Sunday, November 8, 2009
Monday, November 2, 2009
The Brokers Who Broke Us: Part 1
Brokers here call us the “American Nightmare”. Thank god we have Wendy to help us find an apartment when we get back to NYC. What started with the slick-haired sunglassed tight-lipped smooth cellphone talking Rosario, a.k.a. Rosie, and his inverted 2 bedroom duplex (the bedrooms were buried in a windowless basement), has now turned into a full-fledged fiasco involving at least 23 brokers and counting. We have not yet found an apartment, and no broker in Bangalore will take our calls. Yet our search continues, and somewhere hidden below all of our pessimism, both Simone and I know that our apartment hunt will finally come to fruition when we uncover the true identity of the mysterious Ravi.
We’ve heard murmurs about this Ravi from other brokers. We’ve read his eloquent postings, his too good to be true postings, on the web: “Amazing terrace area with beautiful lawn and chilled sexy lights with 1000 sq feet area.” But, Ravi, the man, eludes us. He never once has taken our calls, and until a fortuitous little accident opened our eyes, we never could have imagined the extent of the conspiracy he was masterminding, a conspiracy so extensive that it included a network of at least 15 individual brokers, and a conspiracy so bold, that it demanded nothing short of our financial and physical destruction.
But let us not jump ahead.
Two hours after Rosario dropped us off at the Bangalore Club, Uday, as Simone calls him, or Kumar, as I call him, scooped us up. We barely had time for a lime juice, when Kumar rolled by with his driver, and invited us into his car. Turning over his shoulder from the front seat, he gets right down to business, “What do you want?” he asks. Simone says she’ll have a muffin; I stop her before she gets ahead of herself. “Security is what we are looking for, only the safest apartment complexes will do.” Kumar agrees, “Security is very important in this town, and I know exactly where to take you.”
He takes us to the Sea-Breeze Apartment Complex; but the only trace of ocean water is the stench of fresh leaking sewage. A cow meanders by, and starts feasting on the pile of shit that decorates the front lawn. A lone security guard rests out front in a beach-chair. He is absolutely, 100%, blind. His walking stick rests on the ground nearby. Kumar motions us to sneak by him, a finger across his lips, so we could see the apartment without “security” hassling us. Simone says something along the lines of “…at least this country has equal opportunity employment,” and the security guard perks up and lets out a “Who goes there?” before quickly resigning his efforts to the wind.
We couldn’t bring ourselves to fire Kumar over the physical disability of another for fear of being labeled an enemy of the blind, so we decided to see another apartment with him. This is when things started to fall into place. Never mind the details of the apartment, it was a dumpster in the overwhelming apartment complex known as Diamond District, a collection of about 1000 decaying cardboard boxes. Nothing like the diamond district Zeida used to deal in. During our tour, though, Simone overheard a little conversation between Kumar and his “colleague”, the renter’s representative, whom we shall call, due to lack of knowledge, “Pinker.” The conversation took place in the local language of Kanada, a language that is unique to Karnataka, the State within which Bangalore is located, but Simone was still able to understand enough to alert us that something fishy was going on. As we huddled in the corner of the shower of the vacant apartment, Simone whispered into my ear, “Pinker asked Kumar what our budget was. Kumar, responded that our budget was Rs. 25,000. Pinker said he will report this to Ravi.”
We obviously could not hope to guess who Ravi was at this time; we assumed he was the owner of the flat. But more pressingly, we were enraged that our broker was selling us out to the opposition party. We decided to put our theory to the test. We ask Pinker what the rental price of the apartment is, and without missing a beat, he responds Rs. 25,000. Confirmed. Kumar is either an asshole, or part of a grand conspiracy to rob us.
At this point we knew we had to find another broker. So we call Anoop, a broker that one of the Israelis recommended we use. We tell him our story and how our last idiot broker took us to an apartment complex with a blind security guard. Anoop tells us he works with Kumar and doesn’t appreciate us going behind Kumar’s back like that. As he hangs up on us, we wonder how many of the brokers in this town work together. How many of them know our budget is Rs. 25,000? Will any of them show us apartments below that price, and will any negotiate on our behalf?
