I'm coming round to the idea that gated communities in India (and probably elsewhere for that matter) are the residential equivalent of the "perfect" women in Ira Levin's The Stepford Wives.
We've moved three times in the last three years and have recently moved into an apartment complex that has all the mod cons that apartment-dwellers demand. For us, that means a clubhouse, a grassy recreation area, swimming pool, tennis courts, basketball court, squash court, amphitheatre, play area for the children, pensioners' garden (pretty much like the other exercise areas only the human traffic is a good deal slower) and twenty-four hour security. We have covered parking and are now able to call on maintenance men if there is some electrical or plumbing problem. Visitors not only have to declare their father's name but also their paternal grandfather's name and his favourite vegetable dish. They are then grilled thoroughly, strip-searched and beaten on the soles of their feet with iron rods. When they are finally frog-marched to their friend's/relative's apartment they have to submit a visitor's pass which has to be signed by the resident. I'm still toying with the idea of one day sending my brother-in-law back with his pass endorsed with the words, "This man is not my brother-in-law. I have never seen him before. How did this impostor get in?" I'd be interested to see the follow-up.
And it's all so terribly gentile. "Good morning" here, "Good evening" there. "How are you?", "How's the family?" We've been there for nearly a month now and I don't think I've seen a single fleck of phlegm on the paths. I did hear somebody noisily clearing their throat the other week and expected that to be followed up by the usual sound made by projectile spittle hitting brick, but there was nothing. What happened to that phlegm? Did he swallow it? Did he disgorge it surreptitiously into a monographed spittoon on his balcony? These are the concerns that bother me these days.
And we have gardeners who dead-head the flowers, weed the beds and trim the lawns. We even have frogs which seem to have been imported just so that small children like Mark and Niharika can chase them. I've not checked, but I wouldn't be surprised to find that on each frog's stomach is a number and a compartment for batteries. Somewhere in apartment TR451 there's a frog-maintenance man radio controlling all the amphibians.
But I do miss the street vendors. No more fresh vegetables or tender coconut. No more fish from the meen man. No more moosambie or mango or the banana lady with her heavy burden balanced on her head. That's the downside. The upside is that my wife doesn't get bothered by bogus charity collectors and we don't have people dumping rubbish opposite our house.
So on balance, I suppose that Stepford is the way forward. We have our papers delivered, I pay five hundred rupees a month to have my car cleaned every day (and you'd pay more than that to have your car put through a UK car wash once) and we can still call up the local shop (or lacaal shaaap as it's recorded on my mobile phone) for two rupees-worth of curry leaves and expect them to deliver it free of cost within five minutes.
But the really good thing is that the real India - or at least one side of it - is only a step away. Leave Sriram Stepford and straight away you're in the village with rubbish strewn everywhere, stray dogs lounging around and people cleaning their teeth, brushing their hair and bathing in the open. A little further up the road is the "Bismillah chiken and muttan canter" where, despite my wife's protestations, I bought a chiken and later realised that it must have died of old age; and then beyond that, the bakeries, the newspaper recyclers, the auto stands etc.
Better than that even, because the builders of our apartment complex scrimped on the waste disposal expense and opted for open drains covered by a slab of concrete rather than proper deep-buried sewage pipes, at times you could almost be back in the city living next to a nullah.
We've moved three times in the last three years and have recently moved into an apartment complex that has all the mod cons that apartment-dwellers demand. For us, that means a clubhouse, a grassy recreation area, swimming pool, tennis courts, basketball court, squash court, amphitheatre, play area for the children, pensioners' garden (pretty much like the other exercise areas only the human traffic is a good deal slower) and twenty-four hour security. We have covered parking and are now able to call on maintenance men if there is some electrical or plumbing problem. Visitors not only have to declare their father's name but also their paternal grandfather's name and his favourite vegetable dish. They are then grilled thoroughly, strip-searched and beaten on the soles of their feet with iron rods. When they are finally frog-marched to their friend's/relative's apartment they have to submit a visitor's pass which has to be signed by the resident. I'm still toying with the idea of one day sending my brother-in-law back with his pass endorsed with the words, "This man is not my brother-in-law. I have never seen him before. How did this impostor get in?" I'd be interested to see the follow-up.
And it's all so terribly gentile. "Good morning" here, "Good evening" there. "How are you?", "How's the family?" We've been there for nearly a month now and I don't think I've seen a single fleck of phlegm on the paths. I did hear somebody noisily clearing their throat the other week and expected that to be followed up by the usual sound made by projectile spittle hitting brick, but there was nothing. What happened to that phlegm? Did he swallow it? Did he disgorge it surreptitiously into a monographed spittoon on his balcony? These are the concerns that bother me these days.
And we have gardeners who dead-head the flowers, weed the beds and trim the lawns. We even have frogs which seem to have been imported just so that small children like Mark and Niharika can chase them. I've not checked, but I wouldn't be surprised to find that on each frog's stomach is a number and a compartment for batteries. Somewhere in apartment TR451 there's a frog-maintenance man radio controlling all the amphibians.
But I do miss the street vendors. No more fresh vegetables or tender coconut. No more fish from the meen man. No more moosambie or mango or the banana lady with her heavy burden balanced on her head. That's the downside. The upside is that my wife doesn't get bothered by bogus charity collectors and we don't have people dumping rubbish opposite our house.
So on balance, I suppose that Stepford is the way forward. We have our papers delivered, I pay five hundred rupees a month to have my car cleaned every day (and you'd pay more than that to have your car put through a UK car wash once) and we can still call up the local shop (or lacaal shaaap as it's recorded on my mobile phone) for two rupees-worth of curry leaves and expect them to deliver it free of cost within five minutes.
But the really good thing is that the real India - or at least one side of it - is only a step away. Leave Sriram Stepford and straight away you're in the village with rubbish strewn everywhere, stray dogs lounging around and people cleaning their teeth, brushing their hair and bathing in the open. A little further up the road is the "Bismillah chiken and muttan canter" where, despite my wife's protestations, I bought a chiken and later realised that it must have died of old age; and then beyond that, the bakeries, the newspaper recyclers, the auto stands etc.
Better than that even, because the builders of our apartment complex scrimped on the waste disposal expense and opted for open drains covered by a slab of concrete rather than proper deep-buried sewage pipes, at times you could almost be back in the city living next to a nullah.
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I'm likely to be in Bangalore soon, for a couple of months, and I'm curious to know where this place is! It'll be my first visit and I'm quite excited about exploring the city. :)
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