Enter the Darkness and See the Light

It was dark. We had just landed in Bangalore at 5:30 am and I had no concept of time, dark or light, good or evil. With daylight savings time, Bangalore is 9 ½ hours ahead of USA yet my personal body clock screamed otherwise. Where did almost 24 hours of traveling escape to? Had I slept? I felt disoriented but strangely awake and alert, poised for enlightenment.

Ry proceeded to the luggage carousel to wait for our bags while I secured one of the many available, complimentary luggage carts. I stood back and away from the throng and breathed in my surroundings.

They said that I would feel crowded, claustrophobic, my personal space unknowingly invaded by a dense population. They were wrong. Each individual was busy with their task, diligent in retrieving their luggage efficiently, minding the children and respectful of each other. They said that I would feel a stranger, isolated, white in a sea of brown faces. They were wrong. We moved with the crowd, like the undulating ebb and flow of a gentle wave, lapping and retreating in easy harmony. No one gawked at us but when eye contact was made, we were greeted with a quick, genuine smile. And they spoke polite, proper and an almost gentile English.

India’s population is estimated at 1,095,351,995. Although Hindi is the national language and spoken by 30% of its population, English is also a national language and used for virtually every mode of communication; from government documents to food labels to road signs. Perhaps it is as a result of the historical British influence or perhaps the sheer necessity of interaction since India’s constitution recognizes an additional 21 official regional languages with up to 1,652 different dialects. English it is then.

A currency exchange counter beckoned to us, but as we considered our options, in that small, momentary time lapse, a great-white-line had formed. I noticed what appeared to be a group of young Indian porters surveying their own opportunities and I somehow knew their intelligence was beyond the obvious. In fact, as a developing nation India boasts a 68% literacy rate that is rapidly improving, admittedly with the existence of a male dominated gender gap.

Acutely aware that we did not have any Indian currency, we were careful to ensure that we handled our own baggage, for fear of the embarrassing moment of empty-handedness at the critical moment. But we were no match for these entrepreneurial young lads; they were extremely smiley and friendly and polite and helpful and I just couldn’t resist! I felt humbled and apologized as I offered a lonely US one dollar bill, my eyes longing towards the currency exchange booth and in their sweep, registering the dread in Ry’s eyes. The porter boy nodded awkwardly as he accepted the tip. Days later I learned that this tip was equivalent to 45 rupees, enough for an imperial pint of beer. As an added perspective, India’s gross national income per capita was $720 in 2005 and $620 in 2004. Compare that to the USA’s GNI per capita of $43,740.

Our luggage piled atop of the cart, we wondered where to go next. There were at least two security options that I could detect, but both seemed haphazard. Walk to the left and your luggage was scrutinized under the typical Americanized conveyer belt and screening monitor with two security employees. Walk to the right and an official in a white suit would wave you by. We walked to the right. Not that we were hiding anything, but why go through the trouble when not an absolute? Besides, we were simply following the directions of our friendly porter boy.

Once we approached customs, we were greeted with an entire wall in a state of construction. There were massive 5 storey scaffolding resting against it, made of bamboo sticks and bound with thick, rough twine. I edged Ry with a smirk, “hey, look, they’re in the midst of renovations”. He scowled at me in response. It occurs to me that this was the second time in 24 hours. The customs officer stamped our passports without comment and we entered the night.

So This Is How The Other Half Lives

The flight was uneventful, unless you consider the guy sitting next to me in the aisle seat. He was postulating – um, air – very smelly stuff – and I noticed it in concert with all the flight attendants it seemed, who were gathering in a twittering group just beyond our area to properly inhale and confirm its unearthly odour with each other. Could they possibly think that the stench came from me? Why wouldn’t the guy just walk to the bathroom? I felt like poor Elaine, cranky and trapped in a Seinfeld episode.

Weeks prior to this air turbulence, Ry and I were hunched over the computer, edging each other back and forth, jockeying for position to optimize our screen viewing pleasure, and groaning over the rawhide-induced flatulence that was silently seeping from the depths of our doggy's belly. “Spot! - why are you being sooo stinky?” and we paused to stare as if expecting a confession from her. “That is just disgusting!” we bellowed as we shooed her into the adjoining room with another rawhide to keep her occupied.

Our attention back to the computer screen now, eagerly engaged in routing our path from the USA to Bangalore; we were somewhat surprised to discover a substantial discrepancy of flight costs among the major potential carriers. Some would argue that we should not concern ourselves with petty nuisances such as money; after all, X was paying for the entire look-see trip and additionally, were flying us in business class!

Wait a minute - don’t be too quick to judge; this would certainly not be the first time we’ve traveled with the elite in first class, where we obligingly scorn the poor as they walk forlornly past us, heads down as they elbow their way to the scourge of the plane. No, no, we’ve flown first class many times, ok, well at least once; admittedly by upgrading with our accumulated airline points, which seemed to be insufficient in quantity for long-haul or transatlantic voyages, but nonetheless, we once sat in first class for a 1.5 hour flight and enjoyed the luxury of metal utensils, china plates and Egyptian cotton napkins with our warm cranberry muffin.

