Karma Gone Bad

by Jenny Feldon

  The traffic light at the check post finally changed. Venkat slammed the accelerator to the floor. The begging children scattered, hitting the ground running, dodging effortlessly through a wall of cars as they headed for refuge on a grassy median to await the next red light.

  My heart hammered in my throat as I turned to watch them through the back window. The oldest, no more than twelve, shirtless and swaggering, talked into a cell phone. The others squatted in a messy circle at his feet, counting rupees into a dented tin can.

  “Venkat, if they’re beggars, how come they have cell phones?”

  “Cell phones, Madam?”

  “That big one. He’s using a cell phone. A mobile. How could he afford that?”

  Venkat followed my gaze in the rearview. “Is not his. Is for his leader.”

  “His leader?”

  “Leader is in charge. Gets childrens from streets and villages. All rupees go to him.”

  “Does he kidnap the kids? I mean, does he take them from their parents?”

  Venkat shrugged and hunched over the wheel. “Sometimes taking. Sometimes childrens have no homes. Or the parents are leaving them on the road. Leader gives them food. Places for sleeping.

  “No opening windows, Madam. Much danger. They are being teach to open doors for cars like these.” He dragged the car to a stop in front of a rickety staircase. “Q-Mart, Madam. We are being here.”

  At the foot of the stairs was a toothless woman in a brown cotton sari worn to rags, chewing a mouthful of grass and selling bunches of daisies dyed neon pink and Windex blue. She waved a handful in my face as I stepped around her, smiling with polite refusal. She scowled at the rejection, spitting phlegm at my heels as I walked upward.

  “Welcome to Q-Mart, Madam!” cried a man standing at the upstairs entrance. Three male cashiers, idling lazily on bar stools behind ancient cash registers, looked up with interest. “We are so happy to be having you! Is it your first time?” He wore a white button-down shirt and crisp Dockers khakis. His hand-lettered name badge read “Srikanth, MANAGER.”

  “It is,” I said, looking past him at narrow aisles jam-packed with boxes. Dust was everywhere. Already, without knowing the lay of the Q-Mart land, I knew I was in the right place. There were things I recognized. American things. Shaving cream. Ritz crackers. Six packs of Diet Coke.

  Srikanth handed me a pink plastic shopping basket with a broken handle. I headed straight for the Diet Coke. If coffee continued to elude me, the least I could do was stockpile a different form of caffeine.

  After weeks of nothing but peanut butter and jelly and Pizza Corner, I rejoiced in the array of American products. Pancake syrup. Ramen noodles. Ragu spaghetti sauce, something I’d been way too snobby to eat on American soil. Too many chemicals and preservatives, I’d sniff when Jay eyed the displays at Food Emporium. Ragu had always been his favorite, a fact I never let him live down. Here, it practically had a halo around it. I did a little happy-dance shuffle in my flip-flops and started in the toiletry aisle.

  Next to me, a blond woman in clogs was sweeping an armful of Breck shampoo into her basket. “They never have this stuff,” she whispered, looking over her shoulder like someone was going to come and take it all away. I leaned toward her, hoping to start a conversation, but behind us there were sounds of commotion and she took off. Curious, I followed.

  “I saw it first, man,” whined a dreadlocked white guy wearing army green dhoti pants, Birkenstocks, and a wifebeater. He was in his early twenties, a backpacker maybe. He was wrestling with a middle-aged man in a polo and plaid Bermuda shorts, who was waving a bag of—wait, were those Doritos?—high in the air, the sweat of exertion glistening on his bald skull.

  “Non!” said Bermuda shorts, in French or maybe German, as he fought off Birkenstocks to keep his hold on the bag of chips. The blond woman from the toiletry aisle rolled up the sleeves of her tunic and put her basket on the floor, ready to join the fray.

  “But they’re just chips,” I said to no one in particular. The Dorito bag split open. Powdery neon orange triangles poured to the floor. Someone scooped them up and put them back in the bag. The fight continued.

  Srikanth appeared behind me, observing the drama. He did nothing to intervene.

