What can I say...

about my motherland without feeling disloyal. There have been times that I have wanted to say so much about the apathy that seems to be the undercurrent of every person's and business' method of survival here.

Some of us call it apathy. Here they call it fate-Karma. "This is just how it is madam. Live with it or you will die inside of ulcers most likely."

Deal with the crappy service, crappy products, the sweet talk that covers and sweeps over all the dirt. Yes India is a nation of apathy--was and still is--of this I am convinced. Else why would the sheer numbers of monied people allow themselves to get poor service and products, accept less than perfect as 'just the way it is' or worse allow the abominable condition of those less privileged than themselves?

And its so easy to get sucked into the state of apathy. Case in point--we live in a very nice rented apartment. The flat above us was bought by a rich couple who wanted the place to be as palace like as they could make it. For those not in the know, most middle class and upper middle class and of course the rich people who buy places of their own usually gut the place and add new flooring, new bathrooms. This is the rule not the exception. The richer you are the more the work that gets done. You get the idea.

So the flat above us belongs to a really well heeled couple. And so the trappings must reflect that no? And so for the past 7 months there has been construction going on during all hours. We of course are so affected by the noise that we kept picking fights with the only people we could--the construction workers.

Yes given that we have not yet fully been sucked into the vortex of total apathy, we did observe that these workers from Rajasthan--we guess--were living there amidst all the dust, cutting marble and God knows what else not even wearing a mask, breathing the worst possible dust, sleeping amidst the debris, hurting their ears that also are unprotected from the noise--if you have heard marble or stone being cut, the noise travels even 200 yards away. At close quarters it is death to the eardrums. Whenever we went upstairs to pick a fight, they were covered in white dust whose origins can only be unhealthy at best, toxic at worst.

This sad truth only entered our minds when there was no work going on, when we were at peace. But when at 10:30 pm or later we heard cutting and breaking of walls, all we felt was anger, irritation at them and we showed it in words, gestures even. Appalling.

So yes we are apathetic. Why else will we allow children, impossibly young ones to roam the streets begging, or worse work for us caring for our own kids. That is a sight I have seen too often and which breaks my heart like none other. A child caring for another--as an employee--and not being treated as a child either. Or a child serving an adult at a restaurant or store and not because his parent owns it either.

Among the myriad NGOs I have spoken to in my time here one thing I have heard over and over is how little money and volunteers are generated within India. Most donations and help comes from Indians and others abroad. The volunteers especially. I read a wonderful book by Pavan Sharma, I think--about what it means to be Indian--he propounds a theory about why Indians survive--every man for himself is basically the line of thinking. You are in misery--its your Karma. I have my own issues to care for.

I read an article in the Times of India about why Indian business owners give so little money away, compared to their shall we say Western counterparts. One supposed psychologist said and I am paraphrasing, 'these Western business owners haven't experienced poverty and hunger like the Indian business people have and which is why the Indians will protect their wealth even more.' Give unto me a break. If Mukesh Ambani and Anil Ambani with their cricket franchises and billion dollar houses have experienced poverty and hunger, I will eat my hat.

One the plus side, this apathy or acceptance makes the country resilient and able to sustain so much damage meted out on her by less tolerant countries that surround her. Another bomb blast--oh well, we are strong, we will get over it. And yet one more--are the police asleep--where are the terrorists that did this? The authorities are working on it you say? Good.

The mantra is, "Oh well, life must go on."

India is a place where one can be seething with rage about one thing with one person when another person can bowl you over to tears with a simple act of unexpected sweetness. It is a country of extreme emotions...irritation and happiness at their peak and lowest. A roller coaster ride that I feel ill equipped to handle.

So what am I doing about all this right? Besides writing this and kvetching?

More on that in the next.

An aberration the Taj Exotica

The Taj hotel--the name conjures up images of luxury. The Taj Exotica at Benaulim beach in Goa wasn't a disappointment in that regard. The hotel was beautiful, the staff attentive. Every square inch of their space was wonderful.

We were there to spend a few days to celebrate our older son's birthday.

We enjoyed the room, the food, the lush green lawns.

Then we visited the beach.

That was a aberration.

I have seen Benaulim in the eighties. White sands, clean , pristine, it was free of five star luxury then.

Today under the care of the Taj resort it is a mess. Stray dogs roam freely, their excreta is often underfoot. The plethora of plastic water bottles the hotel provides the guests also litters the beach. Thermocol, paper, plastic bags. Dirty, sad muddy sand.

"Not our property, madam, it is government property," I am told when I speak of this aberration to the manager.

Yes but you do realize your guests might enjoy using the beach, don't you? When your staff cuts every blade of grass to perfection, could they not perhaps also extend that courtesy of care to a few feet beyond your grounds?

Guilty looks but apathetic minds, I sense.

They try and apologize. I ask them what they plan to do to make difference. Nothing specific is offered, just empty words.

A plaque proclaiming their commitment to the environment hangs by the manager's desk.

I point to it asking them why they bother? Sheepish grins result.

A one time aberration, says the area manager in an email to me. I respond with strong words. No reply. I ask them to tell me what if anything they plan to do. No reply.

Well, I am a small one time tourist but this I can do. I can tell everyone I know.

Don't go to the Taj Exotica on Benaulim beach in Goa. Not if you'd like to spend any time on the beach.

Kerala

The air is thick, moist. A strong whiff of jackfruit hits me every now and again--a dense, sweet yellow colored fruit, its aroma also sweet, sticky, strong.

Crickets ferociously cry even during the day.

Intensely green foliage between major thoroughfares deceives one into thinking one is in the middle of a tropical wood. Coconut palms rustle everywhere. There are small and large ponds of cool green water. The river Periyar flows into little rivulets creating the ponds.

Narrow streets lead one into the residential areas, their tranquility shattered every few minutes by the blaring horns of cars and motorcycles. Flanking the streets are houses of such variety. Red tiled roofs of glorious erstwhile beauty, boldly colored outer walls ranging from shocking pink to lemon yellow and pistachio green. Large wooden doors decorated with brass trinkets. Some are humble homes from years ago, many of the new are palace and pagoda like--over the top showing off opulence--symbols of prosperity earned in the Middle east. But tasteful all the same.

Temples of yore everywhere--black stone structures mostly. Idols are smeared beautifully with sandalwood paste giving the idol features. God is here. I can feel the presence of a higher power. Perhaps this is because of the peaceful surroundings, perhaps merely because the giant brass lamps lit remind me of happy childhood rituals, perhaps because the women temple goers with wet, freshly washed hair hanging down their backs remind me of how my mother looks during festival days or perhaps because the mantrams are chanted in sonorous voices and the drum beats during prayer time is haunting and hypnotic.

There are sweet expressions on the local folk accompanied by curious stares as I walk by with my baby in his stroller. Close to this little town is the village where my father is from. Not far is the town my mother's people hail from.

I look like the people around me with my dark skin, my unruly curly hair. And yet they know I am not one of them. My clothes, my demeanor, my aura perhaps screams outsider. I know that if I should open my mouth I would reveal that I am indeed an outsider. For although I am from here I speak but a smattering of the local Malayalam.

This is God's country--the tourist posters scream. This is my country, my past. My heritage. This is the place I had once thought could be something more. I had hoped, wondered if it could be home.

But no. This is not home. No, sadly, this is not home.