One Uber or two at a club in Bangalore

WE NEEDED TO TRAVEL in an Uber cab from Bangalore’s Catholic Club to the Bangalore Club – not far, but we had heavy baggage. A uniformed security guard kindly agreed to book a cab. He was, he told us, from Assam – a member of the large Assamese Bodo community.

Before he ordered the taxi, he looked at us – a European man and an Indian lady, and asked us if we needed one car or two. My wife explained that we are married, and only needed one car.

I believe that the reason the guard asked us how many cars we required was that, coming from a traditional community at the Eastern edge of India, it must have seemed unlikely to him that people from totally different communities, such as my wife and I, would ever become joined in matrimony.

I was struck by his enquiry because when we have travelled in many parts of Gujarat, people have often expressed surprise, and even disbelief, when they learn that a ‘desi’ (Indian) woman has married a ‘gora’ (pale coloured) such as I am. I have described this kind of incredulity in great detail in my book about travelling in India: “The Hitler Lock and Other Tales of India”, which is available from Amazon:
https://www.amazon.co.uk/HITLER-LOCK-OTHER-TALES-INDIA/dp/B0CFM5JNX5/

MOTHER IN LAW

This story was related to me by a good friend. She suggested that I publish it on my blog because it illustrates certain attitudes still prevalent in India. I have changed the details for obvious reasons and will tell it in the first person.

This happened during my days as an undergraduate student in the early 1970s. Those days, we were all hippies, often high on dope. I had a fling with Raj. Nothing came of it.

Later and quite by chance, I found myself enrolled in the same postgraduate course as Raj. We got together again, and I became pregnant. Although we weren’t married, I wanted to keep the child, who was conceived out of love, not as a result of rape.

One day, Raj, without informing me where we were going, took me to his parent’s home. I was not dressed appropriately for such a visit, to meet a boyfriend’s parents. I was in shirt and jeans, wearing non matching socks and tatty sneakers.

When we arrived at his home, not only were Raj’s parents waiting to meet me, but also various of his uncles. Raj’s mother, let’s call her ‘Mom’, made me sit beside her and the men left the room.

“So, where did you do it?” Mom began, “was it in a hotel?”

“No, in my room at the hostel” I replied, wondering why she needed to know.

“Oh, in your room… very liberal,” she commented.

“And how many times did he do it?” Mom enquired.

Irritated, I replied:

“Too many times to remember.”

Then, the men returned to the room where we were sitting.

Raj’s father addressed me formally: “My son has been unjust to you. We will honour you by asking you to marry him.”

Raj and I were duly married. Just before our wedding, Mom took me to be examined by a gynaecologist. I was surprised as I had already consulted one before I was introduced to Raj’s parents.

Years later, it dawned on me why Mom had taken me for the gynaecological examination. She was probably checking that I really was pregnant, and not falsely claiming to be with child in order to entrap her son into matrimony.

To save face, Mom always told people that my child was born three months later than its true birthday.

Read what you wish into my friend’s story, but try not to be surprised by it. After all, deciding ones spouse by means other than by arrangement is still relatively uncommon in India.