Musings from the Motherland

Experiences

noreply@blogger.com (Danakka) — Sat, 02 Sep 2006 02:05:00 +0000

The weekend before last Bob, Sandrine, Nikhitita, and I went to Thiruvananthapuram, Kerala again to visit Bob’s parents who live there and his brother and family who were visiting from Dubai. His sister and her son, who we see quite frequently in Mumbai, would also be there. At my husband’s suggestion, his parents made arrangements for all of us to visit Kanyakumari, the southernmost tip of India. I was excited as it was a good idea for us to all spend some quality time together and for his parents to take a break from worrying about the logistics of having so many people in the house.

The trip itself was quite an undertaking with 7 adults and 4 kids. A Tempo Traveller van and driver were required for the 87 km trip over slow bumpy roads which would take 3-4 hours, including a stop for lunch which included a traditional meal served on banana leaves. As was her trademark, my mother-in-law packed enough food to last 3-4 days, not hours. As we rode along, cousins who see each other for a few days, if lucky, every year or year and a half enjoyed each other’s company. It never ceases to amaze me how quickly children can get along even if they have been apart. The children noisily sang songs while my mischievous 4.5 year old nephew interspersed his own sounds to their melodies creating new twists to old classics. Nikhitita passed the time dozing on my lap and enjoyed being passed from my lap to my husband’s and then his sister’s in turn. She also stood up on the seat, peering curiously over the seat back in front of her. I remember thinking that she was not going to like using a car seat again when we returned to the U.S. in December.

En route we stopped at Padamanabhapuram Palace which was built around 1601 A.D by Iravi Iravi Varma Kulasekhara Perumal who ruled Travancore at the time. The palace and the surrounding complex are examples of traditional Kerala architecture and artistry. Unfortunately tickets were sold out until an hour later and our entourage decided that it would be a difficult endeavor to wait with the kids, especially since it had just started to drizzle.

We finally arrived at our hotel and eagerly looked out from the large open windows in the lobby that overlooked the waters to catch a glimpse of the famed shores where waters from the Arabian Sea, Indian Ocean, and the Bay of Bengal intermingle. Although located in the state of Tamil Nadu, Kanyakumari or Cape Comorin as it was called during British rule, is bordered by the state of Kerala to the North and the Northwest, to the Southeast by the Bay of Bengal, the South by the Indian Ocean, and Southwest by the Arabian Sea. To the north and northeast of Kanyakumari district lie the Tirunelveli district of Tamil Nadu.

On our first evening in Kanyakumari we decided to visit the Gandhi Memorial, which was finished in 1956. Mahatma Gandhi had apparently made two visits to Kanyakumai, the second of which was in January 1937. Below an engraving of Gandhi were inscribed the words, “I am writing this at the cape, in front of the sea, where three waters meet and furnish a sight unequalled in the world, for this is no port of call for vessels. Like the goddess, the waters around are virgin. 15-1-1937.” Kanyakumari itself means “virgin goddess.” The Gandhi Mandapam, as the Gandhi Memorial is also called, was contructed at the spot where the urn that held his ashes after cremation was placed for public view before some of the ashes were scattered into the three bodies of water. It was designed such that on October 2nd, Gandhi’s birthday, the sun shines exactly on the spot where the urn sat.

From the ground floor of the Memorial we made our way up the spiraling stairwell to two levels where we could enjoy the panoramic view. There was a small stretch of beach and from the middle of the water extended two famous landmarks: the Thiruvalluvar statue on one island and the Swami Vivekananda Rock Memorial from the other. On Christmas Day in 1892 Swami Vivekananda swam to the rock and meditated there throughout the night. It was at this sight that he dedicated himself to serve India and it is here that a memorial has been constructed in his memory. We would have to save a visit to those sights for tomorrow.
I was brought back to reality as my husband’s sister seeing the small stretch of beach called out in a disappointed tone, “I want a sandy beach….where is the sandy beach?” We gathered our shoes which had to be “checked in” prior to entering the Gandhi Memorial and followed a stranger’s gesture as to the path to take to reach the small beach we had seen from overhead. Apparently my sister-in-law had made a trip here some time back and etched into her memory were stretches of multi-colored sandy beaches and waters of three colors meeting. We arrived at the beach which was small and crowded. Turbulent waters hit the rocky ledges that covered the outer shores and jubilant tourists enjoyed the feel of the cold water on their feet. Sandrine worked up the courage to go to one of these rocky landings with her cousins while Bob and I watched from a distance. Nikhitita surveying all from atop Bob’s shoulders while I snapped photos on my camera as well as my brother-in-law’s camera

Kanyakumari is famed for it’s beautiful sunsets and sunrises so next we piled into the van again and drove to a picturesque spot, aptly named sunset point, to watch the sun settle over the shores. The scenic overlook was rather spacious and the kids had a great time playing on the merry-go-round and chasing each other around, while the adults enjoyed the serene landscape and watching the evening light gradually dim over the sea. Vendors followed the women of our party around plying their wares of seashell jewelry and other “ornaments from the sea.” More than the jewelry I was fascinated by their ability to seamlessly switch from Tamil to Malalayalam to English after astutely assessing their potential customer.

After such an eventful day, we were enjoying a peaceful night’s sleep only to be jarred awake by a knock on our door, “Sunrise.” It was 5:30 am. Not one to take a chance on missing anything I sat down on our balcony to welcome the new day with Bob who is anyway a light sleeper and early riser. Sandrine and Nikhitita were sprawled out on our bed oblivious to things like sunrises and as I looked at the minisule open space left on the bed, I wondered whether Bob and I had slept suspended in space. The sunrise, albeit only an hour later was extraordinary.

At first I was not sure why the hotel staff woke us up so early but the gradual ushering in of the day was well worth the wait. The sun’s rays peeked out gradually over the southernmost tip of India slowly illuminating the fishing boats that rocked unsteadily but managed to cling to the shores. As the morning light broke, fishermen climbed atop their boats bracing themselves for yet another day of earning their livelihood.

After enjoying a leisurely cup of coffee on our balcony and conversing with my brother-in-law and his wife who were also enjoying the morning air on their adjoining balcony, we set out for the day’s activities. We decided to take the ferry to the Swami Vivekananda Rock Memorial. The queue was very long and Bob immediately offered to go back to the hotel with Nikhitita. His parents who had decided that it would be too difficult to make the trip to the Memorial were there. As the line started moving, and at my urging, we all decided to go. As we reached the point of embarkation, we were split into two lines, one for men and one for women. Seeing the harried returning crowd stampede out from the ferry before it had even reached the shore I looked nervously at my husband’s sister, who was carrying Nikhitita. “Do you want me to hold her?” I looked at Bob who was in the men’s line with Sandrine. “Hold on to her.”

