Growing up, my family and I would “vacation” in India. I don’t think my senses will ever forget the sites, the sounds or the smells. We would stay at my grandmother’s house — a house that was built in the 1930s and had an open space architecture, which meant I could walk out of my room and see the smoggy, polluted skies of Bangalore.
It was glorious. Not really, of course; sitting in my grandmother’s room watching Oprah on her small black and white TV, mosquitoes would feast on me. Aside from the mosquitoes, it was nice to have a piece of “home” in that odd and foreign country, but those feelings were fleeting because, with no warning, the power would go off. Keep in mind, this happened a few times a day. The entire street — and even streets — would lose electricity throughout the day. It wasn’t too bad in the daytime, but at night, for a child like me, it could be frightening. After the candles were lit and the darkness became only dimness, we would sit