Musings

I’ve been collecting a stockpile of uniquely Indian oddities in the “Huh?” compartment of my brain to share with you. Rather than let another day pass (since many days have already escaped me), I’ll just present them here as succinctly as I can:

1. Scene from stuck in traffic (there will likely be more of these): A fence divides traffic traveling in two directions along a stretch of road near Lajpat Nagar. A group of young boys, say around 12 years old, clad in shorts and not much more, are painting the fence green. But something seems off in the painting process. A closer look reveals that the boys don’t have paintbrushes. Each boy leans over, dips his entire hand in the bucket of paint, and attempts to slosh it all over the bars of the fence. I guess somewhere between the local government project, the contractor, the painters, and the boys who somehow came into the picture, the brushes were “misplaced.” In this country, “child labor” is a term used by the international media and NGOs, and pretty much no one else.

2. Warding Off the Evil Eye:

These ornament looking things hang all over the place — on the back of a car, rickshaw, or truck, in some corner of an office or home, or in this case, on the railing at the entrance to a hair salon. Apparently the string of green chilies and lemons wards off the evil eye, protecting a place, thing, its contents, or its patrons from the evil eye. That’s all I know.

3. A random thought from KA: “Some people love the Indian lifestyle because if you have money, you don’t have to ever lift a finger.” The servant will serve you tea, breakfast, and whatever else you may fancy in the morning, either that same servant or some other servant will have washed, ironed, and folded your clothes, ensured that the geyser is on so that you have a constant stream of piping how water for your shower, and confirmed that your chosen selection of daily papers is in your hand every morning. The driver will come in and carry your briefcase to the car, battle the mayhem of city streets to get you to work in one piece, and park and take care of the car in your absence. When you walk into the office, more people carry your stuff, serve you edibles and drinkables, present you with pertinent information, solve any technical problems your phone, computer, or even home television may have, make arrangements for your lunch… and so it goes. For people like KA and I, each step of this process is laden with varying degrees of discomfort. How could I possibly pass my dirty clothes along to someone twice my age and not think twice about what it takes for him to return them to me, clean? Why am I not clearing my own dishes? Or running to the fridge to grab some hot sauce during dinner? If I don’t carry my own bags, my arm muscles will degenerate and fall off!!! OK… time to move on.

4. Water Isn’t a Drink. When you walk into someone’s house, you’re immediately offered something to drink.

RD: Um, no thanks. I’m fine.

Host: You must have something!

RD: OK, just a glass of water would be great.

Host: Well you’ll obviously get water! What else? Tea, coffee, soda, juice, beer?
RD: Really, nothing. I just had some tea a little while ago.

Host: [Calls out to someone in the kitchen to bring water]

The next part is even more awkward. A servant brings a glass of water on a tray. I pick it up, thank them, and take a sip. He or she doesn’t move. I look up and start a conversation with my host. The person is still standing there. Until I’ve finished my fill of water and put the glass back on the tray, the servant usually won’t leave. Water is apparently not a drink. It’s a refresher, to be presented to anyone the moment they walk in the door, but it doesn’t count as “having something” when you come over.

On Giving Thanks

I felt pretty jittery and unsettled during Thanksgiving week here, but I couldn’t put my finger on exactly why. I had crowded the fact that it was the third week of November out of my brain, but that wasn’t so hard to do in this lifestyle; I spend quiet moments fretting over whether water will come out of the faucet when I turn it on, how I’m going to get from place A to place B without getting ripped off (meaning that I’m not sure if my accent will reveal that Hindi isn’t my first language), and whether I’ll find meaningful work here, to give a few examples. But I’ve already digressed.

Thanksgiving week was rough because this was the first Thanksgiving I have ever spent away from my family, the first year I wasn’t celebrating the occasion in my mom’s kitchen. It didn’t help that I was getting daily reports from her about the preparations — the event would be at its smallest this year with a mere 22 people in attendance; she had been wooed away from the mashed potatoes out of a box by my very insistent brother and sister-in-law; she was trying out some new fancy Williams Sonoma recipes that I had forwarded her (never expecting that she’d actually take them up); the turkey was being injected in surgical fashion with some complex masala mixture — you get the idea. It was mouth-watering, soul-wrenching torture.

I endured. I even got onto Skype with the whole lot of them that night, as they lazily led their satisfied, over-extended bellies into the study to chat with me for a moment before returning to their wine and pumpkin pies.

Two nights later, my father flew into Delhi, and three days later, a few of my close relatives here gathered for a small get-together. Unlike the usual Delhi buffet style setup, the dinner table was set for all attendees. I didn’t catch on. As I was walking in, my uncle was asking my aunt who was going to do the cutting, and where. Crap, I thought. It’s someone’s birthday, and I’m clueless as to who the cake is for. Yeah, I still didn’t catch on. It wasn’t until Papa, assuming that I was smart enough to have figured out that he had imported Thanksgiving dinner for me, announced that the turkey he had brought along weighed a solid 14.5 lbs that my jaw dropped.

There it was all being laid out before my widening eyeballs: sweet potato pudding, mashed potatoes (real ones, not out of a box), stuffing (with sausage), brussels sprouts with pancetta, a loaf of melt-in-your-mouth pumpkin bread, cranberry sauce, gravy, and a whole 14.5 lb, juicy, masala-injected turkey. And enough leftovers to last us until my sister arrives. (That’s right, I have pretty high expectations for the contents of her luggage now, as well!)

I couldn’t even wait until everyone had served themselves. But before I dug in, I squeezed my eyes shut. Most parents might lament about how bummed I was to miss Thanksgiving this year, some might even joke about FedExing me some leftovers, but only my parents would cook a full parallel meal, pack it in layers of Ziploc, freeze it, stuff it into the suitcase, transport it clear across the planet, and arrange for a Thanksgiving dinner in Delhi, all because their daughter was moping about the lack of availability of pumpkin pie in India.

I give thanks for my wonderfully insane parents.