We got off at the first stop which was the Memorial and Bob and his brother decided to stay with the younger children in a waiting area while my niece, older nephew and the women of our group visited the Memorial. We had been told that there would be a lot of walking. Too bad, because in retrospect there really wasn’t much walking and the children would have enjoyed running around the huge terrace surrounded the Vivekananda Memorial structure and the views of the Kanyakumari shoreline were fabulous.

Getting back onto the ferry was no small feat, although Bob and his brother had somehow convinced the ferry operators to allow us to bypass the huge return line. There was a brouhaha as people fought for whatever seating there was and the rocking boat was overfilled and every nook and cranny was jammed with tourists and the faithful. We all looked at each other and decided that with so many children it would be painful to alight and embark again at the second stop, which was the island on which stood the imposing 133 feet tall statue of Tamil poet, Tiruvalluvar. We decided to head back to the mainland.

On the way back to the van, my sister-in-law and I were drawn to the various stalls that lined the walkway back. My husband, his brother, and his sister who do not like to shop and the tired, hungry children and my husband's constant reminder to "hurry up" prevented us from us from doing more than just glancing at the tempting wares. We decided to return alone to peruse the stalls at leisure, which we did later that afternoon. My sister-in-law who grew up in Tamil Nadu spoke fluent Tamil and helped me to procure some great deals on knick-knacks for my girls. She picked up a few things for her children as well. We had never had a chance to spend time together like this and I surprised to find that we both enjoyed street shopping.

After returning from our journey I spoke to my Mom in Chicago via Skype and told her about our trip, excited as I always am about having seen a new place. She surprised me when she told me that it wasn’t my first trip to Kanyakumari. Apparently I had been there when I was 4.5 and my brother 1.5. Those were the exact ages of Sandrine and Nikhitita during this trip! I felt a little sad to think that they, like I at that age, would probably not remember the trip. Ah yet another opportunity for me to show them numerous photos of the journey (as those who know me know I always take). But I suppose in the grand scheme I would be happy if they could retain some memory of their time with their cousins.

My sister-in-law never did find her sandy beach. It turns out that on December 26, 2004 the Asian tsunami, triggered by an earthquake in the Indian Ocean near the Indonesian island of Sumatra, hit Kanyakumari. Of 700 people who were stranded on the Vivekananda Rock Memorial, only 650 were rescued. Supposedly one of the survivors was vacationing former German chancellor Helmut Kohl who was helicoptered out. Nonetheless, the famed beaches of Kanyakumari were never the same after that day. Only a small section of sandy beach is still accessible to the public and retaining walls separate the shores from the sea as a visible reminder of the day that devastation struck these famed shores.

Nothing stays the same, I was 4.5 when I first visited these shores, now my older daughter is that same age. My in-laws walked these shores with my husband and his siblings years ago. Now, they are content to wait in the hotel, unable to walk on the beach with their grandchildren. My sister-in-law yearns for sandy beaches, but they don’t exist any more. One of my friends in graduate school once told me that people need to experience things together in order to develop long-standing relationships. Phone conversations by themselves are just not enough. Who knows what the next 30 years will bring? Living in different countries, Bob, myself, and our children will inevitably be different from his siblings and their families. Even something so seemingsly stoic as the Kanyakumari landscape will most likely be different. I understand now that my friend was absolutely right. Hopefully our experiences together as a family in Kanyakumari will help deeper relationships endure.

7/12

noreply@blogger.com (Danakka) — Wed, 12 Jul 2006 11:56:00 +0000

7/11 is a date that will go down in history for Indians. But like 9/11 for Americans, 3/11 for Spaniards, and 7/7 for the English these are shameful dates that are marks of ignominy and loss of innocence. Yesterday was July 11, 2006. It was on this date that 8 bomb blasts shook Mumbai, the financial capital of India and a city of over 12 million inhabitants within the span of 11 minutes. It is difficult to believe that such evil minds exist that could conceive and execute such destruction and mayhem, painstakingly selecting rush hour and choosing the heavily traveled Western Railway (6 million passengers a day) to wreak their havoc on innocent, unsuspecting lives returning to their homes after a hard day’s work. But after the destruction of the World Trade Center in New York City and serial bomb blasts on Madrid and London subways, we know such evil exists.

July 11, 2006

6:45 pm – I turn on the television flipping past one of the Indian news channels. I stop suddenly…I caught the words “bomb blast” and “Khar station”. I live in Khar. I sucked in my breath. Apparently a bomb had ripped through one of the first class compartments of a train at Khar station at 6:25pm.

As I watch in horror, I hear that there have actually been three blasts and the word “terrorist” is added to the list of words flashing past on the news ticker under, “Breaking News.” I immediately try to call my husband Bob using my cell phone. I see the words “Network Busy” and rush to the landline. I can’t seem to make a call out. I am trying to decide what to do when I think about my trusty laptop. The Internet. “Please let broadband be up today,” I mutter. Just as I am about to Skype I get an SMS on my mobile phone from Bob. It succintly says it all “bomb bl.” Looks like SMS is working even if voice is not. I find out that Bob is still at work and okay. I try to call my sister-in-law who also lives with her family in Mumbai to find out whether she is alright. Can’t get through to either her landline or mobile phone. I connect to the internet and Skype my brother in San Francisco to tell him that we are okay and ask him to let my parents and his wife in Chicago know. I also ask my brother to try my sister-in-law in Mumbai’s number in case he has better luck calling internationally. He too can’t seem to get through. I SMS my sister-in-law. No response back. And I didn’t get a "message undeliverable" error. That is worrisome.

7:15 pm - I rush to the TV and find out that the number of blasts has increased to 5 and then 7 and then 8 (apparently 2 at one station).

Biya, our maid had left our flat, in Khar, at 6:15pm to catch her train back to Thane. Now that it was 7:15 pm I was getting worried. Sandrine interrupted me, “Mumma I’m scared.” Between running back and forth to the TV, my laptop, the landline and the mobile phone, I had neglected to let her now what was going on. At 4 years old she was very perceptive and so I told her that there was a problem with the train lines that Biya took. “So, is she coming back?” Sandrine inquired innocently. I didn’t answer. In my mind I thought she would have already come back since she normally takes a 6:40 pm train. I started panicking. “What if she had reached early and taken an earlier train?” My almost 1.5 year old was obliviously mouthing her sister’s kitchen toys. “Let me try to call Biya,” I said looking at Sandrine. Thinking that her son and daughter in Thane may have heard from her, I tried alternatively calling Biya’s home, my sister-in-law’s mobile and landline. Couldn’t get through to anyone. On one of these ongoing attempts I managed to get through to Biya’s home. A deep male voice answered, “Hello.” I quickly explained who I was and asked “Are you Biya’s son? Has Biya come home? Have you heard from her?” He said, “No, she is not home yet.” I paused and then proceeded, “There were some problems on the trains…bomb blasts…one of them was a Khar station….has she called?” I could hear the sucking in of his breath, “I didn’t know…let me check.” I hung up.

8:00 pm – My in-laws call to find out if I have heard from my sister-in-law.

