A Time for India: 2nd Edition

By Dan Ellens and Lakshmi Srinivas

Ellens tells a story of living with one foot in the 19th century and the other in the 21st century. It is a story of a family's introduction and adaptation to a world so different from their life in Michigan that every day seemed like a new adventure. The book, like a travelogue, describes what every visitor to India is sure to see, perhaps with wide eyes and unbridled curiosity, and often take the reader to spots off the beaten trail. But it goes deeper than that, bringing to life the expatriate experienced as a family with four school-age children who spends two years becoming part of a culture different from their own, and discovers the ways in which this experience enriches their lives.

Interspersed with this travelogue by Dan Ellens, are sections about the history of the country and its rich cultural underpinnings, written by Lakshmi Srinivas, who was born and raised in India. The 2nd edition provides a timeless addition to the book with a story of change. Since 1998, Ellens has returned to India more than 80 times, watching, with an outsider's view, the country transforms in ways that seemed impossible not so long ago. The 2nd edition tells the rest of the story.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Mar 14, 2023
• ISBN: 9781667891750

Book preview

1

Meeting Ravi

The area we know as India is nearly half as large as the United States. Its population is three times greater than ours. Its import and export trade - as yet but a germ of the possible - amounted, in the year 1924-25 to about two and a half billion dollars. And Bombay is but three weeks’ journey from New York.

—Katherine Mayo, 1927,

from Mother India

It was a hot day early in July when we arrived in Bangalore after nearly two days of air travel, waiting lounges, and great anticipation. The damp, musty smell of Indian air greeted us as we walked down the metal steps from the plane onto the tarmac, following a trail of other passengers across the handmade pavement and through the unmarked arrival door of the terminal. A stream of working ladies navigated a piece of rough timber with baskets of dirt on their heads as they climbed out of a deep pit in the ground. In the pit, men worked with hooked shovels digging and filling the baskets in an endless chain of activities that would in time result in a footing for the new terminal that was under construction.

This was the day that we met M. G. Pramod—or Pammi, as we came affectionately to know him. From across the arrivals hall, Pammi’s jovial smile connected with our expressions of relief, and a long relationship began with the man who would take us by the hand and eliminate every barrier we could not conquer on our own during our stay in this foreign land.

Even before our arrival, Pammi had considered many hotel options in the city, and in an effort to ensure that we were well looked after, had made arrangements at one of Bangalore’s oldest and finest—the Windsor Manor. The hotel had one of the few three-room suites available in the region. It was a setting that could comfortably accommodate two adults and four children.

Pammi had also arranged for a car and driver to be temporarily available to us until we could acquire our own vehicle. The car had a license plate attached to the rear bumper displaying in bold characters the number 3777. Pammi explained that the car should be asked for at the hotel, restaurants, or other places by using this number. Before dismissing the driver on the first afternoon, I asked him to be sure to return the following morning. We intended to start the children in their new school immediately and had a schedule to keep. I asked for his name.

Ravi, sir, he answered.

When we walked into the hotel, a manager with a neatly-pressed dark suit and flawless manners introduced himself. It was his intention to extend every hospitality during our stay. Handing me his calling card, he volunteered to sort out any problems we encountered. We stepped into the elevator. I pulled the card from my shirt pocket. His name was also Ravi.

Early the next morning we returned to the lobby to find the welcoming smile and outstretched hand of manager Ravi. He called for car 3777. A vaguely familiar white Contessa soon appeared under the entry canopy. We recognized the car, but something didn’t seem quite the same about the driver. Using Kannada, the local language of the Bangalore region, the concierge gave the driver instructions to deliver us to the children’s school in Yelahanka.

As we traveled along roads we had never seen before to a location we knew little about, we sensed something strange about the driver. He was the same size as the driver we expected. He looked nearly the same. His English was about the same. Yet there was a subtle difference not easy to identify. The route continued to wind through narrow back roads of Bangalore, and his eyes were visible in the mirror. After nearly 15 kilometers Cathy and I were both convinced that the person behind the wheel was not our original driver. Leaning over the seat, Cathy asked for his name.

Ravi, madam, he replied.

Interesting. Maybe we were mistaken.

Entering the office that morning, Pammi was waiting for me. He had some initial formalities that needed to be addressed. First, we needed to run copies of our passports and visas in order to apply for residency in India. Pammi called the office boy.

Pammi explained, This man will take your passports and do the needful. His name is Ravi.

I hid my surprise. Pammi proceeded to introduce the people in the office. He began with the senior man in purchasing.

This is the man who will look after getting your belongings cleared through customs. His name is Ravi.

I questioned my sanity. The next person was Soni, a woman who had been assigned as my secretary. Soni was a name that seemed easy to remember, until Suma the woman at the reception desk was introduced. Soni and Suma—keeping this straight would be a challenge. I asked Soni to contact an individual at the accounting firm who was to help with setting up a bank account and reached into my briefcase to find the written instructions given to me in Michigan several weeks earlier. The contact for the accounting firm was