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!
Friday, October 31, 2008
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....
Thursday, March 27, 2008
In All Humility
I made a deliberate choice. I would explore all Delhi and India had to offer and revel in every new experience ahead of me. Where tennis filled my hours no end in Singapore, Delhi would be different. I have been blest with the freedom to do as I please and I would blaze ahead with it. For three-hundred-and-eighty-two days, I have lived the Delhi chapter of my life with structure that did not allow for much female friendship and camaraderie. After all, I had so many worlds to conquer, and conquer them all I would!
Photography classes at Triveni Kala Sangam took 3 mornings of my week plus some evenings and afternoons for shooting. Tennis took two mornings and a Friday evening. Weekends with David were sedate and sometimes frenetic but who can't use a little spice now and then? Seeing India with David always took precedence: photography and tennis took a back seat to that. So, my life was pretty set, (barring my domestic staff drama, of course) I was on track, my eyes steadily on the goal to conquer the world! With an empty nest, I had the complete freedom and the wherewithal to get anything done, the world was my oyster!
This has been a week of surprises. I reluctantly participated in a tennis tournament. I allowed myself to go with the flow; I set aside my plans of conquering the world and reinventing myself, immersed in the here and now of the tournament. I played hard, cheered louder, and laughed heartily. I discovered and forged friendships that I never sought. I have found new delight in the courts. Once again, tennis is taking center stage. In all humility, I embrace the tender buds of friendship. You awesome tennis ladies have melted my cold, cruel and wicked heart.
Photography classes at Triveni Kala Sangam took 3 mornings of my week plus some evenings and afternoons for shooting. Tennis took two mornings and a Friday evening. Weekends with David were sedate and sometimes frenetic but who can't use a little spice now and then? Seeing India with David always took precedence: photography and tennis took a back seat to that. So, my life was pretty set, (barring my domestic staff drama, of course) I was on track, my eyes steadily on the goal to conquer the world! With an empty nest, I had the complete freedom and the wherewithal to get anything done, the world was my oyster!
This has been a week of surprises. I reluctantly participated in a tennis tournament. I allowed myself to go with the flow; I set aside my plans of conquering the world and reinventing myself, immersed in the here and now of the tournament. I played hard, cheered louder, and laughed heartily. I discovered and forged friendships that I never sought. I have found new delight in the courts. Once again, tennis is taking center stage. In all humility, I embrace the tender buds of friendship. You awesome tennis ladies have melted my cold, cruel and wicked heart.
Wednesday, March 5, 2008
Sometimes It's Better Not to Know
One of the many delights of India is her abundant and fresh produce. This spring, cart fulls of bright yellow mini-melons, deep red pomegranates, oranges, big and small papayas, green and black seedless grapes, sweet smelling guavas, and bunched up gooseberries line the streets of every enclave and colony. Glowing white radishes, deeply red orange carrots, rockette lettuce, cauliflower, slim lady fingers, multi-colored bell peppers, fresh scallions and bigger leeks can all entice a sworn carnivore into vegetarianism.
One-stop shopping here is far removed from its western concept. We have no Safeway or Kings where vegetables are under dim lights and cold misters as though they were being styled for a photo shoot. We have no Price Club where large quantities of produce are clinically packaged for the American household. What thrives are block markets. In my community, I have the choice of doing my "one-stop" shopping at Basant Lok, or the A-block, C- block, D-Block or E-block market. Block markets will allow you to buy one banana or lime or onion if you wish. You can go over the tomato bin and pick just the ripest ones for the evening salad. You can choose just a couple of bananas for next morning's pancakes. If by unfortunate coincidence you run out of money, the merchant is quick to give you credit.
A recent newspaper article brought to light that among the market scales surveyed, only a mere 30% were accurate. Aha! I am not surprised! The A-block fruitwallah takes my fruits, makes a show of putting them on a scale and without pen or paper, comes out with a total for my day's purchases. I never challenge the accuracy of his scale nor his arithmetic. A few rupees here and there doesn't make much difference. But a few rupees every day can come up to quite a tidy sum.
My friends and I discussed our fruit-buying habits. I was not surprised to discover that they are not too fond of my A-block fruitwallah. Too expensive, one says. He is so snooty, another complains. True, true, but you've got to admit, his fruit looks good. They admonish that I try their more friendly E-block fruitwallah.