They, like my husband, his brother, and myself, haven’t been able to get through to her. I tell them that she sent me an SMS at 4:58 pm saying that she’ll be off the train in 15 minutes so I assumed that she must be at home, after picking up her son from school. My mother-in-law tells me that my nephew didn’t go to school today. I start getting concerned, “Then what was she doing on the train at that time?” Later after Skyping with my husband I find out that she did change her mind and take my nephew to school after all. In that case, she must have gotten off at 5:15 pm per the SMS she sent. At this point her phone is ringing but no on is answering. I am getting more worried.

8:15 pm – My husband Skypes me that most likely he won’t be able to start back until after midnight. It is safer to stay where he is till the commotion dies down. Apparently our driver Roshan is stuck in traffic on his way to picking up my husband who is in Lower Parel. Roshan left our Khar flat at 6:15 pm.

8:45 pm – I am Skyping with my brother when my landline rings! It must be working again. I grab the receiver and bellow, “Hello.” “Ma’am…” the voice begins. “Biya,” I shout “Are you okay? Where are you?” “Is it okay if I come back,” she asks. “You should have come back 2 hours ago,” I scold. She laughs nervously. Sandrine chirps, “Is Biya coming?” Nikhitita begins her walk to the door chanting, “Biya…Biya…Biya.”

Still no word from my sister-in-law. The images on the news are very graphic now as they show good samaritans helping bloodied people. Particularly stark is the image of a well-dressed man laying on the ground with his laptop bag still hanging around his right shoulder. His legs are twisted in an unnatural position. He is clearly dead. I ban the kids from the TV room.

9:00 pm – I see the doorbell ring and see Biya through the peephole.

“Are you and Papa going out tonight while Biya stays with us?” asked Sandrine. “Not tonight,” I reply, “Biya is staying with us but we aren’t going out. Papa will be home very late.” We SMS Biya’s family that she is okay since their phones are still not working properly.

Biya told me how she had arrived at the station early for her 6:40 train and had been buying fruit to take home. As she was buying fruit she had heard the blast. She told me how she looked away as bloodied people were being taken away. She relayed how she and other stranded passengers like her were offered Bisleri water, biscuits and vada pav without any expectation of renumeration. Mumbai was recently cited as the rudest city in the world. True, Mumbaikers might not stop for someone dropping a piece of paper in the street but maybe it’s okay because 7/11 showed us that they can step up when someone is really in need.

As the newspapers would report the next day, emergency response was poor; it was civilians who were carrying the wounded and maimed to any private vehicle or taxi for transport to hospitals. The papers also reported that one of the first to the scene to provide aid to injured were slumdwellers who lived on the sides of the railway tracks. Caste knew no bar as slumdwellers held out their hands to first class passengers, not for a handout but to offer them help.

The landline rings again. It is Biya’s neighbor’s daughter who is stuck in Malad after work and has no place to go. I tell Biya that if she can somehow make her way to Khar she can stay with us.

9:15 pm – Roshan, our driver has finally reached Bob’s work three hours after he started from Khar. It should only take 45 minutes to an hour.

9:30 pm – During one of my numerous tries to get through to my sister-in-law I get a busy signal on her landline. She must be home!! I call her mobile phone. “Hello,” I hear her familiar voice. “You’re okay? We’ve been trying to get a hold of you.” She sheepishly replies, “We’ve been in a movie. We had no idea all this was going on!” “Whew!” I sigh in relief.

10:00 pm – Biya’s neighbor’s daughter come in. She apparently took the long trip by autorickshaw.

I spent the rest of the evening putting Nikhitita and Sandrine to bed and waiting for my husband to come home while responding to e-mail inquiries from friends and family in the U.S., Skype Chatting with Bob, and Google Chatting with my cousin in Bergen, Norway. What would we have done without the internet!!

12:36 am – Bob walks in though the door. I had been restless till then. I SMS Bob’s sister, “Bob’s back” and e-mail the same news to family in the U.S.

We sit down to talk about the events of the last six hours. Bob told me about how Roshan, our driver actually heard one of the blasts go off. He also told me that there were so many people stranded on the streets with nowhere to go that cars that were not full were being told to take random passengers with them. As we looked at our kids before we went to sleep and passed by the room where Biya and her neighbor’s daughter were sleeping that night we realized how fortunate we are.

What I presented above is simply my account of how the events of 7/11 immediately impacted me. Fortunately, I nor my family, were anywhere near any of the stations that suffered bomb blasts. My thoughts and prayers are with those who were directly impacted as well as their loved ones. But what I recounted above does reflect how such acts of terror impact everyone in some way, but perhaps with different levels of intensity. Those at the site are most directly affected and then those nearby and then those in the same city and then those in the same country and then everyone across the world. But I suppose that is the power of terror. It permeates the “it could be me next time feeling.”

But the way that Mumbaikers reacted on 7/12 shows that the power of people is stronger than the power of terror. The pulse of the city (and most of India) beats on the railway tracks. But these terrorists must have hit a vein not an artery because the very next day after 8 bomb blasts rocked Mumbai, students reported to schools, professional workers made it to their offices, and vendors manned their storefronts, stalls, and carts. Trains were slowly brought back up and running. And although not filled to capacity, people rode the trains. Less than 24 hours after missing a bomb blast by one hour, my sister-in-law and brother-in-law took my nephew to school by train. His school was not closed, and they were not afraid. Biya put in a full day of work and she and her neighbor's daughter left to catch their train. They also were not afraid. Neither are most Mumbaikers.

Perspective

noreply@blogger.com (Danakka) — Sun, 02 Jul 2006 06:17:00 +0000

I had been warned for some time about the rains in Mumbai. Bob’s co-workers have horrific tales about what they saw and experienced on 26/7, that is July 26th 2005 the day that Mumbai saw catastrophic flooding, which brought the city to a standstill. Our maid Biya has told me how she had to stay at her employer’s house overnight because the trains were not working and even her daughter, who was also a maid, stayed at her employer's flat. Phones were not working and people weren't able to let their loved ones know whether they were safe or not.

Part of June, all of July and most of August brings torrential rains to the city. The advantage is that the downpour brings some relief from the hot sun that beats unrelentously down on Mumbaikers in May. However, short distances, which already take some time to traverse due to poor roads and traffic, become almost impassable due to the almost assured flooding that follows soon after a couple of hours of heavy rain. Cars are lucky that they are still able to make their way, albeit slowly, through many of these flooded roads. In good weather the drivers of these same cars drive their passengers hurriedly through Mumbai roads honking and gesticulating impatiently. But during the monsoons these same cars have no choice but to wait patiently. A line of autorickshaws in front of them may stop suddenly in front of the newly formed pool of water, considering their likelihood of successful passage. The smart ones, with a quick maneuver, turn their vehicles 180 degrees around and seek alternate routes. Like a well-choreographed dance, the black and white autorickshaws, with flying blue tarps that beat in the wind in a makeshift attempt to shield their already soaked passengers, turn back one by one. As the stream of rickshaws that are almost literally ferrying their passengers about retreat, autorickshaws that are further back in the queue take their cue and turn around without waiting to catch a glimpse of the water firsthand.

