humidity, you were gambling and having fun in Las Vegas.

DO NOT: Try thinking of an apt answer.

DO: Smile and nod at an angle which could mean both a yes and a no. Just say you have never been to Las Vegas.

“So when are you getting married?”

This question comes in various versions. Some ask if you have decided to marry a foreigner (foreigner by the way is anyone non-Indian). Some specify certain religions and races you should stay away from, even if he is the last man with whom you can repopulate planet earth. Some demand that no matter whom you marry, the social ceremony should be in India, witnessed and blessed by some six hundred odd relatives and acquaintances. Some even ask you if you have come home to (secretly) get married.

DO NOT: Let them believe you are as clueless about your wedding as they are. Do not inform them that you do not have a plan or that useless software engineer from the Bay Area you dated screwed up the relationship and after four years of hanky-panky, he said he needed more time to “figure things out” and you are too old, stigmatized and tired to find someone new or make a Plan B.

DO: Smile suspiciously and coyly. Let them know there is something you are hiding.

“Are you going to settle there?”

This is the most unsettling of all the questions. For one, with the screwed up economy and your unstable visa situation, you are light years away from any kind of stability, work-wise or visa-wise. Your boss is making your life at work miserable and the last thing on your mind after twelve hours of crouching in front of a computer crunching numbers, tallying excel spreadsheets or running statistical analyses everyday is to think if you are going to “settle” in the US.

DO NOT: Try explaining things. Before you know, the neighbors would have found out how much you earn, spend, and save.

DO: Smile and nod making an angle which could mean a yes maybe or a no maybe.

“I’m not asking you your salary, but how much do you earn compared to Indian standards?”

And you can almost see the currency converter in their heads ticking.

“I’ve heard many Indian girls and boys in the US live together. Is that true?”

TRY SAYING: Yes, it is known as an orgy.

“Do you cook Indian food at all? No, you must be eating burger and fries, and beef and pork, no?”

TRY SAYING: Yes, and bison meat too, transported all the way from Yellowstone National Park.

“Aren’t people in your country smelly and refuse to take a bath every day?”

TRY SAYING: (Assuming “your country” refers to America) Yes, and it is sometimes required by the law in certain states that international students soap them clean.

“Is there some good news we should know about?”

TRY SAYING: “Absolutely !!”. Then look indicatively at those tires on your tummy, thanks to a diet rich in Nutella and McDonald’s.

While most questions are innocuous, bordering on curiosity and ignorance, answering them sometimes gets awkward, especially after all that privacy and space you have enjoyed in western society. No one really cares why you are not married or how much your earn in America, unless of course it is the same desi aunty who is visiting her sonny boy in California. You can get away with most questions with a non-committal smile and a head nod which could mean a yes, no, maybe, probably, most likely, anything. Although annoying, answering these questions is strangely not an ordeal after a while. In some comforting way, it is representative of a society that shows care, although in its own idiosyncratic and ostensibly interfering way. I would prefer this society any day compared to the isolation of living in my present, western society, where I do not know who my neighbors are, and highly run the risk of going unnoticed for days if ever trapped in my apartment alone due to a broken bone and unable to ask for help.

Photo credit: Tawheed Manzoor

Dear NRI readers why not connect with us on the following social media platforms.

Click here to join our Facebook Fan Page

Click here to join our LinkedIn Group

I’m sitting at my hosts’ dining room table, tucking into takeaway KFC late at night, when my friends return from their midnight walk around Pali Hill and appear in front of me.

“How was the club?” asks N.

I can barely hear him. There’s a residual hum, either in my ears on my brain, from the pounding bass at Aurus.

“Good, really good,” I reply with a hoarse voice and an exaggerated nod.

J grins through his beard. “You look a bit… startled,” he says.

“Yeah. I suppose I’ve had quite an evening…”

Skip back ten hours or so, and I’m speeding through Mumbai’s trendy eastern suburbs in a rickshaw with DJ and Model. (I say ’speeding’ but given the traffic, you don’t really speed in a Mumbai rickshaw for more than about twenty metres at a time; it’s a mode of transport more associated with 90-degree turns and long waits at traffic lights.) For the two years prior to this night, I’ve had only Varkala’s cliff bars for nights out – which, while certainly wild in their own way, are a much more backwoods-style experience than somewhere like Aurus.

