Goggles

January 22, 2006

One of the biggest challenges for families is juggling work and home, especially with kids. Even though I have not worked since Nikhitita was born, it is still rough. Sandrine is at school for part of the day but it still wears on me as Bob puts in long hours at work. In our life in the U.S. Bob generally used to drop Sandrine off at school at 8:30 and I would pick her up at 11:45. Three days of the week I would shuttle her to other activities such as music, gym, or science class. And on Saturdays Bob would take her to tot soccer. The rest of the time she was with me. I also took care of Nikhitita all day since she was not in day care. Frankly, one of the biggest attractions about spending a year in India was to get some help with the kids. We had heard so much about maids taking care of children though our friends living in South Asia that when we were interviewing maids we cared much more about whether she could handle kids than their proficiency in cooking or cleaning. Although the maids we interviewed had written references, many of these were from expats who were no longer living in India. The whole process was definitely less formal than in the U.S. where we had checked whether Sandrine’s family daycare was licensed and talked to numerous references for peace of mind before enrolling her there.

Anyway, the maid that we finally selected had been with me for a few days when I decided to let her take care of Nikhitita for half an hour. I made sure to choose a time when Sandrine was still at school so that she could devote her full attention to the baby. I was a little apprehensive and made sure that a few of Nikhitita’s favorite toys were around as well as a stack of biscuits. I was going to use this time to swim, which is one of the ways that I energize myself and relax.

Today I was not as relaxed as usual as I swam back and forth counting laps. It was as if with each turn of my head to the side to breathe a new question crossed my uneasy mind. Is Nikhitita okay? Will the maid make sure that she doesn’t put things in her mouth? What if Nikhitita cries? There were three others on the side of the pool. One was the lifeguard and I waved to one of the other two as I took a short break on the deep side. She didn’t return the gesture and so I continued on with the next lap and the next till my half hour was up. I tried to wave twice more but could not solicit a response.

As soon as I finished my final lap, I leaped out of the pool, perched my goggles on top of my head, wrapped my towel around my waist and hurried to a white concrete bench that directly overlooked the pool. Nikhitita looked at me from her stroller quizzically, still looking blankly at me. I yanked off my goggles and swim cap and shaking my matted hair out knelt down and brought my face closer to hers. Finally, Nikhitita beamed at me. Her outstretched hand clutched a soggy half-eaten biscuit showing what few teeth she had. The maid looked at me and smiled, “she did not recognize you.” They had only been a few feet from me the whole time I was swimming. The entire time that I had been swimming, she did not even know it was me. Clearly she had been enjoying her biscuits and contentedly playing with the maid thinking that I wasn’t around. Maybe next time I’ll be as comfortable being away from Nikhitita as she clearly was being away from me!

Languages

January 18, 2006

I have heard it said that you only need to know English to get by in India. That’s good because I don’t know Hindi. My parents hail from Kerala in South India and so growing up I was exposed to only English and Malayalam. Well, I am sort of able to read Hindi. I credit the one year I spent living in India when I was in seventh grade. I still remember that while my peers were reading advanced books in Hindi I was learning to recite and read the alphabet. “Ah, aah, eh, eeh…” I am sure that I was teased but in any case those memories have faded. Anyway, I digress.

I do agree that if you are a tourist in India you can most likely get by without any knowledge of Hindi. After all tourists tend to stay at higher end hotels and frequent upscale restaurants and shops, all of which cater to socioeconomic groups, who have most likely been educated in English-medium schools. Most natives of tourist destinations have been around foreigners enough to have picked up enough English to ply their crafts or wares to them. Several years back when we visited Agra in order to see the Taj Mahal I still vividly remember there were a few small children following behind us calling out in inquiring voices, “U.S.? U.K.?” These children would try to determine a tourist’s origin and once they had figured it out, had an uncanny ability to imitate either the American or English accent perfectly.

