Swimming in Potholes

9.3.07

Alexander and I are anxious to leave the NID guesthouse. The narrow windows are tinted dark blue and rusted shut. The weak light from the room’s single lamp does nothing to dispel eternal darkness. There is scarcely enough space for the two twin beds, flimsy desk and our four exploded suitcases. Hundreds of rapidly procreating flies and one lonely lizard keep us company. There is no shower. We must use a bucket. If we want hot water we must wait for the water heater, which dispenses only one liter of water every forty seconds.

None of this bothers me. The room has white walls and tiled floors that look clean in the dim gloom. We are grateful for the ceiling fan and efficient A/C- things we have discovered are rarities in our desperate search for an apartment. Our location on the campus of NID is superb and a nice man comes daily to clean the toilet. And I like showering from a bucket.

I am only bothered by this unshakable sense of uneasiness. Our inability to unpack makes it seem as if our move to India is a mere trip, some whirlwind vacation that will soon be over. I know better, however, and the realization that we must leave the guesthouse by Friday puts some pressure on the situation. Where will be go if we can’t find a place? Who can we trust? In the states I would scour Craigslist.org, send several emails and make a deposit. In my experience, such transactions have been quick and relatively stress free. But we have no game plan here. We must depend on a student’s friend’s aunt, or maybe the daughter-in-law of her second cousin. Everything is word of mouth and those mouths don’t always speak English.

Jay has tried his best to help. He has contacted nearly a dozen brokers and called up many family friends. Yet it seems as if we are getting nowhere. The few options seem overpriced, run-down and twenty minutes away from NID. Alexander and I have posted our needs in different parts of the campus and asked for assistance from many faculty and students. But everything takes time here. We can do little now but hope for the best.

After a frustrating day of failed attempts, Jay made an effort to buoy up our spirits. He took us to Mirch Masala, a quaint restaurant specializing in Punjabi cuisine. The waiter mistook our inquiry about which dishes were spiciest as a request for no spice, and so we endured several dishes of bland, greasy grub.

Next Jay treated us to an American flick. He bought three tickets (at roughly $2 a pop) for The Invasion, a remake of a 1956 sci-fi film based on a book by Jack Finney. The theater was located in a large complex with arcades, restaurants and a small bowling alley where groups of men bowled with bright orange balls. Inflatable palm trees and advertisements for Bollywood films adorned the walls.

The movie itself was terrible but far worse was the experience of watching a scary film in a scary place. Usually I can shut my eyes and be assured that everything is going to be ok. If my fear is too intense, I always have the option of taking a bathroom break. Such was not the case here, where it is not safe to exit the theater alone. The stale air and grimy seats served as a constant reminder of our distance from home. My fears of the unknown already haunt the dark corners of reality, so what is worse? Aggressive zombies or the possibility of not finding an apartment? I am already operating in a constant state of anxiety; the last thing I need to worry about is some humanity-robbing pandemic. The greatest irony came when I started to envy the heroine. Yes, she was chased by soulless fiends, but she looked clean. And those suburb streets didn’t look like had that nose-piercing stench of sh*t.

On the way out I stepped in a deep puddle of putrid mud. “Your shoes like to swim with the potholes,” Jay said, laughing.