My favorite locale in Bangalore is the approach road in front of my apartment. I don’t know for certain whether the road has a name, but it has a permanent place in my heart. Though I have derided the road as bomb-scarred, and joke to friends that driving on it is like taking a trip 20 years into the past, I still love the road because it is here I go to see the real India.

Sploosh! Sploosh! A black cloud of flies erupts each time the  Muslim fishmonger dumps out a cup of water  to cool his decomposing wares. These rivulets trickle over the bodies of big, beautiful fish trucked in each morning, only to be passed over by value-conscious shoppers on the hunt for small fry. Too bad. I want to see any small business owner succeed, but I fear he misjudged his potential market locating among Hindu non-meat eaters.

As the fish slime coalesces on the concrete below, it mingles with the brackish fluid that flows through the open sewers and past a small slum of some 15-odd tarpulin hutches. Here, mothers bathe their children from buckets, youngsters tell each other stories atop a pile of felled trees and smoke wafts from scattered cooking fires. Each time I pass, the sewer stench, wood smoke and scent of frying onions simultaneously uplifts and appalls me, but this is my India.

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I am home! I suddenly realized. On Old Airport Road,  watching traffic careen through a chaotic intersection, I felt for the first time that everything was exactly as it should be. What a glorious mess! But  it had become my mess.  I was beginning to think like an Indian.

After three months in Bangalore I’m much more comfortable in a country known for overwhelming all five senses. The bright colors, spicy foods, heat and rain complemented by a distinct urban potpourri are unmistakable qualities of the Indian experience, but while they assault, ambush, and assail the body and mind, I know I will miss them when I’m gone.

In a country as large and diverse and diverse as India, there are few things that link Hindu, Muslims, Sikh, Buddhist, Jain and Jew alike in this psychedelic tapestry. Anyone who spends enough time here realizes that they too have an inner Indian and, in a country that wholly embraces reincarnation, this isn’t hard to believe.

The following are some tricks I have picked up to help me think like an Indian and learn to love this country along the way.

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We tempt fate at our own peril, but traveling with a bottle of hand sanitizer has been the furthest thing from my mind lately. As I grow more comfortable in and fond of Bangalore, I continue to push my limits both in a geographic and culinary sense. My favorite part of Bangalore is the city’s Muslim Quarter which includes the neighborhoods of Shivajinagar and Frasier Town. In Frazier Town as in Shivajinagar, I’ve found my inner caveman and it is here I’ve truly abandoned all practical advice, joyously munching street corner kebabs cooked over coal, devouring romali roti-wrapped katti rolls and sipping sweet chai from filthy shot glasses.

With each visit, I further relinquish Western standards of food hygiene and rely more and more heavily on my immune system to keep me from harm. India has made me question is the premise of cleanliness, especially as it is practiced in the West. To what extent does hygiene protect us, and how much are we deluded by our rituals of food safety?

In many ways modern Bangalore is stuck between two (or more) eras. As the hyperlinked hub of India’s hyper-ambitious new role as a world player evidence of the region’s technological muscle abounds. Multinationals’ offices are strewn far and wide and sleek new cars maneuver through traffic with even sleeker passengers gabbing into high-end smart phones. At the same time, however, it’s not uncommon to see donkey carts and SUV’s stopped at the same traffic signals. Actually, I take that back–for whatever reason, those donkey carts never seem to obey traffic laws and yet they never get tickets. Go figure. In any case, Bangalore’s high end restaurants, such as Caperberry, can compete with the likes of New York and San Francisco in terms of menu, ambience, wines and price. Restaurants on the other end of the spectrum can be truly appalling.

Many of my favorite Bangalore haunts are either on the street or at least partially exposed to the road, with all of its accompanying dust and vehicle fumes. As often as not, these restaurants will have a hand-washing sink with a cold water tap (of course) and no soap. Even if it were possible to rinse my hands clean, I’m putting those germs back on when I turn off the tap. At Imperial, my favorite restaurant on Residency Road, a squeegee is all that is used to clear the table for you after the last guests have finished their meal. In the U.S., some form of antiseptic is sprayed or wiped on the table before a new customer is seated to protect us from germ–or so we would like to think. If I kept track of how often I saw Bangalore waiters pick their nose before handing me a plate of food, I would have gone crazy months ago.

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While Incredible !ndia” has a nice ring to it, “never say never,” would be a more fitting slogan for a country that never fails to catch me with a left hook. Flying metaphors aside, I was stunned this weekend, but what a great time I had in a city known for its disciplined and hard working citizenry.

It’s been nearly three months since I arrived and I still have much to see of this city. In a strange, unsettling way, Bangalore inspires simultaneous feelings of claustrophobia and extreme isolation. In Bangalore, there is no such thing as personal space. People, cows, cars and motorcycles all fight over the same scant breathing room and any flat surface may be used by one or more of the above at any time.

