Only in India (please correct me quickly if I am wrong) do you need a special agent to get you discharged from your hospital confinement.
David and I took a trip to Kathmandu and Pokhara for a trek up to Poon Hill to gaze at Annapurna as the sunrise set her alive. From the get go, David was not strong and able, suffering from an uncomfortable cold and a nagging cough. Not to be deterred by such minor issues, we unwisely set out for Nepal anyway. Not surprisingly (thus I don't know why some of us were not better prepared), our Nepal Airlines flight was delayed for an hour and a half. As David's medicine wore off and his chills set in, we were stuck at the deaparture area of the Delhi airport with no drugstore nor convenient medical station nearby. I walked around till I found a kindly looking man at the counter of the magazine and book store. I put on my fever face and asked him where I could get some ibuprofen or acetaminophen. He explained that the drug store was outside the departure area. having lived in this wonderful country for almost three years now (and I don't use the word wonderful with any hint of cynicism)I did not wonder why this was nor did I seethe in frustration at what was. I merely took in the reality and keeping "jugaad" in mind set about to work with the system. I continued to stand in front of the magazine man until he had to speak to me and come up with a solution to my problem. He called the drugstore attendant, consulted about what I needed then very kindly went to pick up the medicine. It is a wonderful country indeed!
Our trek to Nepal is another blog altogether....
We returned to Delhi Sunday with David eight kilos lighter, without an appetite and looking much the worse for wear. Was it all the steps up to Poon HIll that did it? Was it the morning, noon, and night Maggi noodles on the trek menus? Or was it something else more medically serious? He continued to cough and chill overnight. Come Monday morning I dispatched him to the doctor's office while I resumed my routine, beginning the morning with an hour of yoga.
In spite of my aching back, now firm(er) but abused thighs from 12 and a half hours of an 1800 meter climb, and battered calves from 8 hours of a constant downhill trek, I was happy to get back to my routine. My bliss was interrupted by a phone call. On the other end was a very weak sounding David asking me to come to the doctor’s office as the doctor wanted to speak to me. Those words never bode well.
I was advised to take David to the hospital immediately as he had a syncopal episode at the doctor’s office, having turned ashen and losing consciousness for 20 seconds. The doctor, playing safe, recommended confinement mainly to rule out any heart related issues and no less significantly a viral infection. We obediently set out for Max hospital in Saket.
Max has two wings, the second being a dedicated coronary wing. We optimistically went to the less frightening wing and proceeded to make our way through the maze of hospital admission. From one counter to the next, I questioned, submitted, threatened, and cajoled while David waited uncomfortably.
David received an sms from a Bharti colleague who said that someone had seen him at the hospital and inquired whether we needed any help. Why yes, of course, please, please help us navigate our way through this nightmare!
At the admission desk, having received the sought after admission papers, we were told there was no room available, that we should just wait. An hour, a couple of hours they could not guarantee.
Simultaneously we were communicating with our Bharti connection. We sat in the car to wait for an available room. Within fifteen minutes we received a call from our special agent (by the way he is not a Bharti employee per se but his job it was to navigate the ins and outs of hospitals) informing us that he finagled a room for David and we should return to the hospital. We obediently returned and proceeded upstairs. In retrospect I understand more clearly why we were able to get the room. It was the VIP suite of the hospital meriting a special directional sign on the 6th floor! The suite had a spacious and clean room for the patient. It had a blue faux leather couch and two arm chairs. There was a television set with a cable box which, in spite of the three remotes controls provided, played only Hindi programs and the Hallmark channel, this in the world where people normally have 600 channels to choose from in their homes! The adjoining room had the same furniture setup but was equipped with a small kitchen.
David was under the care of 2 excellent doctors and an efficient nursing staff. Aside from the constant poking and prodding, the unbelievably uncomfortable bed and the perhaps nutritious but certainly repulsive meals, I have only wonderful words for Max. Hospital. David was walking around and quite ready to be discharged after a 2 day stay. Ironically, we were happy with the dengue fever diagnosis as it was worlds better than discovering a coronary issue which we had earlier feared.
In the meantime, trek weary and ragged from my days at the hospital without proper meals nor rest, I was beginning to come down with a cold myself. But I had to “spring” David out of there so once again I had to divine our agent to do his magic. Let us give him a name now: Deepak. He was our guide through the Max Universe, our guardian angel, checking each step of the way that our needs were met and our issues resolved. He had previously warned us that a hospital discharge can take a bit of time 3 or 4 hours perhaps because hospital bureaucracy and systems made it impossible for a patient to simply and quickly “escape!”
By the time I got to the hospital David was showered and dressed, sitting on his faux leather sofa and concentrating on his Blackberry. Deepak had arranged his “Robin” (I am starting to see Deepak as Batman coming to the aid of those helpless against all evil!) to be there to help us with David’s discharge.
The process began at 1215pm. The nursing staff said they did not receive word from the doctor that David could be discharged. His Holter (a machine that continuously records the heart’s rhythms) had been removed and the doctor informed him that if the insurance papers could be processed before 1:00 pm, he would be ”free to go.” Why does that sound like what one would hear in a courtroom when the defendant is found not guilty? So back and forth we went between the discharge orders and the insurance issue standing in the way of David’s release. The doctor said keep him another day because he is on oral medication, the nursing staff said. Pardon me but has dengue completely incapacitated David that he can no longer pop a pill in his mouth and follow it with some water? The accounting department said that he could be released if the insurance papers were approved. Please note that it is now a release, not a discharge that we seek. I made a perfunctory call to the attending doctor to inform her, no to beg her, to please initiate David’s release. Again, she used the insurance clearance as the stumbling block to the discharge. Robin, having worked through this same issue before, very patiently worked her way back and forth from the doctor and the cashier and the insurance people. It was like being caught in an infernal spiral down to hell!
David paced around the room and I settled myself down to the hospital bed as my cold worsened. I tried to take a cat nap but was afraid that someone might hook me up to an intravenous drip if I got too comfortable.
Let me remind you that the discharge process started at 12:15 pm. Intermittently we would hear from Batman Deepak and Robin that the wheels were turning albeit exceedingly slowly. Twenty-five minutes, they are processing the bill. Thirty minutes, they are following up the insurance issue, be patient, so sorry, just thirty minutes to credit the account for all the unused medicine, just a quick minute they need to make a copy of the Holter results. The interminable delays continued for what must surely be a record time of six and a half hours! Where is Ripley–I must make a play for getting this record on the book of believe it or nots! It was so painful it was utterly laughable! And definitely blog-gable! At the end of the game, for that is the kindest way to label this ordeal, Deepak called to give us his congratulations, we were free to go! And so, ladies and gentlemen, please let me know if this has happened to you in any other country aside from my dear India. And let me give you a few words of advice. Should you find yourself trying to get in or out of a hospital in India, give up before you even try. Call my guy, he will weave his magic and get you in and out of there faster than you can ever hope to by yourself. My eternal thanks to Deepak and Geetha who expertly and patiently worked with the system to give us back our freedom.
Sunday, April 18, 2010
Friday, April 16, 2010
What Happens Now?
I have missed you! I have been silent for so long. It is not for lack of challenges and colorful encounters to write about but rather because my blog seems to now be irrelevant. We moved back to Singapore December 2009.
So yes, what happens now?
If you remember, I started this blog as a sanity saver in Delhi. With my sanity no more intact, I am now in Singapore perhaps with an even greater desire to share my life with you. I know now that life can be beautiful anywhere, that challenges abound in one way or another and that our job is to meet them all head on, one by one, and come away from our daily battles wiser and a little and wearier perhaps but happy that we went through the exercise called life.
So let me tell you about our time in Singapore thus far and then we can later decide what to do with this blog.
The first weeks in Singapore with so little was pure joy! David had no Raju, I had no Ambrose, Meenu or Mr. Lal. No mali (gardener) and no chowkidar (security guard). And yet, we were perfectly self sufficient--how smug we were! We had cutlery for 4, dinnerware for 3 (we splurged on a Christmas platter), 3 cups that looked like little flower pots, and 3 little black stools from Ikea. No pots and pans, no dining table, no study desk. We had a fast deflating air mattress that served as living room sofa. We had a king sized bed and poor Rachel had to sleep on a makeshift mattress which had no right to to its name.
After the challenges of keeping house in Delhi, we decided that we would take only the space that we absolutely needed and situate ourselves in the center of town where everything we needed and wanted would be within a fifteen or twenty minute walk from home. We walked everywhere and hailed taxis when it was necessary. Delhi did not give us much of an opportunity to walk places but we now made up for the three years of relying on Raju and Ambrose. We were on our own. I will not lie and tell you that I never thought of Ambrose. I did. All the time!
In the rhythm of my days as a dilliwali, life was full of friends, tennis, and photography. No mind was ever paid to the home that seemed, on the surface at least, clean and orderly. Whatever was not to my liking I tolerated because it seemed less painful than teaching the staff to do it exactly the way I wanted it done. Not just teaching but repeating instructions more often than I cared for. I complained to a friend that Meenu just couldn't seem to get things right. She looked at me, this wise old self sufficient friend of mine, and said, "then do it yourself." Horrors!
Here I am today, memsahib no longer, and doing it myself! We have a small two bedroom place just a minute away from Paragon, a dangerously swanky mall. The Market Place at Paragon supplies our groceries though admittedly at much higher prices than my good old A block fruit wallah and the C and E block vegetable wallahs. But fruits and vegetables are fresh and abundant and I am spared the drudgery of vegetable and fruit disinfecting. Whether we bear left or right on Orchard, we can, in 10 minutes, walk to cineplexes with 8 theaters each. On any given day, if we hankered for Thai, Japanese, Vietnamese, or even Filipino food, the only difficulty was making a choice. Shopping, whether in the Uniqlo or Hermes caliber is literally just around the corner. It has been wonderful!
We bought a car which felt essential though logically was frivolous. I have enjoyed driving everywhere, even to the American Club which I can get to by foot in 10 minutes. One evening, David and I were talking about keeping the car clean. I am a stickler for clean and David is a stickler for...well...whatever. We found Chandra in the apartment garage. He approached us and offered to clean our car. I thought he said his name was Sandra so I questioned why he had a girl's name only to realize very quickly that it was CHandra! And this from a former dilliwali! Shame on me! For 50S$ a month, he would clean our car five days a week and even promised to clean the interior if i gave him the key. It has been 3 months and I have not taken him up on it. Was he hedging when he offered me that? Could he tell I was borderline OC? Another wise and perceptive Indian! Can't seem to get away from them. I have enjoyed my car tremendously and the freedom it provides. I have enjoyed singing in the car, listening to BBC, but once in a while still wish that Jai Ho would play on air.
I spent many hours unpacking and putting things in place, shoving things in every nook and cranny to make order from the chaos that moving creates. Everything is in order now. Max is home from his one month stint in prison. We have breakfast and sometimes lunch or dinner at home. When David cooks I clean up and when I cook I still clean up! Life cannot always be fair, it seems. A lady comes to clean Max' litter box three times a week and comes every Sunday to clean our little apartment. And I am the happier for it! No amah drama, no Mr. Lal injuries, no mali delays, no chowkidar absences. In exchange, I do the laundry, wash the dishes and keep the kitchen clean, pick up the newspaper, recycle the recyclables. Not a bad deal at all! Sweet!
There has been a lot of travel for me over the four months but I am certain that we will soon establish for ourselves some sort of rhythm to our lives. Unfettered days, at least for me, can quickly lead to aimlessness. I hope to pick up the camera a little more seriously, hope to learn a little bit more everyday and hope to throw myself into a new project very soon. It has been a breeze adjusting to Singapore but has been more difficult to cleave my heart from Delhi. Who would have guessed?
So, what do I do with this blog? Tell me?
So yes, what happens now?
If you remember, I started this blog as a sanity saver in Delhi. With my sanity no more intact, I am now in Singapore perhaps with an even greater desire to share my life with you. I know now that life can be beautiful anywhere, that challenges abound in one way or another and that our job is to meet them all head on, one by one, and come away from our daily battles wiser and a little and wearier perhaps but happy that we went through the exercise called life.
So let me tell you about our time in Singapore thus far and then we can later decide what to do with this blog.
The first weeks in Singapore with so little was pure joy! David had no Raju, I had no Ambrose, Meenu or Mr. Lal. No mali (gardener) and no chowkidar (security guard). And yet, we were perfectly self sufficient--how smug we were! We had cutlery for 4, dinnerware for 3 (we splurged on a Christmas platter), 3 cups that looked like little flower pots, and 3 little black stools from Ikea. No pots and pans, no dining table, no study desk. We had a fast deflating air mattress that served as living room sofa. We had a king sized bed and poor Rachel had to sleep on a makeshift mattress which had no right to to its name.
After the challenges of keeping house in Delhi, we decided that we would take only the space that we absolutely needed and situate ourselves in the center of town where everything we needed and wanted would be within a fifteen or twenty minute walk from home. We walked everywhere and hailed taxis when it was necessary. Delhi did not give us much of an opportunity to walk places but we now made up for the three years of relying on Raju and Ambrose. We were on our own. I will not lie and tell you that I never thought of Ambrose. I did. All the time!
In the rhythm of my days as a dilliwali, life was full of friends, tennis, and photography. No mind was ever paid to the home that seemed, on the surface at least, clean and orderly. Whatever was not to my liking I tolerated because it seemed less painful than teaching the staff to do it exactly the way I wanted it done. Not just teaching but repeating instructions more often than I cared for. I complained to a friend that Meenu just couldn't seem to get things right. She looked at me, this wise old self sufficient friend of mine, and said, "then do it yourself." Horrors!
Here I am today, memsahib no longer, and doing it myself! We have a small two bedroom place just a minute away from Paragon, a dangerously swanky mall. The Market Place at Paragon supplies our groceries though admittedly at much higher prices than my good old A block fruit wallah and the C and E block vegetable wallahs. But fruits and vegetables are fresh and abundant and I am spared the drudgery of vegetable and fruit disinfecting. Whether we bear left or right on Orchard, we can, in 10 minutes, walk to cineplexes with 8 theaters each. On any given day, if we hankered for Thai, Japanese, Vietnamese, or even Filipino food, the only difficulty was making a choice. Shopping, whether in the Uniqlo or Hermes caliber is literally just around the corner. It has been wonderful!
We bought a car which felt essential though logically was frivolous. I have enjoyed driving everywhere, even to the American Club which I can get to by foot in 10 minutes. One evening, David and I were talking about keeping the car clean. I am a stickler for clean and David is a stickler for...well...whatever. We found Chandra in the apartment garage. He approached us and offered to clean our car. I thought he said his name was Sandra so I questioned why he had a girl's name only to realize very quickly that it was CHandra! And this from a former dilliwali! Shame on me! For 50S$ a month, he would clean our car five days a week and even promised to clean the interior if i gave him the key. It has been 3 months and I have not taken him up on it. Was he hedging when he offered me that? Could he tell I was borderline OC? Another wise and perceptive Indian! Can't seem to get away from them. I have enjoyed my car tremendously and the freedom it provides. I have enjoyed singing in the car, listening to BBC, but once in a while still wish that Jai Ho would play on air.
I spent many hours unpacking and putting things in place, shoving things in every nook and cranny to make order from the chaos that moving creates. Everything is in order now. Max is home from his one month stint in prison. We have breakfast and sometimes lunch or dinner at home. When David cooks I clean up and when I cook I still clean up! Life cannot always be fair, it seems. A lady comes to clean Max' litter box three times a week and comes every Sunday to clean our little apartment. And I am the happier for it! No amah drama, no Mr. Lal injuries, no mali delays, no chowkidar absences. In exchange, I do the laundry, wash the dishes and keep the kitchen clean, pick up the newspaper, recycle the recyclables. Not a bad deal at all! Sweet!
There has been a lot of travel for me over the four months but I am certain that we will soon establish for ourselves some sort of rhythm to our lives. Unfettered days, at least for me, can quickly lead to aimlessness. I hope to pick up the camera a little more seriously, hope to learn a little bit more everyday and hope to throw myself into a new project very soon. It has been a breeze adjusting to Singapore but has been more difficult to cleave my heart from Delhi. Who would have guessed?
So, what do I do with this blog? Tell me?
Thursday, October 8, 2009
Thank Goodness the Pig is Fine!
Ambrose called me yesterday. In his halting English, I understood "Raju, car, pig, under, car not run." I was so sure I could not be hearing correctly so I asked him to repeat the story. Nope, it was true. There was a car and a pig in the same story!
Raju was driving back to the office from the Honda repair shop when a pig suddenly either ran under the car or ran in front of the car (I still do not know the exact story) causing major damage to the radiator. The coolant gushed out and the car is drivable only in 3 minute segments to avoid overheating the engine. Imagine having a car like that--in Indian traffic! If someone told me this story, I would never believe it. But here, now, believe me because I have a 36,000 Rupee radiator replacement bill that will attest to this story.
"But madam, the pig is fine," Ambrose reassured me.
"The pig is fine? The pig is fine? Why would I care about the pig?"