One evening, my dinner menu included a salad of fresh ripe tomatoes with lots of cilantro and a vinaigrette dressing. India's tomatoes are red and luscious unlike the hothouse version we see in Singapore. I stopped at my unfriendly and snooty A-block fruitwallah to pick out my 5 salad tomatoes. I headed to the dark corner where he has a crate of tomatoes. As I headed over, I saw a rat which must have been at least five inches long with an even longer tail! Horrors! I ran out immediately and told him that there was a rat amongst his vegetables. He looked at me very calmly and said "THAT IS NOT MY RAT, MADAM, THAT IS MY NEIGHBOR'S RAT."
I could not have my tomato salad that evening.
Not that evening, not the next evening.
Later that week, I recounted my story to a group of local friends. They sat, listened indulgently and smiled at me. My dear, they advised, anywhere there is fruit, there will be rats. There are rats out on the fields where the tomatoes grow. There are rats on the orchards and farms where fruits and vegetables grow. I've never quite thought of it that way but I suppose they were right. Sometimes it's just better not to know.
Enjoy your tomatoes!
One-stop shopping here is far removed from its western concept. We have no Safeway or Kings where vegetables are under dim lights and cold misters as though they were being styled for a photo shoot. We have no Price Club where large quantities of produce are clinically packaged for the American household. What thrives are block markets. In my community, I have the choice of doing my "one-stop" shopping at Basant Lok, or the A-block, C- block, D-Block or E-block market. Block markets will allow you to buy one banana or lime or onion if you wish. You can go over the tomato bin and pick just the ripest ones for the evening salad. You can choose just a couple of bananas for next morning's pancakes. If by unfortunate coincidence you run out of money, the merchant is quick to give you credit.
A recent newspaper article brought to light that among the market scales surveyed, only a mere 30% were accurate. Aha! I am not surprised! The A-block fruitwallah takes my fruits, makes a show of putting them on a scale and without pen or paper, comes out with a total for my day's purchases. I never challenge the accuracy of his scale nor his arithmetic. A few rupees here and there doesn't make much difference. But a few rupees every day can come up to quite a tidy sum.
My friends and I discussed our fruit-buying habits. I was not surprised to discover that they are not too fond of my A-block fruitwallah. Too expensive, one says. He is so snooty, another complains. True, true, but you've got to admit, his fruit looks good. They admonish that I try their more friendly E-block fruitwallah.
One evening, my dinner menu included a salad of fresh ripe tomatoes with lots of cilantro and a vinaigrette dressing. India's tomatoes are red and luscious unlike the hothouse version we see in Singapore. I stopped at my unfriendly and snooty A-block fruitwallah to pick out my 5 salad tomatoes. I headed to the dark corner where he has a crate of tomatoes. As I headed over, I saw a rat which must have been at least five inches long with an even longer tail! Horrors! I ran out immediately and told him that there was a rat amongst his vegetables. He looked at me very calmly and said "THAT IS NOT MY RAT, MADAM, THAT IS MY NEIGHBOR'S RAT."
I could not have my tomato salad that evening.
Not that evening, not the next evening.
Later that week, I recounted my story to a group of local friends. They sat, listened indulgently and smiled at me. My dear, they advised, anywhere there is fruit, there will be rats. There are rats out on the fields where the tomatoes grow. There are rats on the orchards and farms where fruits and vegetables grow. I've never quite thought of it that way but I suppose they were right. Sometimes it's just better not to know.
Enjoy your tomatoes!
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
Another Apprentice Season Begins
A few friends have jokingly asked me who the 2007 Apprentice winner is. I had not given this much thought. I was left with two contenders: Suresh and Ambrose. Mr. Lal was disqualified due to a technicality. Having only joined the race in November and with only two days a week performance results at that, it would have been unfair to pit him against Suresh and Ambrose who had 6 days a week to shine or fail. Raju, David's driver who is hanging on to his job by the skin of his teeth, though never a contender, still deserves kudos for exemplary behavior displayed after every infraction and subsequent warning.
I returned to India after a month's protracted holiday. Before my departure, I made a complete "to do" list for Suresh so that everything that was left undone daily would be attended to. Things like clean out shoe cabinets, clean shoes, dust bookshelf tops, clean fans, clean out kitchen drawers, etc. It would have been foolish for me to assume that in my absence he would seek this work to fill his time. I had a pretty good idea of how he envisioned my absence to be--it would be his time to kick back and take things easy. And I don't blame him. Mind you, anyone with half a brain would do the same. I requested David's secretary to monitor him from time to time just to make sure he was on track, just to keep him honest.