It is because transportation is such a headache that I have confined myself to a small but growing corner of Bangalore. While not located in central Bangalore, the village of Challaghatta is easily accessible to MG Road, UB City and a smattering of bars and restaurants. This is partly to blame for my unwillingness to explore on my own–everything I need is near at hand.

This weekend I went to two rockin’ concerts, Kailash Kher and Octoberfest, both at the Palace Grounds. While the family-friendly vibe of the Kailash Kher show was stifling at first, with some provocation from the VIP guest, the audience was on its feet and jamming the aisles to get a  better view of the tiny man with the giant voice. At Saturday’s show I also something I’ve never witnessed before, a warmup band so bad they were practically booed off the stage.

It’s no secret that Indian mass culture is highly commercialized. There’s nothing cute or subtle about the way brands here put themselves in front of potential consumers, and everything has the potential to be a marketing vehicle. Some lame band had been selected by a talent scouting agency Desi Tara, to entertain the crowd before Kher’s arrival. This made-to-be-famous quintet was fronted by a lead singer so devoid of charisma he had to plead with the audience to sing his next songs. Each time they stalled for time–Kher was stuck in traffic–the crowd grew bolder, telling the group they couldn’t bear to listen to another of their tunes. As much as I agreed, I was embarrassed to see performers treated with such disrespect, but to be honest, they were super lame. After the concert, we finished the night with a belly full of delicious kebabs and rice from some dingy joints in Frazier Town, Bangalore’s predominantly Muslim Quarter.

Sunday night was Octoberfest, perhpaps a deliberate mis-spelling, but a great reason to rock out. Kingfisher Beer, a heavy favorite to be India’s most aggressive marketer, was the main sponsor of the music festival and, I was hard pressed to find an empty inch where their logo was not plastered. (Part of the invasion of personal space has to do with the omnipresence of advertiser’s messages)

With cheap beer flowing and a pervasive carnival atmosphere, Octoberfest closely resembled Bumbershoot, Folklife and the many outdoor music events of my youth. The familiar scene was punctuated by a short eruption of fireworks at the beginning of Indian Ocean’s set. It could have been a coincidence having to do with a nearby wedding, but as the legendary Indian rock band took the stage, the electricity in the crowd, the bombs bursting in air and the mood of the night made my hair stand on end.

As if this weren’t enough, a cabal of five DJs was waiting for us in the nearby pavilion once the show ended, determined to keep the crowd writhing until the last drop of sweat escaped from my pores. As my blue wig (a very handy prop on sale for $8) bobbed up and down, I caught a glimpse of my watch; nearly 12:30am and not a cop in sight. Had we suddenly been transported to an alternate universe? I wondered as the trance music brought me closer and closer to an epileptic fit. No, somehow this was still stodgy Bangalore whipping out one of the many trump cards tucked in its sleeve.

(Kingfisher Beer, Kingfisher Force India Racing, Kingfisher Air, United Breweries and their affiliates were in no way responsible for the content of this blog post–though I’m sure they wouldn’t a little free promotion)

Every journey in Bangalore begins the same miserable way. I leave the apartment and walk down our bomb-scarred approach road to the auto stand where a pack of flea-bitten rickshaw drivers try daily to extract every last paise from my pockets. A short ride to the “sig-nill,” 2 km away on Wind Tunnel Road, costs 20 rupees and anywhere beyond this natural boundary, the price jumps to 100 rupees, an arbitrary amount they know the can get from me. The current dollar rupee to dollar exchange rate is 47 to one, so why get in a tizzy about two measly bucks? After a while in India, it’s necessary to stop thinking like an American and behave like a local.

I don’t mind paying a little extra, but I abhor the feeling of being scammed. When I get a driver who seems nice and charges the metered rate, I don’t mind throwing in a little tip, which I’m told is a big no no!

When I told my roommate how much I dislike being overcharged for rides by rickshaw drivers, he told me it was my own fault and then fault of every Western bleeding heart who comes to Bangalore. It seems there is blame aplenty. Could the fault lie with multinational corporations, whose giant campuses have caused property values to soar and kickstarted neighborhoods overnight? Is it the flood of expats and Non-resident Indians who brought their Western customs and hard currency to the local market? What about the tourists who cling to Bangalore’s scant cultural offerings for out-of-towners? Why not call it a little bit of everything. After all, this is India.

The pyschology of tipping has many layers. As an American in India, I’m happy to pay the same off meter price I consider extortion, if I get to feel it is given as a tip instead of an overcharge. The notion of a choice, however, is crucial. In the U.S., we’re expected to tip enthusiastically and often. It’s not a choice; it’s a hard and fast social convention with little or no escape. Cab drivers, barbers, waiters, mechanics, bar tenders, florists, and delivery boys are just a few of the folks who expect tips for their work, in New York, arguably America’s most expensive city. With already high sticker prices, people in service industries earn meager wages in exchange for generous tips–the adage goes–in order to survive. In Bangalore, says my other roommate, a tip of five percent is considered acceptable, depending on the nature of the service, but there is no hard and fast rule.