  “Only one bag, Ma’am, and they are very rare,” he said. “Sometimes ten or more peoples are fighting.” He shrugged, his expression bemused.

  I wandered further. Along the back wall were several freestanding freezers. Designed like top-loading washing machines, they were stuffed to the brim, cartons and containers spilling over their dented aluminum tops. Every few minutes, the electricity would cut out, silencing their electric whines.

  The one closest to me had legs sticking out of it. Upside-down, jean-clad legs that churned in the air like they were riding an imaginary, upside-down unicycle.

  “GOT it!” A hand appeared next to the legs, waving a package of sausage links. The package was crushed and dripped condensation. I wondered how many times it had thawed and been refrozen.

  “I KNEW they’d be here.” The owner of the legs executed a perfect flip out of the freezer and landed back on the dusty tile floor. He turned the sausages over and checked for an expiration date. “February. Nice.” Without a word to me, he dove headfirst into the next freezer.

  It was June.

  ***

  “What did you buy?” Jay asked that night, listening to my retelling of the Dorito battle royale with disbelief.

  “You wouldn’t believe it: they had cream cheese! Philadelphia! I bought the last four packages. And I got Captain Crunch, and salsa, and more toilet paper. And the September issue of Vogue.” I lifted item after item, proud of my purchases.

  Jay’s eyes remained glued to his BlackBerry, where he and his co-worker Diana were texting back and forth furiously. Region 10 was having yet another crisis he was determined to solve. “You bought four packages of cream cheese? Were there bagels?”

  “No, there weren’t bagels. Are you out of your mind? I was lucky to find cereal.”

  “Did you buy milk?”

  “Um. No. It came in a cardboard box and it was just sitting there on the shelf, not refrigerated or anything. It kind of scared me.”

  “So we’re having peanut butter and jelly for dinner.”

  I looked around. It was true. After all that time shopping and so many bags lugged up the elevator and into the flat, there didn’t seem to be much actual food.

  “How much did you spend?”

  “I don’t know. I just put it on the credit card. It couldn’t have been much, it’s INDIA. Everything is cheap here.”

  Jay grabbed the receipt, an old-school adding machine strip printed in faded purple ink.

  “Tell me you did not spend 3500 rupees and we still have nothing to eat for dinner.”

  “Is 3500 rupees a lot?”

  He threw the receipt back down on the kitchen counter without answering and left the room, yanking at his tie. I looked at the issue of Vogue, brushing aside a thick layer of dust to read the price tag. Rs 500. My math skills had always been pathetic. I counted on my fingers, did some division.

  So that was like…twenty bucks. For a nine-month-old magazine. That I couldn’t cook for dinner.

  ***

  For two weeks, Jay worked like crazy, clocking fourteen-hour days while he learned the ins and outs of his new role in Region 10. He came back to the flat looking overwhelmed and exhausted, his mind consumed with the details of the task before him.

  “The boys have a day off tomorrow,” Alexis said, stopping by to visit one afternoon after she and Younus had dropped Peter off at work. Because Peter was in the tax group, he, like the rest of the short-term expats, worked hours designed to maximize contact with the Western world. I envied the large portion of daylight hours they got to spend together, sightseeing or cooking together in their flat. Alexis
always invited me to join them, but I mostly declined. I hated feeling like a third wheel. But an opportunity for all four of us to spend the day together in the middle of the week sounded heavenly.

  “Really? That’s awesome. Why?”

  “It’s a Hindu festival. The whole company is on holiday. Peter and I are going to watch the parades. They’re supposed to be fun. Do you guys want to come?”

  “Sounds like something we shouldn’t miss.”

  “Ganesh Chaturthi, Madam! Much meaning,” Venkat said when I asked him about it later. “Is being mine favorite. Ganesh is Elephant God. Much power. Much protection.”

  “How do you celebrate?” I asked, curious.

  “First ten days praying, Madam. Then singing in streets, much flowers and colors and dancing,” he said, waving his arms in the air to demonstrate.

  “Venkat! Keep your hands on the wheel!”