At this point, I would like to explain my style of managing the help. I am liberal enough to allow them to do things their way as long as the job gets done satisfactorily. I don't hover, I don't check work daily. I leave notes as required so that what I see that needs doing gets done. I do not like to raise my voice, I do not like to show traces of anger and impatience. I only expect that when I run my fingers across a piece of furniture, that it not be dusty. That if I choose to wear my black patent shoes, they not be muddy. That when I pull open a kitchen drawer, utensils not be thrown in helter-skelter. I do not ask for much.
After a month's absence, my furniture was dusty, my black patent shoes muddy, and my kitchen drawers messy. I pointed these all out to Suresh with, I admit, some impatience in my voice. I could feel his frustration.
The dust flies when he sweeps.
Then use a damp mop, or dust after you sweep.
He missed cleaning just that one black patent pair.
Is that so? Because my black Nikes and the white Pumas were also muddy.
He has no clue where things belong in the drawers.
And that is why you had a month to organize!!!
The next morning, Suresh arrives and arrogantly tells me that he cannot work here. The long and short of it is that he feels he works very hard and I still am not happy with the results. I reply that it is not that I question whether he works hard or not. The issue is that if something needs to be done, I have the right to let him know, to point it out. I will not bore you with our exchange. I conclude that my holiday was too much fun for him. He had free rein of the house, was in charge of Mr. Lal, in charge of tea making for what seemed like all of Vasant Vihar (judging from my sugar and milk bill) and my return was a big downer! There is nothing one can say to change another person's mind once it is made up. I had no desire to allow such arrogance in my home. Off with his head!
I would pay him for the 11 days he had worked. But there was a matter of the the 7 days he still owed me. Ok, down to 5 days pay. Then Suresh pulled a rabbit out of a hat and demanded that I owed him a month's bonus pay for a year of service. A wicked laugh was welling in me. I never promised him a month's bonus (besides any money exchange could no longer be called a bonus, what with his acrimonious tone). Second, he had only worked here for eleven months! I gathered that he was quick and brave about quitting because he figured he would have a month's pay as cushion before he found his next job. Gotcha!
Oh, and yes, there was the matter of the huge 10,000IR phone bill of which, by extrapolation, 4,000IR was his! It was pointless even to mention that if he incurred such a huge phone bill, did he really have time to work at all? I forgave him the phone bill and had Ambrose escort him out the door.
I've closed the Suresh chapter of my sojourn in India and I inaugurate a new Apprentice season! I therefore declare Ambrose the Apprentice of 2007!
Hours after Suresh's departure, I had visited two domestic registries and gotten a list of 6 prospects. I made my calls and by afternoon, I had Dolma working on a trial basis. Dolma is from Tibet. She turns 35 next week. She has been married but is now separated. She has no children. If one were to judge by looks alone, one would conjecture that she is a wholesome young lady, not fond of nightlife or drink or any other frivolities of the single. She speaks English quite well, has a happy disposition and the eagerness of anyone unemployed. So far so good. The race is on!
This season's race will be tougher. While all Ambrose has to do is drive safely, keep the car clean, and be attentive to my comings and goings, Dolma will have obstacles to hurdle. Will she pass the dust test? The neatness test? The organization test? The towel test? Only time will tell.
But here is what I have learned. The status quo is always the easy way out. Any progress requires some pain and discomfort. The rewards of change can be wonderful. I am thrilled that I don't have to worry about getting up fully dressed in the morning just to open the door for Suresh. I am ecstatic that Dolma can cook (remains to be tested and verified), and clean, and even wash and iron in the absence of Mr. Lal. I am hopeful that I can teach her to fold the towels as they do at Nordstrom's, and shirts as they do at the Gap.
The dreary Delhi winter is on the way out to give way to the beauty of spring. Out with the old, in with the new! All contenders! On your marks, get set, GO!