We call Ram. Ram is pushing an unfurnished 3 bedroom in an apartment complex aptly named Stardust Splendor. We tell him to meet us on the northbound side of the Old Airport Road at 7:15 pm sharp. We wait patiently across the street, cigar and scotch in hand, to scope out our target. A small grayish car comes to slow halt. The car lights are flashed, not once, but twice. This is our man. We cross the street and enter his car from the rear. To our surprise, the entire interior of the car is coated in plastic sheeting. We expect him to pull out a Magnum at any moment, and blow out our brains in the backseat. Our guts wouldn’t even stain. Simone looks worried. I could tell she is convinced that this strange man is about to kill us. I motion to her to sit behind the passenger seat, as I squeeze in behind Ram. I slowly unfasten my belt buckle as he introduces himself, and fashion it into a noose. I watch as Simone removes a long spiky heel. Any sudden movements by our driver, and this would end badly for all of us.
Turns out, Ram was not going to kill us after all. He’s just an obsessive compulsive neat-freak, and lining his car with plastic sheeting is his idea of good planning. He wears a uniform every day, meticulously washes his hands after touching doorknobs, and claims to be an active homemaker. We apologized to him for disrobing in the back seat of his car, and ensured him that nothing inappropriate occurred that would necessitate changing the sheets. He didn’t believe us, and unfortunately, we lost the apartment over that debacle.
Next we call Mansoor. We really think it is great that Mansoor has a job, and gets out of the house, and ties his shoes all by himself. I’m sure he works really hard, and we appreciate his efforts. But Mansoor will not be the one to find our apartment. His (lack of) intelligence precludes him from participating with the rest of society in any meaningful way, but also, from taking part in any complex conspiracy. Or so we thought…
to be continued.
We’ve heard murmurs about this Ravi from other brokers. We’ve read his eloquent postings, his too good to be true postings, on the web: “Amazing terrace area with beautiful lawn and chilled sexy lights with 1000 sq feet area.” But, Ravi, the man, eludes us. He never once has taken our calls, and until a fortuitous little accident opened our eyes, we never could have imagined the extent of the conspiracy he was masterminding, a conspiracy so extensive that it included a network of at least 15 individual brokers, and a conspiracy so bold, that it demanded nothing short of our financial and physical destruction.
But let us not jump ahead.
Two hours after Rosario dropped us off at the Bangalore Club, Uday, as Simone calls him, or Kumar, as I call him, scooped us up. We barely had time for a lime juice, when Kumar rolled by with his driver, and invited us into his car. Turning over his shoulder from the front seat, he gets right down to business, “What do you want?” he asks. Simone says she’ll have a muffin; I stop her before she gets ahead of herself. “Security is what we are looking for, only the safest apartment complexes will do.” Kumar agrees, “Security is very important in this town, and I know exactly where to take you.”
He takes us to the Sea-Breeze Apartment Complex; but the only trace of ocean water is the stench of fresh leaking sewage. A cow meanders by, and starts feasting on the pile of shit that decorates the front lawn. A lone security guard rests out front in a beach-chair. He is absolutely, 100%, blind. His walking stick rests on the ground nearby. Kumar motions us to sneak by him, a finger across his lips, so we could see the apartment without “security” hassling us. Simone says something along the lines of “…at least this country has equal opportunity employment,” and the security guard perks up and lets out a “Who goes there?” before quickly resigning his efforts to the wind.
We couldn’t bring ourselves to fire Kumar over the physical disability of another for fear of being labeled an enemy of the blind, so we decided to see another apartment with him. This is when things started to fall into place. Never mind the details of the apartment, it was a dumpster in the overwhelming apartment complex known as Diamond District, a collection of about 1000 decaying cardboard boxes. Nothing like the diamond district Zeida used to deal in. During our tour, though, Simone overheard a little conversation between Kumar and his “colleague”, the renter’s representative, whom we shall call, due to lack of knowledge, “Pinker.” The conversation took place in the local language of Kanada, a language that is unique to Karnataka, the State within which Bangalore is located, but Simone was still able to understand enough to alert us that something fishy was going on. As we huddled in the corner of the shower of the vacant apartment, Simone whispered into my ear, “Pinker asked Kumar what our budget was. Kumar, responded that our budget was Rs. 25,000. Pinker said he will report this to Ravi.”