But before we reach Aurus, we must prepare with Kingfishers and cheap wine in V’s serviced apartment in Pali Hill. She opens the door and smiles, embracing Model; they exchange pleasantries in their shared Melbourne twang. Behind them, a small Indian man in half-traditional servant dress shuffles in and out of view; V notices my confusion and tells me not to mind him, he’s just part of what you get for the rent. Yet another example of India’s (and especially Mumbai’s) labour-saturated economy, I think.

We sit in V’s bedroom and talk our way through several drinks. I haven’t met V before before but she is great company, full of great foreigner-in-India stories and insights sprinkled liberally with curse words. At my request, they all teach me how to properly insult someone in Hindi; of course, I forget all the ’something-chod‘ words next time I go to the fridge for another beer. DJ and Model, meanwhile, are married; DJ is indeed a DJ and has been one since the early 90s, well before it was cool (in India at least). Model, however, is not a model – well, apart from a few shoots on Kerala backwaters. I’m calling her Model because she’s statuesque and fashionable; she is fortunately not a prima donna with it. After all, if she were, we probably wouldn’t be hanging out right now.

Five o’clock rolls around, so we head out into the street to flag down a couple of rickshaws and go on another jaunt through thick traffic. When we arrive outside the club, I feel the thick bass from inside shaking the air around me and realise how drunk I am already. The bouncers don’t want to let any men inside but after a quick call from DJ to the owner of the club, we’re through and sharing a pitcher of strongly alcoholic punch with Model & V.

I’m pretty sure Aurus is the coolest place I’ve ever been. The decks and speakers are set up at the end of the outdoor area, right in front of the wall down to Juhu Beach a few feet below; there’s also a four-poster bed in one corner and a small garden in the centre of the courtyard. Everything looks modern, classy and clean. Sipping our cocktails, we look out at a magnificent, bright yellow sunset across the waves. Model tells me to look down at the beach; there, a long line of local men are staring – not out at the sun’s grandeur but up at us, the rich revellers. However strange they look to us, we – with our designer clothes, expensive drinks and tuneless music – surely look even stranger to them.

Not in the Aurus universe, though. The clientele are mostly young, younger than the four of us even, and all kitted out in trendy labels. It might just be me but nobody seems to be trying too hard to look good, which had been what I expected from Mumbai’s new elite. Instead, everyone seems quite relaxed and free. AFM’s excellent set has brought one such relaxed-and-free soul to the beachfront dance floor already, a young woman with a quick smile and pineapple-shaped hair. Model, V & I put our glasses down by the garden and join her. (I would probably never do this back home. Here, where everybody is sneaking glances at the three pale-skinned Antipodeans whatever we’re doing, I figure I might as well join in. Let them stare at my flailing limbs, too.)

After several minutes, I notice that no men have come to try and dance with, or touch, Model or V. I’m amazed. You have to fight them off in Varkala’s shacks, local guys with no concept of personal space – especially for foreign women. The guys that do join the dance floor are mostly content to dance on their own or as part of the collective, never forcing themselves into your attention.

The place fills up a little more as the sun crosses the horizon. I return to DJ and chat with his other DJ friends, rayG and Ron, about the clubbing scene in Mumbai. They all talk about how DJing as a profession was so unrespectable for an Indian man 15 or 20 years ago, shameful even, and how it’s great that a young guy like AFM can be pursuing his dreams in the DJ-friendly atmosphere we have today.

Living as I do in a town of 40,000 in Kerala, I feel very much like a villager in a big city where strange dreams come true. I have to shout over the thumping music as well as concentrate very hard so I don’t slur my words. DJ and his buddies humour me with patience and smiles. I’m having such a great time.

AFM finishes. I go to the bathroom. I’m sure I see a bag of white powder and some money exchange hands inside but in my intoxicated state, I could easily be wrong.

When I come back out, it’s suddenly completely dark but for the club’s mood lighting. The place seems full. When did that happen? Umek, the main act and a Slovenian legend of techno, starts his set with even deeper basslines than AFM was throwing at us. A girl wearing a sleeveless top swings glow sticks on strings at the side of the dance floor; in the middle, I meet up again with DJ, Model, V, rayG and Ron. Someone gets out a camera and the flash goes off more times than I can count, capturing us in various states of elation and disrepair.

I go to buy more drinks. At the bar, I turn to a guy and ask, “What’s your name?”

“Umek,” he replies.