  “Sorry, Madam. After singing and dancing is idols swimming. Peoples making idols of Ganesh and we are putting flowers and coconuts. Then peoples are singing and dancing them to the water for putting in.”

  “The idols go in the water?”

  “Ganesh swimming much holy, Madam.”

  Venkat’s description turned out to be exactly right, but it still didn’t prepare me for the spectacle we watched parading down Hyderabad’s streets. Shirtless men spray-painted hot pink danced and pounded drums behind makeshift carts bearing hundreds of different artistic renderings of the Elephant God—all different sizes made from plaster and plastic, wood and clay. Fireworks showered down from the sky as each Ganesh, borne on its own pedestal, made its way to the Hussain Sagar River to be immersed in the muddy waters. Many of the idols shattered to pieces when they landed, coloring the water pink and purple and green where they fell.

  “This is so awesome,” Peter said, snapping pictures like crazy. “Why don’t we have stuff like this in the U.S.?”

  “Probably because this would qualify as a riot,” Jay said, overwhelmed by the teeming crowds.

  “What a waste of art,” Alexis sighed, watching an elaborately painted Ganesh go by, five feet tall and teetering dangerously in the arms of several hot pink teenagers. “I can’t believe all that beautiful detail goes into something they’re just going to smash in the river.”

  “What I can’t believe is that they have Indian women with buckets on their heads building four-story shopping malls by hand, but they managed to find a crane to get a fake elephant into the river,” Peter said, pointing. Sure enough, an enormous yellow construction crane idled by the riverbank, dangling a Ganesh statue by one enormous ear over the churning brown water.

  “I guess festivals take priority when it comes to heavy machinery,” Alexis said, pushing her way to the edge of the crowd for a better view. I hung back, wanting to stay as inconspicuous as possible. People were already staring.

  “Madam,” Venkat whispered behind me. I jumped.

  “Venkat, you scared me.”

  “Is heart attack?”

  I grinned. “No, not quite that bad. Not this time.”

  “I giving you something. Is gift. Much secret, not for swimming. Just for keep.” He pressed something into my palm.

  It was a tiny Ganesh idol, carved with perfect detail. Below the elephant’s crossed legs was a rat.

  “Rat meaning is real, Madam. Only where is rat is real Ganesh. Others no good. Much bad fortune.”

  I caressed the tiny statue with my thumb. “Thank you, Venkat. I love it.”

  Venkat bowed his head, the tops of his ears blushing red. Then he slipped back into the crowd of dancers, smudges of hot pink visible on his jeans.

  “Wow, did Venkat just give you a present?” Alexis asked, joining me again. The pounding drums surged in the background as the crane lifted the giant Ganesh even higher. “Ganesh is perfect for you. He’s called the Lord of Beginnings and he’s also the patron of writers and artists. My art teacher honors him at the beginning of every class.”

  “Wow. I had no idea,” I said, tucking the gift in my pocket to keep it safe.

  Behind us, the giant Ganesh dangled from the hook of the crane. A hush fell over the crowd as the driver extended the boom over the lake as far as it would go. Even the drums observed the briefest moment of silence before pounding to life again with renewed fervor. Whoops and yells rang out as the elephant swung dramatically back and forth, poised for descent. Everyone pushed together, jostling one another for a better view. The air was electric with anticipation.

  Ganesh fell. The idol made an elegant arc despite his awkward heft, swan-diving down and disappearing beneath the surface for one breathless moment before breaking through again, face up and serene, his massive trunk broken but majestic just the same. The revelers cried out with joy and dove in after him, tossing flowers around him as he bobbed in the current. Petal-covered aarti lights, their ghee-soaked wicks reflecting hundreds of tiny flames across the river’s surface, floated everywhere. Alone on the shore, we jumped up and down, cheering along with the crowd, our confusion trumped by the contagious elation of everyone around us.

  Chapter 6

  I’d expected to be good at this.