We obviously could not hope to guess who Ravi was at this time; we assumed he was the owner of the flat. But more pressingly, we were enraged that our broker was selling us out to the opposition party. We decided to put our theory to the test. We ask Pinker what the rental price of the apartment is, and without missing a beat, he responds Rs. 25,000. Confirmed. Kumar is either an asshole, or part of a grand conspiracy to rob us.
At this point we knew we had to find another broker. So we call Anoop, a broker that one of the Israelis recommended we use. We tell him our story and how our last idiot broker took us to an apartment complex with a blind security guard. Anoop tells us he works with Kumar and doesn’t appreciate us going behind Kumar’s back like that. As he hangs up on us, we wonder how many of the brokers in this town work together. How many of them know our budget is Rs. 25,000? Will any of them show us apartments below that price, and will any negotiate on our behalf?
We call Ram. Ram is pushing an unfurnished 3 bedroom in an apartment complex aptly named Stardust Splendor. We tell him to meet us on the northbound side of the Old Airport Road at 7:15 pm sharp. We wait patiently across the street, cigar and scotch in hand, to scope out our target. A small grayish car comes to slow halt. The car lights are flashed, not once, but twice. This is our man. We cross the street and enter his car from the rear. To our surprise, the entire interior of the car is coated in plastic sheeting. We expect him to pull out a Magnum at any moment, and blow out our brains in the backseat. Our guts wouldn’t even stain. Simone looks worried. I could tell she is convinced that this strange man is about to kill us. I motion to her to sit behind the passenger seat, as I squeeze in behind Ram. I slowly unfasten my belt buckle as he introduces himself, and fashion it into a noose. I watch as Simone removes a long spiky heel. Any sudden movements by our driver, and this would end badly for all of us.
Turns out, Ram was not going to kill us after all. He’s just an obsessive compulsive neat-freak, and lining his car with plastic sheeting is his idea of good planning. He wears a uniform every day, meticulously washes his hands after touching doorknobs, and claims to be an active homemaker. We apologized to him for disrobing in the back seat of his car, and ensured him that nothing inappropriate occurred that would necessitate changing the sheets. He didn’t believe us, and unfortunately, we lost the apartment over that debacle.
Next we call Mansoor. We really think it is great that Mansoor has a job, and gets out of the house, and ties his shoes all by himself. I’m sure he works really hard, and we appreciate his efforts. But Mansoor will not be the one to find our apartment. His (lack of) intelligence precludes him from participating with the rest of society in any meaningful way, but also, from taking part in any complex conspiracy. Or so we thought…
to be continued.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Dinner Suits at Breakfast
The Bangalore Club is heavily fortified with a sky-blue wall and is protected by colonial guards dressed as clowns. It was designed so that British soldiers would never have to experience the filth of the outside world. The club is replete with a swimming pool, badminton courts, tennis courts with ball boys, a billiards room, a rummy room, a library, a gentleman’s only saloon, as well as a “mixed” bar for when the lady needs a shpritzer, multiple dining options, a beauty parlor, a grocery, a stuffed leopard in the breakfast room, and most important of all, a bridge room. The bridge room is where Simone and I spent most of our time. It’s also where we made life long friends… well, with the average age creeping past 95, “life long” is not much to speak of. Bangalore Club bridge champion Shri Das Kapoor was recently hospitalized when his partner failed to respond to an opening bid of 1 Club.
Lurking in the back of the bridge room was a nameless wonder. Nameless, because he served the drinks to the room, and as I write this, Simone and I must admit the horrifying truth that we never bothered to learn his name. Or maybe he told us, and we didn’t fully understand his words. Or maybe his name was Ramesh, but despite that glaring question mark, he brought us delicious teas and soda. He was a gentle soul, a real mensch, and would always greet us with big smiles. He was also a bridge master. One night, at 3 in the morning, Simone sleepwalked to the bridge room chanting “We should have made slam!” I followed her there to find our nameless friend sitting there in the dark, dealing out a full hand, and practicing bidding scenarios all by his lonesome. He wouldn’t have dared invite us to sit down with him, and besides, we didn’t want to intrude on his meditation. But that night, as we glanced across the dark card room, the nameless wonder became our friend, and he would later reward with a custom “Bangalore Club Bridge Scoring Card” for accepting him as one of our own.