Yesterday, we even passed a sabziwallah (vegetable seller) whose cart was perched on the higher ground of a sidewalk using what it looked like to be the metal pan for weighing his vegetables to furiously dump rising muddy water from the road into a ditch so that his cart wouldn’t be set afloat.

I used to enjoy walking around the streets surrounding our flat in the afternoons. It is always interesting to take in the crowds and hustle and bustle of sabziwallahs, fruit sellers and people on their way here and there and occasionally stop at small stores hidden in the side streets that beckon to me with interesting wares peering out from the window panes. During the rains, the hustle and bustle is still there. After all, this is a city that never stops. But the people walking hurriedly looking straight out have become people walking with outstretched arms holding in vise-like grips open umbrellas that undulate threatening with evey gust of the wind. Their stooped heads and dampened hair betray that their umbrella has not completely shielded them from the elements. Carts still display their owner’s fruits and vegetables while stalls display clothes, bags, and shoes. What has changed is that all is shrouded by a layer of blue tarp that mysteriously appears as if to cloak the city. The once dusty roads have become muddied and treacherously slippery for the unfamiliar. Mosquitos also buzz around hovering around puddles and other pools of standing water.

Sandrine attends an international school in Mumbai which follows the American school year. As such she is at home on vacation during the monsoons. As those with a 4 year old child can readily attest to, it is impossible to keep them fully occupied and you have to make every effort to curb their TV intake. It amazed me that Sandrine would happily watch her favorite shows as well as almost any other children’s show in Hindi. Mind you she doesn’t know Hindi, but I suppose it doesn’t matter to her. It bothered me more than her so she now watches a collection of Disney favorites on DVD in English. Anyway, to give her a break from home, me, and fighting with her 16.5 month old sister I enrolled her in a couple of evening classes: arts and crafts and gymnastics. She has attended one week of crafts so far and I am really impressed with the instructor and Sandrine looks forward to class and probably getting out of the confines of our flat.

One problem is the location of the class. It is in a small lane in Bandra, which is difficult to find. Two of our drivers, Roshan and Rahul both needed me to ask people for directions to get there. Our permanent driver Roshan even requested that I call Rahul so that he could find out how we finally reached the place. Rahul who is well-versed with locations all over Mumbai was actually stumped! Anyway, I finally came across a young man who knew where it was. Although he spoke English, I requested that he speak directly to Roshan since I was not familiar with the area. Roshan spent a couple of minutes talking to the man from his driver’s side window and then walked out with the man and both gestured at various roads shaking their heads affirmatively for another couple of minutes. Finally as I thought we were ready to go, Roshan requested the passerby to get into our vehicle and personally guide us there. The narrow roads and shortcuts he pointed out resulted in our speedy arrival. Nonetheless it was good we had our personal guide. I am certain that we would have gotten lost as I consider the narrow roads and side roads we took. After the 40 minute adventure, I was chagrined to find that the class had been cancelled! Our next trip to the first class took exactly 9 minutes door to door.

I was excited about the proximity until the second class, when it was raining. The major road in front of our flat was flooded in parts and Roshan had to wing his way taking roads that were accessible. In total, three roads gave us trouble. One had an electrical post down and two were fully flooded. I suddenly realized that this 9 minute journey would not be 9 minutes again until this season ended. For the third class I had to carry Sandrine out of the car since she would have been submerged to her ankles in a puddle. I had been wondering why there were only a few students in the class, especially since the instructor and the class were both really good. It suddenly hit me that parents must be much more familiar with the weather in Mumbai than I.

The tide beats violently on the sandy shores. The clouds gray ominously. The flighty wind heaves the coconut tree leaves inward and outward in turns revealing and hiding their heavy, round bounty. Heavy rain beats down suddently. I am surprised by how the rain does not begin with a drizzle and culminate in a torrential downpour but begins with the climax first. I suppose that the surging tide and gray clouds are enough of nature’s warning. I take in my breath not in fear but in awe.

It is monsoon time in Goa and we were there for the weekend. We were staying at a beautiful resort in South Goa. We wanted to see Goa in the monsoons and have plans to return to see the famous churches and experience the world-reknowned waters during better weather. As such, we had accepted that this would be a vacation about enjoying the food and other amenities of our resort. As those who know me can attest, it is only recently that I have acquiesced to taking what I call “beach” vacations. My idea of a vacation used to be (probably still would be if Bob let me get away with it) a full itinerary from 5 am to 11 pm printed on photocopied itineraries that each of us carried. The purpose was to experience another place but in a calculated, methodical way that left nothing of importance out. On the other hand, a beach vacation is where you enjoy good food, sleep, each other’s company, and above all relax.

This trip to Goa was a beach vacation but ironically the persistent rain made it impossible to spend time on the beach. During the soggy first day I was starting to feel that we had come in vain. However on or second day, when there was a reprieve in the rain Sandrine, Nikhitita, Bob and I took a leisurely family walk down the man-made footpath to the beach. On the walk we passed dewy green lawns fresh with life from the rains. From these fields rose tall coconut trees that formed a picturesque silhouette against the gray blue sky. When we reached the beach a red flag, put out by the resort staff, warned guests of the dangerous surf. A little redundant since the waters beating down on the sand were warning enough. Suddenly the winds picked up, the leaves of the coconut trees swayed dangerously and the skies opened wide letting down a deluge of water. I sigh thinking, “Our trip was worth it.”

Why is it that monsoons in Mumbai and monsoons in Goa elicit such different reactions? Perhaps it is because in Mumbai the rains slow people down from their day to day tasks. On many an occasion when I am in Mumbai I find myself looking straight out through the water blurried front windshield and then nervously at my watch hoping that there is no road blockage. Or as a pedestrian I grip my umbrella tight with one hand and my bag of groceries with the other looking down as I trudge my way through the slushy streets hoping to get home before the rains get worse. In Goa, I was in no rush. I was able to think of more than getting somewhere on time or trying not to get drenched. I actually looked up at the beautiful ominous sky, down at the tide rising higher and higher onto the sandy beach, and out at lush greenery and majestic coconut trees. What seemed dreary and depressing in one place seemed absolutely magnificent in another. I guess it truly is all about perspective.

Faith

noreply@blogger.com (Danakka) — Fri, 05 May 2006 10:24:00 +0000

Our former driver Dubey used to work as a driver in the Middle East. During one of our many conversations, he relayed to me that on one occasion when he was playing football (soccer), he had the misfortune to fracture his leg. The doctors in the Middle East, according to him, did not do a good job and as a result he continued to have trouble with his leg and could not walk properly. Dubey had always been quite critical of allopathic medicine and expounded quite often, and at length, about the wonders of homeopathy. So I was not at all surprised by his harsh criticism of his treatment and would not have been surprised if he had ranted on about Indian physicians had his treatment been in India.

