Of course, I knew there would be moments of reverse culture shocks. I tried to imagine what they would be, and prepare myself for them. I reminded myself of the loudness of Indian cities, with unabating construction noise, neighbours quarrelling or partying and traffic sounds. I laughed along when my German-y friends pointed out how poorly I would deal with the summer, seeing as I complained the loudest in the stifling German heat. I prepared myself for the lack of work life balance. But as I sit here writing this, with the Cricket World Cup Finals from the society’s public viewing blaring through the windows, I have to honestly admit that nothing could have prepared me for the actual shocks when they came.
The first one was a few weeks after moving into
my new apartment. I decided to check out the nearby gym, and cramped as it was,
it would have to do. As I lay sweating and stretching on a yoga mat post workout,
I became suddenly aware, from the corner of my eye, of a gang of 5-6 men congregating
behind me. I was appalled of course, and turned around to admonish them for
creeping and/or staring. They were however oblivious to my glare, they were
busy taking a group bicep selfy! While I tried to contort my smirking facial
muscles into a straight face, I soon learnt, to my horror, that this was their daily
practise. A group of grown-ass men came together every day at the mirror in the
gym, pulled up their shirt arms and tried to flex their inconsequential
muscles, before taking a picture that was to be shared in the housing society
group. Nothing could have prepared me for this display of misplaced muscular
vanity.
The wealth of interactions with the parade of
maids that have worked a few days each at my place is also not to be ignored. While
some well-meaning ones have advised me to hide the fact that I eat meat from my
neighbours, others have outright refused to clean in my sinful, unholy household. Possessing an alcohol licence in a dry state is a privilege until the security
guards, garbage collectors, maids and neighbours are all collectively shocked
that I a) consume alcohol b) refuse to go out in the dead of the night, with a
body bag full of crushed beer cans and broken alcohol bottles to dispose of the
evidence of my corrupt habits. One may argue about a lack of education spurring
this egoistical thinking, but alas, class does not education bring.
I have enough evidence to prove that desi
uncles are a different species of animal. This breed of animal doesn’t get out
of bed in the morning without a healthy dose of casual racism, sexism, and inappropriate
behaviour. But I would be lying if I said that a lifetime of these observations
and interactions (with the notable exception of 9 years living away) had
prepared me for one such uncle walking up to a delicious dinner buffet and
without warning, thrusting his hand into the serving tray of wadas! Presumably
to check whether these fried dough balls are at a temperature worthy of
consumption. Aforementioned uncle was completely oblivious to my disgusted and
angry stares. To make things worse, I was informed that this was a normal
practise. What on God’s green earth! Only 10 minutes before, I had been sniggering
at a poor English sod who had only a few grains of rice and a couple of drops
of dal on his dinner plate. As I watched
him chomp on an energy bar that he pulled out of his jacket, I had pitied his frail
stomach and fearful lifestyle. Now his caution seemed well deserved.
Since I have no family or friends here yet,
when I lie awake at night it gives me comfort to think about the fact that he
decided to finish off his safe, Delhi-belly-proof meal with some nice hot wadas.
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