I laugh and repeat myself with emphasis. “No, man! What’s YOUR name!” I point at his chest. Villager in the big city.

He smiles a little uneasily. “Oh. Rahul.”

I put out my hand and he shakes it, smiling less guardedly now. My bottles of Tuborg arrive so I say to Rahul, “Have a great night!”

“You too, man,” he says.

Back into the fray. The dance floor is now completely packed yet still remarkably free of jostling or sly touches. Fantastic. Umek is cocky, repeatedly slowing down and speeding up the beat to mess with our dance rhythms. I yell over the din to DJ that I liked AFM more – then Umek drops a huge beat, a strobe kicks in and we all go crazy.

The rest of Umek’s set is a blur. Water is fetched a few times to refresh our dry throats. I smile a lot at people, and they all smile back. Nobody is too cool to smile, it seems. I feel blessed. Then the music stops, the house lights come up and a lot of people start to leave. It’s 11pm, late enough for Aurus to perhaps start getting trouble from the cops. A staff member takes up the microphone and yells “Everybody go insiiide!” in the same way a DJ might shout “Put your hands up in the aiiir!” It isn’t working; we all mill about a while longer until he cries again. “Everybody go insiiiiiiiiiiiiiiide! We have to get everyone insiiiiide!”

Time to go. At the entrance of the club, we say goodbye to DJ and Model, who are taking a rickshaw back across town. V & I share a taxi back to Pali Hill, stopping at KFC on the way. She drops me at the building where I’m staying. And then I’m back at my hosts’ dining room table, looking up with bleary eyes at J.

“I’d better get to bed,” I manage to mumble. “I’ll tell you about it in the morning.”

J and N smile and look at each other. “Righto,” they say.

And then I’m lying flat, the hum louder than ever in my ears, replaying parts of the night in my head as I drift off to sleep. For a young Mumbaiker, this is probably at least a weekly experience. For this young saip visiting the biggest city in India for the first time, it feels like I’ve touched the sky.

Photo credit: blogtalkfusion.com

Dear NRI readers why not connect with us on the following social media platforms.

Click here to join our Facebook Fan Page

Click here to join our LinkedIn Group

That night Mr. Daler Mehndi kept me company in my loneliness as I drove the 400 miles and the eight-hour stretch between Virginia and Connecticut. While he sang “Amritsar se Amrica hil gaya, Dulha mil gaya, dulha mil gaya” (Rough translation: The world is shaken from Amritsar to America …. Because we found the groom) in a loop, my thoughts had gone on to the auto pilot mode, wondering what made him so sure that someone had found the groom. Where in hell was the groom? It is a different story if the groom is in Amritsar right now, but if he was in Amrica, surely I have not seen him.

Looking at the vast expanse of the freeway, stretching hundreds of lonely miles in front of me and eventually leading to menopause and infirmity, I sighed not for the first time at the irony of the song. It was not the I-95 North I was thinking of, it was the freeway of singlehood, the freeway where all our journeys started. However, every now and then, exits took you to another parallel freeway- the “Marriagehood” freeway. You could in fact see, wave to, and honk at all your friends in the other freeway.

Early twenties, fresh out of college, some of my friends took the exit and changed freeways. I was happily driving in my freeway, looking forward to a few vista points like an F-1 visa stamped on my Indian passport, Benjamin Franklin and Gandhi ji living harmoniously in my wallet, some international travel magnets on my fridge, and the independence to make my choices without being a trailing partner. My friends claimed that they could change freeways and look for the same vista points, but some of them never reported back. I assume they found their own unique vista points, like honeymooning in the Bahamas, respite from the nightmare of not dying single, observing Karwa Chauth as a national holiday, posting pictures of hubby dear holding a bunch of roses, updating Facebook with “<3 you honey, come back from office soon, made Rajma Chawal for dinner, XOXOXO” type status updates, and promises of a more fulfilling drive (pun unintended).

As I drove along, my better friends started to change freeways. They waved me goodbye and exited. I often wondered how it must feel like to drive in the other freeway. For here was a basic driving rule. Once you left your singlehood freeway, there was no coming back. If you figured out eventually that marriagehood freeway does not work for you, there was yet another freeway somewhere far down you were banished to. It was really far, as far as Burkina Faso, and none of my friends had ever reported back from there. Some researchers even claimed that people who took the marriage freeway lived healthier, with good cardiac health and prolonged longevity. I thought I will drive some more and find out what my freeway had to offer. My heart was beating just fine.

