Growing Pains of an Immigrant Life

An Immigrant life is often challenging albeit amusing. Though I immigrated to another country I can’t speak on this topic with authority, let’s just say I am one of the worst immigrants one has ever come across. This blog post is not to scrutinize my total inability to cozy up to a new place but to cheer all those funny and bizarre experiences that made me smile through my toughest phase yet. I must warn you though; I may need to resort to twisted ways to extrapolate my theory.

Knowing your phone etiquette is half the battle won: No one told me this and it is one of those dark mysterious secrets of an immigrant life. As an Indian, I knew where to get Indian groceries the day I arrived. I also got lectured by my fellow Indian friends (who had just arrived a few days earlier) on all sorts of odds and ends like where milk is cheap or where I can buy my winter clothes. Mobiles phone etiquette in North America however, remained in the oblivion.

I learnt, very brusquely, not to get excited and call all my jobless friends during the day to willfully endure myself to any pearls of wisdom they may have about coping in a new country. When you call during the day you’ll notice that your polite Canadian friends will answer the phone and stick to a succinct conversation. Your new found Indian friends (the same those who freely and eagerly gave you long sermons on every way to make your dollar last) on the other hand, will be out right rude and not answer your phone. And while you scratch your head and wonder what you did just within days of landing in a new country to rub someone the wrong way, you will discover, after 5.00PM, that incoming calls are charged during the day. Yes it was only after my husband found the phone bill, and had a minor heart attack, did he explain to me the wacky concept of being charged for incoming calls. It was totally unheard of in India and I didn’t even know you could be charged for it. Clearly, I was a cell phone abuser back home and the rest of the country was no better. I only wish these mysterious charges could be applied in India I could have avoided half my calls under this pretext.

The mobile concept in the west is far more complicated than meets the eye. As if this restricted calling was not bad enough, I had to learn a whole new chapter in my life - voice messages. Since I was never in the habit of leaving or receiving voice messages, I found this to be very strange and left a lot of weird and abrupt messages or simply didn’t leave one at all. Well again most of my immigrant friends were in the same boat. Not only did I have to do it for my mobile phone but also my work phone!

As Indians we jumped when mobile phones were introduced, we took to them like fish to water. However, in all the mobile frenzy, one habit never died - we still yell on the phone like during the painful days of trunk dialing. I have seen my grandmother do it, then my mother. I come from a family of yellers and I speak with a lot of gusto. Talk softly, the line is perfectly clear whether you are calling your next door neighbor or your distant relative on the other coast. When you conquer the art of talking softly on the phone don’t shove your new found habit down your mother’s throat, it will have severe consequences (remember, she is a yeller)!

Immigration will teach you what bankruptcy feels like: I felt very confident that we had shown sufficient funds to earn us a Canadian visa. It is only when I got here did the reality of it all sink in. The healthy balance that I saw in my bank account in Bangalore, which could have easily paid for nice vacation and several pairs of shoes, was an illusion. For it diminished to less than quarter when I came here. It is when I learnt the most crucial lesson of all; do not count your chickens before they hatch.

A typical Indian is very indiscreet about his finances and also loves to pry into his neighbours’ as well. I have lost track of the times a rather annoying mama (uncle) has asked me how much I make. And when I state my abysmal media salary his expression would show absolute contempt. He would then flaunt his Techi grandson’s astronomical salary, and lecture me on what I can do to better my poor career choices. Now, I will probably never meet this fictitious grandson, neither does the poor boy in question know his bank balances are doing rounds in the Mylapore kacheri circle.  The point being, this indiscretion shows its ugly head in many weird ways in a new country. Your Indian friends will always ask you how much you spend on your grocery, phone bill, clothes to just about anything and they will be happy to share all these details with you. Initially, it drove me crazy and then I would state the price before stating what I bought! Don’t take this annoying habit with you to work; you’ll be surprised what a different perspective your Canadian friends have on spending.