Despite the deep wallets of X, we felt a twinge of loyalty and responsibility and continued revving the search engine for alternatives. The most expensive of our top three choices seemed to be Air France with a 23 hour flight duration and a 4 hour stopover through the Charles de Gaulle airport in Paris. Nevertheless, their business class was called L’espace affaires and it conjured up naughty images in my mind. “Oooh, mon amour", I cooed in broken French, “je désire Air France”. Ry scowled and returned his attention to the image of pixels. I poked my tongue out and pouted my lips a la Penelope Cruz.

"Look here", Ry pointed, "Lufthansa offers Business Flex". Not an exciting label but the flight path seemed comparable, with a 22 hour flight duration and 6 hour stopover through the Frankfurt airport in Germany. It appeared stoic but efficient.

In contrast, British Airways seemed reasonable in cost with a 17 hour flight duration and a 6 hour stopover through Heathrow, London airport in England. However, the final deciding factor for this arduous journey, le piece de résistance, were the flat bed-seats offered in British Airways business class “Club World Experience” particularly because we covet to unfold our legs and avoid neck cramps while we sleep.

If I were a judge, even if I was as cruel as Simon Cowell of American Idol, I would still be compelled to award extra bonus points to British Airways for their relaxing “sleeper service”, their on-flight nightcap service, and most notably for their sumptuous Lounges and Molton Brown Travel Spa. In essence, we ate 24 hours a day via menu selections, sipped Johnnie Walker Black on the rocks at 6:00 am and while waiting at Heathrow Terminal 4 for our connecting flight to Bangalore, splurged with a refreshing shower, soothing massage and professional pedicure – all for the low, all-inclusive price of a business class airfare ticket compliments of X.

Upon seating, the flight attendants provided the privileged population with a gratis, zippered toiletry bag, complete with earplugs, eye mask, socks, toothbrush, toothpaste and a myriad of lotions. I immediately and simultaneously utilized every element of its contents but I'm confident that I did not appear ridiculous. I swished champagne around my tastebuds as I pondered the thought.

While we explored our surroundings and immersed ourselves in the trappings of business class, we became almost oblivious to the pilot kindly announcing regular updates, in a lovely English lilt, about our one hour delay on the tarmac. His accented words were so pleasantly voiced, he could have been telling us that we were all idiots and we would still be agreeable, nodding our heads in unison. Not surprisingly, they blame Canada and complete reams of paperwork for approval of an alternative route that would steer our flight away from Toronto airspace and the apparent burning inferno within their control tower. We didn’t care, let them eat cake!

Like I said, the flight was otherwise uneventful and the plane was now preparing for landing in Bangalore. Ry and I sat next to each other in the plane, in the centre of a four-seated-row, facing the same direction, facing the tail of the plane; a position which creates an odd feeling during landing, and we shared a lovely enclave of space. I had begun to nest during the flight. We were flanked on either side by our fellow travelers who occupied the aisle seats and strangely, each one faced us. Fortunately, we had the option of raising a large accordion-like fan to create a privacy barrier between our domain and those strangers impeding on our precious business class space. I glared at my husband, flaring my eyelids open and wildly gesturing with my eyeballs, willing him to magically "read my eyes". Did Ry know what was happening? Surely, this would never be permitted in first class - the aisle guy, next to me, facing me, was still farting but had been detected. I wondered if he would be arrested upon landing.

Honey, I'm Home

I didn't hear my husband. His arrival home from work was punctuated with our mutt dog scampering – no - racing, to the back door to eagerly greet him. Ry disregarded the frantic yelps of glee from Spot. He stepped into our home and stood silently for a moment, yet his presence exploded into the room.

Ry is tall, with long, toned legs; the type that every girl would wish for. His slightest movement would define ripples of sinewy, hard muscle and simultaneously, stir a flutter in my heart. His left eye is somewhat smaller than the other, almost reptilian like, and the keeper of secrets and quests unknown.

He leveled those powerful eyes towards me and said "JoonJoo honey, pack your bags, we're going to India!"

And that's how this Indian adventure began.

My husband works for X and there are hundreds of similar North American and perhaps International companies like his, which have been off-shoring to India for years. These companies are well known; household names really, in fact, you are probably using one of their products right now. From Bengalooru (Bangalore), to Mumbai (Bombay), to Chennai (Madras), or perhaps even Kolkata (Calcutta); foreign-based, silicone cities are collectively spawning their untethered growth.

Ongoing negotiations between Ryleysium and X began in efforts to refine the foreign assignment details. There were hiccups along the way, some potentially terminal, but somehow, many months later, we are still enroute to the mysterious land that still defies definition, the one they still call India.