Not having had time to reflect on this unusual event, I was hassled by the inconvenience, the 36,000, and the sheer absurdity of the whole thing! I was just beginning to see Raju in a different light, starting to think that perhaps I have treated him less than fairly. He holds on to his job by the skin of his teeth. He either locks the keys in the car, comes late for a drive to the airport, has trouble with his motorcycle and cell phone, or has a relative or two dieing. His employment with us has been quite eventful. Yet, he is always there with a smile, is never disrespectful, is a superb driver, and most of all, doesn't honk his horn unnecessarily (in India it is a pleasure to have a driver who does not use his horn as his brakes!). And now this incredulous pig under the car story.
"Raju was lucky it was not a cow," David teased when he saw my agitation.
"Better a pig than an elephant," Angelika joked.
In truth in India it is entirely possible to encounter a goat, a donkey, an elephant, or even a camel on the road. You know about the cows, of course. And I did once see a little piglet. So I suppose this story is not so far fetched after all. I finally decided there was nothing to do about this pig story. The radiator had to be replaced, that was all there was to it. No sense in reprimanding Raju. No sense in hassling about it. That was that. He was still going to get his Diwali bonus, it wasn't his fault the pig ran into the car.
Having made peace with the situation, I was ready to laugh at the incident. I recounted the story to Shailan (my photography guru). With a hearty laugh, he said, "So are we going to have a party?"
I just had to laugh! He explained that I should count my blessings that it was only a pig, not a man. True. And count my blessings that the pig is fine. Again that pig is fine line! He told me a story of a man who ran over a hen. The owners of the hen demanded 10,000 Rupees. The hen had just come of age, was going to lay eggs and would have earned the owners 10,000 Rupees!
"So Belinda," Shailan explained patiently, "thank goodness the pig is fine!"
Raju was driving back to the office from the Honda repair shop when a pig suddenly either ran under the car or ran in front of the car (I still do not know the exact story) causing major damage to the radiator. The coolant gushed out and the car is drivable only in 3 minute segments to avoid overheating the engine. Imagine having a car like that--in Indian traffic! If someone told me this story, I would never believe it. But here, now, believe me because I have a 36,000 Rupee radiator replacement bill that will attest to this story.
"But madam, the pig is fine," Ambrose reassured me.
"The pig is fine? The pig is fine? Why would I care about the pig?"
Not having had time to reflect on this unusual event, I was hassled by the inconvenience, the 36,000, and the sheer absurdity of the whole thing! I was just beginning to see Raju in a different light, starting to think that perhaps I have treated him less than fairly. He holds on to his job by the skin of his teeth. He either locks the keys in the car, comes late for a drive to the airport, has trouble with his motorcycle and cell phone, or has a relative or two dieing. His employment with us has been quite eventful. Yet, he is always there with a smile, is never disrespectful, is a superb driver, and most of all, doesn't honk his horn unnecessarily (in India it is a pleasure to have a driver who does not use his horn as his brakes!). And now this incredulous pig under the car story.
"Raju was lucky it was not a cow," David teased when he saw my agitation.
"Better a pig than an elephant," Angelika joked.
In truth in India it is entirely possible to encounter a goat, a donkey, an elephant, or even a camel on the road. You know about the cows, of course. And I did once see a little piglet. So I suppose this story is not so far fetched after all. I finally decided there was nothing to do about this pig story. The radiator had to be replaced, that was all there was to it. No sense in reprimanding Raju. No sense in hassling about it. That was that. He was still going to get his Diwali bonus, it wasn't his fault the pig ran into the car.
Having made peace with the situation, I was ready to laugh at the incident. I recounted the story to Shailan (my photography guru). With a hearty laugh, he said, "So are we going to have a party?"
I just had to laugh! He explained that I should count my blessings that it was only a pig, not a man. True. And count my blessings that the pig is fine. Again that pig is fine line! He told me a story of a man who ran over a hen. The owners of the hen demanded 10,000 Rupees. The hen had just come of age, was going to lay eggs and would have earned the owners 10,000 Rupees!
"So Belinda," Shailan explained patiently, "thank goodness the pig is fine!"
Sunday, August 9, 2009
It is Never as Easy as it Seems, A Day in Delhi
After church today, I decided to drop in on Amit's photography exhibit at the Convention Foyer of the Indian Habitat Center. That should be easy, I've been to the Habitat Center countless times. But wait, where is the Convention Foyer? I walk around the expansive Habitat Center mercifully shaded by the blue open tile-work that is the signature of the grounds. I consult two men with Habitat IDs but they could not give me directions. It wasn't just the language gap, mind you, they honestly did not know where the Convention Foyer was! I came upon two elderly American ladies looking as lost as I was. I couldn't help them, they couldn't help me. We shook our heads in unison and wondered why there was no map. Wouldn't life be easier with a map? I am not looking for a map to life, just a map to the Center; it shouldn't be that difficult! After 10 minutes under 38 degree heat, I find the Convention Foyer at the exact place of Amit's last exhibit. In the absence of a map, why don't they just call it the usual place?
Our weekends always include an afternoon at the club. Rachel does her thing at the gym while David and I are at the squash court. On the way home, Rachel had a hankering for a smoothie. I finagled our schedule for the evening so that she and I could sneak away to Choco La for a smoothie. I made her a solemn promise that she will definitely have her smoothie.
David volunteered to cook dinner and after a trip to the vegetable wallah and the grocery store, we still needed the last few ingredients to get the meal together: red bell peppers, tomato sauce, olives, pickles, liver paste (I know this sounds like a horrid combination but trust me when I tell you that these things make for a sumptuous caldereta!). Before Rachel and I can sneak away, I must get those ingredients so that David can put dinner together.
Ambrose dropped David off at home.
Ambrose took us to Modern Bazaar at Basant Lok.
I got all the ingredients and sent Ambrose back home.
Ambrose came back to Basant Lok.
Finally, Rachel and I can sneak off for her smoothie. I ordered a mango passion fruit granita. Rachel ordered a kiwi and banana smoothie. "Sorry mam, but we have no bananas." So she settled for a mango and orange smoothie. In a few minutes the waiter returns. "Sorry mam, we only had one portion of mango and it was used in the granita. What about a strawberry smoothie?" Rachel hates strawberries. A smoothie was such a simple wish and yet, it wasn't simple after all. I suggested we make a smoothie at home. We'll need mangoes, orange juice, a banana, and yogurt. I assign Rachel to gather the ingredients at Modern Bazaar while I go to the chemist.
After a quick detour to the fruit wallah, we have all the makings of our mango smoothie plus a pineapple for the next day's juice. Home, Ambrose!
David was busily preparing dinner. I love to hear stories of how husbands prepare dinner. Imagine a kitchen with all the counters covered with something--a towel, a pot, a pan, a bowl, knives, plates, plastic bags, etc. And any counter that has nothing on it was splattered with either grease or salt or pepper! And the floor! Bits of cheese are all over the floor! "The cheese exploded!" David announces. "I just picked it up and it exploded in all directions! I've been slaving over a hot stove for hours!"
I was furious! I make dinner 5 nights a week and he never comes home to a kitchen disaster! Then realizing the futility of my frustration, I just gave him a wry smile. So, cooking dinner it is not as easy as it seems, does it? I came to his rescue and tried to organize the kitchen sink which was full of piled up plates and utensils. The water trickled out, literally trickled out!!! What else can go wrong? (By the way, the next day, Ambrose discovered that almost a teaspoon of little rocks was blocking the faucet spout. Go figure!)
I will admit to you that living is India has its perks in the way of the Ambroses and Meenus and sometimes even the Rajus. But it is the little inconveniences that can drive you mad! Why isn't anything as easy as it seems? Why do I wait 3 hours for the computer man, watch him figure out the problem for one and a half more hours only to announce to me that "yes, madam, I need to install the Bridge program" when that is exactly what I told him 6 hours ago? Why does our pressure pump need a slap every other week to make it work? Why does Rachel's air-conditioner only run on temperatures above 26? Why is the key to the balcony door so crooked that it needs manly force to turn it? Why does rain come in torrents inside my downstairs bathroom? Why do my dressing room lights go off after 5 minutes of use? Nothing comes easy!
So when you start to think that we here live a life of privilege and luxury, you are absolutely right. But remember that nothing here comes easy. Remember Sisyphus and his rock? Camus claims that when Sisyphus acknowledges the futility of his task and the certainty of his fate, he is freed to realize the absurdity of his situation and to reach a state of contented acceptance. That is where I want to be, in that state of contented acceptance. There, I feel much better now. I just had to tell someone!
Our weekends always include an afternoon at the club. Rachel does her thing at the gym while David and I are at the squash court. On the way home, Rachel had a hankering for a smoothie. I finagled our schedule for the evening so that she and I could sneak away to Choco La for a smoothie. I made her a solemn promise that she will definitely have her smoothie.
David volunteered to cook dinner and after a trip to the vegetable wallah and the grocery store, we still needed the last few ingredients to get the meal together: red bell peppers, tomato sauce, olives, pickles, liver paste (I know this sounds like a horrid combination but trust me when I tell you that these things make for a sumptuous caldereta!). Before Rachel and I can sneak away, I must get those ingredients so that David can put dinner together.
Ambrose dropped David off at home.
Ambrose took us to Modern Bazaar at Basant Lok.
I got all the ingredients and sent Ambrose back home.
Ambrose came back to Basant Lok.
Finally, Rachel and I can sneak off for her smoothie. I ordered a mango passion fruit granita. Rachel ordered a kiwi and banana smoothie. "Sorry mam, but we have no bananas." So she settled for a mango and orange smoothie. In a few minutes the waiter returns. "Sorry mam, we only had one portion of mango and it was used in the granita. What about a strawberry smoothie?" Rachel hates strawberries. A smoothie was such a simple wish and yet, it wasn't simple after all. I suggested we make a smoothie at home. We'll need mangoes, orange juice, a banana, and yogurt. I assign Rachel to gather the ingredients at Modern Bazaar while I go to the chemist.
After a quick detour to the fruit wallah, we have all the makings of our mango smoothie plus a pineapple for the next day's juice. Home, Ambrose!
David was busily preparing dinner. I love to hear stories of how husbands prepare dinner. Imagine a kitchen with all the counters covered with something--a towel, a pot, a pan, a bowl, knives, plates, plastic bags, etc. And any counter that has nothing on it was splattered with either grease or salt or pepper! And the floor! Bits of cheese are all over the floor! "The cheese exploded!" David announces. "I just picked it up and it exploded in all directions! I've been slaving over a hot stove for hours!"
I was furious! I make dinner 5 nights a week and he never comes home to a kitchen disaster! Then realizing the futility of my frustration, I just gave him a wry smile. So, cooking dinner it is not as easy as it seems, does it? I came to his rescue and tried to organize the kitchen sink which was full of piled up plates and utensils. The water trickled out, literally trickled out!!! What else can go wrong? (By the way, the next day, Ambrose discovered that almost a teaspoon of little rocks was blocking the faucet spout. Go figure!)
I will admit to you that living is India has its perks in the way of the Ambroses and Meenus and sometimes even the Rajus. But it is the little inconveniences that can drive you mad! Why isn't anything as easy as it seems? Why do I wait 3 hours for the computer man, watch him figure out the problem for one and a half more hours only to announce to me that "yes, madam, I need to install the Bridge program" when that is exactly what I told him 6 hours ago? Why does our pressure pump need a slap every other week to make it work? Why does Rachel's air-conditioner only run on temperatures above 26? Why is the key to the balcony door so crooked that it needs manly force to turn it? Why does rain come in torrents inside my downstairs bathroom? Why do my dressing room lights go off after 5 minutes of use? Nothing comes easy!
So when you start to think that we here live a life of privilege and luxury, you are absolutely right. But remember that nothing here comes easy. Remember Sisyphus and his rock? Camus claims that when Sisyphus acknowledges the futility of his task and the certainty of his fate, he is freed to realize the absurdity of his situation and to reach a state of contented acceptance. That is where I want to be, in that state of contented acceptance. There, I feel much better now. I just had to tell someone!
Thursday, August 6, 2009
If I Knew Then What I Know Now
Sleeping bag? Check. Down jacket? Check. Windbreaker? Check. Fleece top? Check. Ski pants? (Yes there was no chance we would be skiing but I packed it all the same just in case we might need the extra layer for warmth.) Check. Hiking shoes? Check. Wool socks? Check. Wool hat? Check. Gloves? Check. Three extra jackets? Check.
D700, D300, 14-24, 24-70, 105, 18-200, 12-24, 70-210? Check. 77mm polarizing filter, 500d close-up filter? Check. 62 to 77, 72 to 77 step up rings? Check. CF cards? Check. Batteries? Check. Solar charger, battery car charger, regular Nikon charger, BlackBerry charger, Mac charger? Check. Mac? Check. My Passport external hard drive? Check. Tripods? Check.
Thus went my three-week preparation for our photo-trek to Chandratal Lake. I'd exhausted all my options on finding someone to carry my equipment on the trek so I resigned myself to having my camera and lenses on my back. Jogi and Shailan, our trek gurus would not be cajoled into allowing me to have my own Sherpa. That would take away from the purity of the experience, Jogi said, from knowing that you conquered all on your own. So okay then, let's go the pure way.
Our summer plans center on Daniel and Rachel. Daniel, having just graduated from university and with a few weeks before his job training was to begin in New York, had time to spare in between. I persuaded him to join me on the trek. For purely selfish reasons perhaps? Could he possibly be sweet talked into carrying a lens or two? In truth, I wanted to share this experience with him. I have always admired his photography, which he decided to put on hold once the demands of university studies came upon him. This was the chance to rekindle his interest. But simply, I was a mom whose son was going out into the big world and I wanted to spend time with him. Rachel was safely in Delhi and David was happy to have some father-daughter time with her. Rachel was waiting to start her summer internship.
We began or trip with a 16-hour bus ride to Solang. You have all seen those movies that show rundown old buses in India? The one where the windows are open to the swirling dust of the streets? Where people are crammed into the bus holding their baskets on their laps? Where men of all ages hang on to the bus as it speeds away recklessly? And where the chickens are piled high on the bus rooftops? Fortunately, we were on the "other" bus! Ours was air conditioned and had cushy reclining seats. It was going to be a long bus ride but it would be bearable. I put our jackets into pillowcases, packed some trail mix and water; Daniel and I were ready.
We made our first stop for dinner. In America, this might be a a truck stop, perhaps a diner. The Indian version was an organized affair with a dining hall preceded by a large room with larger than life size European looking cherubic ceramic statues for sale along with shampoo and cologne, toothpaste and tissues...everything a traveler might need, I suppose?
We got back into the bus to continue our journey. Our next stop was breakfast. I had an omelet sandwich. Imagine that, an omelet sandwich! Why didn't anyone think of that? Back to the bus again and after a few more hours of fitful sleep, we arrived at Solang. We collected our bags and squeezed into white gypsies that took us to our hotel. Our rooms in Solang were spacious and clean; walls were of pine and smelled positively mountainous. The air was clean and cool and did not have the dry and dusty, hot and suffocating feel of Delhi air. This was a great start.
Dan and I unkinked our crooked bodies, stretched out and dozed off. All too soon, we had to pull ourselves away from our warm and cozy beds to shower then join the group for a slide presentation. It was time to learn everyone's name as well. Imagine how confused we were to be in a room with Vivek, Arvinder, Saarthak, Vikram, Ankit, Radha, Shubhra, Neeraj, Sonal and Vibhor (don't be too impressed, I cut and pasted these names from our trek directory). But we had time to get this all down pat so we relaxed and learned what we could from the days presentation.
The next day, we got back into our little white gypsies and headed to our first campsite that would be 8000 feet above sea level. We traversed a two lane rocky road a side of which was the edge of a precipice. In spite of this, we traveled at brisk speed and overtook other gypsies whose drivers were perhaps not as experienced as ours. There were brief stretches of road where we collectively breathe in with the futile hope that it would somehow help in getting the provision trucks by us as we shared these narrow passages.
We stopped at a wide-open field. Although I knew we would be camping for the next seven days, it was still a shock to realize that we would be sleeping under the open skies, surrounded by the snowy Himalayas. Our staff of eight pitched our tents, set up our mattresses (oh dear, this was not the two-inch mattress Jogi and I talked about, this was a thin sheet of Styrofoam!) and threw in our sleeping bags. We were good to go. They pitched the dining room tent, pitched the "convenience" tent and went on to prepare lunch.
Our first hike took us through rolling hills leading to a waterfall. A swift stream traversed our path. We removed our hiking shoes and gingerly crossed one at a time led by Yogi, our smiling and surefooted guide. I was the most cowardly of all waiting to see if everyone made it across before I grabbed Yogi's hand as he steadied me through the stream smiling encouragingly with every step I took. At the other end, everyone stood victorious yet slightly stunned at how the freezing water numbed their toes. The photography that afternoon was uneventful for me. I was bothered by the weight on my back and the altitude was starting to take its toll. That evening I succumbed to a headache, curled up in our tent and skipped dinner.
Everyone fell victim to the altitude; no one was spared. The evening wind howled that night violently flapping our securely anchored tent doors and windows. In the deep of the night I got up and ventured out. Everything was silent, everyone was asleep. A little white dog curled himself into a tiny ball and huddled next to Jogi and Shailan's tent trying desperately to shelter himself from the harsh wind. I looked up at the sky and saw the most magnificent canopy of stars. I have never seen a sky such as this; was that the Milky Way? Were those auroral lights?