A gratuity or a “tip” is a word of mysterious origin, but the meaning is clear. A tip of some amount is given to the servicer on top of any standard charges as a gesture of appreciation for outstanding service and a measure of goodwill.

According to Straight Dope columnist, Cecil Adams, the practice of tipping may have Latin origins, in which case it was a “stips” or gift, but tipping as we know it today has its origin in Great Britain. Adams writes,

Tipping spread from England to colonial America, but after the revolution it was frowned upon (temporarily) as a hangover from the British class system. One only tipped one’s social inferiors, which, lest we forget, did not exist in the brave new world. Unfortunately, the working class eventually got around to swallowing its pride, and tipping returned with all the fervor it possesses today.

As an American, the very idea of being someone’s “social better” makes me as squeamish as paying. From that point of view, its easy to see how a display of largesse is not about altruism at all, but instead reinforces the class standing of the server and the served. In India, with its outlawed though well-reinforced caste system, the idea of different social classes doesn’t strike anyone as a big deal from my personal observations.

Tell me more …

Dearest Friends,

Although handwriting has never been my forté, I’m excited at the prospect of penning handwritten letters to my family and friends after a long, long interruption.

While we advance into the digital age at breakneck speed, there is something very satisfying about putting pencil to paper and downloading my thoughts free of hyperlinks, contextual ads and spell checks. Knowing also that the letter will not reach the intended recipient for days or weeks makes it even more special.

India is perhaps the ideal place to rekindle a love of writing. The Indian postal service is the world’s largest, according to IndiaOnline.In, with a network of over 155,000 post offices nationwide. In the U.S. that number is just 32,000 and that number is expected to drop due to the postal service’s negative $2 billion annual operating income. The USPS has said it will cut the number of weekly delivery days to five in order to save money. While I am uncertain of the efficiency of the Indian Postal Servive vis a vis the USPS,  the Indian post gets points for its awe-inspiring magnitude alone.

At home in the U.S., people argue vociferously over whether print is a dying medium, but here, the written word is very much alive. Along with tremendous economic growth is a corresponding rise in literacy levels. According to the Economist, newspaper circulation is booming in places like India, where circulation of daily papers increased 33 percent between 2001 and 2005. While digital media is an important means of transmitting information here, people still like to get ink stains along with their news and coffee.

This afternoon I went to a stationary store to pick up some great paper and envelopes and it was a real feast for the senses. In addition to all the great pens, art supplies and journals, two whole displays were reserved for correspondence. Some of the paper I found downright tacky, but there were plenty of items that made me tingle with delight at the thought of someone opening my letter on such distinct stationary.

Beyond simple paper, I saw for the first time letter scrolls harkening back to a courtly age of chivalry and intrigue. The scrolls themselves are made of embroidered cloth, wrapped around a small dowel and tied with a ribbon. Inside the scroll is a small, silk envelope where I could place a neatly-folded letter or a few thousand rupees as a gift to someone. If this letter writing thing really takes off, I’m definitely going to send a few notes to people this way.

So far, I’ve only written to my grandparents, but I have already addressed and stamped a pile of envelopes destined for England, Japan and across the U.S. It’s very late now–almost 3:30 am, but I’m still buzzing with excitement. Not only do I find new joy in something old, but it’s one more way to unplug.

As I said before, my handwriting veers from atrocious to plain unfocused, but maybe in time, I will be at a point where I again enjoy looking at my frenetic script. So friends, if you want to receive a letter from me, anywhere in the world, leave a note in the comments or send me an email with your mailing address. Good night for now and keep an eye on your post box!

My hearty thanks and praise are due to satellite television, which, since I arrived in Bangalore, have made me into a born again sports fan. I haven’t been much of a TV watcher over the past several years–except to pass time when eating a meal, however, I now follow Formula 1 racing, cricket and English Premier League Football with a passion. While I have loved soccer (football), since early in my childhood, our TATA Sky setup at home allows me to watch five or more of the weeks best games on an awesome surround sound system.

Beyond the technology, I think there are many aspects that contribute to my newfound zeal for sports. It was my younger brother, Ejike, who first told me that sports are the ultimate human drama. To a large extent, he is right, though there is something about the hype, salaries and intrigue of professional athletics that makes it a drama that is almost impossible to tune out. Even a cricket test match only lasts for five days, but the pageantry spans entire generations.