Dubey was a man of great ironies but admirably quite honest. He believed that no one in Mumbai knew how to drive and would readily tell the other drivers who he encountered just that. The reality is that he was the one who did not know how to drive. A driver who cannot drive well. Surely you see the irony in that. During yet another conversation, Dubey threw out, “Madam, you know that I am a doctor.” I did a double take partly because I was surprised and probably partly because we nearly hit a pedestrian. Turns out that he had attended a school of homeopathic medicine in Mumbai and completed the entire course. If I was considering a cold medicine for Nikhitita or Sandrine, he would rattle off the names of several homeo medicines that should be taken instead, in what combination, and their dosage instructions. I had to ask so I did, “Why are you still working as a driver?” He paused and then answered, “I did not pass the licensing exam.” Ironic. But as I said, honest to a fault.

Today Dubey is a 50 plus year old man with a receding hairline and whose remaining strands he colored in an effort to cover his gray. His hair shines maroon in the sunlight and I have often wondered if it is some homeopathic concoction that has left his strands such an unusual shade. He is thin but seems to be in a good health and he definitely doesn’t walk with a limp. “Hmmm,” I wondered to myself. “Was it homeopathy or allopathy that cured this man?” I was surprised to find that it was neither.

There is a Catholic church in Bandra, the Basilica of Our Lady of the Mount or Mount Mary’s Church as it is commonly referred to by the locals. Local lore has it that if you make an offering of a candle in the shape of the particular body part that is injured or needs healing, your plea is answered. People make their offerings at the foot of the altar or across the street at the foot of another statue of Mary. Even more amazing is that Hindus, Muslims, and Sikhs as well as Christians flock to the Basilica with their ailments.

Apparently 10 or 15 or so years ago, after Dubey had returned to India with his limp he requested someone who was visiting the Mount Mary church to make an offering for his leg. As the story he told goes, the very next day as he was running to catch a bus he heard a cracking noise come from his afflicted leg. From that point on he has had absolutely no problem with his leg.

Today the roadway immediately outside the gate to Mount Mary church is littered on both sides with stalls that do brisk business selling wax moldings of arms, legs, and various other body parts. And the ornate interior warmly welcomes both the faithful and the curious. It is hard to believe that this church has such a long and fabled history. The Portugese built the Nossa Senhora de Monte chapel at this same location in 1640. It was destroyed by fire in 1738 and apparently six months later heavily ornamented wood statue of the Virgin Mary over 5 feet tall was recovered by a fisherman. The statue was stored in a nearby church until 1761 when the Mount Mary church was rebuilt and the statue assumed its current position at the head of the altar.

The results of a decade long research study on the power of prayer in healing illness was released at the end of March. This was the most scientific research done to date and involved following 1,800 patients for over a decade. Results showed that there was no difference in post-operative complication rates for patients who were prayed for and patients who weren’t. Other results showed that 59% of patients who knew they were being prayed for suffered complications compared to 51% of patients who didn’t know whether they were being prayed for. Researchers theorized that knowing that they were in the prayer group made these patients fearful that they were especially sick, which is why they were put in the prayer group.

80%, 12% and 2%. This is roughly the composition of Hindus, Muslims, and Christians respectively in India. The remaining 6% or so are composed of Sikhs, Buddhists, Jains, etc. Regardless of the number of religions and their different fundamental tenets the foundation of every religion is faith. After all without faith in something or someone what else is there to explain what science cannot?

Escape

noreply@blogger.com (Danakka) — Sun, 26 Mar 2006 17:26:00 +0000

Escape

March 21, 2006

A week ago Wednesday was Holi in India. Holi falls on the day after the full moon in early March and celebrates both harvest and a story from Hindu lore. According to this story a conceited king attempts to prevent his son Prahlada from worshipping Lord Vishnu by attempting to kill him. Even the king’s sister Holika, who legend has it cannot be burned, sits with him in a huge fire to save him. Somehow Prince Prahlada survives while Holika perishes in the flames. In remembrance of this huge bonfires are symbolically burnt on the evening of the full moon (eve of Holi). The next day, which is Holi, people run amok dousing each other with colored powder, called gulal, and water. By noon the play with colors ends and everyone cleans up. Based on conversations with our maid and reading the Mumbai newspapers it is clear that Holi is not that carefree and fun holiday that Bob recalls so fondly from his youth. The Holi of today extends well past noon with people imbibing a marijuana-based alcohol called bang, can be demeaning to women, and doesn’t always stop with good old fashioned fun. In fact my own memory of Holi, as a young child of less than 5 in Ahmedabad, Gujarat is of having someone throw colors on my mother as she opened our door while carrying me. For a child that age, it was frightening even though I am sure that she knew the person. Given all this we did not feel too badly about going out of town on this day. In fact, we decided to take a couple of extra days off (Holi is an official holiday in India) and make a trip to the Maldives.

The Republic of Maldives is a group of 1192 islands clumped into 26 atolls on the equator in the Indian Ocean 650 kms southwest of Sri Lanka. Of these thousand plus islands, only around 200 or so are inhabited and of these 87 are resorts. It was to one of these resort islands that was part of the North Male Atoll that we headed.

Having been fortunate enough to experience other beach vacations in Hawaii and Mexico, we expected more of the same. Although there are a lot of similarities, there is a certain something about the Maldives that sets it eons apart.

We stayed in a comfortable tropical beachfront accommodation that overlooked coconut trees, between which inviting mesh hammocks were stretched out, and just a few steps beyond these lay a clean crème-coloured sandy beach that stretched into a crisp blue ocean that seemed to extend to infinity and beyond. It was almost as if we had our own private beach and maybe this was the difference. In our stays in Hawaii and Mexico, although the places were also undoubtedly scenic they were overrun with tourists. The entire island that we were on in the Maldives was a single resort and so even though on certain days even though it was completely at capacity we were still afforded the feeling of seclusion.

Sandrine passed endless hours building sand castles and destroying them and writing her name in the sand with a plastic rake while Bob and I alternated between taking care of Nikhitita and snorkeling, reading, strolling, or just being. The rolling waves frightened Nikhitita and even Sandrine was reluctant to venture into the ocean waters. Wanting the kids to enjoy the exhilarating feeling we had of basking in the sun while being submerged in the water we took them to the swimming pool. Both Sandrine and Nikhitita acquiesced to getting into the swimming pool, which felt like our own, since most of the island’s temporary residents were lounging on their “private” beaches or lagoon decks. In addition to the beachfront villas, lagoon villas were also available and boasted private decks with descending steps that took vacationers directly into the ocean for snorkeling or wading about.

It was a much needed break away from mobile phones, blackberries, high-speed internet connections, and the pressures of work, school, and managing the home. We did indulge in a little bit of cricket (Bob), Aladdin (Sandrine), and American Idol (me) so I can’t say that we were all that isolated!