We fell into a pattern. Breakfast was followed by a gypsie ride to a higher altitude where we would spend the next night. We stopped along the road to photograph shepherds and their flocks of sheep and goat heading toward green fields for the days meal. We laughed and enjoyed each others company as we bobbled up and down while our drivers navigated the treacherous and potholed roads. As the sun came down, some ventured out to catch the golden light of day, the light all photographers wait for.
Our final destination was Chandra Tal Lake, 14,000 feet in the Himalayas. Crescent shaped, the lake is located in the Spiti district of Himachal Pradesh. A popular destination for trekkers and campers, the lake is accessible by foot only for a few months in a year, from May to August. We basked in the warmth of the day certain that the night would bring freezing temperatures and that we would wake up to a blanket of little flecks of morning frost on our tents. We walked and talked and photographed. We hiked independently and in groups hoping to find the perfect scene or lone flower that would catch our eyes. In the mornings, the water on the still lake was Prussian blue gently changing to emerald green in the evenings. It was magical!
If I knew then what I know now, I would still have gone on this trek.
Eating 24 Indian meals was not easy. There is just no two ways about this.
Yes, I disliked sleeping on inclined and stony ground with just a sheet of foam and a sleeping bag between me and the damp. But it was touching to have friends come and knock on our tent doors to check if the altitude headache was gone. It was nice to be called to chai and meals and huddle against the cold with everyone.
The thought of spending the days with complete strangers was daunting but I discovered the most wonderful group of people: two young boys who quietly watched and listened to the adult (only sometimes) repartee, three architects who had keen and practiced eyes for the beauty in lines and forms, three ladies who braved the elements and passed with flying colors, a merchant marine who could fix anything you broke, a fellow who seemed to be the embodiment of Murphy's law yet triumphed against all odds, a young man so passionate about photography that I suspect he slept with with a camera slung around his neck, and a wise and gentle guru whose only true passion was pressing the shutter.
True, it was tough to learn all those names, but we had a riotous time westernising everyone's name. Thus, Vivek was Vick, Arvinder was Arby, Saarthak was Star Trek, Vikram was Victor, Ankit was Andy, Radha was Rosa, Neeraj was Nick, and Sonal was Sonia. And who could have trouble remembering the name Shoe Bra (Shubhra)? In a few days everyone answered to their western names.
Under the circumstances, it was reasonable to expect our experience to be fraught with unpredictable adventures but we heard nary a complaint from our staff of eight; they seemed almost invisible, only around when food was served and chai was wanted. They set up and packed up camp each day, drove gypsies and cooked meals like clockwork. Could we therefore expect and perhaps hope that India could one day be like this?
The air was thin, the nights were cold, but to be embraced by the Himalayas was humbling. What greater discovery is there than to feel that indeed we are small and insignificant against the beauty, grandeur, majesty and power of God and nature?
Unequivocally, I would still have gone on the trek if I knew then what I know now. I would still have gone because my learning was not just about photography; it was about life, humility and hope.
D700, D300, 14-24, 24-70, 105, 18-200, 12-24, 70-210? Check. 77mm polarizing filter, 500d close-up filter? Check. 62 to 77, 72 to 77 step up rings? Check. CF cards? Check. Batteries? Check. Solar charger, battery car charger, regular Nikon charger, BlackBerry charger, Mac charger? Check. Mac? Check. My Passport external hard drive? Check. Tripods? Check.
Thus went my three-week preparation for our photo-trek to Chandratal Lake. I'd exhausted all my options on finding someone to carry my equipment on the trek so I resigned myself to having my camera and lenses on my back. Jogi and Shailan, our trek gurus would not be cajoled into allowing me to have my own Sherpa. That would take away from the purity of the experience, Jogi said, from knowing that you conquered all on your own. So okay then, let's go the pure way.
Our summer plans center on Daniel and Rachel. Daniel, having just graduated from university and with a few weeks before his job training was to begin in New York, had time to spare in between. I persuaded him to join me on the trek. For purely selfish reasons perhaps? Could he possibly be sweet talked into carrying a lens or two? In truth, I wanted to share this experience with him. I have always admired his photography, which he decided to put on hold once the demands of university studies came upon him. This was the chance to rekindle his interest. But simply, I was a mom whose son was going out into the big world and I wanted to spend time with him. Rachel was safely in Delhi and David was happy to have some father-daughter time with her. Rachel was waiting to start her summer internship.
We began or trip with a 16-hour bus ride to Solang. You have all seen those movies that show rundown old buses in India? The one where the windows are open to the swirling dust of the streets? Where people are crammed into the bus holding their baskets on their laps? Where men of all ages hang on to the bus as it speeds away recklessly? And where the chickens are piled high on the bus rooftops? Fortunately, we were on the "other" bus! Ours was air conditioned and had cushy reclining seats. It was going to be a long bus ride but it would be bearable. I put our jackets into pillowcases, packed some trail mix and water; Daniel and I were ready.
We made our first stop for dinner. In America, this might be a a truck stop, perhaps a diner. The Indian version was an organized affair with a dining hall preceded by a large room with larger than life size European looking cherubic ceramic statues for sale along with shampoo and cologne, toothpaste and tissues...everything a traveler might need, I suppose?
We got back into the bus to continue our journey. Our next stop was breakfast. I had an omelet sandwich. Imagine that, an omelet sandwich! Why didn't anyone think of that? Back to the bus again and after a few more hours of fitful sleep, we arrived at Solang. We collected our bags and squeezed into white gypsies that took us to our hotel. Our rooms in Solang were spacious and clean; walls were of pine and smelled positively mountainous. The air was clean and cool and did not have the dry and dusty, hot and suffocating feel of Delhi air. This was a great start.
Dan and I unkinked our crooked bodies, stretched out and dozed off. All too soon, we had to pull ourselves away from our warm and cozy beds to shower then join the group for a slide presentation. It was time to learn everyone's name as well. Imagine how confused we were to be in a room with Vivek, Arvinder, Saarthak, Vikram, Ankit, Radha, Shubhra, Neeraj, Sonal and Vibhor (don't be too impressed, I cut and pasted these names from our trek directory). But we had time to get this all down pat so we relaxed and learned what we could from the days presentation.
The next day, we got back into our little white gypsies and headed to our first campsite that would be 8000 feet above sea level. We traversed a two lane rocky road a side of which was the edge of a precipice. In spite of this, we traveled at brisk speed and overtook other gypsies whose drivers were perhaps not as experienced as ours. There were brief stretches of road where we collectively breathe in with the futile hope that it would somehow help in getting the provision trucks by us as we shared these narrow passages.
We stopped at a wide-open field. Although I knew we would be camping for the next seven days, it was still a shock to realize that we would be sleeping under the open skies, surrounded by the snowy Himalayas. Our staff of eight pitched our tents, set up our mattresses (oh dear, this was not the two-inch mattress Jogi and I talked about, this was a thin sheet of Styrofoam!) and threw in our sleeping bags. We were good to go. They pitched the dining room tent, pitched the "convenience" tent and went on to prepare lunch.
Our first hike took us through rolling hills leading to a waterfall. A swift stream traversed our path. We removed our hiking shoes and gingerly crossed one at a time led by Yogi, our smiling and surefooted guide. I was the most cowardly of all waiting to see if everyone made it across before I grabbed Yogi's hand as he steadied me through the stream smiling encouragingly with every step I took. At the other end, everyone stood victorious yet slightly stunned at how the freezing water numbed their toes. The photography that afternoon was uneventful for me. I was bothered by the weight on my back and the altitude was starting to take its toll. That evening I succumbed to a headache, curled up in our tent and skipped dinner.
Everyone fell victim to the altitude; no one was spared. The evening wind howled that night violently flapping our securely anchored tent doors and windows. In the deep of the night I got up and ventured out. Everything was silent, everyone was asleep. A little white dog curled himself into a tiny ball and huddled next to Jogi and Shailan's tent trying desperately to shelter himself from the harsh wind. I looked up at the sky and saw the most magnificent canopy of stars. I have never seen a sky such as this; was that the Milky Way? Were those auroral lights?
We fell into a pattern. Breakfast was followed by a gypsie ride to a higher altitude where we would spend the next night. We stopped along the road to photograph shepherds and their flocks of sheep and goat heading toward green fields for the days meal. We laughed and enjoyed each others company as we bobbled up and down while our drivers navigated the treacherous and potholed roads. As the sun came down, some ventured out to catch the golden light of day, the light all photographers wait for.
Our final destination was Chandra Tal Lake, 14,000 feet in the Himalayas. Crescent shaped, the lake is located in the Spiti district of Himachal Pradesh. A popular destination for trekkers and campers, the lake is accessible by foot only for a few months in a year, from May to August. We basked in the warmth of the day certain that the night would bring freezing temperatures and that we would wake up to a blanket of little flecks of morning frost on our tents. We walked and talked and photographed. We hiked independently and in groups hoping to find the perfect scene or lone flower that would catch our eyes. In the mornings, the water on the still lake was Prussian blue gently changing to emerald green in the evenings. It was magical!
If I knew then what I know now, I would still have gone on this trek.
Eating 24 Indian meals was not easy. There is just no two ways about this.
Yes, I disliked sleeping on inclined and stony ground with just a sheet of foam and a sleeping bag between me and the damp. But it was touching to have friends come and knock on our tent doors to check if the altitude headache was gone. It was nice to be called to chai and meals and huddle against the cold with everyone.
The thought of spending the days with complete strangers was daunting but I discovered the most wonderful group of people: two young boys who quietly watched and listened to the adult (only sometimes) repartee, three architects who had keen and practiced eyes for the beauty in lines and forms, three ladies who braved the elements and passed with flying colors, a merchant marine who could fix anything you broke, a fellow who seemed to be the embodiment of Murphy's law yet triumphed against all odds, a young man so passionate about photography that I suspect he slept with with a camera slung around his neck, and a wise and gentle guru whose only true passion was pressing the shutter.
True, it was tough to learn all those names, but we had a riotous time westernising everyone's name. Thus, Vivek was Vick, Arvinder was Arby, Saarthak was Star Trek, Vikram was Victor, Ankit was Andy, Radha was Rosa, Neeraj was Nick, and Sonal was Sonia. And who could have trouble remembering the name Shoe Bra (Shubhra)? In a few days everyone answered to their western names.
Under the circumstances, it was reasonable to expect our experience to be fraught with unpredictable adventures but we heard nary a complaint from our staff of eight; they seemed almost invisible, only around when food was served and chai was wanted. They set up and packed up camp each day, drove gypsies and cooked meals like clockwork. Could we therefore expect and perhaps hope that India could one day be like this?
The air was thin, the nights were cold, but to be embraced by the Himalayas was humbling. What greater discovery is there than to feel that indeed we are small and insignificant against the beauty, grandeur, majesty and power of God and nature?
Unequivocally, I would still have gone on the trek if I knew then what I know now. I would still have gone because my learning was not just about photography; it was about life, humility and hope.
Monday, July 6, 2009
Summer of '09
The order of my blogs now run helter-skelter as my mind moves from this and that. Summer is always an event for us now that we are empty nesters. Trips to see the kids or meet the kids or set the kids up in whatever place they have chosen for the summer always takes precedence over all that we do.
This summer has been so remarkably different that I would like to tell you three different stories about the past few weeks. There is so much that has filled our lives that to write here is to commit it to memory so that we can savor again and again the sweetness of our days.
Being the hopeless procrastinators that we are, our flight reservations were settled a mere three weeks before our first departure date. I am not sure how we manage this but over the past 10 years or so, we’ve scraped by, finding flights that suit us, more or less. Whoever the flight gods are, thank you! We had two flights originating from Delhi but departing on different days, a flight originating from the west coast of the United States and one from the east coast. All flights converged in New York City where we were to attend Daniel’s graduation at Columbia University and all flights headed to back Delhi. In truth, that route is not quite complete because one of those flights headed to New York once again via Istanbul and the other is heading to Los Angeles via Frankfurt! It is indeed a small world.
We spent a week in New York City. This “city that never sleeps” is, in my mind, everything that Delhi is not and I immersed myself completely in its rhythm. As a young woman, I spent seven years here and to this day I enjoy her skyscrapers and historic buildings, central park and her green respite, her crowds of tourists and natives alike, avant garde and street fashion, enticing shops, her unlimited variety of cuisine, and oh those delicious toasted bagels with schmear! Yes, my tastes and pleasures run shallow but my joy and contentment run deep!
We headed to Connecticut to visit family. Having lived out of the United States for 16 years, we have failed miserably in keeping contact with close family: we dare not call them close except that truly, they are close to our hearts. We have Daniel to thank for fostering the connection. He seems to have an innate inclination towards the warmth of family and has visited Connecticut on numerous occasions over his two years in Columbia.
They say that you can choose your friends and that it is unfortunate that you cannot choose your family. I humbly disagree. If I were given free rein to pick and choose the people that will make up my family, I would still choose the family that God has blessed me with. I kick myself for letting so many years go by without having basked in the love and caring that was that was so freely given to us now.
"Dad, when you saw mom, what did you think?" Nancy asked.
Nancy is of my generation (though admittedly a few years younger) and her Dad, Uncle Arthur is brother to David’s late father, Jerry. Our immediate family is small. Jerry had three children and Arthur two.
“She’s a doll!” was Uncle Arthur’s unhesitating reply.
And that is where it all begins. There could be, in my eyes, no truer love and devotion than Uncle Arthur’s to Auntie Anne and Auntie Anne to Uncle Arthur. Perhaps the years have shaped them, honed them in to two halves of one, each separate yet truly a wonderful whole! I could not ask for a kinder and gentler father-in-law standing in stead of father Jerry who I never had the good fortune to meet. There could not be a more embracing Auntie Anne who has made me feel more of a Nishball than I ever did. I hope that my children embrace them as grandparents as Uncle Arthur and Auntie Anne have a bottomless well of love and affection for them.
It is easy to love Nancy and Judy who may be the wackiest aunts my kids could hope for. Quick with the repartee, teasing smiles escaping their lips, Nancy and Judy were pure fun. Scott and Judy opened their home to us, kitchen, laundry room, garage, and all. More than a few times I wished that we lived around the corner, that we could do Trader Joe’s at a moment’s notice, enjoy the concerts at the green whenever we pleased, and enjoy this treasure of a family.
We visited with friends in Virginia. We drove to Washington DC, made a leisurely trip on Skyline Drive, visited Annapolis and had our crab cakes. Daniel and I explored DC while David and Rachel worked at the conference.
On our way back to Connecticut we visited with family in New Jersey. Another taste of home cooking and familial togetherness greeted us, making me feel the remoteness of Delhi even more. It is funny, I realize now. As children and young adults, we are impatient to grow up and test our wings, to discover the world and create our own universe. Yet as time weaves its tapestry in our lives, our heart’s desire evolves into the simplest of joys: hearth and home, family and love. There is nothing more complete.
This summer has been so remarkably different that I would like to tell you three different stories about the past few weeks. There is so much that has filled our lives that to write here is to commit it to memory so that we can savor again and again the sweetness of our days.
Being the hopeless procrastinators that we are, our flight reservations were settled a mere three weeks before our first departure date. I am not sure how we manage this but over the past 10 years or so, we’ve scraped by, finding flights that suit us, more or less. Whoever the flight gods are, thank you! We had two flights originating from Delhi but departing on different days, a flight originating from the west coast of the United States and one from the east coast. All flights converged in New York City where we were to attend Daniel’s graduation at Columbia University and all flights headed to back Delhi. In truth, that route is not quite complete because one of those flights headed to New York once again via Istanbul and the other is heading to Los Angeles via Frankfurt! It is indeed a small world.
We spent a week in New York City. This “city that never sleeps” is, in my mind, everything that Delhi is not and I immersed myself completely in its rhythm. As a young woman, I spent seven years here and to this day I enjoy her skyscrapers and historic buildings, central park and her green respite, her crowds of tourists and natives alike, avant garde and street fashion, enticing shops, her unlimited variety of cuisine, and oh those delicious toasted bagels with schmear! Yes, my tastes and pleasures run shallow but my joy and contentment run deep!
We headed to Connecticut to visit family. Having lived out of the United States for 16 years, we have failed miserably in keeping contact with close family: we dare not call them close except that truly, they are close to our hearts. We have Daniel to thank for fostering the connection. He seems to have an innate inclination towards the warmth of family and has visited Connecticut on numerous occasions over his two years in Columbia.
They say that you can choose your friends and that it is unfortunate that you cannot choose your family. I humbly disagree. If I were given free rein to pick and choose the people that will make up my family, I would still choose the family that God has blessed me with. I kick myself for letting so many years go by without having basked in the love and caring that was that was so freely given to us now.
"Dad, when you saw mom, what did you think?" Nancy asked.
Nancy is of my generation (though admittedly a few years younger) and her Dad, Uncle Arthur is brother to David’s late father, Jerry. Our immediate family is small. Jerry had three children and Arthur two.
“She’s a doll!” was Uncle Arthur’s unhesitating reply.
And that is where it all begins. There could be, in my eyes, no truer love and devotion than Uncle Arthur’s to Auntie Anne and Auntie Anne to Uncle Arthur. Perhaps the years have shaped them, honed them in to two halves of one, each separate yet truly a wonderful whole! I could not ask for a kinder and gentler father-in-law standing in stead of father Jerry who I never had the good fortune to meet. There could not be a more embracing Auntie Anne who has made me feel more of a Nishball than I ever did. I hope that my children embrace them as grandparents as Uncle Arthur and Auntie Anne have a bottomless well of love and affection for them.
