Karma Gone Bad

by Jenny Feldon

  The expats were arranged in factions. In the corner farthest from the pool, next to the elevated fish pond, were the families. Frazzled, laughing moms in khaki shorts and embroidered tunics, their hair tied back in sensible ponytails, tethered their toddlers with one hand and clutched glasses of iced tea in the other. Sunburned dads in golf shirts, mobile phones at the ready, ignored the kid-related chaos around them and swapped corporate stories from Amsterdam and Chicago and Sao Paulo.

  Close to the bar, next to the smoking barbecue, were the post-grads in concert tees and battered jeans. Raucous and hungover, they were tax accountants from Philly and Portland and Detroit, living it up on their first international assignment. Because they worked U.S. hours, they didn’t need to clock in until 2:00 p.m. India time. Which meant they partied every night, playing poker and blasting hip-hop until three or four in the morning, when they crashed in Kingfisher-soaked stupors on whichever couch happened to be nearest.

  Jay recognized some of them, smiled and waved. I lifted my eyebrows in a gesture I hoped would be interpreted as friendly, but the truth was, I had a different crowd in mind. Jay and I had done our post-college partying post college. Now I was ready for something more sophisticated. But there were no other housewives here, no “accompanying spouses” who would show me where to shop for vegetables or keep me company on sightseeing trips and yoga retreats.

  Next to the pool, lounging primly beneath the shade of striped umbrellas and coconut palms, were the expat elders. Closer to my parents’ age than mine, these were the empty-nester expats, the high-level executives with their kids off to college, living out their dreams of exotic golden years under the Indian sun. Some of the women wore linen suits and wide-brimmed hats; others wore traditional Indian “dresses,” ankle-length cotton tunics worn over matching tapered pants. I recognized the clog-wearing woman I’d seen in Q-Mart, now sitting beside an elegant man with salt-and-pepper hair and navy pants embroidered with tiny whales.

  I glanced down at my sundress, smoothed it further over my suddenly too-bare thighs. The dress had looked so perfect, so worldly and elegant, when I’d examined myself in the sliver of bathroom mirror before we left Matwala Shayar.

  I could feel an entire room of expat eyes watching as we made our way across the patio. Unsettled, I stumbled a little and cursed the wedges I’d maneuvered so easily down New York City streets. I’d been struggling to endure these past few weeks of relentless Indian stares, so often being the only white person in a sea of brown faces. I hated feeling like a sideshow curiosity. But was that a chuckle I heard from one of the elders, compressed beneath a set of manicured fingertips, or was coffee withdrawal making me imagine things?

  “Jenny! Jay! Over here,” called Peter. “Congrats on making it to your first brunch in ’Bad.” Hearing my name spoken out loud after so many “Sir Ma’ams” and “Madams” and “Mrs. Jay Sirs” felt strange. In my old life, I’d been greeted by name dozens of times a day—at the yoga studio, on campus, at the neighborhood bar for happy hour. I’d been a co-worker, a classmate, a friend. Here, I was no one. A parasitic extension of my husband, a hanger-on in the world of corporate transplants.

  Alexis and Peter were at a table in the back, half-hidden by a carved marble pillar. With them were Diana and her husband Kyle, who’d been our frequent dinner companions in recent weeks. Jay and Diana worked the same long hours. When they finally left the office, they’d come collect Kyle and me. The four of us would pile into the back of the Scorpio and head out to Ginger Court or Little Italy, commiserating about expat struggles over bottles of Indian wine.

  Diana, from the Los Angeles office, was one of the other two senior managers sent to Hyderabad along with Jay. The two of them were fast friends—both obsessed with work, addicted to their Blackberries, and possessing the same uncanny ability to appear cool and collected in the face of any crisis. Diana stuck out in Hyderabad even more than we did. Not only was she tall and thin and blond, but she’d bought herself a tangerine orange-colored Scorpio which, half the time, she insisted on driving by herself. Every surface in Diana’s office was covered with Hindu idols and empty cans of Diet Coke.

  Kyle, Diana’s husband, worked in Hyderabad too, the general manager for the mobile division of an electronic media company. He spent half his time on conference calls with elite international corporate powerhouses, and the other half playing World of Warcraft beneath a giant pair of noise-cancelling headphones. Tall, Asian, and a surprisingly harmonious blend of gentle and sarcastic, Kyle made the long work-talk dinners bearable.