There is also the sense of community that comes from watching the same game or race as people all across the globe. The isolation of living in Bangalore is unlike that I have ever experienced. If I lived in Los Angeles or Atlanta, my life might be similar. Here I spend significant portions of a typical day being chaufeurred to and from meetings, though contact with outsiders is limited to purchases or the occasional roadside beggar. However, with sports, I have an instant point of contact with friends back home and my social media community that spans South America, The U.S., Europe and Southeast Asia. A simple status update about the match I’m watching on ESPN can be enough to trigger a flurry of responses. It’s both a gratifying and unifying feeling.

Additionally, there is the thrill of learning something new. When it comes to Formula 1, or international cricket, I know almost nothing. Learning the backstory on Dhoni, or how and why a race track is set up expands my knowledge and gives me more reasons to look forward to the weekend.

While I wouldn’t expect to come to India to experience life through a television screen, it has been an ideal way to learn more about local tastes and also stay wired in. That said, one of my professors at the journalism school said the only real reporting is sports reporting. While so much in the media is staged, it’s nice to see that the eternal human struggle is played out fresh each and every day on the field of play.

While the Western world slept, India’s next generation of tech entrepreneurs was meeting to discuss the future of cleantech at Startup Saturday, a monthly event. On the verdant campus of the Indian Institute of Management, Bangalore campus, nearly 80 people gathered to talked about the challenges and opportunities of meeting India’s future energy needs through innovation, reducing consumption and even converting human motion and waste into electricity. Bangalore has been one of the world’s startup hotspots for much of the past decade, so it’s not as though the West was unaware of the meeting.  Any meeting at 11 am Bangalore time is the middle of America’s sleeping hours.

Although we got to the event late, I still got to see a couple very interesting presentations. Karthee Madasamy of Qualcomm Ventures (whose list of succesful exits includes PayPal) spoke about cleantech companies in which his firm invests, both in the U.S. and Asia. One of the most shocking revelations of Madasamy’s talk was the opportunities available entrepreneurs who can reduce the power consumption of India’s mobile phone towers. Madasamy said that after the Indian Armed Forces and national rail system, celular phone towers are the number three consumers of diesel fuel in the entire country. Only 10 percent of towers are “off-grid.” Tell me more …

Last night, my neighbor’s snores were loud enough to wake the dead. I almost to put on the ceiling fan to drown out the noise,  but as the morning sun warms the wet clay, the near silence of night has given way to din of the day’s activities. Washing, cooking and the feeding babies all contribute to the sonic landscape. My Bangalore is the sound of water sloshing from buckets onto concrete floors, the sweet smell of wet clay and burnt petrol fumes, fried onions and spices.  With the sun overhead, Bangalore is alive,  bodies are everywhere, as are cars and cows, restaurants and shrines.

Having lived here before, albeit briefly, I feel I know what to expect out of this city–crippling traffic, frenetic energy and a friendly, welcoming atmosphere. This time will be different, as I am here to stay. As such, I’m looking at the city with a different set of eyes, though they are cast upon a familiar scene. I’m living in the ultimate Bangalore bachelor pad with Anu, a venture capitalist and Ram, one of my business partners at Ixoraa Media. Our complex has all the amenities, including a swimming pool, tennis courts and a game room with ping pong tables, and billiards.

Just down the road from our apartment are gleaming glass complexes for Microsoft, IBM and Fidelity Investments (though very corporate, the structures would win architecture awards if they were in Sao Paulo). Just across a narrow dirt road is the old Bangalore City Airport (HAL). While I slept off the jet lag and exhaustion of 35 travel hours, two fighter jets used the nearby runway, creating an incredible roar. Already this morning there have been three. Tell me more …

In case I haven’t mentioned it, I’m relocating to Bangalore, India to take a full-time job with a media startup. Moving to India means uprooting my life and literally restarting halfway across the planet. Such is the life of a TechTrotter.

Although I spent much of the summer months in Brazil it’s nice to know that India was never as far away as it seemed. In particular, a soap opera on the Brazil’s most watched network, Globo, helped to create a common link between the two continents. While I wait for my connecting flight to Mumbai in the Brussels International Airport, allow me to tell you about one of my favorite Brazilian TV shows, Caminho das Indias. (The following contains excerpts from a post original intended for publication on SAJA Forum.)

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India’s impact on the world is felt in myriad ways, but the form it takes can often come as a bit of a surprise. Members of the Indian diaspora are found throughout Africa, Oceania and the Caribbean, but there is one place few would expect; Brazil.

One of Brazil’s most popular television shows is soap opera is called ‘Caminho das Indias‘ or, ‘Way of the Indies.’ The show airs nightly after the 8PM news broadcast on Globo, the largest television network in Brazil. The show has three inter-linked plots that unfold simultaneously in Mumbai, Rio de Janeiro and Dubai and the cast features more than a dozen Portuguese-speaking, Brazilian-born Desis.

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