The diary of an American visiting India – Part 1

This article is part of the "India survival Kit", a collection of articles written by an American expat living in India.

We were new to Bangalore, having recently moved here as my husband had accepted a position with IBM’s Indian operations. My daughter had just been enrolled in an international school, and it was time for me to stock up on school supplies for her. It was my first time in India and we had lived here for only a few weeks. I was not yet familiar with the nuances of everyday living that are so different from the US – street and shopping protocols, the traffic signs, and most of all, understanding the strange version of English spoken here.

Nevertheless I set off bravely with my six-year-old daughter on my journey to acquire the necessary items, armed only with a small handbag and a long list. I had hired a white Ambassador taxi for the day, and told my driver I needed to go to a place where I could buy notebooks and pencils. “I’ll take you to a bookstall Madam,” he said, “You can get it there.”

After driving through several narrow streets, the driver double-parked the car right next to a truck, blocking half the road. However, no one appeared to object. Vehicles and pedestrians alike just made their way around the parked car. I was a little embarrassed at first but felt better when I saw that no one really took any notice. My driver pointed to a store sandwiched between a restaurant and a bicycle repair shop. “That is the bookstall Madam,” he said.

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I was a little startled at the tiny storefront. I doubted if this little shop would have all the stationery items I needed. But only when I neared the shop did I realize how much it actually held. Almost every inch of space behind the countertop was filled with books, stationery, and other miscellaneous stuff. When I showed him my list, the salesman pulled out items from various corners of the store, including parts of the ceiling! Finally I had most of what I wanted, but he was out of pencils with attached ‘rubbers’ (erasers) and plastic scales (rulers). “They will be there at a fancy store, Madam,” I was told. I could not bring myself to ask him what a fancy store was, for fear of sounding stupid. I thought I would handle the problem later.

Next I decided to tackle my daughter’s school uniforms and shoes. I had been told that the uniforms could be tailored at a store on MG road, one of Bangalore’s busiest roads in the heart of its business district. My driver shook his head and said, “Okay, Madam” when I told him about my next destination. I now knew that his head-shake meant ‘yes’, though it had confused me initially when I first encountered it. “Oh, and the shop is in the tallest building on MG road,” I added, remembering the school administrator’s instructions. “Okay Madam. I know that place,” he replied, again with that head-shake characteristic of many Indians.

The driver dropped us in front of the ‘tallest building’ on MG road, and said that he had to park across the street. I nodded and we made our way to The Jean Joint, which was contracted to tailor uniforms for my daughter’s school. After my daughter had been measured and the order taken, we emerged from the building only to realize that reaching the other side of MG road was no easy task. The road looked like an American highway in the midst of rush-hour traffic, jam-packed with vehicles of all sizes.

Generally, Indians tend to cross a road anywhere and at any time, without paying heed to traffic lights or any other road rules. I had attempted the same practice successfully a couple of times earlier, albeit in smaller streets. But this time, it appeared near impossible as traffic was moving in almost every direction. My American road sense now kicked in and told me to head for an intersection so that we could follow the traffic lights. We reached a nearby intersection, but the traffic lights were anything but decipherable. There were some red lights, some green arrows, and another that had numbers counting down. There was a policeman at one corner of the junction, and I realized that he was speaking into a microphone, apparently calling out traffic instructions but it was not in English. I had no idea when we could cross the road and there was no other pedestrian whose cue I could follow. I just stood there perplexed, tightly gripping my daughter’s hand lest I should lose her, not knowing what to do as traffic rushed in all directions. Suddenly I heard the policeman shout something out, and all the traffic stopped. I grabbed my daughter and ran across as fast as I could. To this day I wonder if he didn’t shout, “Stop everybody! A crazy white woman and a little girl are trying to cross the road.”

But my troubles for the day were far from over. I reached the other side and looked at the long line of white Ambassador cars parked along the road, each with a brown-skinned driver next to it. I now understood what an Indian friend had meant when she told me that all Americans looked alike to her. I thought I would never find my driver, but thankfully he waved and came forward as we neared him.

We had to make one last stop at a shoe store to purchase school shoes and socks. At Brigade road, where we had been advised to buy the shoes, we had to visit three different stores before we found one that sold children’s school shoes. My daughter tried on a pair of white shoes and I asked the salesman how much they cost. “750 rupees Madam,” he said, and I said “Okay.” When we went to the counter to buy the shoes, neither the shoes nor the salesman was there. We looked for him around the store and found him putting the shoes away. “Why are you putting the shoes away?” I asked him. He looked puzzled. “I want to buy them,” I added. “Oh, I am very sorry Madam,” he said and took the shoes to the counter. Now it was my turn to be puzzled. I still have no idea what made him think that I did not want those shoes!

I wanted to buy an extra pair of shoe laces but he was unfortunately out of laces. When I told him that none of the other shoe shops in the area carried children’s shoes and hence probably didn’t have kids’ laces either, he replied, “Oh, you can get the laces even in a fancy store.” There was that word again! But I was too tired to conduct further investigations. I had had too many adventures for a day. I just nodded and decided to go hunting for the mysterious fancy store at another time.

Editor: Nisha Giri

The India survival Kit is divided into four sections:

I) Cultural tips for newcomers to India

II) Doing business in India

III) An American's diary

IV) Street English in India: Indian English and the Indian way of communication

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