  The waiter appeared with a towel folded over one arm like a perfect English butler. “Can I be getting Sir and Sir Ma’am something to drink?” he asked.

  “Cappuccino,” I said, begging him with my eyes not to tell me there was no such thing.

  “Vodka,” Jay said. I raised an eyebrow. “With tomato juice,” he amended, shaking a napkin over his lap.

  “Very good, Ma’am and Sir,” said the waiter, bowing.

  “Have you guys been here long?” Jay asked Peter, who was scanning through pictures on his digital camera. Alexis lifted her own Chanel sunglasses an inch to smile at me, her eyes red-rimmed. She looked as dejected as I felt. She stirred an iced tea listlessly with a teaspoon, fanning her other hand in front of her face to swat away flies that circled the table.

  I’d been avoiding Alexis because her contentment seemed oppressive. I hadn’t wanted to hear about her art classes, or the orphans she volunteered with, or how she thought I needed a project to occupy my time. She meant well, but I preferred being left to wallow in my misery. Seeing her now, I felt terrible about my self-imposed seclusion. She’d been a good friend to me. It wasn’t her fault India wasn’t anything like I’d imagined.

  “You’ve got to see these buffalo,” Peter said, pushing the camera toward Jay. “They stopped traffic forever on Wednesday. I had to call in and explain why I was an hour late getting back from lunch.”

  Kyle was chowing down on a plate of something orange and spicy-looking. Diana picked at a pile of wilted lettuce and sipped a Bloody Mary, squinting at her BlackBerry from behind a pair of Ray-Ban aviators. Jay ordered a bowl of cereal with milk. I thought of the yellow cardboard carton of Nestlé Slim and wondered if the hotel had milk that came from a refrigerator. And if the kitchens were well secured. And what the punishment would be for stealing cow-related products if I were to get caught, say, borrowing some.

  I scanned the menu, looking for something that sounded appealing. Spicy food had never been my thing. Anything stronger than ‘mild’ was a deal-breaker. Just looking at a bottle of Tabasco made me anxious. But in India, there seemed to be no such thing as ‘mild’ or ‘bland.’ Everything was five-alarm spicy, even stuff that wasn’t supposed to be, like pizza and ketchup. Begging waiters to tell the kitchen “no spice” had absolutely no effect.

  I wanted challah French toast from the Olympic Flame diner, or a spinach and feta omelet from Serafina. Even a fried egg and cheese sandwich from the guy with the cart at the corner of Sixty-Eighth and Broadway sounded like heaven.

  Down at the bottom of the menu, tucked beneath a list of Indian pastries, was something called “Eggs Poached American with Style Cream.” Eggs sounded OK. I called the waiter over and asked what “style cream” was. He gestured with his hands as he explained that it was cold and white and served with a spoon. “Much good tasting, Madam. Shall I bring you a sample?”

  “It’s sour cream,” said Kyle matter-of-factly, pouring himself another glass of orange juice from the pitcher on the table. “But they can’t call it that here, because people will think it’s actually sour. Like rancid. Gone bad. Ever seen a bag of Style Cream and Onion potato chips? They have them at Food World.”

  I closed my menu. “Poached eggs, please,” I said as a blue Frisbee careened onto the table in front of me, knocking Kyle’s orange juice into my lap. A red-haired toddler chased after it, weaving
through my dripping legs and giggling. His apologetic mother brushed past, chasing after him as he headed for the pool.

  “I’d never bring kids here,” Jay remarked, handing me his napkin and taking a long sip of Bloody Mary. He winced and stirred it with a withered cucumber stick. “Too much to worry about. Jenny is enough of a liability.”

  “Very funny,” I muttered, dabbing at my dress.

  I couldn’t imagine having children here with me. Being responsible for their nutrition, for their intake of clean water, for keeping them out of traffic and away from stray livestock that may or may not have rabies. Not to mention the mosquitoes. And the heat. And the cholera warnings. Still, I envied the young moms who were consumed with their offspring: teaching them phrases in Hindi, exclaiming over mango trees, letting them scrape curried lentils off plates with their fingers. Those women had purpose. They had routine. They had family.