It is easy to love Nancy and Judy who may be the wackiest aunts my kids could hope for. Quick with the repartee, teasing smiles escaping their lips, Nancy and Judy were pure fun. Scott and Judy opened their home to us, kitchen, laundry room, garage, and all. More than a few times I wished that we lived around the corner, that we could do Trader Joe’s at a moment’s notice, enjoy the concerts at the green whenever we pleased, and enjoy this treasure of a family.
We visited with friends in Virginia. We drove to Washington DC, made a leisurely trip on Skyline Drive, visited Annapolis and had our crab cakes. Daniel and I explored DC while David and Rachel worked at the conference.
On our way back to Connecticut we visited with family in New Jersey. Another taste of home cooking and familial togetherness greeted us, making me feel the remoteness of Delhi even more. It is funny, I realize now. As children and young adults, we are impatient to grow up and test our wings, to discover the world and create our own universe. Yet as time weaves its tapestry in our lives, our heart’s desire evolves into the simplest of joys: hearth and home, family and love. There is nothing more complete.
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Just Ask
My first year in India was about planting my feet firmly on the ground to conquer each challenge that was set before me. I am, after all, a veteran of 28 moves. Oh yes, I knew that I would have to fell the dragons and dispel the demons that would make our lives here less than a swashbuckling adventure. I was just naive about how much time it would take to kill those dragons and slay those demons.
On my first weeks and months in India, in spite of the horror of the hyjiras at my door and the terror of discovering rats on the A-block tomatoes, I reminded myself that my life here would be more than just tennis and lunches. For two decades life was about Daniel and Rachel. Now it would be about David and I and our dreams.
Even after seeing O.P. Sharma's basement classroom, and suspecting he fibbed about English being the medium of instruction, I still dared to enroll in his 6-month basic photography course. How could I pass up 144 hours of education working out to roughly 55.55 rupees an hour?
Two years later, my life is truly not just about tennis and lunch. Photography is firmly ensconced in my life. I have discovered yoga. I am rediscovering Spanish. And it is not just tennis and lunch. My tennis friends have become truly dear to me and our lunches are always occasions for the laughter that keeps the Indian blues away!
With the relative stability of my domestic situation, the dragons and devils slain, friends made, and routine established, I decided it was time to add a new dimension to my days. It was always in my mind but the daily hiccups of life here were always a good excuse to delay the "giving back."
I met Mala over lunch. In between the niceties of how do you do and how do you like India, she talked about her kids. She runs a center in Malviya Nagar that provides underprivileged children the opportunity to learn English, math and science over and above what the local schools provide (which apparently isn’t very much). Programs run from morning to evening, reaching out to children of all ages.
Mala invited me to come and see the center. With two minds about giving away my only free morning of the week, I agreed. Mala involved me with the kids enjoining me to make sure they were keeping to their learning levels in their varied subjects. That was easy enough.
One Wednesday, Mala suggested we take the kids on a photography outing to the zoo. I consulted my gurus Jogi and Shailan. They urged me to set the kids off and let them find their own vision. And so the seed was planted. We set a date.
Believing that the chemistry of things eventually work themselves out, I let the idea settle in my head and refused to worry about it. Then I thought, why not get my photography friends to mentor these kids? Yes, indeed why not? I “facebooked” Santosh and bless him, he volunteered to come to the center and give the kids a pre-outing talk. Though I was not present, Mala reported that the kids were enthralled and engaged and were psyched about our outing.
I begged and cajoled Neeraj and Hitesh into coming and being a part of my project. They agreed. I asked Amit, to give his time and in his usual gracious manner, he agreed. Vineet to date has never said no to my requests, he was there too! I found Avika on Santosh’ facebook page. Pratibha too was a blessing from Santosh. All I did was ask! All we ever need to do is ask!
Sunday morning. Organized to the minute, Mala and I divided our energies. I would organize the mentors and she would organize the kids. The 12 eager young boys were at the bus stop at 6:00 am and at 6:30 still no bus had come. These clever boys found a Qualis and negotiated a fare of R200 to take them to Lodhi Gardends. My hat off to them!
The outing was a success. Perhaps we did not produce photographic masterpieces but we had given these boys a wonderful Sunday morning. The mentors were happy to give their time, even graciously thankful that I had thought of including them in our project!
Next Sunday morning, I arrived at Qutub Minar at 6:45 to make sure I would be there before our boys got there. At 650 I saw a group of young boys walking towards the entrance. There was Rafi carrying a big box of sandwiches. Truly, a big box of sandwiches! The box was lined with newspaper; they had carefully laid out cheese sandwiches with the crust sides neatly cut off! These young boys walked 45 minutes to get here! I had 15 boys and 10 mentors! The word of our project had spread and friends of friends were dropping by to give our kids their time.
I said goodbye to the kids two days ago. By this time, we have dreams of an exhibition of the children’s photographs. We spread the word that we need wall space to hang their pictures. I am not certain how it will evolve in my absence but I have the suspicion that merely asking for time, or kindness will take us a long way. It has been an amazing three weeks with the boys. If our dream ends here, we will have given them Sundays to remember. If only for those few hours, we will have kept them safe from harm and given them gifts of time and mentorship that were so outside their realm of possibilities. Thank you, my friends and mentors, I now know that all we really need to do is ask and then open our arms to embrace the gifts that we receive.
On my first weeks and months in India, in spite of the horror of the hyjiras at my door and the terror of discovering rats on the A-block tomatoes, I reminded myself that my life here would be more than just tennis and lunches. For two decades life was about Daniel and Rachel. Now it would be about David and I and our dreams.
Even after seeing O.P. Sharma's basement classroom, and suspecting he fibbed about English being the medium of instruction, I still dared to enroll in his 6-month basic photography course. How could I pass up 144 hours of education working out to roughly 55.55 rupees an hour?
Two years later, my life is truly not just about tennis and lunch. Photography is firmly ensconced in my life. I have discovered yoga. I am rediscovering Spanish. And it is not just tennis and lunch. My tennis friends have become truly dear to me and our lunches are always occasions for the laughter that keeps the Indian blues away!
With the relative stability of my domestic situation, the dragons and devils slain, friends made, and routine established, I decided it was time to add a new dimension to my days. It was always in my mind but the daily hiccups of life here were always a good excuse to delay the "giving back."
I met Mala over lunch. In between the niceties of how do you do and how do you like India, she talked about her kids. She runs a center in Malviya Nagar that provides underprivileged children the opportunity to learn English, math and science over and above what the local schools provide (which apparently isn’t very much). Programs run from morning to evening, reaching out to children of all ages.
Mala invited me to come and see the center. With two minds about giving away my only free morning of the week, I agreed. Mala involved me with the kids enjoining me to make sure they were keeping to their learning levels in their varied subjects. That was easy enough.
One Wednesday, Mala suggested we take the kids on a photography outing to the zoo. I consulted my gurus Jogi and Shailan. They urged me to set the kids off and let them find their own vision. And so the seed was planted. We set a date.
Believing that the chemistry of things eventually work themselves out, I let the idea settle in my head and refused to worry about it. Then I thought, why not get my photography friends to mentor these kids? Yes, indeed why not? I “facebooked” Santosh and bless him, he volunteered to come to the center and give the kids a pre-outing talk. Though I was not present, Mala reported that the kids were enthralled and engaged and were psyched about our outing.
I begged and cajoled Neeraj and Hitesh into coming and being a part of my project. They agreed. I asked Amit, to give his time and in his usual gracious manner, he agreed. Vineet to date has never said no to my requests, he was there too! I found Avika on Santosh’ facebook page. Pratibha too was a blessing from Santosh. All I did was ask! All we ever need to do is ask!
Sunday morning. Organized to the minute, Mala and I divided our energies. I would organize the mentors and she would organize the kids. The 12 eager young boys were at the bus stop at 6:00 am and at 6:30 still no bus had come. These clever boys found a Qualis and negotiated a fare of R200 to take them to Lodhi Gardends. My hat off to them!
The outing was a success. Perhaps we did not produce photographic masterpieces but we had given these boys a wonderful Sunday morning. The mentors were happy to give their time, even graciously thankful that I had thought of including them in our project!
Next Sunday morning, I arrived at Qutub Minar at 6:45 to make sure I would be there before our boys got there. At 650 I saw a group of young boys walking towards the entrance. There was Rafi carrying a big box of sandwiches. Truly, a big box of sandwiches! The box was lined with newspaper; they had carefully laid out cheese sandwiches with the crust sides neatly cut off! These young boys walked 45 minutes to get here! I had 15 boys and 10 mentors! The word of our project had spread and friends of friends were dropping by to give our kids their time.
I said goodbye to the kids two days ago. By this time, we have dreams of an exhibition of the children’s photographs. We spread the word that we need wall space to hang their pictures. I am not certain how it will evolve in my absence but I have the suspicion that merely asking for time, or kindness will take us a long way. It has been an amazing three weeks with the boys. If our dream ends here, we will have given them Sundays to remember. If only for those few hours, we will have kept them safe from harm and given them gifts of time and mentorship that were so outside their realm of possibilities. Thank you, my friends and mentors, I now know that all we really need to do is ask and then open our arms to embrace the gifts that we receive.
Monday, April 20, 2009
Hope Springs Eternal at Sarojini Market
Guidebooks say that if you want something inexpensive and are willing to brave the market, Sarojini is the place to go. Rachel and I have had fabulous finds there. For R100 each, Rachel has bought a white American Eagle summer dress, a brand new Fcuk skirt, and a few Billabong tops. I on the other hand have bought a skirt, a dress, and a top none of which I ever wore.
Ambrose now knows exactly where to drop me off. After several instances of confused coordinates, he drops me off in front of the plastic wallah. I walk straight ahead passing the blanket wallah, the shoe wallah, and countless earring and bracelet wallahs.
I take my usual route. Down to peruse the fruits and vegetables, right through the alley where shirts, skirts, dresses and pants hang, covering two tall walls. The vendors sit on their haunches and with eagle eyes monitor passersby for any hint of interest. I walk with head high determined to make obvious my disinterest in their display. However, I spot a pretty white cotton shirt with some delicate blue embroidery. I ask to see it and upon closer inspection find that the embroidery is incomplete in some parts. Pity, it would have been a very cool thing for the summer. I return the shirt to him saying that I don’t want it. He attempts to close a sale.
No madam, how much you want pay?
I don’t like it, embroidery ripped.
Okay, Madam, I give you good price. Only 250.
No, I don’t like it. Embroidery broken. My English fails as I try to get myself understood.
Madam, no, is good!
No.
No? This said in a tone as though he could not believe I could possibly pass up such a good offer.
No!
This exchange is of course witnessed by all the other clothes wallahs hoping to get an insight on how to bargain with me to convince me to part with my 100 or 200 rupees. But I move along, strong in my resolve.
I turn right again to visit the man under the tree who has British India rejects on display.
Tell me what British India stuff you have.
This top, madam, this skirt, all here, British India. There, Billabong.
Show me this skirt. Kitna?
350.
350?! Why so expensive?
British India, madam. And when police come, I have to hide British India.
Fair enough. I consider a purplish blue skirt with floral appliqués. Still a bargain at 350INR but in the end, I conclude that it is not the perfect skirt I came here to buy. So I walk away. This is a confident British India wallah. He allows me to walk away with nary an attempt at a bargain. He knows that the next dilliwali will buy that skirt.
Walking straight ahead, the street is lined with stores selling what seems to be the same tacky skirts and shirts. Yet, it does not stop me from inspecting each store in search of that one special skirt that I am sure will be a steal!
I walk towards a stall. I spot a skirt with an intact Zara label. The sparring begins.
Kitna?
250.
Realize now that this converts to US$4!
I quickly return the skirt to the vendor and show my indifference to his attempt at cheating me. I continue to look at the skirts while he is hopeful I will decide to do some bargaining with him.
He begins, ok, how much?
100.
No madam, 150.
No, 100.
No madam, 150.
I walk away. He doesn’t stop me.
I have just established that the walk-away price for that skirt is 150.
No loss, there will be many other Zara skirts.
I zigzag my way to the “cave” through Ray Ban, handkerchief, laundry basket, papadum, and nimbu panni vendors.
Here comes the apron vendor.
Madam, apron?
No, thank you.
I have many colors, madam.
No thank you.
But madam, it is made of plastic! (How could I possibly not want his apron, it is made of plastic, darn it!)
No thank you.
Here comes an earring vendor. He is the 20th vendor to approach me with this same box of 12 plastic multi-colored earrings.
What patience, what persistence! How can they persist in trying to sell these earrings when there are about 50 other vendors selling the exact same thing? And how can the apron wallah think he can sell me an apron when I so clearly do not want an apron? There must be a Hindu god of patience and perseverance that they have prayed to.
This may amuse you too. Whatever article of clothing you choose, the vendor will try and convince you that it is the right size. I see a pretty skirt which is clearly four sizes too big for me. The skirt wallah starts to explain that it is exactly the right size! See? He shows me how they have stitched a gulley on the inside of a skirt where they have snaked in a fabric pull to make the skirt gather or loosen as the situation demanded! And this size 44 top? Why you not buy, madam? I will give you a good price, you can have stitched on sides, make size 36! What patience, what perseverance, and now what inventiveness!
I manage to dodge all hopeful vendors and reach the "cave." I realize now, that this Sarojini Market which I have always feared getting lost in is really just two streets and that walking as I did today just brings me back to where I started. It took me two years to figure that out, 7 or 8 visits to this market. I've always gone with Rachel who has a keener sense of things than I do and now, left to my own devices, I've finally conquered Sarojini!
Those of you who have been to Sarojini will know exactly where the "cave" is. There are two caves. I am mercifully shielded from the 35C heat though this cave is sweltering as well. The cave holds a treasure trove of Billabongs and other foreign branded items. I slowly look through each item. Sadly, there is nothing that piques my interest and I go out to the sunlight to continue my search. I am empty handed after walking through the market for an hour and a half.
I came today to find the pretty skirt Debbie wore at yoga today. It is a 50INR skirt that looks just perfect as a yoga cover up. However, seeing piles and piles of these haphazardly tailored skirts made me realize that I didn't want one after all.
Why do I visit Sarojini?
When I am with Rachel it is because she enjoys the hunt and has the patience to comb through all the hanging merchandise to find that one special thing. She is very good at it and I enjoy watching her. Maybe I miss her just a little bit and want to revisit places we conquered together.
Perhaps it is because I really thought I wanted that skirt.
Or perhaps it could be that Sarojini is a place of hope. I see hope in the 50th earring wallah trying to sell his wares against all odds. I see hope in the skirt wallah who never tires of attempting to sell the very same thing that his neighbor is selling. Hope is in the manner of the Ray Ban Wallah as he surreptitiously shows me his fake sunglasses. And the apron wallah, he hopes to sell me something I would never possibly want! It is hope and the absence of despair that this place reminds me of. And for myself, I am always hopeful to find that treasure. I never do, but I always hope that next time I will.
Ambrose now knows exactly where to drop me off. After several instances of confused coordinates, he drops me off in front of the plastic wallah. I walk straight ahead passing the blanket wallah, the shoe wallah, and countless earring and bracelet wallahs.
I take my usual route. Down to peruse the fruits and vegetables, right through the alley where shirts, skirts, dresses and pants hang, covering two tall walls. The vendors sit on their haunches and with eagle eyes monitor passersby for any hint of interest. I walk with head high determined to make obvious my disinterest in their display. However, I spot a pretty white cotton shirt with some delicate blue embroidery. I ask to see it and upon closer inspection find that the embroidery is incomplete in some parts. Pity, it would have been a very cool thing for the summer. I return the shirt to him saying that I don’t want it. He attempts to close a sale.
No madam, how much you want pay?
I don’t like it, embroidery ripped.
Okay, Madam, I give you good price. Only 250.
No, I don’t like it. Embroidery broken. My English fails as I try to get myself understood.
Madam, no, is good!
No.
No? This said in a tone as though he could not believe I could possibly pass up such a good offer.
No!
This exchange is of course witnessed by all the other clothes wallahs hoping to get an insight on how to bargain with me to convince me to part with my 100 or 200 rupees. But I move along, strong in my resolve.
I turn right again to visit the man under the tree who has British India rejects on display.
Tell me what British India stuff you have.
This top, madam, this skirt, all here, British India. There, Billabong.
Show me this skirt. Kitna?
350.
350?! Why so expensive?
British India, madam. And when police come, I have to hide British India.
Fair enough. I consider a purplish blue skirt with floral appliqués. Still a bargain at 350INR but in the end, I conclude that it is not the perfect skirt I came here to buy. So I walk away. This is a confident British India wallah. He allows me to walk away with nary an attempt at a bargain. He knows that the next dilliwali will buy that skirt.
Walking straight ahead, the street is lined with stores selling what seems to be the same tacky skirts and shirts. Yet, it does not stop me from inspecting each store in search of that one special skirt that I am sure will be a steal!
I walk towards a stall. I spot a skirt with an intact Zara label. The sparring begins.
Kitna?
250.
Realize now that this converts to US$4!