However, as an Indian American residing in Mumbai for one year, living in our own flat, I find it challenging to get by without knowing Hindi. I have no problems conversing with our landlady or shopping in the malls or speaking with people at my daughter’s school, but I feel completely inept at handling things right in the apartment. One of the big attractions for us in spending a year in India was to take advantage of the support system, which by and large is non-existent in the U.S. By support system I am talking about maids, drivers and other people to whom you offload much of the time-consuming chores of running a household. Well I suppose that this support system is available in the U.S. but only to the affluent as people who take on these tasks demand high enough salaries to keep them out of the reach of all but the socioeconomic elite. The less fortunate do it all themselves or avail of daycare, biweekly housecleaners etc. in lieu of a nanny or full-time maid.

It is evident that the conveniences of living in India are plenty if you are above a certain income level. We have a driver and a maid and this is certain not uncommon. A doodh walla (milk seller), press walla (does the ironing for pennies a garment), katchada lady (clears the trash) appear daily at our doorstep. Provisions (food essentials like milk, butter, bread) are just a phone call away. There are also fantastic entertainment options that include restaurants that deliver (even McDonald's) and video stores that drop off movies within an hour (even better than getting it in the mail like Netflix). The only problem is that most of these people that make life easier for others are not as readily accessible to me since I don’t speak Hindi. I even have a hard time communicating with the security guards downstairs or our driver but somehow we do manage with a mish-mosh of Hindi, English and universal gestures. My Hindi-speaking husband has to get involved in many of these daily activities and I can tell he is frustrated because he was hoping not to deal with any of this at least while we are in India (all of which he has to deal with in the U.S.).

Soon after moving into our flat we were already taking advantage of the press walla. We had been giving him my husband’s clothes since he needed them right away for work. The slight affable spectacled man is a frequent site in our neighborhood peddling about on his bicycle with a stack of clothes behind him. I remember the first weekday that I let him up when my husband was at work. I was a little nervous because he did not speak any English and this was the first person I had to deal with on my own since we moved in. Luckily we had moved in on a weekend and my husband had been there to initiate contact with most of the necessary people. I don’t know what I was so worried about. We managed to communicate through gestures and each of us figured out the meanings of words we did not know by taking into account the context. In one exchange he rambled on in a stream of Hindi. The only two words I could make out were ladies and kapada. I noticed that he was looking at my wrinkled top as he spoke so I quickly gathered that he was telling me that he ironed ladies’ clothes as well. I was suddenly conscious of my ruffled appearance, laughed and said “tomorrow.”

Although Hindi and English are both national languages in India I am still constantly struck by how many people speak English (and speak it extremely well). Our non-English speaking driver mentioned that he would try to learn some English from me. He told me that his 13 year old daughter goes to an English-medium school. I have always wanted to learn Hindi. Perhaps there is no better time. And what an incentive. If I really want to be able to fully avail of the support system, I had better learn some Hindi!

Rasmalai

January 15, 2006

My mother-in-law is quite a fabulous cook, especially when it comes to Kerala cusine. Her dishes are legendary among family and friends who have had the opportunity to savor her preparations. So many of the childhood stories that my husband’s family reminisce about are triggered by something that she has made. She makes it a point to prepare a dish that is special for every single person who gathers around her dining table. And altruistically she waits till all have been served to take the least popular dish for herself. My mother is also like this and maybe most mothers are. Anyway, over the years I have realized that my mother-in-law’s way of connecting individually with people is through their palate.

We were fortunate that while we were finding a flat of our own, Bob’s company put us up in a very nice upscale hotel in lower Parel in the heart of Mumbai. Frankly with the exception of one hotel that Bob and I stayed in while visiting Rome this was the nicest hotel that I’ve ever been in.

The amenities, especially the food, are fabulous. The breakfast buffet is a cornucopia of fruits, savory South Indian delicacies such as idli, dosa, sambar as well as the more standard international cuisine of eggs (made to order), croissants, pancakes, French toast, and cold cereal. There are probably 100 other items that I could also list. Lunch and dinner is similarly extravagant with a myriad of choices to cater to Indian palates as well as to less adventurous international business travelers to India. The dessert choices are varied enough to tempt even the most disciplined diner. Nevertheless, living in a hotel for 3 weeks as we were with 2 young children can wear thin. As the weeks ticked by, feelings of sheer boredom, grated nerves, confinement in close quarters all manifested themselves. Despite these, rest assured, lack of nourishment was never an issue.