  “Your breakfast, Mrs. Sir,” said the waiter, delivering two eggs swimming in a murky pool of white. A single slice of lime adorned the chipped ceramic plate. The eggs were shriveled like raisins, defeated-looking. I raised my fork and took a bite. Then I spit egg out all over the table.

  “HEY!” Jay said, wiping egg bits off his shorts.

  “Vinegar,” I croaked, chugging down water. The “American style” eggs had been poached in vinegar. My appetite was ruined. My cappuccino had never arrived. Jay looked at me, sleep-deprived and caffeine-starved, my dress soaked and sticky.

  “Waiter!” he called. “Get these eggs out of here. She’ll have some cereal. And a Diet Coke.”

  ***

  On the way home, Jay was more silent than usual.

  “What?” I asked.

  “What?” he responded, watching a buffalo graze in the lane next to us.

  “The eggs really were disgusting.”

  “I know, Jen.”

  “So why are you mad?”

  “I’m not mad.”

  “You’re silent. I can tell.”

  “I’m just…I want us to get settled in and be happy here. I’m not sure if your attitude is ever going to let that happen.”

  “What attitude? We just got here! I’m still adjusting! And you agree this isn’t what we thought we signed up for, right?”

  “All I’m asking you to do is try,” he replied. He leaned back against the seat and tapped his fingers against the window, trying to get the buffalo to look at him. “Just try.”

  ***

  Settling in was not going according to plan. At least for me, it wasn’t. Jay was making strides at work and forming friendships with some of his new colleagues. His fears about his leadership being rejected, about not being able to complete the task he’d been given, diminished with each passing week in his new role. He was even getting the hang of Indian expressions, tossing out gems like “Do the needful” in normal conversation.

  But as his confidence grew, mine continued to waiver. My failures with the groceries, the cell phone-wielding beggars, those expat snickers I still wasn’t sure if I’d imagined…they were all piled on top of each other in my mind, making it hard for me to focus on my next steps. Jay hadn’t said anything about my bad attitude since that day in the car, but I still thought about his words, defending myself in my head against the accusation. I’m lonely. Things are harder when you’re the one at home all alone. Everything is so, so different.

  Everyone told me how foreign India would be; why didn’t I listen to their warnings? The more time I spent analyzing my missteps, the worse my fears became. What if we never got used to it? What if it got worse instead of better? What if saying yes to the greatest adventure of our lives was really the worst mistake I’d ever made?

  At work, Jay was focused and content, committed to the task at hand. With each passing week, he seemed more sure of himself. When I listened to his voice on the endless work calls he took from the apartment, he sounded confident and energetic. At home, though, my frustrations seemed to rub off on him. He was withdrawn and easily annoyed. There was an edge in his voice when he talked to me. If I weren’t here, dragging him down, would he be happier? A good housewife was supposed to be supportive, and I wasn’t even doing that. Jay was right. I needed to try harder.

  In the meantime, the laundry situation was becoming increasingly troubling. More than a month had gone by; we’d been wearing the same clothing over and over again. The dirty clothes pile rivaled the size of the Statue of Liberty. A good housewife would do laundry every day, whistling merrily, making perfect corners with fitted sheets that smelled like Snuggle. Except we had no washing machine. We had no dryer. We didn’t even have a bathtub. I’d uttered the words “fabric softener” to Srikanth in Q-Mart only to enter into a conversation so convoluted and confusing (“You are wanting your fabrics to be softened, Madam? First I will be needing to know what was done to make them hard?”) I got a headache and gave up.

  What we did have was a bucket and a filthy clothesline, covered with bird droppings and dead flies, out on the balcony.

  One morning, Jay didn’t bother to conceal his frustration as he pulled on yet another crumpled work shirt and tried to smooth the wrinkles out with the back of his hairbrush.

  “I can’t keep going to work like this. The partners are all in town. I have meetings.” He dug in his cubby, searching unsuccessfully for a clean pair of socks. He sat down on the bed, narrowly missing my feet beneath the blanket, and pulled his shoes on without socks, grunting with exertion. Or merely for effect; I wasn’t sure.

  I was failing as a housewife already. It had only been six weeks.

