1 bedroom, oven, sea view

Now that I have signed away several thousand dollars, the next 8 months of my life, and my first born son, I am officially the renter of a new apartment. My purple left thumb is proof; my fingerprint was required upon the signing of the lease.

On Saturday, after searching for a new place for 6 weeks, I signed a lease for a little "bachelorette" pad in Bandra, north of Bombay. It is one of the few apartments I've seen here that has an oven, a real oven, in which you can bake things. Most places just have a few gas burners that sit on top of the counter. The oven caught my eye, and although you can't find all-purpose flour here, I somehow envisioned myself baking chocolate chip cookies and watching Sex and the City with girlfriends and was sold. The sea view came in a close second, and I am looking forward to watching the ocean rush each morning, after a night of eating baked goods.

The search has been quite an epic process, partly because I am a single woman, which is frowned upon by many housing societies here (egads, she might be a swinger!), and mostly because I own a dog.

"What kind of dog is it?" my broker asked. "Alsatian, Labrador, Golden Retriever?" he wondered, hopefully. We are now judging dogs, apparently.

She's an Indian dog, I said proudly. The broker was deflated. This would not help my case.

I'm a foreigner, which scores high points with landlords, because they think we're "cleaner" (not my words...his). But Uma, the pup, made it so that I did not have the pick of the litter when it came to housing.

Many apartment buildings and sections of neighborhoods are run by housing societies here. Often, the societies are organized around religion or caste, and some are stricter than others about who and what they allow. My current society could care less about most things. Everyone keeps to themselves, and although my neighbors think I'm a swinger because I'm single (for the record, I don't even know what a swinger is, but in Indian parlance, it is not a good thing), they don't bother me.

The first place I found was in a Muslim housing society, and although they were willing to take me, they were not willing to house my dog. The second moderately suitable place I found was in a Roman Catholic society. "So, they don't mind that I have a dog?" I asked the building manager. "No, no. This is a Roman Catholic society, so as long as you are Roman Catholic, you can bring a dog." I didn't have the heart to tell him that not only am I not Roman Catholic, I am not Catholic, and if put to the test, wouldn't pass as a baptized Christian.

The last place, before I signed my lease, was in a Muslim slum, and they were happy to have me, and my dog, if I would walk down a dark alley filled with rats and questionable loafers (the male kind, not the shoes). I thought I could make do, but, alas, my friend who screened the place for me did not think it was a good choice.

So, a place by the sea, with an oven, who will accept my Indian dog (as long as she does not bite the furniture) is where you can find me.

No Dogs, No Maids

India and her Indians can claim that this is a modern democracy, and that caste no longer matters, but underneath the surface, it is still a backwards, mean place in quiet ways.

A woman is already in the elevator, has pushed the button for her floor, and just before the door closes, a young woman of 16 or 17 joins her. They are both Indian, both female. The building security guard, hardly much older than the girl, has seen her get in the elevator and he follows and stops the sliding door from closing. The older woman, the one who got in the elevator first, is telling the girl to get out, and the security guard seconds this decision.

The girl is told to take the elevator opposite. It has an open-and-shut gate that makes a racket when you close it, and that you can catch your fingers in if you're not careful. It is the elevator that maids and dogs can ride in. The other elevator, the nicer, shinier, quieter one, is for "For members and guests ONLY," as a small sign above the door indicates.



What is this? New Orleans in the 60s? The girl, a maid, lives with a family on the 8th floor. The woman is just a snit who lives in this building and thinks that she is better than the people who serve her breakfast and take care of her children. This is simple caste-basted segregation.

Indians deny that the caste system persists, and yet, can't even condescend to ride in the same elevator or call their their maid by her first name; she is instead often called what she is, bai , Hindi for maid. And the security guard, likely of similar stature and class as the maid, reinforces the rule, just doing what he's been told. They, the "master" and the guard, are separately, and quite desperately, holding on to their place in society through small, pointed, dirty ways.