One surreal thing about living in India is that no matter who you were back home... here, you are instantly a memsahib.
Whether your permanent home is a boring American suburb, an English council flat, a barrio in Harlem, or a trailer home... here, you are royalty. Even a New York cabbie would be enviously eyed as rich beyond dreams, such is the poverty of income and opportunity in modern India.
I've arrived, having slogged my guts out alone with a newborn in a pebble-dash two-up-two-down in east London... to a flat in one of Delhi's poshest neighborhoods... with 24-hour childcare that is affordable... a part-time cleaner who comes - bowing and scraping - everday.... a corner store that will deliver a single aspirin... and a lady who survives by charging 2 rupees -- $.04 -- for each perfectly ironed garment.
No wonder my 2-year-old son is so happy here! His Mama is never over-worked or cranky (well not as a result of housework, anyway).
Yet clearly, I'm not memsahib enough for some.