I was struck by how naturally beautiful the Maldives are. During the day, the sandy cream-colored beaches extend to the multi-colored blue ocean which extends to an azure sky speckled with white clouds. And at night the gently rolling waves cover and uncover the sands like a child who takes off and puts on his blanket trying to get the temperature just right. And what sounds at first like the jarring onset of torrential rain from our room are only the undulating waves that crash onto the sands and recede over and over again forming a pleasing symphony for our ears. Even the very air permeates of relaxation and there is only serenity as far as the eye can see. It was not until one of our last mornings in Maldives that reality set in. Nikhitita had gotten up early as she does every morning for her morning doodhoo (milk) and I thought that I would take in the sunrise, seeing as I was already up.

I took a solitary stroll to the jetty, where we had arrived by motorboat a few days earlier, then sauntered lazily on the beach towards the lagoon villas, and then retraced my steps back to “our” hammock. I was surprised to see the flurry of activity by hotel staff at this early hour. There were at least 2 men (that I could see) with rakes, black plastic bags, and wheelbarrows sweeping the sands in front of our accommodation and those neighboring it.

As I peered out to the ocean I could see that there were at least 3 more men on the beach itself first sweeping and then collecting the debris and leaves that the wind and tide had unceremoniously deposited on the sands and then carting the pile away by wheelbarrow. The coy sun, which had peeked out tentatively from behind the light billowy clouds, slowly became more brazen. By the time the brilliantly glowing orb shone down with its full intensity, the men had finished their dawn cleaning and the sun luminated beaches scoured so pristine that they seemed to reflect the light back into the inviting sky. I guess that even natural beauty in the Maldives needs a little maintenance.

When we returned back to Mumbai on Sunday and drove back from the airport, the stark reality of pollution, trash strewn about, overcrowded streets, abject poverty set in with a thud. I hadn’t really thought about it before but one of the things that I miss living in Mumbai is natural beauty. We are fortunate to live in the Bay Area, California, which is really beautiful. When I was there I took it for granted until an old friend from the Midwest visited and told me that our subdivision looks like it is set in a resort because of the clear skies, and green mountains that surround it in the distant horizon. I was stunned as we live in just another middle class subdivision. My friend’s comment took me back to when I had first arrived in Northern California nine years ago and gazed out of our rental car in awe at the scenic highway (280) and the homes that were precariously perched on the hillsides. Somehow over the years what I had initially perceived as amazing evolved into the mundane.

Mumbai has many wonderful architectural marvels, a varied population, and by most accounts is a thriving social and economic base for millions. But parks for kids to be kids or adults to simply enjoy a break from the city life are few and far in between and most are also not maintained at the standards that we are used to in the U.S. This is really a shame since even huge metropolitan cities like New York, which has Central Park and San Francisco, which has Golden Gate Park manage to infuse a sense of natural beauty in the midst of the urban sprawl. True, the population of Mumbai dwarfs the other two cities I mentioned but projects like Navi Mumbai (New Bombay) continue to move forward which means that planning for urban growth continues unfettered.

The Maldives taught me that completely natural places to escape to in today’s world are few, far in-between, involve considerable travel, and are probably not completely natural anyway. Like our island getaway where the resort staff meticulously behind the scenes prepare the beaches and grounds for hundred of guests to go back to the “simple things in life”, cities like Mumbai would be well served by having well-kept places for their residents to go to escape. There is no doubt that economically and technologically India and its major cities like Mumbai are positioned well to succeed in the world over the next few generations. However sadly, without some significant aesthetic changes future generations, like today’s generation will continue to go elsewhere to escape.

Gharapuri

noreply@blogger.com (Danakka) — Wed, 08 Mar 2006 09:04:00 +0000

March 6, 2006

A week ago I decided to go to Elephanta Island to see the famous caves. The island is located in the Arabian Sea 10 kms north-east of the Gateway of India and is one of the major tourist destinations for travellers to Mumbai.

Bob had talked to several co-workers about the logistics of getting to Elephanta and we decided that it would be a grueling trip for our young children and that frankly they would probably not enjoy it. As such, Bob who is not as keen about these attractions as I am graciously agree to stay at home with the two kids while I went to Elephanta with my sister-in-law and her 14 year old son.

The trip involved a 1 hour 15 minute ferry ride from the Gateway of India to Elephanta Island and then a 2 km walk from the ferry landing point up to the caves. The walk also included a graduated 120 step climb up the Deccan mountains to reach the cave temples. Although it was still the end of February the sun scorched unforgivingly down on us and crowds of other people exploring Elephanta on this day. This excursion, which was challenging now would be excruciating in another couple of weeks time as summer blazed down on Mumbai. I got a good sense of how hot the summers could be and began to understand why most travel is recommended between October and March. Seasonally, March through June brings the hot summer, July and August brings the monsoon rains which serves to bring more humidity than cool air and the relatively cooler weather starts at the tail end of September.

Our driver, Dubey, picked me up from our flat in Bandra at 10 am and we made it to the Gateway where I was to meet my sister-in-law and nephew arriving a little before 11 am. We had made pretty good time, largely because it was a Sunday. This trip from the north suburbs of Mumbai to South Bombay could take upwards of 1 hour and 15 minutes during weekdays with bumper to bumper traffic.

Having arrived at the Gateway with a few minutes to spare, I looked around. Although I look Indian, with my leather clogs and travel bag slung sideways across my shoulder I stood out as a Westerner as much as tourists with their platinum blond hair and cameras in tow. Within seconds I was inundated by men selling picture books and tours and had to wave them away. I walked around the pavement for a couple of minutes taking in the equal numbers of tourists and Indians who filled the area in front of the Gateway. Looking at my watch and seeing the small hand hit the 11 o’clock mark I approached an Indian couple who looked like locals, “Do you know where the Police Chowki is?” Following their pointed fingers I made my way to the police stand. I was sure that it was the right place because I could see several stalls for ferry departures to Elephanta. My sister-in-law and nephew appeared before me clad in hats and carrying a bag with water and their lunch. I kicked myself wishing that I had brought my hat as well.

We purchased tickets for a ferry departing momentarily. The ticket seller managed to persuade us to spring for the more expensive luxury seats. Although initially reluctant, we were promised that the seats were much better and on a separate luxury ferry. We rushed to the Arabian Sea side of Gateway and arrived just in time to make the ferry. Other people were paying cash in front of us and I had my doubts as to whether there really was any such thing as a luxury ferry as we boarded the boat and sat on the hard plastic seats. As luck would have it we were seated on the shady side and although after a while the rolling of the waves became monotonus we passed the time chatting with each other.