Bridge was for the evenings, but the mornings were dominated by Captain Prakash, and his world renowned breakfast. Captain Prakash controls the dining hall, and the only thing he is lacking in is mineral water, which he dutifully runs to the supermarket to buy for us. Every morning, provided we were appropriately dressed in our formal breakfast attire (button down shirt, slacks, and shoes) he would send his minions to make us sweet lime juice. With a twinkle in his eye, the Captain would remark, “India has the sweetest limes. No other country in the world has such lime.” Sweet lime juice is a staple in Bangalore, and yes, Captain Prakash is right, no other country can boast of such sweet limes. But that is only because we call them oranges.
At a place like the Bangalore Club, the head waiter and other semi-important staff members become Captains or Generals. Captain Prakash was something of a celebrity, except that he carried an autograph book for his patrons to sign, not the other way around. Every morning he would survey the landscape of the mess hall, and bring around his trusty autograph book for patrons to comment on his superior service. The one time the Captain dared speak to, or even look at, a woman, was to obtain her autograph in the sacred text. A typical autograph read like this, “We thank General Prakash for his truly outstanding service, just marvelous service. We couldn’t imagine eating breakfast with any other staff. He manages to transform a mundane Wednesday morning breakfast into a ravishing tea party the Queen herself would be proud to attend. And please, in the future, have a bigger selection of fruit. Sincerely, X”
Food plays a central role at the Bangalore Club, just as it does at any other Miami Beach retirement community or Pesach program. It was at the Bangalore Club that we discovered our love for naan, which is the Indian equivalent of a fresh baked laffa. Indians do not understand the concept of ordering naan without a curry to dip it into, so if you do plan on ordering naan in the future, consider a curry, or make it very clear that you would never spoil the innocent yet bold flavors of the naan dough by dunking it in that over-spiced sewage.
Lurking in the back of the bridge room was a nameless wonder. Nameless, because he served the drinks to the room, and as I write this, Simone and I must admit the horrifying truth that we never bothered to learn his name. Or maybe he told us, and we didn’t fully understand his words. Or maybe his name was Ramesh, but despite that glaring question mark, he brought us delicious teas and soda. He was a gentle soul, a real mensch, and would always greet us with big smiles. He was also a bridge master. One night, at 3 in the morning, Simone sleepwalked to the bridge room chanting “We should have made slam!” I followed her there to find our nameless friend sitting there in the dark, dealing out a full hand, and practicing bidding scenarios all by his lonesome. He wouldn’t have dared invite us to sit down with him, and besides, we didn’t want to intrude on his meditation. But that night, as we glanced across the dark card room, the nameless wonder became our friend, and he would later reward with a custom “Bangalore Club Bridge Scoring Card” for accepting him as one of our own.
Bridge was for the evenings, but the mornings were dominated by Captain Prakash, and his world renowned breakfast. Captain Prakash controls the dining hall, and the only thing he is lacking in is mineral water, which he dutifully runs to the supermarket to buy for us. Every morning, provided we were appropriately dressed in our formal breakfast attire (button down shirt, slacks, and shoes) he would send his minions to make us sweet lime juice. With a twinkle in his eye, the Captain would remark, “India has the sweetest limes. No other country in the world has such lime.” Sweet lime juice is a staple in Bangalore, and yes, Captain Prakash is right, no other country can boast of such sweet limes. But that is only because we call them oranges.
At a place like the Bangalore Club, the head waiter and other semi-important staff members become Captains or Generals. Captain Prakash was something of a celebrity, except that he carried an autograph book for his patrons to sign, not the other way around. Every morning he would survey the landscape of the mess hall, and bring around his trusty autograph book for patrons to comment on his superior service. The one time the Captain dared speak to, or even look at, a woman, was to obtain her autograph in the sacred text. A typical autograph read like this, “We thank General Prakash for his truly outstanding service, just marvelous service. We couldn’t imagine eating breakfast with any other staff. He manages to transform a mundane Wednesday morning breakfast into a ravishing tea party the Queen herself would be proud to attend. And please, in the future, have a bigger selection of fruit. Sincerely, X”
Food plays a central role at the Bangalore Club, just as it does at any other Miami Beach retirement community or Pesach program. It was at the Bangalore Club that we discovered our love for naan, which is the Indian equivalent of a fresh baked laffa. Indians do not understand the concept of ordering naan without a curry to dip it into, so if you do plan on ordering naan in the future, consider a curry, or make it very clear that you would never spoil the innocent yet bold flavors of the naan dough by dunking it in that over-spiced sewage.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
The Great Escape
We escaped under the cover of pollution-obscured moonlight. Breaking out of Yelahanka was risky. If the guards had known about our plan, who knows what would have become of our fate. But there was no choice. It was only a matter of time before the intense claustrophobia and the tireless boredom of rummy would have crippled us, emotionally and physically. My wrists had already felt the wear of dealing. Our escape route was set. A getaway car, headlights off, crept onto the dirt path in front of our prison, and we bolted… or rather unbolted the 8 locks, moved the couch and TV stand that were piled up behind the front door to keep it shut, and armed ourselves with Simone’s secret all powerful weapon.