Having been long-term guests most of the daily staff knew us well, especially Sandrine, Nikhitita, and myself, as we were in the hotel on most days while Bob was at work. The rotund jovial South Indian chef in particular took a liking to us and would come and greet us daily as we arrived to breakfast. He would always bring two bananas for Nikhitita and a banana and an apple for Sandrine. It was a ritual. Another part of the routine involved him bringing a plate of hot off the griddle dosas and a 4 or 5 chutney assortment for Bob. As our stay progressed, Bob gravitated towards the pooris and aloo baji in lieu of the dosas, whether it was true or just our perception, we felt as though we were slighting the chef. The chef’s way of connecting with us was by offering us his food in lieu of an outstretched hand and our refusing the food he offered meant more than simply refusing food.

Another hotel staff person made it a special point to bring more fruits that Sandrine liked such as blood-red apples and small bananas when she replenished the fruits in our room. And yet another staff person brought a candy bar for Sandrine on occasion.

It didn’t end with the kids. Bob had mentioned, in passing, to one of the hostesses at the restaurant that he hoped they would include in their dessert offerings a special Indian dessert that he was particularly fond of, at least once more during our stay.

The very next evening we had just finished our dinner at the restaurant and had just arisen to go up to our room. The hostess hurriedly came running and asked us if we could wait just 5 more minutes. We were in a rush to go and so she changed her mind about surprising us and said that they had specially procured the dessert Bob had been craving. Bob looked a little ill has he had already indulged heavily in the dessert offerings. “Could I have it tomorrow?,” he asked meekly patting his visibly expanded mid-section. Although visibly disappointed the hostess graciously nodded, “Of course, sir.” Later that night around 10:30 pm (we had turned in early since it had been a long day, especially for Bob), there was a knock on the door. Sleepily, we wondered who that could be. I heard some voices outside and then the hotel door shut after which another door shut but more quietly. Bob walked in with a look of disbelief. Suddenly, it hit me as I had recognized the smaller door as the mini-refrigerator in our room. I looked up at him with one word, “Rasmalai?” This was the Bob’s favorite dessert (a delicacy made of cottage cheese served in sweetened milk, flavored with delicate rose water and capped with a sprinkling of crushed pistachios) making an appearance again. He was still too full to eat it but courteously accepted it, only to put it into the refrigerator. Unbelievably we were again specially served rasmalai the next evening after dinner (this time they caught us before dessert) and then rasmalai appeared in the dessert spread for everyone the very next night.

I know that Bob and I will forever think of “rasmalai” as that special way that my mother-in-law and other Indians connect with people through their food.

Queue

January 10, 2006

As I ventured out in Mumbai I was struck by the sheer number of people everywhere. Certainly not surprising given India’s status as the world’s second most populous country, with close to 1.1 billion people and Mumbai’s position as the most populous city in the world with over 12 million inhabitants. Generally the city streets are a melee of foot traffic, rickshaws, buses, taxis, the growing number of private cars, stray dogs, and the occasional goat or cow. The other day I even saw an ox cart, but instead of an ox there were two lean men pulling the heavy load. But somehow it all seems to work.

Although there are no lanes per se, street traffic follows the traffic lights and admonishments of police officers, who are in abundance at major intersections gesturing wildly with their arms and blowing their whistles. I imagine that from the sky, circular turnarounds would appear to be an impasse of honking cars and darting pedestrians, but there is a method to the madness as each vehicle takes its turn to yield and traffic does move, albeit slowly. And without lanes to keep vehicles on a certain path it appears as though the law of size dominates; instead of playing paper, rock scissors for one’s turn, it is a game of bus, SUV, car, rickshaw, and pedestrian. SUV beats car, which beats rickshaw, which beats pedestrian and as you might probably guess bus trumps all the rest.

