Not Really Indian

One of the joys of being home is the drama that surrounds my mom’s entourage of domestic help. The other day, a neighbor rudely woke me up to complain about our driver Dharmender bhaiyya, who shares his name with a famous Bollywood hero. D bhaiyya had illegally erected a reserved sign for a parking spot for our car in the resident’s lot. The fellow seems pretty proud about the achievement and bullied anyone who dared occupy that space. My mom hates confrontations and happily delegated the problem to her sleep deprived, clueless daughter. I chastised our driver, apologized to the neighbor and went back to catch up on my sleep. When I woke up, a very unhappy bhaiyya complained about my interference. “You should have just said you don’t live here,” he said. “To survive in India, you have to earn respect and have people be scared of you.”

I told him what he did wasn’t right, and bullying doesn’t earn respect. I was relishing my preaching, but he bust my bubble and said. “Aap toh Amrikan ban gaye hain.” (you have become an American). I didn't know if that was a compliment or rebuke.

I wish he had met my co-passenger on Continental--the aunty with the “loose” American daughter, who certified me as the model Indian woman for hugging my baby to my chest and nursing him despite being without food or sleep through the 14.5-hour journey here.