This weapon, which to the untrained eye looks like a TV Remote Control, and is just as easily misplaced, is known to those of us in the industry as “The Dog Clicker”. The mythology has it, that in the early stages of the universe, when Lord Brahma created the primordial canine, he also fashioned a magical charm that would be able to defeat even the most ferocious of wild dogs, by singing them a beautiful lullaby… well not exactly a lullaby, but a high pitch scream, so loud and so high pitch that the gods and ordinary ears of human beings would not hear its shrieks. Only the canine would appreciate this deafening sound, and would, upon hearing it, vanish into thin air. Countless explorers and Greenbaums have searched out its services, but Lord Brahma, knowing better, hid this magical weapon under Mount Kailasa, in the Himalayas, where it has rested for many thousands of years. Unfortunately, Duracell Batteries don’t last that long, and “The Dog Clicker” takes a nine volt. So when “The Dog Clicker” found its way, via the internet, into Simone’s hands, the thing couldn’t scare off a mouse. We didn’t know this at the time.
Those four days in Yelahanka felt like an eternity. The time was upon us. I motioned to Simone to put down her Indian Vogue, and draw arms. We let out a battle cry, with one big kick, four massive pieces of luggage proceed ahead of us, rolling down the stairs, announcing our imminent departure and killing any ambushers laying in wait below; we run after our bustling projectiles, Simone furiously pushing “The Dog Clicker” with both hands, her menacing growls and violent twitching are enough to scare off dog and human alike; I fling a wad of Rupees across the room at the stunned barefoot man standing behind the reception notebook to appease him for our stay. It hits him in the chest. Before he could thank us for coming, we were in the getaway vehicle, fresh out of that desolate hellhole.
“To the Bangalore Club”, I proudly announce to our chauffeur. He nods horizontally, as Indians do. He was impressed. Simone and I exhale, I look into her eyes, she looks into mine, and we raise a toast of Larium to celebrate our near-death escape. Off we were to the Bangalore Club in style.
This weapon, which to the untrained eye looks like a TV Remote Control, and is just as easily misplaced, is known to those of us in the industry as “The Dog Clicker”. The mythology has it, that in the early stages of the universe, when Lord Brahma created the primordial canine, he also fashioned a magical charm that would be able to defeat even the most ferocious of wild dogs, by singing them a beautiful lullaby… well not exactly a lullaby, but a high pitch scream, so loud and so high pitch that the gods and ordinary ears of human beings would not hear its shrieks. Only the canine would appreciate this deafening sound, and would, upon hearing it, vanish into thin air. Countless explorers and Greenbaums have searched out its services, but Lord Brahma, knowing better, hid this magical weapon under Mount Kailasa, in the Himalayas, where it has rested for many thousands of years. Unfortunately, Duracell Batteries don’t last that long, and “The Dog Clicker” takes a nine volt. So when “The Dog Clicker” found its way, via the internet, into Simone’s hands, the thing couldn’t scare off a mouse. We didn’t know this at the time.
Those four days in Yelahanka felt like an eternity. The time was upon us. I motioned to Simone to put down her Indian Vogue, and draw arms. We let out a battle cry, with one big kick, four massive pieces of luggage proceed ahead of us, rolling down the stairs, announcing our imminent departure and killing any ambushers laying in wait below; we run after our bustling projectiles, Simone furiously pushing “The Dog Clicker” with both hands, her menacing growls and violent twitching are enough to scare off dog and human alike; I fling a wad of Rupees across the room at the stunned barefoot man standing behind the reception notebook to appease him for our stay. It hits him in the chest. Before he could thank us for coming, we were in the getaway vehicle, fresh out of that desolate hellhole.