What about air travel? Well, at the airport I noticed that people do stand in line at ticket counters, to check in, or go through security. Of course, despite the protocol of lines there is a tendency to stand very close to the person in front. Feels like you are one in a line of dominoes and if one of you were to fall forward all the others would fall in turn.

Trains are a whole different story. Riding a train in city metros in India are really not for the faint-hearted. You have to be in pretty good physical condition. It is a sport. I remember once several years ago taking the train with my husband (before we had kids). There was a separate compartment for women, which mellowed in comparision to the men’s compartment, but since I didn’t speak Hindi I went onto the men’s compartment with Bob since he (nor I) trusted that I would get off at the right station. I remember seeing people flinging themselves at open compartments as trains flew by the station. Trains did not seem to completely stop but rather slowed down when approaching the station. And once we were in the compartment, there was no concept of personal space as you were eye to eye or eye to back of the head with the person next to you. And getting off at your intended station required planning ahead as you would start to push your way to the doors that would open at your destination two stops or so in advance.

What about restaurants? Well, the other day Sandrine and I went to a pastry shop with my sister-in-law and her family. It was a trendy place in Bandra East that catered to the hip and happening jetsetters of Mumbai. It was packed. And let me tell you, there was absolutely no concept of a line here. But yet again there was a method to the madness. The counter was worked by 3 or 4 harried men who hastily took orders and then filled them with scarcely a pause from one order to the next. Patrons of the pastry shop merely moved as a mass towards the front of the counter. The only sense that the group was made up of individuals was evidenced by extended arms that waved one or two 50 rupee notes high over their heads. It was tough to tell which 50 rupee note belonged to which arm or for that matter which head. It was clearly not a first come first served situation but rather depended on which person waving money was fortunate enough to make eye contact with one of the men manning the counter first. I wondered if the rule of size applied here as in traffic. Did the higher rupee notes guarantee faster service?

How about lines at other forms of entertainment? On the same day that we were at the pastry shop, we also attended a musical called Kabir and the Rangeen Kurta put on by an NGO, which had a decidedly desi (Indianized) take on Joseph and the Technicolor Dreamcoat. We had purchased our tickets in advance but were only guaranteed a seat in a certain set of rows; the actual row or seat was “first come first serve”. I am not sure as to what the protocol is as far as lines to purchase the tickets since our driver was kind enough to get them in advance. As far as getting to one’s seat I can tell you that there was no line. It was literally a throng of people that moved towards the doors once they were opened. But again, somehow it worked and there was really no pushing or shoving. However when we reached our designated row of seats there were none free, except for a section that was clearly marked reserved. I reluctantly followed my sister-in-law's (veteran Bombayite) lead in pulling off the reserved sign from two seats and Sandrine and I sat down. Others later did the same and no one asked us to move.

To queue or not to queue? That is the question. So far, I have not been able to discern any patterns. Generalities such as for travel you queue, entertainment you don’t, fail as there are exceptions. However given that things somehow worked out in all the situations I described, I am convinced that there must be some method to the madness. Maybe it is just I who haven’t yet discovered the answer to that question in this country. Perhaps I should stop searching for answers that may not exist and simply follow the old adage, when in Rome… Or at least the desi version, when in India do as the Indians do.

Hand Sanitizer

January 5, 2006

Although I was excited about the opportunity for our family to live in India for one year, I must say that I was a little apprehensive when it came to general sanitary conditions. Travelling for such a long time with a baby under a year old made me a little nervous because they don’t have fully developed immune systems and Nikhitita, like most 11 month olds, likes to explore the world with her mouth.

One of the things that surprised me in India is how friendly people are with babies. I don’t mean the “peek-a-boo” or the “goo goo gaa gaa” from a distance but outright picking up the baby, touching her hands, pinching her cheeks, etc. And the people who are so familiar range from the driver, to random people at the airport, to hotel staff from the guest relations representative to the travel agent to the chef to the attendants that clean the room, pick up the laundry, or bring room service. It was so alien to me at first but given that everyone does it, I am quickly gathering that this is the norm.