The drive has been awesome so far, barring a few hitches like sitting through parties yawning while listening to women rant about impending annual visits of their mother-in-law. Graduate school, gainful employment, backpacking Europe, independence, respite from planning out February the 14th, writing, convocation, dissertation, everything happened eventually. Yet recently I looked at my freeway and was shocked to see it almost empty. My best buddies who once sang “Yeh dosti hum nahi todenge” (We shall never end this friendship. Movie: Sholay)with me are all driving that same motorbike and singing the same song to different people in a different freeway. Not good news. I started seriously thinking about changing freeways, especially after parents, grandparents, and best friends all honked and waved at me multiple times, asking me to take the next exit. Although I was not really hoping to find Ranbir the Rockstar waiting for me at the other freeway, I had to ensure that at least someone was waiting. Have you ever driven on the road, knowing that you should probably take the next exit, yet you keep missing exits because of a poor navigational instinct? I missed a few exits, while Daler Mehndi persistently screamed, “Dulha mil gaya, dulha mil gaya”. Driving alone is not fun come wedding season, with all the words of wisdom of the responsibility of passing down my wonderful genes as an obligation to humanity that spills gratis with every annual visit to India. My relatives and neighbors even point me to the passing fields along the freeway, indicating to birds flying in pairs and buffaloes grazing in pairs. They enlighten me, saying nature has meant us to live in pairs. Such profound wisdom brings tears to my eyes!

As I keep driving, the weather gets a little rough in my lane. I suddenly hear the tick tock that I wrongly thought was a time bomb planted in the car until someone tells me that it is indeed a time bomb, also known as my biological clock. I sigh, realizing that as I drive farther ahead, the exits drastically reduce in number. An old driver far ahead of me puts on his emergency lights, indicating to me, “There are no more exits left out here, if you need one, you better get to the other freeway soon!” Soon there will be a point beyond which there would be no more exits to take, and I will have to keep driving with that knowledge, the time bomb of my youth already detonated. Sometimes, some suspicious and creepy drivers who got a traffic ticket and were banished to the Burkina Faso freeway honk at me to get my attention. Their suffering and optimism once again brings tears to my eyes!

I keep driving in my lane, getting unsure with every missed exit. Pushpa coyly enlightens Ramesh Babu in the background, “Ek chutki sindoor ki keemat tum kya jano Ramesh Babu” (You know not the value of a pinch of vermilion Ramesh Babu. Movie: Amar Prem). I nervously look at my balding forehead in the rearview mirror. Pushpa is right, I should probably understand the value of a pinch of vermilion, perhaps for the sake of hiding my receding hairline. For I have even heard rumors about how my lane eventually ends in a black hole.

Amidst this honking, biological clock ticking, and missing exits, I drive along my lane in the darkness of the night. Daler Mehndi has stopped singing “Dulha mil gaya”. It is little respite that the next song in the playlist is “Ooh-La-La-Ooh-La-La, Tu hai meri fantasy” (Ooh-La-La-Ooh-La-La, You are my fantasy). Paints a pretty “Dirty” (and scary) picture.

Photo credit: Faramarz Hashemi

Dear NRI readers why not connect with us on the following social media platforms.

Click here to join our Facebook Fan Page

Click here to join our LinkedIn Group

Hermes, the scarf people, decided to pay a tribute to India and their Indian customers by introducing a silk sari that costs about $6,100 to $8,200. Forget the price tag; the luxury fashion house is entering a precarious territory. Clearly, Hermes has little awareness of the Indian sari sentiment and has not met my mother. Although the sari is not intended for people of refined taste like my mother or her South Indian counterparts, no Indian in their right mind would buy this sari because we need our money’s worth.

Let me tell Patrick Thomas (Chief Executive of Hermes International) the art of sari shopping in India, rather Chennai. In the process let me also elucidate the exquisite weave and the brilliant glow of a Kancheevaram silk.

As a girl blossoms into a woman, her wardrobe starts piling up with these ethereal silks. At first you are blissfully unaware and do not get tangled in the convulsed yet magical world of colors, borders, designs and motifs. But with the years, you develop a penchant and are in perennial search for that nonexistent hue missing in your wardrobe. You are stubborn about the mango designs on your pallu.