“To the Bangalore Club”, I proudly announce to our chauffeur. He nods horizontally, as Indians do. He was impressed. Simone and I exhale, I look into her eyes, she looks into mine, and we raise a toast of Larium to celebrate our near-death escape. Off we were to the Bangalore Club in style.
Sunday, October 18, 2009
In India...
...white men are treated like the the holy Vishnu himself, and white women are treated like prostitutes. Simone would like an edit; she says "white women are treated like they are invisible and contagious." Burping, she remarks, "the only disgusting thing I haven't done in the last hour is fart." Our bodies are not yet adjusted to the masala, at all.
We are not sure what to fill these pages with. We considered writing about a proper park avenue Victorian lady and how she handles slum life. We considered writing about how my job is having me sell houses to slum-dwellers, and then securitize the mortgages, and sell them off as bundles to outside investors. If this "housing charity project" blows up, I hope they don't blame it on the Jew from NY. These pages can be about our apartment hunt, rickshaw drivers, cows, almost anything. We hope it will develop some identity, but until then, we'll just write about our first weekend in India, spent in the wonderful town of Yelahanka, known affectionately to native Bangaloreans as "vahi wal se soca", which roughly translates to, "the bottom of the toilet".
We got off the plane 3 AM, hopped in a cab, drove 30 minutes, got a receipt that claimed we drove for 4 hours, paid 1300 rupees for our fare because arguing would save us 75 cents, and got out at a roadside dive motel in Yelahanka, a desolate suburb 45 minutes outside Bangalore. We tell the cab driver he must have come to the wrong address. Then I consider the possibility that this cab driver may kill us. Who would know? Our three bags of clothing and one bag of drugs and wacky mac must be worth something. What if they sell Simone into prostitution? That would be a tough phone call to Wendy. I decide that I will exit the cab and scope out the situation. But I don't want to leave Simone in the cab lest the driver steal her. And I don't want to have Simone come with me and leave all the bags in the car, lest he steal our wacky mac. I decide to leave Simone in the cab, but opened all the car doors. He would be crazy to drive like that.
3 barefoot uniformed men were sleeping on a queen size mattress on the ground of the lobby. With a simple nod, they welcome us to the illustrious Hoppers Stop Motel. None of them speak a word of English, except "Passport". We try to check in. They lack a computer. So we sign our name in a black and white notebook. After we write our names, he adds "USA". The three barefoot men carry our bags up a flight.
At 5 AM, I begin to have a nervous breakdown. I think we should check out, immediately. Our motel is in the middle of a slum. There is a tarp hut filled with squatters outside one window. Outside the other is a stone roofless shelter, and a huge pile of trash. By 7 am, I see a half naked man chopping up the bark of a tree with a Machete. I lock every one of the 5 different bolt locks on our front door, and the three bolts on the bedroom door. By 10 am we were still both awake, trying to figure out what we could use as a weapon. We have a pair of 4 inch Prada heels.
I decide to go the bodega next door, and lock Simone in the room, because I am not convinced she should go outside all year. There are tons of wild dogs, cows, people sleeping and bathing in piles of trash and shitting on the floor. We had four days of this. We must of spent 85 out of the 96 hours that weekend huddled in our room playing rummy.
We did make it into Bangalore proper though on Friday. We took our first auto rickshaw. There are 80,000 of these high powered 3-wheel golf carts in Bangalore, and every single one is driven by a barefoot union-issued uniformed man with a deathwish. On the highway we encountered traffic, because about 30 people were sitting in the middle of the highway, screaming, for no apparent reason. Simone would like an edit, she claims that this sit-in was inspired by Gandhi. Thank you Simone. Our driver gets out of the vehicle, physically moves one of them, screams a bit, and drives on.
We stayed in Yelahanka because that's where the spiritual leader is. He lives in a gated community which looks like its from the set of Stepford Wives. Its quite nice, but very sterile, and obviously filled with deviants. Our motel was very much on the wrong side of the tracks. We ventured over there for some of the meals, and even had a Minyan for Simchat Torah HaKafot. One of the Jews present was a member of the Bnei Yisroel, the lost tribe of Indian Jews. The rest were Israelis. Many had little kids. None of them stayed in Yelahanka for the holiday.
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