I quickly return the skirt to the vendor and show my indifference to his attempt at cheating me. I continue to look at the skirts while he is hopeful I will decide to do some bargaining with him.
He begins, ok, how much?
100.
No madam, 150.
No, 100.
No madam, 150.
I walk away. He doesn’t stop me.
I have just established that the walk-away price for that skirt is 150.
No loss, there will be many other Zara skirts.
I zigzag my way to the “cave” through Ray Ban, handkerchief, laundry basket, papadum, and nimbu panni vendors.
Here comes the apron vendor.
Madam, apron?
No, thank you.
I have many colors, madam.
No thank you.
But madam, it is made of plastic! (How could I possibly not want his apron, it is made of plastic, darn it!)
No thank you.
Here comes an earring vendor. He is the 20th vendor to approach me with this same box of 12 plastic multi-colored earrings.
What patience, what persistence! How can they persist in trying to sell these earrings when there are about 50 other vendors selling the exact same thing? And how can the apron wallah think he can sell me an apron when I so clearly do not want an apron? There must be a Hindu god of patience and perseverance that they have prayed to.
This may amuse you too. Whatever article of clothing you choose, the vendor will try and convince you that it is the right size. I see a pretty skirt which is clearly four sizes too big for me. The skirt wallah starts to explain that it is exactly the right size! See? He shows me how they have stitched a gulley on the inside of a skirt where they have snaked in a fabric pull to make the skirt gather or loosen as the situation demanded! And this size 44 top? Why you not buy, madam? I will give you a good price, you can have stitched on sides, make size 36! What patience, what perseverance, and now what inventiveness!
I manage to dodge all hopeful vendors and reach the "cave." I realize now, that this Sarojini Market which I have always feared getting lost in is really just two streets and that walking as I did today just brings me back to where I started. It took me two years to figure that out, 7 or 8 visits to this market. I've always gone with Rachel who has a keener sense of things than I do and now, left to my own devices, I've finally conquered Sarojini!
Those of you who have been to Sarojini will know exactly where the "cave" is. There are two caves. I am mercifully shielded from the 35C heat though this cave is sweltering as well. The cave holds a treasure trove of Billabongs and other foreign branded items. I slowly look through each item. Sadly, there is nothing that piques my interest and I go out to the sunlight to continue my search. I am empty handed after walking through the market for an hour and a half.
I came today to find the pretty skirt Debbie wore at yoga today. It is a 50INR skirt that looks just perfect as a yoga cover up. However, seeing piles and piles of these haphazardly tailored skirts made me realize that I didn't want one after all.
Why do I visit Sarojini?
When I am with Rachel it is because she enjoys the hunt and has the patience to comb through all the hanging merchandise to find that one special thing. She is very good at it and I enjoy watching her. Maybe I miss her just a little bit and want to revisit places we conquered together.
Perhaps it is because I really thought I wanted that skirt.
Or perhaps it could be that Sarojini is a place of hope. I see hope in the 50th earring wallah trying to sell his wares against all odds. I see hope in the skirt wallah who never tires of attempting to sell the very same thing that his neighbor is selling. Hope is in the manner of the Ray Ban Wallah as he surreptitiously shows me his fake sunglasses. And the apron wallah, he hopes to sell me something I would never possibly want! It is hope and the absence of despair that this place reminds me of. And for myself, I am always hopeful to find that treasure. I never do, but I always hope that next time I will.
Monday, April 6, 2009
Just Another Day
Monday mornings are always full of plans for the week.
What shall I make for dinner tonight and the next four nights? Oh yes, remember to send David a reminder about making plans for Srinagar. Send Daniel a copy of his tax information. Oh my! My son now does his own taxes, bless him! Investigate our United Airline miles that we must use. Take care of that pesky club bill which has now morphed into a monster issue.
Thank all the thousand Indian gods for yoga at 10:20 this morning.
After an hour, I have all these to do items safely tucked away in my mind and I face my week with renewed energy, reclaimed calm, and a silent resolve to cross those items off my list as though to clear all the toxins out of my system. Ommm....
I head to Choco La for lunch. Choco La is the one safe, predictable, and usually pleasant little cafe that shields me from the chaos outside its doors.
But here is where the turmoil begins. Three young women chat animatedly, occupying my favorite spot. Ommm...no worries, even I can be generous and forgiving after my hour of cleansing breaths at yoga.
I choose a little table for two by the window. Spanish book and dictionary on the table, I begin to tackle my “deberes." As I look up from my books, I realize they are doing major repair work on the ceiling just behind me. They've opened up the ceiling exposing dark and scary places where lurks vicious little critters that I am certain are set to jump out of the darkness on to my feta cheese bruschetta!
Back to the three young women out for brunch. They each have two children in tow, perhaps seven to nine years of age. The kids have been set loose in the cafe, running back and forth, screeching in their high pitched kids' voices, scurrying around gathering pillows here and depositing them there while their mothers chat blissfully unaware (I suspect that they are inured to the chaos their children create) that their cute little monsters have shattered my morning calm and serenity.
Still determined to hold on to my peace in spite of being swallowed up in this very high decibel room, I walk to the other side of the cafe, my back turned away from the repair work and my ears determined to ignore the children's noise and upheaval. I am hopeful.
I am generally an observant sort. At times, I wish I could learn to focus only on what is in front of me. Not this morning it seems. The repair work, the noisy children, and now this woman at the next table busily performing her private ablutions as though she were sitting in her boudoir! Bas, bas, bas! Too much for today!
You know those pesky little survey cards restaurants push in front of you at bill paying time? I have filled up those cards countless times hoping that one day, a restaurant manager will actually heed my words and make my day just that little bit brighter. But that day has not come, at least not at Choco La. Once again, the sweeper promenades past me with his wet and disgusting mop! Sweeper number two passes me leisurely with his green bucket heading to the restroom for patrons. ¡Que asqueroso!
The chatting mothers are finally finished and have once again invaded my space, their unruly children following them. They choose breads, inspecting every little cake and treat while their children pass by my table putting my cous cous and vegetable soup in danger of being upended and spilled. There is drilling on the other send of the cafe while Il Divo blares in the background. Those poor chaps have been singing non-stop for three weeks now! Next time I fill up that survey form, I will strongly suggest they give Il Divo a rest!
Never have I ever been surer that pushing back and trying to buck the system will not work here in India. After all, there are 1.2billion of them and only one of me! Insurmountable odds!
Yet, there is inspiration and hope! Angieji, my German angel, has eight years in India under her belt. I have watched her in action challenging all status quos, speaking out against all that is unreasonable. She is a picture of charm at cocktail parties but at any other time is a true German soldier, never giving up any good fight! Full of wisdom, full of courage, she faces India squarely, looks it in the eye and bends this mighty world to her will and at the end of it all, comes out smiling and truly reveling in the wonder that is India.
India is a world of contradictions you say? So true, so true, but perhaps then I too must be a contraction? After this morning, I too will be wiser, fighting, yielding, battling, relenting, and keeping myself at an even keel. In the end, I will be victor over the challenges I have chosen to face and be at peace with the battles I have chosen to forgo.
Contradiction vs contradiction: both sides winners, both sides happy!
Perhaps that is the only way.
What shall I make for dinner tonight and the next four nights? Oh yes, remember to send David a reminder about making plans for Srinagar. Send Daniel a copy of his tax information. Oh my! My son now does his own taxes, bless him! Investigate our United Airline miles that we must use. Take care of that pesky club bill which has now morphed into a monster issue.
Thank all the thousand Indian gods for yoga at 10:20 this morning.
After an hour, I have all these to do items safely tucked away in my mind and I face my week with renewed energy, reclaimed calm, and a silent resolve to cross those items off my list as though to clear all the toxins out of my system. Ommm....
I head to Choco La for lunch. Choco La is the one safe, predictable, and usually pleasant little cafe that shields me from the chaos outside its doors.
But here is where the turmoil begins. Three young women chat animatedly, occupying my favorite spot. Ommm...no worries, even I can be generous and forgiving after my hour of cleansing breaths at yoga.
I choose a little table for two by the window. Spanish book and dictionary on the table, I begin to tackle my “deberes." As I look up from my books, I realize they are doing major repair work on the ceiling just behind me. They've opened up the ceiling exposing dark and scary places where lurks vicious little critters that I am certain are set to jump out of the darkness on to my feta cheese bruschetta!
Back to the three young women out for brunch. They each have two children in tow, perhaps seven to nine years of age. The kids have been set loose in the cafe, running back and forth, screeching in their high pitched kids' voices, scurrying around gathering pillows here and depositing them there while their mothers chat blissfully unaware (I suspect that they are inured to the chaos their children create) that their cute little monsters have shattered my morning calm and serenity.
Still determined to hold on to my peace in spite of being swallowed up in this very high decibel room, I walk to the other side of the cafe, my back turned away from the repair work and my ears determined to ignore the children's noise and upheaval. I am hopeful.
I am generally an observant sort. At times, I wish I could learn to focus only on what is in front of me. Not this morning it seems. The repair work, the noisy children, and now this woman at the next table busily performing her private ablutions as though she were sitting in her boudoir! Bas, bas, bas! Too much for today!
You know those pesky little survey cards restaurants push in front of you at bill paying time? I have filled up those cards countless times hoping that one day, a restaurant manager will actually heed my words and make my day just that little bit brighter. But that day has not come, at least not at Choco La. Once again, the sweeper promenades past me with his wet and disgusting mop! Sweeper number two passes me leisurely with his green bucket heading to the restroom for patrons. ¡Que asqueroso!
The chatting mothers are finally finished and have once again invaded my space, their unruly children following them. They choose breads, inspecting every little cake and treat while their children pass by my table putting my cous cous and vegetable soup in danger of being upended and spilled. There is drilling on the other send of the cafe while Il Divo blares in the background. Those poor chaps have been singing non-stop for three weeks now! Next time I fill up that survey form, I will strongly suggest they give Il Divo a rest!
Never have I ever been surer that pushing back and trying to buck the system will not work here in India. After all, there are 1.2billion of them and only one of me! Insurmountable odds!
Yet, there is inspiration and hope! Angieji, my German angel, has eight years in India under her belt. I have watched her in action challenging all status quos, speaking out against all that is unreasonable. She is a picture of charm at cocktail parties but at any other time is a true German soldier, never giving up any good fight! Full of wisdom, full of courage, she faces India squarely, looks it in the eye and bends this mighty world to her will and at the end of it all, comes out smiling and truly reveling in the wonder that is India.
India is a world of contradictions you say? So true, so true, but perhaps then I too must be a contraction? After this morning, I too will be wiser, fighting, yielding, battling, relenting, and keeping myself at an even keel. In the end, I will be victor over the challenges I have chosen to face and be at peace with the battles I have chosen to forgo.
Contradiction vs contradiction: both sides winners, both sides happy!
Perhaps that is the only way.
Friday, October 31, 2008
Life is a Scary Roller Coaster of Thrills
Rosy's out!
I asked Ambrose to escort her and help her pack the very night I decided that I would no longer tolerate belligerence. A bright girl, Rosy has her own mind. Her own very stubborn mind. She decided she was angry at Madam. So Madam decided that she had enough of the pouting and the irritating deep breathes, the tantrums and long absences and hiding out in the maid's quarters. There is only so much I can take but bad behavior and rudeness I will not tolerate for very long. So, I am sure you are all familiar with this exercise. I have wasted two days of my life waiting for maids to interview. Unbeknownst to me there was a local festival which perhaps made commuting difficult so they just didn't bother to show up. I am an old hand at this, this is all part of the "game."
In the meantime, it is glorious singing in the house. I've prepared only simple meals so that intense kitchen work is not required. I've warned my housemate (guess who that might be) to be very careful with the bathrooms lest he ends up scrubbing them himself. For now, all is good as the reality of dust and dirt have not overcome me.
But wait, this roller coaster ride is not just about Rosy. In the past three weeks, I have been to Singapore, Switzerland, and Shimla. In the coming week I am looking at a few days at Sohna. What is it with all these S places in my life right now? I have been blessed with lots of traveling. Maybe a higher power knows that without these breaks, I myself might break and lose my dilliwaali cool.
It was very exciting for me to witness the first night time F1 race hosted by Singapore. We were at the Paddock Club right above the pit stop for Ferrari. I shot so many photographs (a fair amount of pavement, having missed the cars zooming by) but unfortunately missed the moment when the Ferrari zoomed off with the fuel line still on it. We were feted by champagne and wine and glorious food through the evening. Singapore hosted the event impeccably and the next day, congratulations for Singapore were aplenty having cited the almost clockwork arrangements made to accommodate the crowds.
More than than the F1, Singapore for me, is a lovely place to visit. A friend of mine said that he could not possibly see himself living here as things are just too darned orderly. He could never survive in such order being more used to the systematic chaos of Delhi. And my heart feels the exact opposite. Though David and I were surprised that buildings sprouted where there were none, still, my feet knew exactly where to go and I had enough connection with the city and friends to remind me how much I missed living in this sometimes called sterile city. We were booked at the St. Regis whose reputation as a very fine hotel is certainly deserved. We had a personal butler to pick up the pressing or finagle with the tv that somehow would not go on or make a cappuccino if you felt like one no matter the time of day. I met up with a couple of dear friends and we sat in our hotel room and were served our lattes and cappuccinos while we chatted. Ah the life!
How sophisticated it all sounds to go to Switzerland for the weekend. Well, that is exactly how sophisticated I was! We took an early morning direct flight into Zurich. We took a car to Lucerne to meet the President's Club winners. What a charming group of young couples. They have worked so hard to exceed all expectations in their respective groups and thus were rewarded with an all expense paid trip to Switzerland. With planning for this trip seemingly on again then off again, I wondered why it was that the winners insisted on Switzerland. I later discovered that it is every Indian's dream (well, you know what I mean) to travel to Lucerne to see the cable cars where most Bollywood action takes place: I can only imagine cable car chases peppered with some dancing and singing. We arrived at the hotel with an hour to spare before our trip to Mt. Titlis.
Mt. Titlis is a glacier paradise at 10,000 feet. To reach its summit, we made three or four transfers on to different cable cars, the most exciting of which was a bubble with a rotating floor so that 360 degree views of the mountain could be enjoyed. The snow was pure white, pure powder, pure wonder! David and I enjoyed walking through the glacier. We had lunch at the mountaintop Movenpick then headed back to the hotel for a quick rest before the evening's cruise and award ceremony.
As I had traveled all the way to Switzerland to join this awesome family of winners, I was given a task: I was to award the trophy after David congratulated the winner and awarded the certificate. I did my job well. In this family is a quiet and charming lady from Assam. Her husband was the top performer. She said that in Assam, they pay respect and goodwill to their elders and guests by placing a simple mantle over the shoulder. With simple and elegant movement, she folded the mantle, walked up to David and bestowed upon him the respect and gratitude that was in her heart. Then she took a few steps to me and did the same. There was no greater honor for us. In her simplicity and sincerity, she touched me deeply.
The group visited Lucerne the next morning. We walked around the town and of course snapped photographs of the charming Chapel Bridge on the Reuss River. I discovered several Catholic churches within short distances of each other. I later read that during Reformation after 1520, most cities became Protestant but Lucerne remained Catholic. We also visited the Lion Monument commemorating the hundreds of Swiss Guards who were massacred in 1792 during the French Revolution when the mob stormed the Tuileries Palace in Paris. It was too short a morning to explore Lucerne. We headed to Zurich.
The group decided to stay in and rest as they had another full day in Zurich. David & I were scheduled to fly early the next morning so we took the opportunity to see Zurich. I love traveling with David. It is like having a personal compass at all times! We took the train into the city and walked for hours. We started at Bahnhofstrasse and made stops at Grossmunster (built around 820 and declared by Charlemagne as imperial church) and Fraumunster (built 874 with a Romanesque choire from 1250) to marvel once again at Chagall's windows. We gazed at St. Peter's clock face reputed to be the largest in the world. We walked through parks with people busy with Boce ball and huge games of chess. We walked along the river. We just walked and walked, enjoying the river, the people, the city, the streets, just everything. I understand now why it is reported that Zurich gives one the best quality of life. Fresh air, fresh food, clean streets, wondrous surroundings, is this almost perfection?
Now back to the reality of India. Diwali's gift to us was a long weekend. Thursday morning I frenetically researched a weekend destination. Shimla it was! Nitin A, a photography buddy gave me loads of advice and in the end, David and I decided to splurge on a weekend at Wildflower Hall, a wonderful destination by itself. Ambrose drove all the way save for a long stretch where David rescued him while he got some zzzs. Our first day in Shimla was hazy; we had some mountain views but could only glean the Himalayas from afar. But the comfortable lounge chairs around the hot tub positioned to enjoy the mountains were inviting and I spent a good afternoon napping. In the evening we explored Mall road. The next day we woke up to the spectacular sight of the Himalayas peeking out from the distance. Between relaxing and reading and napping, we shot pictures of the awesome snow-capped Himalayas. In the evening, we ventured out to the helipad to take sunset photographs. We enjoyed a relaxed weekend at the Wildflower.
After these thrills, here I am faced with the scary prospect of the maid interviews. I've decided to change my strategy. Where I was once afraid of scaring them off with work, I will now be very specific that I only want someone who works hard. Someone who will do the work required whenever required. No more queen Marys for me, no more stubborn Rosys. I am very willing to pay the price--I just want someone who will work honestly to keep my house in order. Keep your fingers and toes crossed for me. Interviewing and searching for the elusive Mary Poppins will certainly be the roller coaster zooming to its deepest depths!