I returned to India after a month's protracted holiday. Before my departure, I made a complete "to do" list for Suresh so that everything that was left undone daily would be attended to. Things like clean out shoe cabinets, clean shoes, dust bookshelf tops, clean fans, clean out kitchen drawers, etc. It would have been foolish for me to assume that in my absence he would seek this work to fill his time. I had a pretty good idea of how he envisioned my absence to be--it would be his time to kick back and take things easy. And I don't blame him. Mind you, anyone with half a brain would do the same. I requested David's secretary to monitor him from time to time just to make sure he was on track, just to keep him honest.
At this point, I would like to explain my style of managing the help. I am liberal enough to allow them to do things their way as long as the job gets done satisfactorily. I don't hover, I don't check work daily. I leave notes as required so that what I see that needs doing gets done. I do not like to raise my voice, I do not like to show traces of anger and impatience. I only expect that when I run my fingers across a piece of furniture, that it not be dusty. That if I choose to wear my black patent shoes, they not be muddy. That when I pull open a kitchen drawer, utensils not be thrown in helter-skelter. I do not ask for much.
After a month's absence, my furniture was dusty, my black patent shoes muddy, and my kitchen drawers messy. I pointed these all out to Suresh with, I admit, some impatience in my voice. I could feel his frustration.
The dust flies when he sweeps.
Then use a damp mop, or dust after you sweep.
He missed cleaning just that one black patent pair.
Is that so? Because my black Nikes and the white Pumas were also muddy.
He has no clue where things belong in the drawers.
And that is why you had a month to organize!!!
The next morning, Suresh arrives and arrogantly tells me that he cannot work here. The long and short of it is that he feels he works very hard and I still am not happy with the results. I reply that it is not that I question whether he works hard or not. The issue is that if something needs to be done, I have the right to let him know, to point it out. I will not bore you with our exchange. I conclude that my holiday was too much fun for him. He had free rein of the house, was in charge of Mr. Lal, in charge of tea making for what seemed like all of Vasant Vihar (judging from my sugar and milk bill) and my return was a big downer! There is nothing one can say to change another person's mind once it is made up. I had no desire to allow such arrogance in my home. Off with his head!
I would pay him for the 11 days he had worked. But there was a matter of the the 7 days he still owed me. Ok, down to 5 days pay. Then Suresh pulled a rabbit out of a hat and demanded that I owed him a month's bonus pay for a year of service. A wicked laugh was welling in me. I never promised him a month's bonus (besides any money exchange could no longer be called a bonus, what with his acrimonious tone). Second, he had only worked here for eleven months! I gathered that he was quick and brave about quitting because he figured he would have a month's pay as cushion before he found his next job. Gotcha!
Oh, and yes, there was the matter of the huge 10,000IR phone bill of which, by extrapolation, 4,000IR was his! It was pointless even to mention that if he incurred such a huge phone bill, did he really have time to work at all? I forgave him the phone bill and had Ambrose escort him out the door.
I've closed the Suresh chapter of my sojourn in India and I inaugurate a new Apprentice season! I therefore declare Ambrose the Apprentice of 2007!
Hours after Suresh's departure, I had visited two domestic registries and gotten a list of 6 prospects. I made my calls and by afternoon, I had Dolma working on a trial basis. Dolma is from Tibet. She turns 35 next week. She has been married but is now separated. She has no children. If one were to judge by looks alone, one would conjecture that she is a wholesome young lady, not fond of nightlife or drink or any other frivolities of the single. She speaks English quite well, has a happy disposition and the eagerness of anyone unemployed. So far so good. The race is on!
This season's race will be tougher. While all Ambrose has to do is drive safely, keep the car clean, and be attentive to my comings and goings, Dolma will have obstacles to hurdle. Will she pass the dust test? The neatness test? The organization test? The towel test? Only time will tell.
But here is what I have learned. The status quo is always the easy way out. Any progress requires some pain and discomfort. The rewards of change can be wonderful. I am thrilled that I don't have to worry about getting up fully dressed in the morning just to open the door for Suresh. I am ecstatic that Dolma can cook (remains to be tested and verified), and clean, and even wash and iron in the absence of Mr. Lal. I am hopeful that I can teach her to fold the towels as they do at Nordstrom's, and shirts as they do at the Gap.
The dreary Delhi winter is on the way out to give way to the beauty of spring. Out with the old, in with the new! All contenders! On your marks, get set, GO!
Sunday, January 27, 2008
Being Previleged
A dhobi washes and irons.
A mali tends a garden.