  I called Alexis.

  “How do you do your laundry?” I asked. “Jay might divorce me if he has to go one more day without a clean pair of socks.”

  Alexis laughed. “I’ve been there. Dial Subu. Matwala Shayar has a laundry service; he’ll come to your flat and pick it up.”

  “Do you think it’s safe to use?”

  “Is anything safe to use here? So far, we’ve been pretty lucky. You should give it a try.”

  It felt like a domestic cop-out to delegate the task. But it was looking like I was out of options, at least until we found a place of our own. I had three more houses to visit this afternoon; maybe one of them would turn out to be perfect and I’d need to risk the Matwala Shayar laundry just this once. I called Subu and told him I needed to send out the wash. He arrived at our flat hours later with his assistant Ritu in tow. She was a sullen girl dressed in blue jeans and a bright orange kurti, a long-sleeved Indian tunic. It was an outfit that modern Indian teens wore to bridge the gap with the West and to annoy their parents. As a formerly rebellious adolescent, I appreciated the impulse.

  Ritu took our laundry basket, dumped it on the floor, and examined the contents, holding up each piece for Subu’s inspection. Subu nodded his head and took notes on a carbon-paper pad.

  Things had different names here. As they went through our dirty clothes and itemized each piece, Subu recited the categories out loud. My tank tops were “slips.” Jay’s boxers were “short pants.” His shorts were “medium pants.” Anything longer than knee-length was “pants,” including all of my skirts and dresses. At the last minute, I snatched back my underwear—my lovingly curated collection of Hanky Panky, Cosabella, and Victoria’s Secret. Perhaps a test run was in order before anything delicate took the Indian laundry plunge.

  Three days later, Subu let himself into the flat carrying a large bundle tied up in a sheet. Ritu followed closely at his heels. I’d been lying on the floor reading the September issue of Vogue for the ninth time. It was cooler on the floor. Tucker, who’d been curled underneath my knees, leapt to his feet and growled fiercely. Subu froze in the doorway. I hauled Tucker into the bedroom and locked him in. He whined and scratched in protest, his black nose poking through the crack beneath the door.

  Subu, visibly relieved, unknotted the edges of his bundle
with a flourish and separated the clothing into stacks.

  “See, Madam? Laundry finished.”

  Now I had to go through it all and give him my approval. I had to do this or he would never go away. I tried to stare him down, telepathically willing him to leave, but he bobbled his head and shifted from foot to foot until I gave in and began to thumb through the piles.

  Huh.

  I didn’t know Jay had a shirt that said “MUSHROOM NATION” on it. And what were all those V-neck undershirts? Jay hated V-necks. An Oklahoma University football jersey? And did those socks have…HOLES in them?

  This was SO not our laundry.

  Subu looked befuddled and consulted his list. Panic mounting, he dug through the stacks himself until he unearthed some things that did actually belong to us: Jay’s gym shorts, my shirt with the Israeli paratrooper logo on it, a pair of boxers with devils all over them I’d bought Jay for our first Valentine’s Day. A lacy demi-cup bra I’d overlooked, now grayish and misshapen. This was embarrassing.

  After counting the total number of items in the pile, Subu determined that all of our laundry was accounted for. It was just that there was extra laundry that needed to be identified and returned to its rightful owner. So, beneath Subu and Ritu’s fascinated stares, I began the unpleasant task of removing Joe Schmoe’s holey socks, yellowed undershirts, and stained, pilly boxer briefs from our (vastly superior) pile of clothes.

  Finally, Subu left. I freed Tucker. Now I could get down to real housewifely business: putting my husband’s clothes away. Grocery failure? OK, possible. But the laundry thing seemed to be in the bag. Moving the pile from couch to bedroom, I heard an odd crinkling noise. I looked down to make sure I wasn’t stepping on something.

  I wasn’t.

  I took a few more steps. The crinkling continued.

  There was NEWSPAPER. In our CLOTHES.

  Inky, dirty pieces of newsprint were folded in between each and every piece of our clean laundry. Jay was going to freak. Newspapers were high on his most-toxic-germ list, along with doorknobs, car keys, and elevator buttons. I removed the newspaper and refolded the clothes. I hid the evidence in the kitchen trash.