A friend of mine was writing a book, compiling different stories from expats and she asked me to recall my initial account of my arrival to India. It got me so nastalgic I had to post it in my blog.
We went to India because my husband's dream was to bring his young family back to the country that had impacted him so deeply as a young college student. Steve had incredible stories of his time in India that had us laughing with tears. He loved the smell of sandlewood (which I hated) and introduced me to exotic foods. He got me so enchanted with India and gave me this huge desire to see it for myself. So we convinced his international company that they needed us in Bangalore for a short term project, at least five months.
I didn't feel we needed a "look-see" first. We decided to find a home once we arrived and depend on my my husband's recollection from when he was in Bangalore as a college student 25 years ago.
I wanted to be prepared for what lay ahead so I watched documentaries and the movie hit Slum Dog Millionaire. We ate at local Indian restaurants, and read tour guide books. However, nothing can prepare you for the realities of the sensory overload or culture shock you experience once you are there.
I thought I had set low expectations, thought I knew what to be prepared for, but I distinctly remember my intial reaction the first night we arrived at Bangalore. We were sitting in our muggy hotel lobby at three in the morning waiting to be checked in to our room. I was feeling woozy from the thick smoke from sandalwood incense, wondering why the hotel had high "security", smacking away the onslaught of mosquitos and thinking "Forget getting sick from food poisoning, we're all going to get malaria! What in the world have I agreed to?".
India was a full on assault of my senses, exaggerated by the warm, heavy air, the noise and smells seemed almost too much to bear at times. I recall my husband saying with sadness and disappointment that Bangalore hadn't changed in the twenty-five years since he'd last been there, still the same corruption and chaos, only with more people and less trees. As a young man he'd thought for sure India was on the cusp of great changes when he was there over two decades ago.
I didn't want his disappointment to affect my perception, I wanted to make up my own mind. I could take Bangalore in small daily doses and often would retreat to the quiet confines of my bedroom or rooftop terrace where I could meditate and read (which I never did in the States). Friendships and strong sense of humor became essential to my survival in India.
Despite the challenges we faced, we renewed our visa three times and 18 months later I couldn't imagine leaving India and returning back to my sterile, boring life in America. It was so hard to say good-bye to my beloved maid and driver who had become like family to me. I depended so much on them and had learned essential relationship truths from them, we visited their villages, and met their children.
Even after being separated over two years, India has become a dear friend of mine. Hardly a day goes by when I don't have something that sparks a fond memory. I often light a stick of sandalwood in her memory. I love that smell.
We went to India because my husband's dream was to bring his young family back to the country that had impacted him so deeply as a young college student. Steve had incredible stories of his time in India that had us laughing with tears. He loved the smell of sandlewood (which I hated) and introduced me to exotic foods. He got me so enchanted with India and gave me this huge desire to see it for myself. So we convinced his international company that they needed us in Bangalore for a short term project, at least five months.
I didn't feel we needed a "look-see" first. We decided to find a home once we arrived and depend on my my husband's recollection from when he was in Bangalore as a college student 25 years ago.
I wanted to be prepared for what lay ahead so I watched documentaries and the movie hit Slum Dog Millionaire. We ate at local Indian restaurants, and read tour guide books. However, nothing can prepare you for the realities of the sensory overload or culture shock you experience once you are there.
I thought I had set low expectations, thought I knew what to be prepared for, but I distinctly remember my intial reaction the first night we arrived at Bangalore. We were sitting in our muggy hotel lobby at three in the morning waiting to be checked in to our room. I was feeling woozy from the thick smoke from sandalwood incense, wondering why the hotel had high "security", smacking away the onslaught of mosquitos and thinking "Forget getting sick from food poisoning, we're all going to get malaria! What in the world have I agreed to?".
India was a full on assault of my senses, exaggerated by the warm, heavy air, the noise and smells seemed almost too much to bear at times. I recall my husband saying with sadness and disappointment that Bangalore hadn't changed in the twenty-five years since he'd last been there, still the same corruption and chaos, only with more people and less trees. As a young man he'd thought for sure India was on the cusp of great changes when he was there over two decades ago.
I didn't want his disappointment to affect my perception, I wanted to make up my own mind. I could take Bangalore in small daily doses and often would retreat to the quiet confines of my bedroom or rooftop terrace where I could meditate and read (which I never did in the States). Friendships and strong sense of humor became essential to my survival in India.
Despite the challenges we faced, we renewed our visa three times and 18 months later I couldn't imagine leaving India and returning back to my sterile, boring life in America. It was so hard to say good-bye to my beloved maid and driver who had become like family to me. I depended so much on them and had learned essential relationship truths from them, we visited their villages, and met their children.
Even after being separated over two years, India has become a dear friend of mine. Hardly a day goes by when I don't have something that sparks a fond memory. I often light a stick of sandalwood in her memory. I love that smell.
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