Housing, and more so rent, was another hot topic amongst us – the new immigrants. It was very competitive and the lower rent you pay the greater heights you will scale in the immigrant circle echelon. I pay 800$ in rent, which is a real bargain for a downtown apartment, however, for the first few months I nearly died every time I had to write out the cheque. That brings me to my next point, when it comes to money do not convert, it will only give you an ulcer! Everyone around will convert for you. For instance I spent a decent chunk of money to get myself a really warm cozy winter jacket, although the jacket kept me warm and will continue to do so for several winters, (provided it does not go out of fashion) I lost all my sanity over it! Every Indian friend of mine would promptly convert and rebuke my choices. Some would be more tactful than others but being diplomatic is certainly not one our best strengths. Your fellow immigrants will convert and will consider it a blasphemy if you spend 150$ for a pair of boots (but I love it). Yes! That was another one of my brave indulgent purchases for which I was never spared!  My defaming decisions have evicted my husband, who could no longer be in the running for ‘poster boy’ of the new immigrant community.

Even though I poke fun at my Indian friends, I am truly grateful for having them around. I clung on to them for my dear life in a new country and found some solace in knowing that they really understood what I was going through. It’s amazing how this opportunity pushed me to meet people from my own country, who otherwise would have been misfits in my delusional world that I built for myself.

Immigration teaches you a lot of things and I prescribe it to everyone. Every day in a new country is a challenge but I have learnt, in a very painful and agonizing way, to make the best of both worlds. Embrace the new values and make it your own by immersing it in what you already know. Above all my friend, be proud of who you are and stop faking your accent within days of getting here!

Peacock Trails

Grandmum’s tales would be insipid without the brave maharaja, the wily snake charmer or the playful elephant, and so will our mythology itself. These tales, so much a part of every Indian child’s growing up, are still echoing in the quaint streets of Mylapore. Be it the thriving temple economy or vibrant kolams adorning door steps or the colorful gopuram of the Kapaleeshwar temple, each has its own share of stories to tell. And what better way to savour the city than through its stories. One such story teller is ‘Peacock Trails’, a journey of unraveling these little traditions and customs that makes Chennai so kitsch.

The trail, starting outside, the Kapaleeshwar temple in Mylapore traverses many myriad rituals associated with the temple, the teeming life that has stemmed around the temple. It takes you to the tomb of the St. Thomas, the apostle who brought Christianity to, Santhome and ends with a grand breakfast at Saravana Bhavan.

A lot caught my fancy, for one the Jennal Hotel (Window hotel). It has been around for the last 50 years (like a lot of other stores in Mylapore), dishing out piping hot sambar and idli in the morning and a tiffin (light evening snack) in the evening. Living up to its name, the restaurant has no tables or chairs. It is not even what you would call ‘a stand and eat joint’. It’s an old Brahmin serving food from a window. The tradition has been handed down from father to son, and what’s more, the prices still haven’t changed much since then.

Ever noticed the intricate patterns decorating the threshold of houses? It’s what we call a ‘Kolam’ in the south, Rangoli in the north, but unlike the Rangoli the Kolam is not just for cosmetic value. It is an indication that all is well in the house. Incase of a death in the house the family stops putting kolam outside their homes so passers by would know they are grieving. The rice flour used in the kolam also serves as food for ants. The otherwise white kolam comes alive during temple festivals with the women of the house trying to outdo others with huge intricate patterns splashed with colour.

They have a story for everything – why do we have so many gods to why we go clockwise around the temple. Story Trails will even tell you the right place to get your ancestral veena repaired to how to drink your filter coffee. They believe stories show you the way of life. Flavoured with traditions, these stories have grown and evolved with civilization, dynasties and people, and continue to remain relevant even today. Vijay (founder of Story Trails) and Vishna (our storyteller) are like Scheherazade of Arabian nights. They have a thousand and one stories to tell, one just has to keep listening.

With a riot of colours, seasoned with the idiosyncrasies of the tam bram community, the wafting smell of filter coffee mingling with incense, the journey is exhilarating and intoxicating.