A fruitwalli sells fruit.
And a glasswallah sells glass.
In a country where jobs are stratified and specialized, why, for heaven's sake, have they not invented someone who stands in for you at the bureau*?
A day before my departure for our holiday in Manila, I was informed that my visa was expiring and thus needed extension. I knew this would be no pleasure trip to the bureau having gone through the relatively laborious process nine months before. Laborious though the process is, we are part of the privileged few who have someone prepare the paperwork for us; someone who has the connections in the bureau so that the exercise which sometimes takes days takes a few hours at most! The special someone is Magic Mahesh.
I met Mahesh at the lobby of the VV Club. We waited for courier Shiva to deliver a document needed for our application. David and I were seeking an extension yet it was only I present at the bureau. We were going to wing it, Mahesh said, lead the bureau to believe that David was actually present. Just go along with whatever I tell you, he instructed. This is quickly turning out to be a James Bond kind of day!
The bureau breaks at 1:00 pm. It was 12:54 and I was concerned we would not make it to the office before break time. Mahesh looked at his watch and confidently declared we would be fine, we had six minutes to make it. Six minutes to have my passport photo taken, printed, cut and made ready before we rushed into the office! Not surprisingly the photowallah (who by the way had a butterfly bandage on his forehead and traces of a bad bruise on his cheek--maybe he took a bad passport photo?) had no change for my 500IR bill. Mahesh instructed him with a mere look to bring the photos and change to the bureau office. He has obviously done this more than twice before! He has a whole network!
Magic Mahesh merits description, oh so bloggable is he! Quite tall and almost burly he is a handsome clean cut fellow permanently attached to a handkerchief he uses to wipe his sweaty face and palms. His watch sits over the cuff of his perfectly ironed beige shirt. His black shoes are dust free, immaculately clean, suspiciously military. On both occasions I was with him at the bureau, his files, collated in clear folders were impeccably neat, in consequential order, all pages ticked off where signatures were needed. Nothing askew, nothing missing, nothing out of place! That is Mahesh!
If Indian bureaucracy does not intimidate you, the sheer number of people in this office will. People fell in queues behind counters. Other counters disappeared behind people surrounding it in no apparent order. On rows of cold metal chairs sat people of all races and ages. Grandfathers sat with their grandchildren happily playing their video games. A pair of backpacking hippie looking boys sat lazily and read their books and sipped their 1.5 L bottled water obviously prepared for the wait. A few young European faces were accompanied by older local looking faces. Older men and women sat patiently knowing that exasperation, impatience and any kind of emotion was futile. This was the process and nothing any of them could do or say would speed things up.
Mahesh had the only smile in the room. He instructed me to sit down and be visible to the examiner. He quickly walked up to a counter and without fuss jumped the invisible queue of a hundred. No one noticed. Everyone was consumed with trying to forget the interminable wait in front of them. Everyone with seething exasperation was concerned with his own troubles. In the meantime, as luck would have it, I sat sandwiched between two men shaking their legs furiously giving my chair a rather jarring sway! I sat quietly not having to pretend annoyance. Mahesh glanced at me once in a while, keeping the smile on his face. He handed our applications to the examiner and confidently waited for the stamp of approval. After a decent wait of about 20 minutes, Mahesh walked over to me, files and approval in hand. He asked me for 6500IR in cash.
We walked to the cashier where surprisingly, there was no queue. Could they be doing this all wrong? Mahesh handed in our papers and cash. He whispered that if they ask where David is, I should go along with his story, that he stepped out momentarily to the rest room. But the cashier could care less. Once handed the cash, he never bothered to look up. How efficient this part of the exercise is. We walked out, everything in order. The cost of extension is 6000IR. But since as I said we are part of the privileged few, we handed him 6500IR and did not request change. This is a tiny fraction of the cost of privilege.
Having experienced efficient bureaucracy in both Hong Kong and Singapore, my brushes with Indian government have been painful. Even my experience and tolerance honed in by dealing with the Philippine government did not prepare me for my bureaucratic expeditions in India. I say, if there is a dhobi and a mali, a fruitwalli and a glasswallah why can't there be a bureaustandinwallah? I remain ever hopeful.
*the bureau will remain unnamed.
I have taken no photos of the bureau for fear of recrimination but will post irrelevant photos in the near future. Many thanks for your patience.
A mali tends a garden.
