Husband of the Teacher

My husband has been downgraded.

While he used to be an entrepreneur and keynote speaker in Germany, he is now, since our move, nothing more than the “Husband of the Teacher.” That is quite literally the official title printed in his service passport issued by the German Foreign Office in Berlin. When he opened it for the first time, he couldn’t believe his eyes and thought it had to be some kind of bad joke. This fact hit him hard in his sense of identity.

For the visa in India, only my position at the German School counts. My husband and our children are dependent on my visa. That’s why the children’s passports also say “Son” or “Daughter of the Teacher.” For them it’s not a big deal – but for my husband it very much is.

This shift in roles continues here in India. Although the country is very traditional and my husband, as a man and father, actually enjoys a certain status, I am suddenly the one who signs rental contracts, car purchase agreements, and opens bank accounts. He’s lucky he even gets his own bank card. No one here is interested in his signature. That really unsettled him.

Interestingly, this role reversal flips again in our everyday life with the household staff. They look to my husband for guidance, and every instruction I give is usually double-checked with him — even if it’s just a confirming nod. For them, he is and remains the “boss” of the house.

At the embassy, partners who move abroad with the employed spouse are called “MAP” – humorously translated as “Man at Pool.” Since MAPs are not allowed to work, they have plenty of time and meet for sightseeing tours and coffee events to cope with culture shock. That is not really my husband’s thing. Instead, he takes part in the embassy sports program and plays football once a week.

The morning after his first football match, he limped through the apartment in pain. That was the moment I wondered whether this physically demanding sport might no longer be the best fit for him. After all, he is over fifty. His recovery took almost a week – and it stayed that way the next few times as well. At some point I cautiously suggested that football might no longer be ideal. But he stubbornly stuck with it. Typical! Whether out of genuine enthusiasm or because he enjoys the so-called “third half” – the beer afterwards – I honestly cannot say. The fact is: these days he hardly limps at all and is fit as a fiddle again.

Match against Hungary

In Germany he was a passionate archer and even a German champion in one of the disciplines. He could spend hours on the archery courses. Here in Delhi, there is archery too, but only the Olympic indoor discipline aiming at static targets. My husband shoots field archery – outdoors, in forests and fields. That is not possible here, and he soon realized that bringing all his archery equipment to India had been completely pointless. That was a real loss for him.

When shooting at a 3D-Tournament.

So he had to reinvent himself. Football once a week was, of course, not enough sport. In Delhi, tennis is an excellent option. Court fees and private coaching sessions are inexpensive, and there are even ball boys, so you can spend the entire session actually playing. Now he hops around the tennis court for hours – even when it’s more than 35 degrees outside. Sometimes he comes home so red in the face that I worry about his health. But the chance to really learn tennis with a coach excites him. He had wanted to play tennis as a child, but back then his parents couldn’t afford the pricey club fees.

Even though he continues to run his company online from here, my husband has far more time than he used to. He invests this time in our children. He helps the youngest with homework and talks endlessly with the older ones about everything under the sun. This presence is good for them. In Germany, we often lacked this time because we had to manage the household ourselves and didn’t have Silmanti.

My husband loves being around people. That’s why the many social gatherings here in Delhi are incredibly enriching for him. There is an invitation almost every weekend. It wasn’t like that in Germany – even though our circle of friends was not any smaller.

The only bitter part is the constant change. Many who go abroad stay for three to five years, some only one or two. Just when you’ve grown close to someone, it’s time to say goodbye again. Compared to Germany, that takes some getting used to. There, social networks remain stable for decades.

Here it’s the opposite. Old friends leave, new – still unknown – ones arrive. A permanent cycle that can be painful and exhausting.

But perhaps it is precisely this awareness of impermanence that makes the difference. You know that time is limited. So you remain open, curious, and willing to get to know new people. After all, no one likes to be alone. Humans are social creatures and only truly happy and content with a supportive network.

And so, abroad, you build a network of friends all over the world. Some return to Germany; others move just around the corner to Kuala Lumpur. But the connection remains.