We finally docked at the ferry landing. It didn’t take long to discern that tourism had arrived with a vengeance to Elephanta Island. Along the 2 km trapse from the jetty to the caves we passed stalls selling water, cool beverages, hats, tour books, and men squatting on the ground sellings cheap plastic toys and various other souvenirs as well as women selling an assortment of berries. There was even a small post office for people who wished to send out postcards from the Island. Actually, it was probably to serve the needs of the several hundred people for whom the island was home. People spoke little during the strenuous trek to the caves, weathering the hot sun and fatigue and conserving energy with few words. I walked on ahead while my companions followed behind. I would stop every once in a while perusing the wares that were being sold and wait for my sister-in-law and nephew to catch up. On several of these stops along the way I noticed one woman always directly ahead of them. She was an elderly woman in a sari who clutched a bag in her right hand. She stood out more for her determined expression than her pronounced limp which caused her body to dip unsymmetrically to the right with every step forward. I remember thinking that she maintained a pretty good pace for someone with a walking impediment, especially up the unevenly paved incline.

Others I passed included parents carrying their small children up the mountain side shielding their faces from the beating sun with hats or cloths. I was really glad that Sandrine and Nikhitita were with their father in the comfort of our flat.

We made our way to the main cave and I immediately glanced at the guide book, “Guide to Elephnata” (as it was misspelled) to try to make out the carvings that appeared in front of us. There were several inner caverns, and when I peered into these I could see that they had orange and white flowers strewn about the center. There were clearly two camps of people in the caves. Some who like me carried cameras, leafed through guide books and wore comfortable walking shoes and others like the people praying in the inner caverns who carried offerings, were barefoot, and bowed their heads reverently. I was reminded that although Elephanta Island was a tourist destination with thousands of visitors a day trampling through the caves, it was also called Gharapuri in ancient literature. Gharis were what the priests of the temple were called and puri means town. Gharipuri literally means town of the Ghari priests. This place had a religious significance to people centuries ago and it clearly has a religious meaning to people today. This was evident at the entry ways to the Siva Shrine where people had respectfully left their shoes outside in order to worship the Linga, which represents the generative power of nature and is the symbol of Siva. The determination of the elderly sari clad woman with the limp made sense to me now. Although the last time I saw the woman was at the entry path to the caves after the 120th and final step and I could never know for certain, I surmised that her motivation was religious, which must have fueled her determination. I wondered which camp the parents carrying their small children fell into. It was a gentle reminder to me to be cognizant that many of the places that we would see in India would mean more to others than just another site to cross off the “must see” list of places to experience in my lifetime.

Throng

noreply@blogger.com (Danakka) — Sat, 25 Feb 2006 02:56:00 +0000

February 21, 2006

One of the worst weeks with our driver Dubey was a couple of weeks ago when we had several major incidents during the span of several days. I won’t bother detailing the daily altercations with or on good days the angry looks we get from offended autorickshaw drivers or passerbys on the roads since these have become routine.

Dubey, Nikhitita and I had just arrived at a store I had heard about and wanted to explore. Our driver was looking for a spot to park and had just pulled the car up onto the curb when we heard a thud and felt the front left side of the car drop. All of his efforts to rev the engine and reverse were in vain. Apparently he had driven us into a drainage ditch, which was not covered. Dubey merely berated the state government for not doing their jobs while I was quietly wondering why he didn’t notice the gaping trench that stretched the entire length of the roadway. Within a minute of two, around 10 schoolboys mysteriously appeared in front of our car. Another man also emerged and instructed the boys to lift up the car while Dubey sat on the driver’s side and steered. Nikhitita and I were also in the car. Of course as soon as we were lifted out of the ditch it was clear that the gathering of helpers were waiting for our thanks. Afraid that the crowd would transform into a mob, I feverishly searched my bag worried only to find large notes, which would definitely have caused a frenzy had I only given it to one of the young boys. Looking around, I wasn’t sure what to do as more kids seemed to be peering through the car window when Dubey said, “I’ll take care of it,” and pointed me to the store we had come for and said, “You go.” I grabbed Nikhitita out of her car seat and rushed across the street to the store from which I could see the driver taking some money out of his wallet and the horde of kids swarming around him.

After I came out of the store we headed home. We had pulled into the carport. I was keeping Nikhitita company as usual in the backseat and saw that she was fast asleep in the carseat after our adventure earlier that morning. I took off her belt buckle leaving only her arms in the straps and opened my door to go around to take her out from her side. I wanted to carry her upstairs without waking her from her deep sleep. I shut my door. All of a sudden, Dubey shouted, “Don’t shut the door.” I looked up startled. It was too late. The door shut with a final metallic thud. Dubey had left his keys in the ignition with the car running and the AC on. I tried not to panic as we checked all the doors. They were all locked and my one-year old was fast asleep in the backseat. The two security guards who watch our building came towards the car. I saw Dubey walk under the carport. I assumed he was going to get something to open the car door. We did not hear from or see him for the next 45 minutes.

The driver of the car next to ours was waiting idly in his car. He immediately came out, found a wire, and tried to jostle the lock on the driver’s side. No luck. 5 minutes passed. Still no Dubey. Where was he? The security guards and some of the other staff that maintain our building started bringing different things (metal pieces, wood planks, etc.) to try to open any of the doors. 10 minutes passed. I was starting to sweat. I remember watching Nikhitita intently to make sure that the rise and fall of her small chest remained steady. Once 15 minutes had passed I desperately asked any of the 10 or so men around our car to break the window. None of them spoke English so I made gestures of breaking the glass. I could make out that there was a general reluctance to break any part of this vehicle, especially when the driver was no where to be seen. As the seconds continued to tick by a locksmith arrived. Apparently someone had run for him in the ensuing melee. I was encouraged at seeing the locksmith, but began to grow more and more anxious as we approached 30 minutes and neither the locksmith applying his craft to the driver’s door or the men trying to pry open the passenger front and rear windows were successful. I was pacing around the car alternatively watching the men fervently working and Nikhitita’s calmly breathing. Finally I could handle it no longer and insisted that someone break a window or at least give me something so that I could do it. As I was attempting to communicate what I wanted in a mixture of gestures and English Saurav the cable operator for our building made an appearance. I knew that he spoke English so immediately enlisted his aid. He told me that everyone was scared to break into the car without the driver around and also afraid that the shattering glass could hurt the baby. Later I remembered that we owed the cable operator money for cable and wondered whether he had been there to seek payment. If that was the case he was a smart man not to bring that up! I told Saurav that I wanted to break either the front passenger side which was diagonally opposite to where Nikhitita slept in her car seat or the small triangle window directly across from her so as to minimize glass falling on her. Suddenly I noticed that Nikhitita’s eyelids were fluttering. I was horrified remembering that her belt was unfastened. Suddenly my fear shifted from lack of oxygen to fear that she would fall from the carseat. Nikhitita started writhing and the security guard who was next to her window frantically motioned her to stop. He called me over to her side of the car. But I immediately retreated as Nikhitita moved towards me sliding down several inches. I was frightened and shouted that we have to break the door now or my baby will fall. Saurav asked me whether I would take responsibility for the damage to which I immediately nodded yes and he started to gently chistle at the front passenger window using a hammer with the pointed side towards the glass. The locksmith had been working away and so had the men trying to pry the rear triangle window across from Nikhitita. It all happened one after another. The men working on the triangular window slab shouted that it had been removed. Saurav stopped hammering and then seconds later the locksmith opened his door. The security guard reached in, unlocked the opened the door trough the triangular window, dove in, scooped Nikhitita up and handed her to me. I remember showering her with kisses while fighting back tears from welling in my eyes. Although Nikhitita happily accepted my show of affection, she did not see it as unusual. Thank you God! She was okay. Strange thing is that the tears only came when I knew she was safe in my arms. They were tears of happiness and relief.

