Good Boy!

... were the words our new acquaintance, a highly cosmopolitan, professional Bengali woman uttered to our taxi driver as she explained the way to our hotel to him in an impatient, tense Hindi. To emphasize the impact of her words, she patted him on the shoulder--or knocked him on the shoulder would be more accurate. Prior to this, she had been talking to us for a long while over a gorgeous dinner of Indo-fusion food and homemade desserts and ice cream that our highly talented and well-placed friends had thrown. She suggested names of restaurants that we could try out in our new neighborhood, said she would send more and told me that, if I'm already pregnant, help will be provided and I'm among friends (I guess these maternity tops sold at the stores I've been shopping at to get some heat-appropriate clothing might give the wrong idea). And then on the way back was the "Good boy," repeated twice, that made us both cringe. It's not her fault, it's the way of the upper (and upper-middle class). They've been raised like this. Right? And didn't my Russian aristocratic ancestors talk that way to the help? I bet.

Which brings me to the question of the help and other bourgeois niceties--we are going to get some, despite my initial reluctance and desire to save money. First, a driver for the AC car who speaks at least some English--getting cabs all the time is not much cheaper if they're with AC and if they don't have the AC or if it's a velo-rickshaw (the mode of transport for short distances) you emerge sweaty, brain-addled and all-together unfetching after trips of 1+ hours, a lot of it spent stuck in the warm soupy air with no breeze due to road congestion. So, driver it is. Then, a maid because my husband's colleague kindly said she can share one with us and she cleans and cooks a bit for not much money at all (we can't afford going out all the time in Bandra even if it is on average 2-3 times cheaper than at home). The cleaning is apparently because it gets really dusty here... and it doesn't cost much. And, hopefully that's it. Oh, not counting the swanky expat club we're trying to join because it has cheap meals, a nice pool and company--that's going to run us $1,500 a year or something. But we're by no means guaranteed the swanky club because we first have to be recommended by 5 people, one of them on the board, and so far we know only one and pass an interview. Oh, the travails of the privileged whites--and the privileged local upper middle class--living in developing countries...