Take time to visit T. Nagar, the temple of silk saris in Chennai. It fairs well in comparison to the temple city Kancheevaram. The women in Chennai know the geography of T Nagar like the back of their hand. Pick a store and they would list out the price range, quality and customer service. If you are searching for a purple sari, you will get the purple sari. Not pink, not magenta, and not violet but purple.

The shops in T Nagar are not luxury fashion houses but they know their customers fairly well. The quest for the perfect silk can leave the male members annoyed and tired. So it comes as no surprise that Nalli and Kumaran (popular silk shops) have waiting areas specially designed for the male members to relax and recoup. They are intentionally equipped with The Hindu and various political magazines. The men are summoned at the time of checkout; in fact only their wallets are summoned. The lady of the house is tirelessly rummaging through the heap to find that perfect shade with that lustrous border. Even if she quickly ducks to the neighboring shop who is to know.

South Indians have specifics when related to silks. The sari defines their status and the weave, their taste. No self respecting south Indian who is born to my mother would wear a sari that has a border the length of a wrist band. It better be as wide as the Panama Canal! We do not walk into every store but restrict ourselves to a select few, simply because they are the ones that are entitled to the lotus feet of my mother.

When a purchase is finally made, the entire extended family is filled in on the bargain. There are lengthy discussions involving the price and the weave. They decide whether the store is worthy of a second visit. For Mr. Hermes, a sari is not just a sari, its folds carry memories, the weaving carries tales and wearing them brings a satisfaction and pride that no designer fashion can match. So you better stick to the scarves.

Photo credit: Hermes

Dear NRI readers why not connect with us on the following social media platforms.

Click here to join our Facebook Fan Page

Click here to join our LinkedIn Group

Once upon a time, I used to love local trains. I’d get all sorts of philosophical thoughts while travelling and I had even come up with a theory about how the world was formed. Then one night, someone defiled all the beautiful trains with stickers that said this: “Good new’s ! Make a new colour PAN card!” Apart from the unnecessary apostrophe, which caused all my local-train love to evaporate, this sign made me wonder about the new colour the PAN-card manufacturers had discovered.

This isn’t an isolated incident. My Economics book tells me that a perfectly competitive market is one in which “the number of sellers are large”. Also, am I the only one who noticed the spelling mistake in the Kolaveri subtitles (I want you hear now-u…)?

But these are all excusable. What with all these education surveys telling us we’re dumb, we can’t realistically hope to find proper spelling, grammar and punctuation on trains and in textbooks. You know how the CBSE website uploads answer papers of the highest scorers for all to scrutinize and ape? Two years ago, I was reading these and I found a very, very stupid grammatical mistake (fortunately, I cannot remember what it was, now) in the supposedly-best English paper, and a nonchalant tick mark right next to it. I cried myself to sleep that night. That’s the kind of disillusionment that stays with you all your life.

Is there any excuse for such carelessness on Facebook? Why must people who have been to good schools and have read at least a few well-punctuated books (even if it’s just Twilight) say, “I luvhh mah bestiezz foreva Im sowwiee if I eva hurt yah”? The shortened spellings I can overlook, if with a little difficulty. But the extra letters make me want to research compulsive keyboard harassment. Perhaps part of the blame lies with Bigg Boss, the Facebook group called LOlzzzz and Snoop Dogg (or Chetan Bhagat, because you can generally blame all these things on Chetan Bhagat). Someone told me the second ‘g’ in Snoop Dogg stands for gangsta. I would like to tell them that that is the lamest excuse I have ever heard for the above-mentioned disorder.

Thankfully and inexplicably, there has been a sharp decline in the number of people tokin lyk dis, making everybody’s lives easier. Offenders still remain though, and believe me when I say that I did not make the following status update up. I couldn’t have. ‘y it olwiz hpns wheneva i cmt mstk nd fl lik cryin 4 hrtin uh,uh juz cm in meh mind nd say plz dn’t cry.y r u so nyc 2 meh?.’ I’m sure whoever it was, stopped being nice to this updater immediately after reading this.

There are people who tell me to shut up and stop being rude; but some degree of correct spelling, grammar and punctuation is required if you want to appear considerate to your readers. True, the message usually gets across without all those fancy little marks, but it makes the reader work extra hard to decipher your love for your best friends. By all means write “luvhhh mah bestiezzz” in your private diary; don’t do it on Facebook.

Dear NRI readers why not connect with us on the following social media platforms.