A fruitwalli sells fruit.
And a glasswallah sells glass.
In a country where jobs are stratified and specialized, why, for heaven's sake, have they not invented someone who stands in for you at the bureau*?
A day before my departure for our holiday in Manila, I was informed that my visa was expiring and thus needed extension. I knew this would be no pleasure trip to the bureau having gone through the relatively laborious process nine months before. Laborious though the process is, we are part of the privileged few who have someone prepare the paperwork for us; someone who has the connections in the bureau so that the exercise which sometimes takes days takes a few hours at most! The special someone is Magic Mahesh.
I met Mahesh at the lobby of the VV Club. We waited for courier Shiva to deliver a document needed for our application. David and I were seeking an extension yet it was only I present at the bureau. We were going to wing it, Mahesh said, lead the bureau to believe that David was actually present. Just go along with whatever I tell you, he instructed. This is quickly turning out to be a James Bond kind of day!
The bureau breaks at 1:00 pm. It was 12:54 and I was concerned we would not make it to the office before break time. Mahesh looked at his watch and confidently declared we would be fine, we had six minutes to make it. Six minutes to have my passport photo taken, printed, cut and made ready before we rushed into the office! Not surprisingly the photowallah (who by the way had a butterfly bandage on his forehead and traces of a bad bruise on his cheek--maybe he took a bad passport photo?) had no change for my 500IR bill. Mahesh instructed him with a mere look to bring the photos and change to the bureau office. He has obviously done this more than twice before! He has a whole network!
Magic Mahesh merits description, oh so bloggable is he! Quite tall and almost burly he is a handsome clean cut fellow permanently attached to a handkerchief he uses to wipe his sweaty face and palms. His watch sits over the cuff of his perfectly ironed beige shirt. His black shoes are dust free, immaculately clean, suspiciously military. On both occasions I was with him at the bureau, his files, collated in clear folders were impeccably neat, in consequential order, all pages ticked off where signatures were needed. Nothing askew, nothing missing, nothing out of place! That is Mahesh!
If Indian bureaucracy does not intimidate you, the sheer number of people in this office will. People fell in queues behind counters. Other counters disappeared behind people surrounding it in no apparent order. On rows of cold metal chairs sat people of all races and ages. Grandfathers sat with their grandchildren happily playing their video games. A pair of backpacking hippie looking boys sat lazily and read their books and sipped their 1.5 L bottled water obviously prepared for the wait. A few young European faces were accompanied by older local looking faces. Older men and women sat patiently knowing that exasperation, impatience and any kind of emotion was futile. This was the process and nothing any of them could do or say would speed things up.
Mahesh had the only smile in the room. He instructed me to sit down and be visible to the examiner. He quickly walked up to a counter and without fuss jumped the invisible queue of a hundred. No one noticed. Everyone was consumed with trying to forget the interminable wait in front of them. Everyone with seething exasperation was concerned with his own troubles. In the meantime, as luck would have it, I sat sandwiched between two men shaking their legs furiously giving my chair a rather jarring sway! I sat quietly not having to pretend annoyance. Mahesh glanced at me once in a while, keeping the smile on his face. He handed our applications to the examiner and confidently waited for the stamp of approval. After a decent wait of about 20 minutes, Mahesh walked over to me, files and approval in hand. He asked me for 6500IR in cash.
We walked to the cashier where surprisingly, there was no queue. Could they be doing this all wrong? Mahesh handed in our papers and cash. He whispered that if they ask where David is, I should go along with his story, that he stepped out momentarily to the rest room. But the cashier could care less. Once handed the cash, he never bothered to look up. How efficient this part of the exercise is. We walked out, everything in order. The cost of extension is 6000IR. But since as I said we are part of the privileged few, we handed him 6500IR and did not request change. This is a tiny fraction of the cost of privilege.
Having experienced efficient bureaucracy in both Hong Kong and Singapore, my brushes with Indian government have been painful. Even my experience and tolerance honed in by dealing with the Philippine government did not prepare me for my bureaucratic expeditions in India. I say, if there is a dhobi and a mali, a fruitwalli and a glasswallah why can't there be a bureaustandinwallah? I remain ever hopeful.
*the bureau will remain unnamed.
I have taken no photos of the bureau for fear of recrimination but will post irrelevant photos in the near future. Many thanks for your patience.
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