But I can’t say that Nikhitita doesn’t love all the attention. Almost as much as she loves putting things in her mouth is her love of people. She is unabashedly friendly to everyone she meets, with no discretion. It could be someone she has seen a hundred times or someone who she has seen for the first time. They both get her outstretched hand and ear to ear 6 toothed grin.

She has always been friendly, but in the U.S. although people always respond to her, their reaction is far more tempered. It is usually a wave or blown kiss, but from a cautious distance. The general demeanor in the U.S. is to be very wary of others’ personal space. I can still remember a time in the U.S. when I took my older daughter Sandrine to swim class. I intended to watch from the sidelines with Nikhitita but Sandrine refused to get into the water without me and by the second class I found myself in the pool with her. Nikhitita watched us contentedly from the side. However on one occasion she started crying and as I looked over to the side from the pool I was really surprised to see a woman pick her up. I quickly leaped out of the pool and made my way to them. The woman immediately handed Nikhitita to me and apologized profusely saying that she just felt bad that the baby was crying so much. This was the only time that a stranger had picked up or for that matter touched Nikhitita without my permission in the U.S. Of course there had been countless incidents in grocery stores, or the park, or the library where she “flirted” with others and they responded back but always with a look, or a gesture, or a word, but absolutely never a touch.

In our almost three weeks in India more strangers have reached out their hands to Nikhitita than had over the course of her entire life to date in the U.S. Needless to say, I am usually running after her with my little bottle of Purell hand sanitizer. I used to do this in the U.S. and I still do it in India. But what is it that we are so used to protecting ourselves from in the U.S.? Yes, hand sanitizer is there to protect us from germs when we don’t have immediate access to water and some good old fashioned soap. But I feel like the general reluctance in the U.S. to “touch” a stranger or invade their personal space comes less from a desire to keep things sanitary but more a desire to protect ourselves from others who we know nothing about and are taught to imagine the worst about. In the U.S., from the time they can understand, we indoctrinate our children not to talk to strangers or take things from them. All strangers are perceived as “unsafe”. Indians behave more like Nikhitita in that their view of strangers is positive, as nothing has tainted their opinions of them so far. Having grown up in the U.S., I know that I can’t go back to feeling this way. Sadly, once that innocence is lost there is no going back.

Doorways

December 28, 2005

Although English is my first language, my parents hail from Kerala in South India and their mother tongue is Malayalam. Although I like to think that my comprehension of the language is fairly decent, sadly I can feel myself becoming less conversant in the language, simply from lack of use. My husband and I speak in English, although he is fluent in Malayalam, as well as Hindi which I don’t speak. Not really sure why we don’t try to speak to each other in Malayalam but somehow that is how these things work when you are in another country and we don’t.

I was at my in-laws place in Kerala with my family for a week at Christmas time and they like most of the people in India who can afford to have a maid to help with the “in house” chores such as cooking and cleaning. There is also someone to help with “outside” chores and yet someone else to help with duties such as driving. Seems to be a specialized set of occupations. Such maids are inevitably curious when children visit from far off, probably having heard something about them from the woman of the house. Lalitha, as the maid at my in-laws place was called, seemed to be quite a jovial woman. I am probably equally, if not more, curious about them and their background. So, I was most willing when she engaged me (or tried to engage me) in a unmelodious conversation of broken English and my equally broken Malayalam in an effort to delve more into each other’s backgrounds.

She started by asking me, “you Doctor?” to which I immediately shook my head “no”. I definitely did not have the language ability to communicate my education or occupation which did not fall into an easily communicable category such “doctor” or “engineer” or “teacher” so we let that line of inquiry abruptly end with the gesture of my head.

Now, like a verbal dance I took my turn to lead, “do you have children,” I asked pointing to my 10.5 month old baby Nikhitita who was in my arms and probably could have communicated about as effectively as I was doing at the moment with my hand and head motions. From what I could gather her husband had passed away 8 years ago and she had a daughter who was 28 and had a 5 year old grandson. Her son-in-law was in the military and was away quite often. Apparently the daughter had a B.S. degree but her husband did not want her to work. She was as proud of that accomplishment as had been our driver from the airport when he told me about his son studying in a University. We covered a lot of ground given our shaky beginning but I am still unclear as to whether Lalitha has a son or not.

