Three weeks in, and I think I have found my India legs. The only thing which still really gets on my nerves is the incessant honking (in a noisy sense) traffic. I find myself muttering sweary words under my breath throughout the day, whenever I hear it (which is all the time). I may have discovered a form of Tourette’s found only in India.
Since my last post, I haven’t managed to fit in any further sightseeing, but I’ve been concentrating instead on getting some sort of proper life in Gurgaon. First thing to sort out is the social scene – being in Gurgaon is quite isolating, and you really do have to make an effort to get out and about to meet new people, so I decided to brave the ex-pat networking circuits. Easier said than done, as there are quite a number of online groups to join, but difficult to know the predominant demographic of each without just getting stuck in and giving it a whirl. Last week, I discovered one group which had organised drinks in a local hotel on Saturday night, so I duly joined and registered my attendance. Within a day, I had been ‘twinkled’ (according to my email alerts) by two other members, which horrified me somewhat. What the hell is ‘twinkling’ when it’s at home? I can only assume it’s similar to being ‘poked’ on Facebook, a phenomenon which makes me feel rather uncomfortable to say the least. I’ve ignored my ‘twinklers’ in the hope that I’m just going through some sort of Fresher’s Week experience, and that they’ll disappear off to Engineering or Philosophy lectures at some point.
Arriving in the hotel bar for the event, I realised I was first there, apart from the event organiser, whom I recognised from her online profile picture. This European lady (and I’ll be no more specific in case I get accused of racial stereotyping) was perched on a barstool, so I walked up and introduced myself (with a smile) as a ‘newbie’ to the group, and waited for her enthusiastic welcome. And I waited. I’m not saying she was unfriendly, it just that her greeting style wasn’t what I expected from the organiser of an event for which the purpose is solely to make social introductions! I continued blethering, and asked her lots of questions about what she did, where she came from…blah..blah…blah…and expected her to reciprocate. Nothing! It was as if she had absolutely no interest in finding out anything about any of the attendees! I heard plenty about how great she is, how many varied talents she possesses, and how efficient she is at organising things. (Have I given too much away? Oh dear.) Thank god a few others arrived after about 20 minutes (yes, twenty minutes – it’s a verrrryyy looonng time when you’re struggling for conversation) so I was able to move on. I ended up chatting to some really nice folk, but there really doesn’t seem to be anyone of my age out here on their own – it’s predominantly older couples, and young twenty-somethings who are out here on work assignments and want to go clubbing all night. I must be getting old, as this didn’t interest me in the slightest. Oh no!
I did meet a really lovely couple who had an interesting proposition: one of their Indian friends is a casting agent for film extras (an Indian Alto – hurrah!), and he’s looking for lots of Caucasian ex-pats to fulfil extras roles in a forthcoming Bollywood movie about an Indian runner in the 1956 Melbourne Olympics. Ha! Right up my street. Many of you will not be surprised to learn that said casting agent received an email from me the very next day, so I’m lined up for a potential ‘audition’ at some point later in November, for possible filming in December. Thankfully the extras roles are mainly for crowd scenes, as I don’t think I would fool the agent into casting me as a 20-year-old female sprinter. So, maybe one day my image will be shown in one of the cinema shacks on the banks of the Yamuna….or maybe not! I’ll keep you posted.
I also decided to make best use of the facilities here in Central Park: despite the swimming pool having officially closed for winter a couple of weeks ago, it is still full of water and looks relatively clean, so I have been having a few clandestine dips at the weekends, and haven’t yet been arrested under some other bizarre Haryana law. I’ll keep going until I’m apprehended, or until someone establishes a link between the pool and the bout of Delhi Belly I suffered a couple of weeks ago (not recommended).
Tennis lessons are advertised in the complex, so I’ve signed up for these, too, following my once-in-the-last-twenty-years knockabout with Annie and David at home earlier this summer. I even bought a tennis racquet for the occasion only to discover, after unzipping the cover at home, that it had no bloody strings! Is this normal? I haven’t bought a racquet for as long as I can remember, but I do recall the last one being presented will all requisite components. So, a few phone calls later, and I eventually found somewhere to do the necessary and complete the job. Ravi, my instructor, seemed quite impressed with my first efforts last Sunday, although he did say, after an hour, “Mo, you have very red face”. Yes, Ravi – I’m Scottish, unfit, it’s 30-bloody-degrees out here, and you’ve been making me run round and round the court Gregory’s Girl – style (“it’s only a quarter of a mile and should be treated as a sprint”, etc. etc.) – you’re lucky I’m not expiring on the clay demanding an ambulance. Apparently I’m not bad, though, so expect to see me in a few Slams in 2013.
On top of this, I had a free yoga lesson from a lovely lady called Rachita. All seemed pretty good apart from the ‘Ohhhmmmmmmm’ chanting, and her inadvertently trumping throughout. I can see that yoga will necessitate control of all sorts of muscles, which some might say is a rather good thing. However (based on the fact that Rachita has been doing this for years), it doesn’t appear to facilitate control of these muscles, which is a pity.
I can’t say I’m really surprised about the wind issue, considering that all anyone eats out here is…you’ve guessed it: curry. After trying a few dodgy lunchtime eateries in the vicinity of work, I found that there is actually a canteen on site serving free lunches on a daily basis. Wow! What’s more it’s pretty good – you can have anything you like, as long as it’s….curry. I’m amazed at how much people pile on their plates at lunchtime, considering most go home to a full homecooked meal, and the Indians are so skinny! I was in a different canteen today where food was served in those indented metal trays (similar to what one might expect to receive in a prison), so dining today I felt a little bit like Bea in Prisoner Cell Block H. If anyone says I look like her, they’ll have Frank & George to answer to. A lovely custom here is for staff to bring in home-made foodstuffs at lunchtime, and share them among colleagues. Today I was offered something sweet, so I took a spoonful and it was absolutely delicious! “Wow – what’s in that?”, I enquired. “Special flour, sugar, and lots of ghee” was the reply. Arrghh! Ghee! I can just feel the pounds piling back on. Never mind, I have Ravi and his torture-tennis-training to help sort that out.
I’ve also had a bit of insight into the driving issue over here – I was chatting to a guy yesterday about the crazy roads, and he told me that people do take driving lessons, but the objective of these is purely to teach one how to operate the car. There is absolutely no instruction in road rules or behaviour, what road markings and traffic lights are for, and so on. You are literally taught how to go forwards and backwards, with a brief lesson on turning the wheel and, sometimes, how to brake. Indians can apply for a driving licence and receive it without ever having to sit a test: there are no driving tests! So, I have to conclude, the Indian DVLA-equivalent is loosely based on the Irish system, which has been operating in a similar fashion for years. Case closed.
Mo, Frank & Georgian India 