I asked Ambrose to escort her and help her pack the very night I decided that I would no longer tolerate belligerence. A bright girl, Rosy has her own mind. Her own very stubborn mind. She decided she was angry at Madam. So Madam decided that she had enough of the pouting and the irritating deep breathes, the tantrums and long absences and hiding out in the maid's quarters. There is only so much I can take but bad behavior and rudeness I will not tolerate for very long. So, I am sure you are all familiar with this exercise. I have wasted two days of my life waiting for maids to interview. Unbeknownst to me there was a local festival which perhaps made commuting difficult so they just didn't bother to show up. I am an old hand at this, this is all part of the "game."
In the meantime, it is glorious singing in the house. I've prepared only simple meals so that intense kitchen work is not required. I've warned my housemate (guess who that might be) to be very careful with the bathrooms lest he ends up scrubbing them himself. For now, all is good as the reality of dust and dirt have not overcome me.
But wait, this roller coaster ride is not just about Rosy. In the past three weeks, I have been to Singapore, Switzerland, and Shimla. In the coming week I am looking at a few days at Sohna. What is it with all these S places in my life right now? I have been blessed with lots of traveling. Maybe a higher power knows that without these breaks, I myself might break and lose my dilliwaali cool.
It was very exciting for me to witness the first night time F1 race hosted by Singapore. We were at the Paddock Club right above the pit stop for Ferrari. I shot so many photographs (a fair amount of pavement, having missed the cars zooming by) but unfortunately missed the moment when the Ferrari zoomed off with the fuel line still on it. We were feted by champagne and wine and glorious food through the evening. Singapore hosted the event impeccably and the next day, congratulations for Singapore were aplenty having cited the almost clockwork arrangements made to accommodate the crowds.
More than than the F1, Singapore for me, is a lovely place to visit. A friend of mine said that he could not possibly see himself living here as things are just too darned orderly. He could never survive in such order being more used to the systematic chaos of Delhi. And my heart feels the exact opposite. Though David and I were surprised that buildings sprouted where there were none, still, my feet knew exactly where to go and I had enough connection with the city and friends to remind me how much I missed living in this sometimes called sterile city. We were booked at the St. Regis whose reputation as a very fine hotel is certainly deserved. We had a personal butler to pick up the pressing or finagle with the tv that somehow would not go on or make a cappuccino if you felt like one no matter the time of day. I met up with a couple of dear friends and we sat in our hotel room and were served our lattes and cappuccinos while we chatted. Ah the life!
How sophisticated it all sounds to go to Switzerland for the weekend. Well, that is exactly how sophisticated I was! We took an early morning direct flight into Zurich. We took a car to Lucerne to meet the President's Club winners. What a charming group of young couples. They have worked so hard to exceed all expectations in their respective groups and thus were rewarded with an all expense paid trip to Switzerland. With planning for this trip seemingly on again then off again, I wondered why it was that the winners insisted on Switzerland. I later discovered that it is every Indian's dream (well, you know what I mean) to travel to Lucerne to see the cable cars where most Bollywood action takes place: I can only imagine cable car chases peppered with some dancing and singing. We arrived at the hotel with an hour to spare before our trip to Mt. Titlis.
Mt. Titlis is a glacier paradise at 10,000 feet. To reach its summit, we made three or four transfers on to different cable cars, the most exciting of which was a bubble with a rotating floor so that 360 degree views of the mountain could be enjoyed. The snow was pure white, pure powder, pure wonder! David and I enjoyed walking through the glacier. We had lunch at the mountaintop Movenpick then headed back to the hotel for a quick rest before the evening's cruise and award ceremony.
As I had traveled all the way to Switzerland to join this awesome family of winners, I was given a task: I was to award the trophy after David congratulated the winner and awarded the certificate. I did my job well. In this family is a quiet and charming lady from Assam. Her husband was the top performer. She said that in Assam, they pay respect and goodwill to their elders and guests by placing a simple mantle over the shoulder. With simple and elegant movement, she folded the mantle, walked up to David and bestowed upon him the respect and gratitude that was in her heart. Then she took a few steps to me and did the same. There was no greater honor for us. In her simplicity and sincerity, she touched me deeply.
The group visited Lucerne the next morning. We walked around the town and of course snapped photographs of the charming Chapel Bridge on the Reuss River. I discovered several Catholic churches within short distances of each other. I later read that during Reformation after 1520, most cities became Protestant but Lucerne remained Catholic. We also visited the Lion Monument commemorating the hundreds of Swiss Guards who were massacred in 1792 during the French Revolution when the mob stormed the Tuileries Palace in Paris. It was too short a morning to explore Lucerne. We headed to Zurich.
The group decided to stay in and rest as they had another full day in Zurich. David & I were scheduled to fly early the next morning so we took the opportunity to see Zurich. I love traveling with David. It is like having a personal compass at all times! We took the train into the city and walked for hours. We started at Bahnhofstrasse and made stops at Grossmunster (built around 820 and declared by Charlemagne as imperial church) and Fraumunster (built 874 with a Romanesque choire from 1250) to marvel once again at Chagall's windows. We gazed at St. Peter's clock face reputed to be the largest in the world. We walked through parks with people busy with Boce ball and huge games of chess. We walked along the river. We just walked and walked, enjoying the river, the people, the city, the streets, just everything. I understand now why it is reported that Zurich gives one the best quality of life. Fresh air, fresh food, clean streets, wondrous surroundings, is this almost perfection?
Now back to the reality of India. Diwali's gift to us was a long weekend. Thursday morning I frenetically researched a weekend destination. Shimla it was! Nitin A, a photography buddy gave me loads of advice and in the end, David and I decided to splurge on a weekend at Wildflower Hall, a wonderful destination by itself. Ambrose drove all the way save for a long stretch where David rescued him while he got some zzzs. Our first day in Shimla was hazy; we had some mountain views but could only glean the Himalayas from afar. But the comfortable lounge chairs around the hot tub positioned to enjoy the mountains were inviting and I spent a good afternoon napping. In the evening we explored Mall road. The next day we woke up to the spectacular sight of the Himalayas peeking out from the distance. Between relaxing and reading and napping, we shot pictures of the awesome snow-capped Himalayas. In the evening, we ventured out to the helipad to take sunset photographs. We enjoyed a relaxed weekend at the Wildflower.
After these thrills, here I am faced with the scary prospect of the maid interviews. I've decided to change my strategy. Where I was once afraid of scaring them off with work, I will now be very specific that I only want someone who works hard. Someone who will do the work required whenever required. No more queen Marys for me, no more stubborn Rosys. I am very willing to pay the price--I just want someone who will work honestly to keep my house in order. Keep your fingers and toes crossed for me. Interviewing and searching for the elusive Mary Poppins will certainly be the roller coaster zooming to its deepest depths!
Friday, September 19, 2008
It All Evens Out in the End
Summer and the monsoons are almost a memory. After the over sized orange full moon we had this month, it is finally cool enough to sleep with windows open once again. Delhi will turn wonderfully chilly then cold and summer's swelter will be forgotten. Trees are green and with the exit of the rains, their leaves will once again be gray with Delhi dust.
This is my second summer in Delhi, with days much milder than last year's convection oven days. But the summer annoyances indigenous to perhaps the whole of India were ever present. There were days I walked through Basant Lok swatting the hordes of flies that flew in my path as I did my dinner shopping. I cursed at the flies, breathe deeply in disgust, breathe out the fowl air in more disgust, wiped my sweating brow and just hated the moment. Yet, I looked behind me and following me was a boy carrying my groceries. And ahead, there was Ambrose waiting in the car ready to take Madam home. Life can be both fair and unfair in extremes.
I am calloused to many things Indian now. I no longer hear the foreign music blaring in the market. I no longer smell the greasy cooking in roadside dhabas. I no longer see the stark need in beggar's eyes. Cows napping on main roads no longer interest me. I ignore potholes, kamikaze cyclists, three-wheelers, motorcycles dangerously carrying a family of five. I no longer expect sanity on the roads and leave Ambrose to navigate as best he can. Mary Poppins does not exist, or if she does, she doesn't live in Delhi. Hijiras no longer grip me with fear. Turbans, beards, kurtas, dupattas are everyday to me. I accept dusty shoes as inevitable. I sidestep annoying rain puddles adroitly. The unexpected never surprises me.
I have learned secrets for survival. In my blackberry are now magic phone numbers that make life in Delhi sweet.
Mr. Raman will gently encourage me to keep my knees straighter, stretch just a little bit more, inhale and exhale the proper way, empty my mind of all thoughts, relax~all in an hour's yoga session. He will come to my house at 630 in the morning and David and I will have no excuse to skip yoga.
With strong and deft fingers Raghuvesh, our acupressure guy comes and works on my feet to magically ease my niggling back and shoulder pains. With David, he works equal if different magic.
If I ever want a book to read but can't be bothered to leave home, I call the local bookshop and for IR50, they will deliver the desired book to my doorstep.
For now, at least for now, my household is a well-oiled machine. Rosy, Mr. Lal, Ambrose, Raju, Survesh, Subhash, each at their own task keep things going smoothly. There are no guarantees of permanence but I have learned to enjoy the moment and have ceased to worry about the imminent.
The eternal student, I fill my time with photography, Spanish, and even salsa classes! And there is lots of time on the tennis court as well. So you tell me, doesn't it all even out in the end?
This is my second summer in Delhi, with days much milder than last year's convection oven days. But the summer annoyances indigenous to perhaps the whole of India were ever present. There were days I walked through Basant Lok swatting the hordes of flies that flew in my path as I did my dinner shopping. I cursed at the flies, breathe deeply in disgust, breathe out the fowl air in more disgust, wiped my sweating brow and just hated the moment. Yet, I looked behind me and following me was a boy carrying my groceries. And ahead, there was Ambrose waiting in the car ready to take Madam home. Life can be both fair and unfair in extremes.
I am calloused to many things Indian now. I no longer hear the foreign music blaring in the market. I no longer smell the greasy cooking in roadside dhabas. I no longer see the stark need in beggar's eyes. Cows napping on main roads no longer interest me. I ignore potholes, kamikaze cyclists, three-wheelers, motorcycles dangerously carrying a family of five. I no longer expect sanity on the roads and leave Ambrose to navigate as best he can. Mary Poppins does not exist, or if she does, she doesn't live in Delhi. Hijiras no longer grip me with fear. Turbans, beards, kurtas, dupattas are everyday to me. I accept dusty shoes as inevitable. I sidestep annoying rain puddles adroitly. The unexpected never surprises me.
I have learned secrets for survival. In my blackberry are now magic phone numbers that make life in Delhi sweet.
Mr. Raman will gently encourage me to keep my knees straighter, stretch just a little bit more, inhale and exhale the proper way, empty my mind of all thoughts, relax~all in an hour's yoga session. He will come to my house at 630 in the morning and David and I will have no excuse to skip yoga.
With strong and deft fingers Raghuvesh, our acupressure guy comes and works on my feet to magically ease my niggling back and shoulder pains. With David, he works equal if different magic.
If I ever want a book to read but can't be bothered to leave home, I call the local bookshop and for IR50, they will deliver the desired book to my doorstep.
For now, at least for now, my household is a well-oiled machine. Rosy, Mr. Lal, Ambrose, Raju, Survesh, Subhash, each at their own task keep things going smoothly. There are no guarantees of permanence but I have learned to enjoy the moment and have ceased to worry about the imminent.
The eternal student, I fill my time with photography, Spanish, and even salsa classes! And there is lots of time on the tennis court as well. So you tell me, doesn't it all even out in the end?
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
Rosy, Rosy
Let me tell you about Rosy. A few hours after spitfire Mary slammed the door, Raju the maid "procurer" produced Rosie.
From the Assam region of India, Rosy is a sprite of a girl, a power packed little package. After only a week of training Rosy, I had no choice but to trust her to mind Max and the house over our one month holiday. I left her with a lengthy list of chores which Ambrose faithfully translated and explained daily. UV, David's assistant, reported a few hiccups with Rosy but in all, the chemistry of things seemed to have worked out. Once on a plane away from India, I refused to worry about domestic details. I left my fate to UV and Ambrose who would inform me of any major disasters. I didn't want to know about dhobis and malis. I only wanted to be informed if the house burned down!
Last year's horrors of settling in are indelibly impressed on my mind and I feared that after enjoying first-world comforts for a month (oh the wide open spaces of California, the fresh air, stupendous Trader Joe's) divine retribution would have me reliving those horrors. The hygiras would not come knocking this time round but I suspected the commencement of another hot apprentice season.
You may already know the Ambrose story (A Governmental Disruption). So now I will tell you the Rosy story. Life in India is full of stories. Perhaps that is why most Indian friends start off a conversation with "so tell me...."
Rosy and I have been working together for a month and a half now. Though I was skeptical that our arrangement would not work, I was still willing to give it a try, let it run its course so to speak. With her limited English I was forced to rely on exaggerated sign language to get my message across. Rosy frowns. She was always frowning till I realized her frown had more to do with the heat of the day or the proximity of any English spoken. However, we are starting to iron out the kinks in our relationship. She frowns less these days, why, I've even heard her singing in the kitchen!
From the Assam region of India, Rosy is a sprite of a girl, a power packed little package. After only a week of training Rosy, I had no choice but to trust her to mind Max and the house over our one month holiday. I left her with a lengthy list of chores which Ambrose faithfully translated and explained daily. UV, David's assistant, reported a few hiccups with Rosy but in all, the chemistry of things seemed to have worked out. Once on a plane away from India, I refused to worry about domestic details. I left my fate to UV and Ambrose who would inform me of any major disasters. I didn't want to know about dhobis and malis. I only wanted to be informed if the house burned down!
Last year's horrors of settling in are indelibly impressed on my mind and I feared that after enjoying first-world comforts for a month (oh the wide open spaces of California, the fresh air, stupendous Trader Joe's) divine retribution would have me reliving those horrors. The hygiras would not come knocking this time round but I suspected the commencement of another hot apprentice season.
You may already know the Ambrose story (A Governmental Disruption). So now I will tell you the Rosy story. Life in India is full of stories. Perhaps that is why most Indian friends start off a conversation with "so tell me...."
Rosy and I have been working together for a month and a half now. Though I was skeptical that our arrangement would not work, I was still willing to give it a try, let it run its course so to speak. With her limited English I was forced to rely on exaggerated sign language to get my message across. Rosy frowns. She was always frowning till I realized her frown had more to do with the heat of the day or the proximity of any English spoken. However, we are starting to iron out the kinks in our relationship. She frowns less these days, why, I've even heard her singing in the kitchen!
If I could have only three words to describe Rosy, those words would be LITTLE, LOUD, and LIGHTNING. A little girl of about 90 pounds, she has the lungs of an operatic singer when she opens the door and yells "ba-hi-aaaa" calling for Ambrose to do her heavy lifting. She bangs pots and pans with lightning speed at the kitchen sink as though she were gunning for the Guinness record. In the evenings we work together slicing and chopping, preparing dinner. Inevitably she is impatient to grab the chopping knife from me smiling, "I do quickly, quickly. You are too slow because you don't work, you no practice."
Though I fear that writing this might jinx it, I am hopeful that Rosy will turn out to be my Mary Poppins. People and things are not always what or how we expect them to be. She isn't the English-speaking, lasagna-baking whiz of a housekeeper I hoped for. But she is here with me and each evening we learn about each other. She is proud of her beautiful Assam. She declares that Hindi is a good language. She explains that without chili, no food is good. She admits that her big brother says she moves too fast and talks too loud. She is eager to learn (last night she took the Hindi-English dictionary up to her room to study). She enthusiastically explains how she made her dahivada (not surprisingly, mixing dahi and vada makes dahivada!). I honestly admit there is much I don't understand about India and her people. But so far, Rosy I understand, and this is a good start.
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
A Governmental Disruption
If my household ever reached a point of near perfection my life in India may cease to interest me. After a month-long holiday, I came home to sad news. Ambrose, my driver, my one dependable rock in this rocky India has told me he is leaving my employ. After two years of waiting for a response to his government application, he has been chosen.
I was losing him to the government. It was unfathomable. Why would anyone want to work with a government known to be inefficient and corrupt? I asked everyone. Here is what I found. Working for the government meant taking a pay cut but also the right to look forward to a pension upon retirement. It meant that Ambrose had a job for life. It meant medical and dental insurance. It meant a provident fund. It meant that he could have government housing with subsidized rent. He had no choice, I did not stand a chance against all this. I steeled myself to replacing Ambrose. Had it been another job, I would have asked him to stay. But this was clearly good for him and his family so I gave him my blessing to go and work for the blasted government. Had it been any other job, he said, he would not have left me.
In the meantime, I was fortunate to find Azad. Azad spoke English well and for five years was employed by my very good friend Menchie. Rachel reminded me that Azad would never be Ambrose and I had better accept that reality. So I tried my best. Azad didn't anticipate my needs as Ambrose did. He didn't know that the first time I opened the door in the morning, my tennis bag needed to go in the car. He didn't know that the second time I opened the door in the morning, we were heading out to the tennis court. He just didn't know all the little signals. Poor Azad. And yet, Azad showed me places I had never seen before. Going to the same places I frequented, Azad took different routes. His knowledge of Delhi roads was amazing! Even returning to D-block was an adventure. Azad was not Ambrose, but he was also amazingly good. A little fine-tuning was all that was necessary and I was willing to be patient. I prepared myself for a period of adjustment, an Azad breaking in period.