Click here to join our Facebook Fan Page

Click here to join our LinkedIn Group

My friend Barnaby recently wrote on how being white in India made him feel like a celebrity. He talked about the personal questions that curious locals asked; how the ‘informal paparazzi’ photographed him on their mobile phones; the way every shop owner would try to give him perfect service in a bizarre display of fanfare. As a Caucasian woman living in Mumbai, I can relate, and would like to add: people also seem to think that because I’m white, I’m rich.

Maybe it’s leftover sentiment from the Raj era of wealthy “Britishers” roaming their tea estates in absurd hats. Maybe it’s because nowadays, even the cheapest backpackers who come to India are still easy to rip off, and still end up dropping a lot of money on silk (whether real silk or “real” silk), temple tours, ali baba pants and other superfluous tourist traps. Whatever it is, my fair skin seems to serve as a beacon to proclaim that because I’m a foreigner, I must have money to spend.

Between the Caucasian tourists buying bellydance costumes and bhang, the foreigners who live in India working for multinational companies, and India’s history of colonial rule, it’s easy to see why foreigners are assumed to be rich. Some of us, however, are not as high rolling as we might look to those wearing “white=wealthy” filters. Despite being white, I missed the wealth part. I work for a local NGO, and thus am often mistaken to be someone much richer and more fabulous than I really am.

“Ma’am, I can call your car?” says the valet at the gym. Despite having seen me walk in and out every other day for months, he’s still convinced that I must have a car that I am hiding somewhere. “No, no car!” I chirp before heading home, on foot.

“Five hundred rupees,” said one hopeful rickshaw driver yesterday, when I asked to go from Bandra to Santacruz. I exploded in Hindi: “Mai toh Bombay me hi rehti hoon, mai tourist nahi hoon, aap pagal ho gaie hai kya, paanch so rupia sirf Santacruz jaane ke liye!” Despite his surprise at me apparently being at least a little more local than I look, he was still convinced that I would give up and pay 500 for a 40 rupee ride just because 500 couldn’t be a big sum for a white mem-sahib like me.

“Ma’am, broccoli? Chinese cabbage? Portobello mushroom?” says the vegetable salesman, gesturing to the little section aimed at people willing to spend over a hundred rupees per kilo on their vegetables. I shake my head and join the other ladies from my building who, sporting nighties and dupattas to come downstairs, are buying staple vegetables like gobi, bindhi, gadjar and kanda.

I’m treated as the celebrity that Barnaby described, and on the assumption that I’m rich, because I’m white. The truth is that while Mumbai hasn’t offered me piles of money, it offers endless wealth of other kinds: in contrasts, in colours, in inspiration, in relationships and in understanding. That, coupled with enjoying the illusion of celebrity and my imaginary car, driver and servants, makes me richer than the locals could even imagine.

Dear NRI readers why not connect with us on the following social media platforms.

Click here to join our Facebook Fan Page

Click here to join our LinkedIn Group

When I first moved to Bangalore and started to socialize, the task of stopping a guy who was making a move on me was actually quite a fun and simple task because it was always done face-to-face and I had my friends around me for backup just in case they were needed.  Like most women, I am never mean or rude but I don’t waste time dilly dallying around the point either because all I want to do is get away from the man who is interrupting my night and return back to having fun with my friends.

But something changed recently.  The face-to-face guys have been defeated by the cyber guys who outnumber the face-to-face men in town.  And MAN are they aggressive!

I’m sure that online hunters exist in other countries too but in all my years I have never been hit on online until I moved to Bangalore – never even once that I can recall – so this is the only experience I have so forgive me for singling out the Indians.  Cyber guys combine the inexplicable over-confidence of today’s Indian man with the aggressiveness and persistence that is only gained through wearing a mask of safe anonymity – or in this case by approaching a woman through an email address instead of face-to-face.

This new channel came about a few months ago when I added a contact email address to my personal blog so the blog didn’t feel so one-way and I setup a Facebook page for it.  I am now basically accessible online to anyone, anywhere, 24/7.  For the most part, it’s lovely to receive mail from people all around the world who fell onto my blog by chance and either adore India, live here or did, or are moving soon to Bangalore and have a few questions.  But on top of those mails, I am now the recipient on average of 2-3 mails every day from Indian men asking me out on a date.

