jah hin!

I am a bit of a luxury whore. Show me a cardigan in supple cashmere or perfectly treated angora and I’ll shell out way too much money to wear it once or twice a year. I collect Feragamo shoes and spread truffle pate like it was peanut butter. It comes as a great surprise to me, then, that I absolutely detest living in a house full of servants.
I’ve just now begin to realize how much money my family had in India. The Mumbai house that my dad was born in is now owned by the forth richest family in the world; Ravi Shankar used to play for my grandmother’s dinner parties; our family vacationed on the island palace in Octopussy as a guest of the Maharajah. Awesome, but always so removed, like some sort of Atlantis filled with chicken tika masala and elephants. It’s hard to realize that my dad grew up with a staff of 30 while watching him pull down the king sized toilet paper package from Costco.
So visiting my Uncle Sureesh (now head of the Indian military…yeah) has been a bit of a trip. I loved getting picked up by military guards as I stepped off of my airplane and not having to wait in line for customs only to be taken out the side door to where a lieutenant was waiting with a military car to drive me to my uncle’s house. I like getting my room cleaned twice a day and not having to do dishes. It was even kind of fun to be waited on during meals. Say a word and it shows up on your plate within thirty seconds.
What I don’t like is how pathetic these grown men in their navy sweaters and nametags look as they cower while my thirty-two year old, snoopy sweater-clad cousin shouts at them because the table butter is frozen. I don’t like ringing for the box of cookies on the other end of the table instead of getting off of my fat ass and picking up the box myself. I don’t like these twenty and thirty somethings look like they aren’t sure whether words or fire will come out when I open my mouth to ask for a bottle of water.