Capital Gain

A What happens when a British writer, journalist and mother of four moves to Delhi? Three years on, BEE ROWLATT analyses the tricks and treats of living in a land of occasional dirt and no laundry

As a British person living in New Delhi, it’s always the same old questions when I go back to the UK. “Is it dirty?” “How many staff do you have?” and “Won’t your daughters get raped?” to which the respective responses are “Sometimes”, “As many as possible” and “What?” But I resist the urge to explain the place. Let’s face it, there’s no shortage of white people giving their take on India.

The best thing about being a foreigner is the learning. If you’re doing it right, this should be happening the whole time. Can there be a finer luxury than a stream of questions, novelties and challenges to refresh the mind? Better to admit that I shared the same preconceptions when we arrived, but after three years on a slippery learning curve I’m now in a persistent state of wonderment and uncertainty.

And I love it.

ELEPHANT IN THE ROOM

When the BBC offered my husband a new role as the South Asia correspondent, I’d never set foot here. Neither had our kids, then aged 4, 8, 12 and 13. None of us were sure what to expect. In negotiating with the children, we allowed for the hope that it would somehow involve elephants. That worked on the smaller kids. For the older ones, it was the prospect of a school that dished out Apple technology. And what did it for me? Simple. Every working mother’s fantasy: no more laundry, ever.