When I left the U.S. close to a decade ago to move to Europe again, the Internet dating thing was just taking off at full speed.  A dear friend of mine is actually a HUGE supporter of the Internet dating phenomenon and his stories of the processes and procedures and systematic approaches used to funnel down to “your perfect date” potential and then partner is mind-blowing to me.  First, I can’t get my head around how you can truly get a feel for someone without speaking to them, seeing them in person and sizing them up.  Their confidence and intelligence, their good looks and style, and the way they communicate…I just couldn’t do it online.

I think that Indian men employ online approach tactics more and Indian women are more familiar with being approached online because – from what I understand – arranged marriages are now a much more modern affair and the process usually begins with registering on selection and dating websites instead of with Moms and other family members using word of mouth.  There was an article a short time back on this topic here on The-NRI.com about how many times in India dating now starts online on sites like Facebook or through friends, read it here.

Whenever I receive emails with invites to go on a date or to connect on Facebook I always reply with a kind “thanks but I don’t make plans with (or connect to) people I don’t know but please introduce yourself if you ever see me around town … thank you for taking the time to contact me … take care”.  Yet so far in my experience in India that just fuels their fire and they come back trying to instantaneously change me.  I have received dozens of emails from one particular gentleman who wants to educate me and teach me new things and insists that I am going to be a better person if I take a chance and meet him and he simply won’t take no for an answer.  EXCUSE ME?  I am 100% positive that he would not be so arrogant and persistent if we were stood face-to-face and I had my friends behind me supporting MY CHOICE to say no.

I receive mails to my brush-off email telling me how I will be happier in a relationship than single, happier if I meet new people because my ‘don’t make plans with people I don’t know’ concept is limiting me and holding me back.  It’s insane.  This approach by the Indian guys I assume is their jazzy attempt to try to make me think “ahhhh, YES…that guy is right and I’ve been wrong my whole life”!!!  Come to Mama!

On a positive note, men in India do try all number of things online.  I really wish the face-to-face guys were even half as inventive because they would probably go much farther in making a connection with the ladies than simply by using tired pickup lines like “hey, where you from?” which is so, so, so generic that no woman could feel special hearing that as an opening line.

The three tactics I have observed most often by Cyber Dudes are:

• POKE on Facebook.  I’m sorry but what the hell should a woman do with a poke? I see it, I click to see if I know the person.  I realize I have no idea who he is and so I delete the poke.  Not really sure what else to do.  To me, this is the most non-evasive and gentle of the Cyber Dude approaches.  It’s sort of like a wink or a smile from across the bar at a club.  If a women then winks or smiles back the guy can walk over and talk to her but if she does nothing then they will stop there and move on.
• Private message on FB or the blog sites.  For me these messages just don’t work.  Typically they are full of lots of details about who the man is, includes his bio data, info about his family, about where he lives or why he’s reaching out.  And they always have invitations to meet up, ensuring me how compatible we seem from what they read on the blog.  These guys are actually really good about saying “okay, well take care” and only tend to write back once more but that’s it.
• Email.  These are the hard-core cyber pickup artists in my opinion.  The majority of the guys who email truly insist that we are destined to meet.  They reply several or even dozens of times with a sweet little message one time then a long letter about where we can go and what they want to bring to the table with our meeting and our relationship.  It’s pretty wild.

With the Email guys, I have been too nice in continuing to reply to say “thanks but no thanks” and it reached the point with a few of them that I finally had to block them and add their email to a DND feature that catches them in my spam.  To me, “NO” means no, whether a woman says it to a man’s face at a bar, or on a date or even in these online worlds of flirtation and private liaisons. I don’t want to feel like the bad guy for having to go back time and again to a guy who doesn’t get the hint so I guess I just need to set up a one reply rule and just leave it at that…even if I feel a bit like a bitch for not replying, I think it’s the best thing I can do.

We all have comfort zones and things we feel right or wrong doing.  Where Indians feel more comfortable in the online social world, making plans with people I don’t know just feels wrong to me.  On top of that, I’m no dumb blonde and I know perfectly well that 99% of these guys are not actually looking for a spiritual, loving relationship with me. I’m a westerner in India who writes about going out and silly topics like moth balls and Sunday brunch.  Hell, if I were an Indian man I’d probably give it a go too!

Photo credit: guystuffcounseling.com

Dear NRI readers why not connect with us on the following social media platforms.

Click here to join our Facebook Fan Page

Click here to join our LinkedIn Group