Beware, your dreams may come true!

Even in my wildest fantasies, I never imagined that after living in Paris, I would live in India… I didn’t know anything about it. Actually, in my mother tongue (Bulgarian) there is an expression “it’s India to me”, meaning “I don’t understand”. But I fell for a Sikh. And soon the Euros I was saving for a backpack trip around England materialised into a Paris-Bombay-Paris ticket. Then two more later… I was getting addicted to life in Bombay, Goa trance, rum & coke and cold coffee, the crows waking me up, drives in an open Gypsy on Marine Drive, lunches at Fountain Sizzlers. I imbibed the Bombay accent like a sponge, learnt to bargain like a pro, had a crush on Salmaan Khan and learnt to eat garam khana (with a tissue handy). Until one day it was just a one-way ticket.

Thus started my great firang experience. My husband’s jeeves welcomed me in the house with trepidation, but soon realised that I was clueless about the local ways, and sunk comfortably in his role of the boss, twitching with displeasure every time I entered the kitchen and watching over my shoulder every little thing I put in “baba’s” food (I had to significantly curb my creativity to fit his standards). The cleaning lady came in shyly, throwing curious glances at the strange new m’em sahib, who let her fake cleaning, sitting in a corner with her feet on the couch. Then in came my Hindi tutor, who, excited to have gotten her hands on such soft clay, proceeded to teach me with great enthusiasm how to pronounce “Mera pati parmeshwar hai” ("my husband is my god"). My driving school appointed the most handsome and perfumed instructor for me, who reassured me, with artistic gesticulations, “Madam, India – many people. You kill one, two? No problem!” And of course, I fell head first into every single tourist trap imaginable.

But I have to admit, my fascination in return was not less. And I almost miss it now, having acquired a significantly thicker skin and having learned to play the firang game to my full advantage. For example, if a policeman stops me for honking (in a country where survival depends on honking) in front of the Bombay Court, I can look at “uncle” with blue innocent eyes and pretend I don’t speak a word of Hindi. Until poor chap, frustrated of me not understanding that he simply wants a bribe, lets me go. Or when an exasperating repairman gives me an insane estimate, I just act dumb and say I need to call my husband (it works every time!). I revel the moments when I can give a full lecture in civic sense to an unsuspecting taxi driver, in Hindi of course (pathetic grammar though) and shout at him to watch the road and not turn around, giving me a surprised look. I now even reply to other newcomer’s puzzled questions “we are like this only!” Thus provoking even more puzzled glances from my Indian friends. Has the big adventure really turned into a comfort zone? I struggle to keep it alive, and search for a hint of the old me in the enthralled eyes of every foreign guest I give the grand Mumbai tour to. And just when I get desperate, Bombay makes sure to throw something or the other at me: It keeps me awake at night with the story of a little boy who ran 68 kilometers just to see this crazy city; makes me thank god for surviving another ride with my driver who thinks my red Alto is a red Ferrari; or makes me want to become a neuroscientist, just so that I can understand what’s going on in the brain of my carpenter who beams with pride every time he infallibly hangs a painting upside down. And keeps me longing for my daily dose of chaos whenever I travel abroad. I am far from having enough of it.