One evening during the first week of Ambrose departure, I got a clipped message from him.
"Madam I am leaving my job. I am not satisfy."
"Come back to me." was my quick reply.
We had a brief phone conversation. In spite of all the good things that he looked forward to, what could make him leave a job that was so clearly the dream of his peers? He was not happy. He was among government employees who used harsh language. He was slated to work from 8:00 am to 4:00 pm but often worked much later without any recompense. Most of the time the drivers sat around among themselves. He was bored. Plus, he adds, they want him to wear a bush jacket! No jeans and long sleeved shirts. Maybe that was the straw that broke the camel's back. Everything would have been bearable but not to be allowed to wear jeans was just unacceptable!
Ambrose is back. He reads my signals as he has for a year and a half. He puts up my window sunshades in the mornings. He gets my tennis bag to the car. We continue our routine. Only now, he knows that whatever is out there can't be better than right here.
I was losing him to the government. It was unfathomable. Why would anyone want to work with a government known to be inefficient and corrupt? I asked everyone. Here is what I found. Working for the government meant taking a pay cut but also the right to look forward to a pension upon retirement. It meant that Ambrose had a job for life. It meant medical and dental insurance. It meant a provident fund. It meant that he could have government housing with subsidized rent. He had no choice, I did not stand a chance against all this. I steeled myself to replacing Ambrose. Had it been another job, I would have asked him to stay. But this was clearly good for him and his family so I gave him my blessing to go and work for the blasted government. Had it been any other job, he said, he would not have left me.
In the meantime, I was fortunate to find Azad. Azad spoke English well and for five years was employed by my very good friend Menchie. Rachel reminded me that Azad would never be Ambrose and I had better accept that reality. So I tried my best. Azad didn't anticipate my needs as Ambrose did. He didn't know that the first time I opened the door in the morning, my tennis bag needed to go in the car. He didn't know that the second time I opened the door in the morning, we were heading out to the tennis court. He just didn't know all the little signals. Poor Azad. And yet, Azad showed me places I had never seen before. Going to the same places I frequented, Azad took different routes. His knowledge of Delhi roads was amazing! Even returning to D-block was an adventure. Azad was not Ambrose, but he was also amazingly good. A little fine-tuning was all that was necessary and I was willing to be patient. I prepared myself for a period of adjustment, an Azad breaking in period.
One evening during the first week of Ambrose departure, I got a clipped message from him.
"Madam I am leaving my job. I am not satisfy."
"Come back to me." was my quick reply.
We had a brief phone conversation. In spite of all the good things that he looked forward to, what could make him leave a job that was so clearly the dream of his peers? He was not happy. He was among government employees who used harsh language. He was slated to work from 8:00 am to 4:00 pm but often worked much later without any recompense. Most of the time the drivers sat around among themselves. He was bored. Plus, he adds, they want him to wear a bush jacket! No jeans and long sleeved shirts. Maybe that was the straw that broke the camel's back. Everything would have been bearable but not to be allowed to wear jeans was just unacceptable!
Ambrose is back. He reads my signals as he has for a year and a half. He puts up my window sunshades in the mornings. He gets my tennis bag to the car. We continue our routine. Only now, he knows that whatever is out there can't be better than right here.
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
Say Yes
For almost a year now, I have listened to Sharma sir expound on the wonders of lighting and lenses, cameras and composition. Though theory is taught in English, most of his anecdotes, which I long to understand, go over my head as he uses Hindi to reach his students (except me, of course). What amazes me is how much I have picked up not from understanding his vignettes delivered with his signature crooked smile, but rather by being in the mere presence of all the avid and eager photographers and learned and accommodating teachers. I have long debated with myself about remaining matriculated at Treveni but today, I have ascertained the validity of my decision to remain.
Photography as a hobby has already rewarded me immensely. Celso in Davao has asked me for prints to display proudly in his office. He has also asked me to put together a collection of prints to frame and hang in his sweet shop at the Fort in Makati. He suggested we put them up for sale and donate the proceeds to a charity of our choice. Cherry in Manila has requested a series of black and whites to adorn the walls of her soon to be completed black and white themed house. I have received numerous positive comments about the relatively minuscule pictures I have posted here and requests to post larger versions of my work. All this I receive humbly, with gladness in my heart that my fledgling efforts have not gone unnoticed.
But all patience and hard work eventually come to fruition. Last weekend, Sidharthe (of the Close Encounters of the Third Kind blog fame) needed professional photographs taken of his Silverline jewelry and thought that I would do the job. With a new showroom having branched off the more established and iconic store of his father, Sidharthe J. spearheads innovative efforts at putting Silverline out there for everyone to notice. Young, energetic, and sometimes even irreverent, he is the fresh force driving the new store to success. A firm believer in exposure and advertising, he and Silverline, Khan Market has been the subject of several interviews and features in newspapers and magazines.
I am touched by his belief in me as a photographer. Sidharthe J.and I are "gemology junkies" but this has brought a new dimension to our friendship. I do not for one moment suggest that he has the critical and practiced eye to discern a well composed, well lit, and well focused photograph. Not at all. I see him as a young man who allows his intuitive senses and gut feelings to guide him in his forays. Seeing as he sits on the bosses chair at his store, seeing that people gather and crowd in his showroom, my guess is that he has indeed been blessed with the magic to mix his education and good sense with the intangible of his intuition. I prayed I would not disappoint him.
Jointly we chose pieces to be photographed. I wracked my brain for a way to make the bracelets sit, the earrings stand, and the bangles hang. I was not going to do this alone. I invited Siddarth D. (of the Red Earth blog fame) to be my partner in this project. We set our shoot for Monday, a mere two days before Sidharthe's (J) Wednesday deadline. Talk of pressure! Not knowing that this project would come my way, I had also invited three ladies to lunch on Monday and promised to cook them a simple meal before our afternoon shopping trip. Multi-tasker to the max, I figured I could make lunch, entertain three ladies and my pal Etienne, shoot with Siddarth, and after that, head to Basant Lok for our afternoon outing. Whew! I was tired already.
I worried about the shoot all of Sunday. At the end of the day, upon Siddharth's (D) suggestion, I went to a stationery store to buy poster cards for backgrounds. Black, blue, Indian red, textured and smooth, I bought all I could lay my hands on still not knowing exactly how I would pull this off. Adjacent to the stationery store was a rice and grain store. I saw gunny sacks of various pulses: red kidneys, green mung, black dal, yellow and orange lentils, unhusked rice. What a perfectly organic background to Silverline jewelry! I purchased a kilo of every color of every pulse I saw. I suspect the young boy attending to me wondered what in the world I was going to cook with all these different beans but I didn't care, I was ecstatic with my idea!
Siddharth (D) arrived at my house with his strobe, diffuser, reflector and camera. I was ready with my pulses, Silverline jewelry and of course my magnificent D300 and an array of lenses. Siddharth set up the main light. We struggled with the poster backgrounds, tried bust forms for the necklaces, acrylic hangers for the earrings. Everything looked stilted and stiff. This simply would not do. I poured the unhusked rice in a crystal bowl and sat the Hyderabadi polke bangle and dangling earrings on the mound of rice. Perfection! We experimented with a few shots honing in on the exact exposure needed. Once we got the proper exposure, we varied our perspective to capture the jewelry's allure. It was a tedious process of trial and error, moving the camera up or down, using the 50mm vs the wide angle lens, pointing the reflector to the left or to the right, using its gold or silver side. We complimented a Lapiz Lazuli pendant with red kidney beans, textured gold and diamond earrings with black pulses. We walked back and forth to the computer to view our work. What joy to see our creations! We coordinated pulse colors with jewelry, lenses with the pieces to be photographed. At the end of the day, our energies were depleted but our spirits were high!
I returned home today after having shown Sidharthe (J) our photographs. He loved them! Happily, Siddarth and I congratulated ourselves on a job well done.
Here is what I have learned. Sometimes, we don't know what we are capable of. Other people see it in us but we fail to see it ourselves. Sometimes we just have to take that leap of faith to explore what is out there. Sometimes we succeed brilliantly and I am sure we will also fail miserably. Sometimes, all we need to do is to say "YES." To Sidharthe and Siddharth, my sincere thanks.
Photography as a hobby has already rewarded me immensely. Celso in Davao has asked me for prints to display proudly in his office. He has also asked me to put together a collection of prints to frame and hang in his sweet shop at the Fort in Makati. He suggested we put them up for sale and donate the proceeds to a charity of our choice. Cherry in Manila has requested a series of black and whites to adorn the walls of her soon to be completed black and white themed house. I have received numerous positive comments about the relatively minuscule pictures I have posted here and requests to post larger versions of my work. All this I receive humbly, with gladness in my heart that my fledgling efforts have not gone unnoticed.
But all patience and hard work eventually come to fruition. Last weekend, Sidharthe (of the Close Encounters of the Third Kind blog fame) needed professional photographs taken of his Silverline jewelry and thought that I would do the job. With a new showroom having branched off the more established and iconic store of his father, Sidharthe J. spearheads innovative efforts at putting Silverline out there for everyone to notice. Young, energetic, and sometimes even irreverent, he is the fresh force driving the new store to success. A firm believer in exposure and advertising, he and Silverline, Khan Market has been the subject of several interviews and features in newspapers and magazines.
I am touched by his belief in me as a photographer. Sidharthe J.and I are "gemology junkies" but this has brought a new dimension to our friendship. I do not for one moment suggest that he has the critical and practiced eye to discern a well composed, well lit, and well focused photograph. Not at all. I see him as a young man who allows his intuitive senses and gut feelings to guide him in his forays. Seeing as he sits on the bosses chair at his store, seeing that people gather and crowd in his showroom, my guess is that he has indeed been blessed with the magic to mix his education and good sense with the intangible of his intuition. I prayed I would not disappoint him.
Jointly we chose pieces to be photographed. I wracked my brain for a way to make the bracelets sit, the earrings stand, and the bangles hang. I was not going to do this alone. I invited Siddarth D. (of the Red Earth blog fame) to be my partner in this project. We set our shoot for Monday, a mere two days before Sidharthe's (J) Wednesday deadline. Talk of pressure! Not knowing that this project would come my way, I had also invited three ladies to lunch on Monday and promised to cook them a simple meal before our afternoon shopping trip. Multi-tasker to the max, I figured I could make lunch, entertain three ladies and my pal Etienne, shoot with Siddarth, and after that, head to Basant Lok for our afternoon outing. Whew! I was tired already.
I worried about the shoot all of Sunday. At the end of the day, upon Siddharth's (D) suggestion, I went to a stationery store to buy poster cards for backgrounds. Black, blue, Indian red, textured and smooth, I bought all I could lay my hands on still not knowing exactly how I would pull this off. Adjacent to the stationery store was a rice and grain store. I saw gunny sacks of various pulses: red kidneys, green mung, black dal, yellow and orange lentils, unhusked rice. What a perfectly organic background to Silverline jewelry! I purchased a kilo of every color of every pulse I saw. I suspect the young boy attending to me wondered what in the world I was going to cook with all these different beans but I didn't care, I was ecstatic with my idea!
Siddharth (D) arrived at my house with his strobe, diffuser, reflector and camera. I was ready with my pulses, Silverline jewelry and of course my magnificent D300 and an array of lenses. Siddharth set up the main light. We struggled with the poster backgrounds, tried bust forms for the necklaces, acrylic hangers for the earrings. Everything looked stilted and stiff. This simply would not do. I poured the unhusked rice in a crystal bowl and sat the Hyderabadi polke bangle and dangling earrings on the mound of rice. Perfection! We experimented with a few shots honing in on the exact exposure needed. Once we got the proper exposure, we varied our perspective to capture the jewelry's allure. It was a tedious process of trial and error, moving the camera up or down, using the 50mm vs the wide angle lens, pointing the reflector to the left or to the right, using its gold or silver side. We complimented a Lapiz Lazuli pendant with red kidney beans, textured gold and diamond earrings with black pulses. We walked back and forth to the computer to view our work. What joy to see our creations! We coordinated pulse colors with jewelry, lenses with the pieces to be photographed. At the end of the day, our energies were depleted but our spirits were high!
I returned home today after having shown Sidharthe (J) our photographs. He loved them! Happily, Siddarth and I congratulated ourselves on a job well done.
Here is what I have learned. Sometimes, we don't know what we are capable of. Other people see it in us but we fail to see it ourselves. Sometimes we just have to take that leap of faith to explore what is out there. Sometimes we succeed brilliantly and I am sure we will also fail miserably. Sometimes, all we need to do is to say "YES." To Sidharthe and Siddharth, my sincere thanks.
Sunday, April 27, 2008
Another One Bites the Dust...and Angels Fall from Heaven
Just when I think I can live with the status quo, bam, everything changes~! Yes, you guessed it right, this is another Apprentice installment!
I've introduced you to spitfire Mary. We've managed a reasonable relationship over the two months--I stay out of the house while she is there. She cleans, thoroughly by her standards, reasonably well for mine. All is well in spite of the frequent "Madam, I don't like your (fill in the blank, rice, milk, etc...)" encounters which I've managed to avoid by just getting out of her way.
Bravely, and foolishly, I planned a luncheon party for three friends who are leaving Delhi in the summer. I kept the party down to a reasonable number, ten, the maximum my dining table can sit. I was prepared to do the marketing, cutting, chopping, cooking, table setting, flower arrangements. I was counting on a clean house and someone to wash the dishes when all was done. Though I knew it would be a lot to take on, I decided that we all are blessed abundantly in material ways that the only way to express my thanks and appreciation to these ladies was through this labor of love. And now, this!
Early Saturday morning, Sharma Sir took us on a shoot at the little lake outside the Purana Qila. From this angle, the fort was a majestic sight, it's red power rising high above us. Through Sharma Sir's eyes, we saw light and its enthralling effects on portraiture. How awesome to distill his art into a few simple concepts, concepts that make creativity and beauty soar in photography. In spite of the early morning hour, the sun was blazing. We broke off in groups trying to recreate and practice the few simple concepts he imparted to us.
I left David to instruct Mary to do two things: clean three windows and dust the sofa (yes, dust the sofa--only if you have lived in Delhi will you know why this is a must.) I was shocked to hear that Mary refused to do the three windows telling David that she had too much work and that it was not her job. When I got home, I once again asked her to clean the windows. Again, the reply was that there was too much work in my house, that it was not her job.
Alright. Mentally, I pushed my sleeves up ready for this encounter, ready to "get my hands dirty" to sort this all out.
Madam, there is too much work in this house. That is not my job, you need to get someone else to clean those windows.
Mary, you don't cook.
You don't wash.
You don't iron.
You ask me for transport money, I give it to you.
You ask me for uniforms, I give it to you.
You ask me for slippers, I give it to you.
You ask that you work 7 hours without a lunch break I give it to you (in spite of the fact that I know you take a lunch break).
You don't like my brown rice, I get you white rice.
You don't like my skimmed milk, I get you your Mother Dairy milk.
Though we don't keep bread at home, I get you your bread for your snack.
I did not have to do any of those things, it is not my job.
I ask you to clean three windows and it is not your job?
Madam, there is too much work. I clean the kitchen everyday, it takes four hours.
Four hours! How can the kitchen take four hours?
The exchange continued, her voice escalating. Madam, everyday you complain. You tell me this not clean, you see this, you complain. Everyday complain, complain.
Mary, the other day, I told you that you threw my new contact lenses out. This cost me R600!
Yes Madam, that was my mistake.
I pulled out the dryer and bins from the laundry room and showed you all the dust and dirt that had accumulated there. You have never swept there!
Madam, that is my mistake, that is my job.
Today, I told you the sofa was incredibly dusty, dust accumulated not over a day or a week but over months! Yes madam, that is my job, that is my mistake.
Madam, for 25 years I work for British, they not complain. Everyday you complain, complain, complain. If you not like I work here, I go.
What unmitigated insolence!
I left her to her work and enlisted David and Ambrose to help me clean the three windows in the dining room. We got the job done and my ladies can now enjoy the park view over lunch.
Here is my question to you. If Mary works seven hours today, and seven hours everyday, how is there too much work? Seven hours work is seven hours work. At the interview, she said she would do whatever work needed to be done. Ah yes, the courtship stage, promises, promises! And at what particular point does a reminder become a complaint? And what is the best approach to all this? Should I breathe down her neck about every little thing so that she gets used to my presence (as I have been strongly advised to do) or should I stay out of her way and have as little contact as possible and have my every comment taken badly? Where does the balance lie? I have not been able to understand the psyche of the Indian domestic helper this after having lived with help for practically all of my life.
I mulled over keeping her or firing her. David advised me strongly that I should fire her immediately. He added, "I have 2,000 people working for me. I know." And of course he was right. True to form, he added, "but you are coming close to 2,000 too." Oh yes, nothing like a little acerbic wit to diffuse a situation. And you know what? Our stint in India might just come to that--2,000 helpers in 3 years is starting to look like a possibility.