  In New York, Jay and I would sit up in bed late at night and talk about our grand adventure: the places we’d visit, the people we’d meet. It all sounded so glamorous and foreign—the exotic animals, the smells and sounds, the ancient ruins, and the crowded bazaars. As soon as Jay uttered the word “expat,” I was hooked on my new persona. I’d be like Katharine Hepburn in The African Queen, but without all the war stuff. And the swamps and parasites. Or like Audrey Hepburn in Roman Holiday, minus the princess part (unless being an American princess counted). What could be more exciting, more sophisticated than becoming a seasoned traveler, a citizen of the world?

  Gazing out over the Hudson River, the New Jersey lights twinkling in the distance, I was sure I’d be the perfect expat housewife. I’d barter effortlessly in the open air markets. I’d learn local recipes and wow my new expat friends (because of course I’d have a whole bunch of glamorous expat friends) with my effortless transition into Indian culture.

  But now, almost a month into our grand adventure, I still couldn’t figure out the exchange rate and had swapped my visions of home-cooked biryani for a thirteen-dollar jar of Ragu. The Dorito scuffle in Q-Mart hardly counted as the sophisticated expat social scene I’d been dreaming of. I still hadn’t found a decent cup of coffee. When we visited Alexis and Peter in their Delta block flat, they looked like they had it all together. Their living room was decorated with vases and carvings they’d picked up at local bazaars. Peter told stories like he’d been living here forever. Alexis even looked the part, wearing embroidered tunics and dashing off words of Telugu while she strained chick peas over the kitchen sink. Was I the only one getting it all wrong?

  Still, it was early. We’d landed just a few weeks ago. Maybe getting into a groove in Hyderabad would take longer than I had anticipated. The journey was still new and our living situation was temporary—Venkat and I spent hours each day scouring the city for a house to rent. The all-night parties were wearing thin; I longed for some peace and quiet, a good night’s sleep in my very own bed, and freedom from Subu’s impromptu visits. Soon we’d have neighbors, maybe even some new friends. Wouldn’t someone show up with a Bundt cake sooner or later?

  “If you want to be meeting other expats, you should be heading for the Taj tomorrow,” Subu told us one Saturday, watching us return from another fruitless house-hunting trip. “Everyone will be gathering there on Sunday morning. You’ll like it—they are having live music and much Western foods.”

  “Should we try it?” I asked Jay, willing him to say yes. He continued to come home exhausted, a combination of the long hours and the difficulty of his new role. Heading out again was probably the last thing he wanted to do. Still, I was feeling desperate. I employed my biggest puppy dog
eyes, already mentally planning my outfit.

  “I’m fine going. Alexis and Peter usually go and say it’s pretty good.”

  I threw my arms around his neck. “Yes!”

  Jay laughed and held up a hand in warning.

  “But it’s Venkat’s day off, remember? If you still refuse to let me drive the car, then we need to take a rickshaw.”

  I closed my eyes for a moment. Brave another Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride through the streets of Hyderabad or miss an opportunity to be social?

  “OK. Let’s do it.”

  ***

  Sunday morning. Formerly a time we reserved for lazy walks in Central Park, Starbucks in hand, watching Tucker romp with the other dogs enjoying the pre-9:00 a.m., no-leash-required rule. Our old life had been so jam-packed with work and school and dinners and friends that we’d craved that one day of unstructured solitude. Now, I was thrilled to have somewhere to be.

  Jay and I arrived at the Taj Krishna hotel a little past noon. Uniformed doormen, all in white with gold-braided turbans, bowed deeply and swung open the giant double doors with synchronized precision. The lobby was exactly what India looked like in the movies. Dark glossy wood carved into elephants and peacocks and lotus blossoms. Faded brocade upholstery on overstuffed furniture. Flaking gold leaf everywhere. There were giant palms in brass planters and crystal chandeliers. The air smelled like mildew and cherry pipe smoke.

  I was red-eyed and achy from a fitful, sleepless night beneath the broken air conditioner. Still, with the promise of other expats and the possibility of making new friends, I’d dressed for the occasion—floral sundress from Rebecca Taylor, wedge espadrilles, giant Chanel sunglasses (the better to pretend I didn’t see all the stares). But the minute we walked onto the large outdoor patio, my outfit felt all wrong.