I remember a similar conversation with another maid while visiting my sister-in-law at her apartment in Mumbai soon after we arrived. Her maid was also intrigued by us (being from the U.S.) and was very concerned as to what I thought about her cooking. My pickiness about food had clearly made its way to her ears. Mani, as this maid was called, also had a late husband, who had passed away 2 years prior. She had a daughter, around Sandrine’s age who was being taken care of by her mother and sister in Kerala while she worked as a live-in maid in Mumbai. She told me that she would see her daughter after being apart 10 months. I could see the anticipation in her eyes.

I felt a little sad as I thought that both of these maids (they were live-ins) spent most of their lives with families not their own. Of course, they were paid for their service, treated well and this just made them people with jobs as are most people in the world. But there was something poignant in the fact the Mani would probably see my 3.5 year old more in the year that we lived in Mumbai than her own daughter. Both of these maids spent the majority of their lives lingering in doorways waiting to be called upon. Strangely enough these doorways seemed almost like connections between their own families and the families who they served. You would hardly know that the maids were there since their words and their belongings were sparse. They silently cooked and cleaned and put things away and then with the pattering of naked feet on the marble floor slipped through the doorway and back to their memories about and their hopes for their families.

Time

December 24, 2005

Well, today we spent over 10 hours at Mumbai’s domestic airport waiting to catch a flight to Kerala for a week of holidays. Our flight was supposed to depart at noon and I was pleasantly surprised when we received a call in our hotel informing us that the flight was delayed almost 3 hours. I was unhappy that the flight was delayed but happy that we didn’t need to spend 3 extra hours with 2 kids under 4 years old at a busy airport terminal. However, we when reached the airport we found out that the flight had been delayed yet again due to fog in Delhi. Apparently the aircraft that we would be taking had been stuck in Delhi and we would have to wait for it, which meant an additional two hours. All in all, the flight was delayed 2 more times and a noon flight ended up leaving at 10:15 pm. Unfortunate you might think, but what’s the big deal? Weather delays happen all the time, even in the U.S., and at least in India we were bussed to and given vouchers to eat at a very nice hotel.

The frustration comes from what appears to be utter confusion on the part of every airline staffperson at the airport as to what was going on in Delhi. There was no consensus as to what the status of the aircraft was in Delhi. Depending on the time and the person we spoke to the aircraft was either still on the ground, up in the air, or would arrive in Mumbai imminently. This kept on going for 10 hours. It was hard to believe that there was no definite knowledge about the status of the aircraft that was somewhere on the ground or in the airspace somewhere between Delhi and Mumbai.

Funny thing about kids is that they accept all these unforeseen circumstances more readily than adults. Adults always seem to be in a rush to get somewhere. In our daily life in California, I can’t count how many days passed with a rushed breakfast (if that), driving Sandrine, my older daughter, to preschool; picking her up, taking her home for lunch and then the 4 afterschool classes that we signed her up for, baths, dinner, goodnight stories etc. Of course, Bob was busy putting in long hours at work and when I was also working it was downright crazy. We also have an infant who occupied whatever minutes remained.

I must say that Sandrine used the time in the airport much more productively than us. She struck up a friendship with other another child her age and her sister who were also stranded like us. They passed the time happily playing with all the toys, dolls, and books that were in their respective children’s rolling backpacks. Can’t say enough positive things about rolling backpacks! Sandrine and these two other girls simply accepted that they would be in the airport for some time. They made the most of it and frankly had a very memorable Christmas Eve with new found friends.

On the other hand, Bob and I occupied out time in the airport harassing airline staff every 30 minutes regarding the status of our flight and commiserating with other stranded passengers. Although we were on vacation we seemed to bring the fervor of our everyday lives in the U.S. to India. I am not sure why we were so distressed to have to slow down one day. Remarkably a 3.5 year old managed to make better use of her time than us. After all, what’s the big hurry?