We calculated her pay, paid her over and above that (though I really wanted my money back for the slippers and uniforms) and sent her on her way. In parting, I said, "Mary, I am sorry this did not work out." She picked up her sandals, walked out, slammed the door with nary a murmur of thanks. Unmitigated insolence!
As Ambrose holds the Apprentice of the Year title, Raju's claim to fame, among other things is being an excellent maid pimp. Pardon the crudeness, but truly, if you were witness to our household goings on, you too would agree. The last go round, he sent me elderly ladies who could barely walk, a young girl with painted face and purple nails and all sorts and sizes in between! This afternoon, barely 48 hours after Mary's departure and two hours after we put Raju to task he has brought me Rosie, his brother's sister-in-law!
Rosie is a young girl with a smiling face to camouflage her lack of English. I have her in my kitchen now and I have decided to test her mettle. I've warned her that I want someone who wants to work hard. I believe I got that point across. Everything remains to be seen.
I try and remind myself constantly that life is too short to spend even one moment in frustration and anger. So I've decided to roll with the punches, Rosie cleans while I blog. Tomorrow is another day and I will be ready for the delights or debacles to come.
Domestic disasters continue to haunt me. I have not managed to conquer that chapter of my Indian experience. But this much I know, this much I have manged. Mary bites the dust but I now have wonderful and true friends who have come to my rescue. As angels from heaven they have volunteered to come and help me cook and get ready for tomorrow's luncheon party. That is an achievement.
I've introduced you to spitfire Mary. We've managed a reasonable relationship over the two months--I stay out of the house while she is there. She cleans, thoroughly by her standards, reasonably well for mine. All is well in spite of the frequent "Madam, I don't like your (fill in the blank, rice, milk, etc...)" encounters which I've managed to avoid by just getting out of her way.
Bravely, and foolishly, I planned a luncheon party for three friends who are leaving Delhi in the summer. I kept the party down to a reasonable number, ten, the maximum my dining table can sit. I was prepared to do the marketing, cutting, chopping, cooking, table setting, flower arrangements. I was counting on a clean house and someone to wash the dishes when all was done. Though I knew it would be a lot to take on, I decided that we all are blessed abundantly in material ways that the only way to express my thanks and appreciation to these ladies was through this labor of love. And now, this!
Early Saturday morning, Sharma Sir took us on a shoot at the little lake outside the Purana Qila. From this angle, the fort was a majestic sight, it's red power rising high above us. Through Sharma Sir's eyes, we saw light and its enthralling effects on portraiture. How awesome to distill his art into a few simple concepts, concepts that make creativity and beauty soar in photography. In spite of the early morning hour, the sun was blazing. We broke off in groups trying to recreate and practice the few simple concepts he imparted to us.
I left David to instruct Mary to do two things: clean three windows and dust the sofa (yes, dust the sofa--only if you have lived in Delhi will you know why this is a must.) I was shocked to hear that Mary refused to do the three windows telling David that she had too much work and that it was not her job. When I got home, I once again asked her to clean the windows. Again, the reply was that there was too much work in my house, that it was not her job.
Alright. Mentally, I pushed my sleeves up ready for this encounter, ready to "get my hands dirty" to sort this all out.
Madam, there is too much work in this house. That is not my job, you need to get someone else to clean those windows.
Mary, you don't cook.
You don't wash.
You don't iron.
You ask me for transport money, I give it to you.
You ask me for uniforms, I give it to you.
You ask me for slippers, I give it to you.
You ask that you work 7 hours without a lunch break I give it to you (in spite of the fact that I know you take a lunch break).
You don't like my brown rice, I get you white rice.
You don't like my skimmed milk, I get you your Mother Dairy milk.
Though we don't keep bread at home, I get you your bread for your snack.
I did not have to do any of those things, it is not my job.
I ask you to clean three windows and it is not your job?
Madam, there is too much work. I clean the kitchen everyday, it takes four hours.
Four hours! How can the kitchen take four hours?
The exchange continued, her voice escalating. Madam, everyday you complain. You tell me this not clean, you see this, you complain. Everyday complain, complain.
Mary, the other day, I told you that you threw my new contact lenses out. This cost me R600!
Yes Madam, that was my mistake.
I pulled out the dryer and bins from the laundry room and showed you all the dust and dirt that had accumulated there. You have never swept there!
Madam, that is my mistake, that is my job.
Today, I told you the sofa was incredibly dusty, dust accumulated not over a day or a week but over months! Yes madam, that is my job, that is my mistake.
Madam, for 25 years I work for British, they not complain. Everyday you complain, complain, complain. If you not like I work here, I go.
What unmitigated insolence!
I left her to her work and enlisted David and Ambrose to help me clean the three windows in the dining room. We got the job done and my ladies can now enjoy the park view over lunch.
Here is my question to you. If Mary works seven hours today, and seven hours everyday, how is there too much work? Seven hours work is seven hours work. At the interview, she said she would do whatever work needed to be done. Ah yes, the courtship stage, promises, promises! And at what particular point does a reminder become a complaint? And what is the best approach to all this? Should I breathe down her neck about every little thing so that she gets used to my presence (as I have been strongly advised to do) or should I stay out of her way and have as little contact as possible and have my every comment taken badly? Where does the balance lie? I have not been able to understand the psyche of the Indian domestic helper this after having lived with help for practically all of my life.
I mulled over keeping her or firing her. David advised me strongly that I should fire her immediately. He added, "I have 2,000 people working for me. I know." And of course he was right. True to form, he added, "but you are coming close to 2,000 too." Oh yes, nothing like a little acerbic wit to diffuse a situation. And you know what? Our stint in India might just come to that--2,000 helpers in 3 years is starting to look like a possibility.
We calculated her pay, paid her over and above that (though I really wanted my money back for the slippers and uniforms) and sent her on her way. In parting, I said, "Mary, I am sorry this did not work out." She picked up her sandals, walked out, slammed the door with nary a murmur of thanks. Unmitigated insolence!
As Ambrose holds the Apprentice of the Year title, Raju's claim to fame, among other things is being an excellent maid pimp. Pardon the crudeness, but truly, if you were witness to our household goings on, you too would agree. The last go round, he sent me elderly ladies who could barely walk, a young girl with painted face and purple nails and all sorts and sizes in between! This afternoon, barely 48 hours after Mary's departure and two hours after we put Raju to task he has brought me Rosie, his brother's sister-in-law!
Rosie is a young girl with a smiling face to camouflage her lack of English. I have her in my kitchen now and I have decided to test her mettle. I've warned her that I want someone who wants to work hard. I believe I got that point across. Everything remains to be seen.
I try and remind myself constantly that life is too short to spend even one moment in frustration and anger. So I've decided to roll with the punches, Rosie cleans while I blog. Tomorrow is another day and I will be ready for the delights or debacles to come.
Domestic disasters continue to haunt me. I have not managed to conquer that chapter of my Indian experience. But this much I know, this much I have manged. Mary bites the dust but I now have wonderful and true friends who have come to my rescue. As angels from heaven they have volunteered to come and help me cook and get ready for tomorrow's luncheon party. That is an achievement.
Thursday, April 3, 2008
Whose Job is it Anyway? (Sidebar to The Apprentice)
If you have never lived in India, what I am about to tell you might amuse or exasperate you depending on your position on this matter. When you are done reading, you might choose to guffaw at my bafflement or throw your hands up in exasperation as you understand exactly what I mean.
A quick Apprentice update: After my three week search, I found Mary, a spunky little south Indian lady. Though I am almost a full head taller than her, she breathes fire and I can almost see smoke emanate from her nostrils when something does not quite go her way. At interview time, she promised that she would do whatever needed to be done, whenever it needed doing. True, she asked for an eight-hour day (which I vaguely agreed to), uniforms (which I agreed to), lunch (which I vaguely agreed to as well) and right then, I should have had a clue as to the spitfire in this little package. I realized the challenge in finding a reliable English speaking housekeeper so I cut my losses and decided to hire Mary.
Mary planned to move into our servants quarters that weekend. Come Saturday, she announced that her husband needed three months to find suitable quarters in Bangalore and that she would have to commute during that time.
"Madam, you give me transportation money?" Honestly, I am unsure whether that sentence ended with a period or a question mark as it was spoken in true spitfire fashion! I replied that I would think about it and get back to her. I discussed this with David who wisely advised that it was unreasonable to ask for transportation money since the quarters were available for her. Putting this in perspective, we are talking about $20. Is it worth worrying about $20 for three months? Weigh $60 against the possibility of having to start the search all over again. Your answer? Eight-hour day, uniforms, lunch, and now transportation money.
Score:
Mary 4
Me, zilch!
Mary spent no time at all settling down into her new position: head housekeeper, boss of all household underlings. Mr Lal, the dhobi always goes about his work quietly, his only demands being hot tea a few times a day and some bread and butter for snack. I suspect wise old Mr. Lal was secretly overjoyed that he now had someone to make his tea and wash his cup. He was in dhobi heaven!
"Madam, I don't like this milk. I cannot drink your milk." David and I prefer skimmed milk while Mary prefers Mother Dairy full-of-fat milk! If I really wanted to even out our score, I could have scolded her and told her off. But no! Alright, Mother Dairy milk coming up!
Mary 5
Me, still zilch!
The next day, I traced more smoke coming from Mary's nostrils. Why? "Madam, I cannot eat brown rice. I do not like your rice." To avoid being a total pushover, I told her that she had to eat brown rice until I found the time to get her some white rice. I delayed giving this matter any attention at all. That should show her who's boss! I stretched it out for a week!
Mary 5
Me 1
"Madam, I need slippers. Please find me a pair of small slippers." I wear a size 38 while she a 35. The possibility of finding small slippers around our house was nil. So, I promised her I would buy her a pair of slippers. Two weeks later, she is still barefoot around the house.
Mary 4
Me 3 (that coup deserves 2 points at least)
At about the same time I hired Mary, I hired a mali to take care of our garden. Ambrose was my broker and he conveyed the scope of the work to be done. As much as possible, I like to buffer myself from these goings-on. Besides that, Ambrose can speak Hindi ever so much better than I can (my entire Hindi vocabulary consists of a mere 15 words at most and none of them garden related!). I put Mary in charge of the mali, the mali-police so to speak. Mary got the mali to come at 2:00 p. m. instead of his usual 5:00 p.m. because it interfered with her departure time. I didn't care much either way. I only cared that I didn't have to be around to escort the mali around the garden and up to the second floor balcony.
Mary 5
Me 3
Mali zilch!
To get to our front door, you have to go through our gate and up a flight of stairs. I asked Mary to keep the area clean. "Madam, that is the mali's job." Alright then, get the mali to do it. I told her in no uncertain terms that I did not care who did it, just that it got done. Get the mali to do it or get it done yourself. Ha! I smell a victory! Mary now walks out with a broom Monday, Wednesday and Friday. YES!
Mary 5
Me 4 (I share this victory with the mali.)
Mali 1
Our front steps are now relatively clean courtesy of Mary. I also asked that the area immediately outside the gate be cleared of all debris and trash that blows over from the surrounding area. Done, courtesy of the mali. Stairs, check. Outside gate, check. Wait a minute! Why is that gate dusty? Why is the marble that lines the 15-foot wall along the walkway filthy?
I asked Mary once again to take care of the "dusty 15 (feet)." Madam, it is the mali's job." I replied that she therefore needed to get him to do it. The next day, she announced that it is the sweeper's job. The sweeper? Let me try and understand this. We have a housekeeper who cleans the steps, a mali who cleans outside the gate but we need a sweeper to clean the dirty 15? I asked Ambrose his take on the situation. "Yes, Madam, you can hire a sweeper to clean the walkway."
This is the puzzle. It takes all of two minutes to clean the area. Ambrose sits outside waiting for me for hours on end when I am home. He points a finger at the mali or the housekeeper or the sweeper but he does not take it upon himself to run a rag along the area. His Apprentice of the Year title is in serious jeopardy! The mali and housekeeper want nothing to do with it. If we hired a sweeper to clean the dirty 15, our household of two will have a staff of 6! The minutiae of our lives in India is unbelievable. Are jobs so specialized? Does a population of 1.2 billion people mandate that each job be limited in scope? How much pride is involved? Is it pride or is it laziness in disguise? Is this a tried and tested system that I should not mess with? As they like to say in India,
You tell me.
Whose job is it anyway?
The score stands but the battle continues....
A quick Apprentice update: After my three week search, I found Mary, a spunky little south Indian lady. Though I am almost a full head taller than her, she breathes fire and I can almost see smoke emanate from her nostrils when something does not quite go her way. At interview time, she promised that she would do whatever needed to be done, whenever it needed doing. True, she asked for an eight-hour day (which I vaguely agreed to), uniforms (which I agreed to), lunch (which I vaguely agreed to as well) and right then, I should have had a clue as to the spitfire in this little package. I realized the challenge in finding a reliable English speaking housekeeper so I cut my losses and decided to hire Mary.
Mary planned to move into our servants quarters that weekend. Come Saturday, she announced that her husband needed three months to find suitable quarters in Bangalore and that she would have to commute during that time.
"Madam, you give me transportation money?" Honestly, I am unsure whether that sentence ended with a period or a question mark as it was spoken in true spitfire fashion! I replied that I would think about it and get back to her. I discussed this with David who wisely advised that it was unreasonable to ask for transportation money since the quarters were available for her. Putting this in perspective, we are talking about $20. Is it worth worrying about $20 for three months? Weigh $60 against the possibility of having to start the search all over again. Your answer? Eight-hour day, uniforms, lunch, and now transportation money.
Score:
Mary 4
Me, zilch!
Mary spent no time at all settling down into her new position: head housekeeper, boss of all household underlings. Mr Lal, the dhobi always goes about his work quietly, his only demands being hot tea a few times a day and some bread and butter for snack. I suspect wise old Mr. Lal was secretly overjoyed that he now had someone to make his tea and wash his cup. He was in dhobi heaven!
"Madam, I don't like this milk. I cannot drink your milk." David and I prefer skimmed milk while Mary prefers Mother Dairy full-of-fat milk! If I really wanted to even out our score, I could have scolded her and told her off. But no! Alright, Mother Dairy milk coming up!
Mary 5
Me, still zilch!
The next day, I traced more smoke coming from Mary's nostrils. Why? "Madam, I cannot eat brown rice. I do not like your rice." To avoid being a total pushover, I told her that she had to eat brown rice until I found the time to get her some white rice. I delayed giving this matter any attention at all. That should show her who's boss! I stretched it out for a week!
Mary 5
Me 1
"Madam, I need slippers. Please find me a pair of small slippers." I wear a size 38 while she a 35. The possibility of finding small slippers around our house was nil. So, I promised her I would buy her a pair of slippers. Two weeks later, she is still barefoot around the house.
Mary 4
Me 3 (that coup deserves 2 points at least)
At about the same time I hired Mary, I hired a mali to take care of our garden. Ambrose was my broker and he conveyed the scope of the work to be done. As much as possible, I like to buffer myself from these goings-on. Besides that, Ambrose can speak Hindi ever so much better than I can (my entire Hindi vocabulary consists of a mere 15 words at most and none of them garden related!). I put Mary in charge of the mali, the mali-police so to speak. Mary got the mali to come at 2:00 p. m. instead of his usual 5:00 p.m. because it interfered with her departure time. I didn't care much either way. I only cared that I didn't have to be around to escort the mali around the garden and up to the second floor balcony.
Mary 5
Me 3
Mali zilch!
To get to our front door, you have to go through our gate and up a flight of stairs. I asked Mary to keep the area clean. "Madam, that is the mali's job." Alright then, get the mali to do it. I told her in no uncertain terms that I did not care who did it, just that it got done. Get the mali to do it or get it done yourself. Ha! I smell a victory! Mary now walks out with a broom Monday, Wednesday and Friday. YES!
Mary 5
Me 4 (I share this victory with the mali.)
Mali 1
Our front steps are now relatively clean courtesy of Mary. I also asked that the area immediately outside the gate be cleared of all debris and trash that blows over from the surrounding area. Done, courtesy of the mali. Stairs, check. Outside gate, check. Wait a minute! Why is that gate dusty? Why is the marble that lines the 15-foot wall along the walkway filthy?
I asked Mary once again to take care of the "dusty 15 (feet)." Madam, it is the mali's job." I replied that she therefore needed to get him to do it. The next day, she announced that it is the sweeper's job. The sweeper? Let me try and understand this. We have a housekeeper who cleans the steps, a mali who cleans outside the gate but we need a sweeper to clean the dirty 15? I asked Ambrose his take on the situation. "Yes, Madam, you can hire a sweeper to clean the walkway."
This is the puzzle. It takes all of two minutes to clean the area. Ambrose sits outside waiting for me for hours on end when I am home. He points a finger at the mali or the housekeeper or the sweeper but he does not take it upon himself to run a rag along the area. His Apprentice of the Year title is in serious jeopardy! The mali and housekeeper want nothing to do with it. If we hired a sweeper to clean the dirty 15, our household of two will have a staff of 6! The minutiae of our lives in India is unbelievable. Are jobs so specialized? Does a population of 1.2 billion people mandate that each job be limited in scope? How much pride is involved? Is it pride or is it laziness in disguise? Is this a tried and tested system that I should not mess with? As they like to say in India,
You tell me.
Whose job is it anyway?
The score stands but the battle continues....
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