Suddenly everyone was asking about the driver. I tried to call him a couple of times but no one picked up. And then general chaos ensued as a Toyota Qualis SUV raced through the carport gate. I looked up surprised to see our first driver Rahyl at the wheel and then Dubey hopped out of the back pulling a bicycle out with him. I had assumed that he had left the scene never to be seen again. It had been 45 minutes since the ordeal started and it was only now that he was showing up. Later I found out from him that he had hopped on a bicycle and pedaled all the way to a locksmith he knew in Santa Cruz who charged 50 rupees to open car doors (or so he told me). Apparently the locksmith was not there and so he went to his car company office to pick up a second set of keys. Rahul who was there drove him and his borrowed bicycle back. I was stunned and could not speak for a while. I looked at him disbelievingly and admonished him that he should have told someone what he was planning on doing and that I would have gladly lent him a phone to call his office (most drivers have phones that only accept incoming calls). He then admitted that he had gotten frazzled but that his intent had been to do the right thing and in fact it all started because he had left the AC on (and hence the keys in the ignition) for Nikhitita’s comfort. I believe him but also have seen him leave his keys in the ignition on numerous occasions. Sadly since this incident Nikhitita does not like to sit in her carseat. After all the activity trying to break into the car, the front door locks on the driver and passenger sides were not functional and window sealing had been displaced around most of the windows with the exception of the one next to Nikhitita’s carseat. Dubey fumed out loud about all the damage to a foreign car. He kept saying, “This is not an Indian car” and he berated the locksmith for having made a new key to get into the car saying, “We already have a key. It was in the ignition.” I called Bob and told him that Nikhitita had been locked in the car but that she was out and okay now. I had intentionally waited to call him when she was out knowing that he would worry and that he was too far away to physically do anything. I paid the locksmith for the key after talking to Saurav and calling Bob on the phone. I suppose that it is only natural that he would hike up his standard rates in such times of need. Taking Bob’s advice Nikhitita and I slowly disappeared upstairs leaving everyone to continue arguing below.

A couple of days later there was another incident. We had spent the day with Bob’s sister and family in South Bombay and then dropped Bob off at a work function on Marine Drive. The driver was taking the two kids and myself back to Bandra. We were on a busy street made even busier since several lanes were blocked up ahead. A motorbike was riding very close to our car splitting traffic. The motorbike then went ahead of us but a little bit diagonally such that if there were lanes he would have slightly encroached our space. Dubey moved ahead and as he did I heard the displeasing sound of grating metal. The so far staid motorbike driver who had been keeping pace with us for some time now began to bludgeon Dubey’s mirror with his bare hands shouting obscenities. Of course Dubey, who was never one to keep his mouth closed, opened his window and shouted back at him. Suddenly space opened up directly ahead of us and the motorbike drive still looking infuriated revved directly ahead of our car. I breathed a sigh of relief thinking that a bad situation had been averted. But it was too premature for that thought. The motorcyclist blocked our car with his bike, took off his helmet, and came around to the front passenger side door and opened it! I sucked in my breath and wished that Dubey would lock all the doors, as I have many times asked him to do. The agitated motorbike rider proceeded to shower Dubey with a series of blows to his left arm. Dubey’s face morphed from one of anger to one of fear. I thought that Dubey was going to be dragged out of the car when all of a sudden the motorbike rider looked into the back seat. He saw a scared woman covering a baby’s eyes and a 4 year old just waking up. He stopped what he was doing and walked away leaving the car door open. Someone else on the street shut the door.

Of course knowing that his life had been spared was not enough for Dubey who was talking back to another motorbike rider who had been riding alongside the other one. There were also a few schoolboys who mysteriously appeared around our car. They began to hit our car. Where do these guys come? I was perplexed. It was in the middle of traffic and at 9 pm at night. Suddenly the other man on the motorbike look inflamed and I heard a clicking as Dubey locked all the doors with the master switch. I remember thinking why doesn’t Dubey stop talking..is this man crazy? Later, as I narrated this to Bobby I remember telling him that most of the other cars ignored what was going on. The only person who could have helped us out was this other motorcyclist and Dubey was angering him as well with whatever he was saying. I didn’t understand the specifics of the shouting which was in Hindi but one did not have to be overly perceptive to know that it was not pleasant conversation. Thankfully, traffic began to move and we did not see either of the motorbikes again.

As I look back at all three situations that week, it struck me that a throng of people appeared in each. When we were stuck in the ditch, they appeared to help but a price was expected for the help. When Nikhitita was trapped in the car, a throng of people appeared, but with the exception of the locksmith (and he was doing his job) no one was looking for payment. During the motorbike incident a throng also appeared but this time it was in the hope of seeing a fight. I suppose it is only human nature to be curious about an unusual situation. But I am certainly grateful that the majority of time it is also human nature to be helpful.

Terror

noreply@blogger.com (Danakka) — Wed, 22 Feb 2006 08:09:00 +0000

February 11, 2006

A couple of weeks after arriving in India we changed drivers. Rahul our first driver was affable and competent but I had a tough time communicating with him since he didn’t speak English. Having just begun our one year stay in India, I felt more comfortable traveling around unfamiliar streets with two young children in the hands of a driver who knew what I was saying. Our new driver Dubey is equally affable, speaks English, but frankly is not competent. I used to think that to drive in India you just need to have courage and not much more. However the stark contrast between these two drivers has shown me that driving in India is truly an art.

In our month or so with Rahul at the helm there was only a singular occasion where I had a fleeting suspicion that our car may have bumped an autorickshaw. But I was never sure and there was no reaction from the other driver. Rahul also had an uncanny knowledge of the streets of Mumbai. I would only have to name a destination (and that is often times all I could do) and he would nod his head knowingly and we would navigate the busy roadways and arrive unscathed. He also had several paths he would take to Sandrine’s school and depending on how how late I was, would take the appropriate path to get us there on time. There was one time when we had a flat tire and I got out of the car wondering how I could help and he just told me, “Wait in car Madam. No problem.” He changed the tire by himself in the hot sun with two kids, a maid, and myself inside with the AC on.

Dubey…ah yes Dubey is an entirely different story. He speaks Hindi, Malayalam (spoken in Kerala), and English so communication isn’t an issue other than the fact that sometimes he chooses to hear what he wants to hear. Early on he told me that he used to work as a driver in the Gulf. He had also mentioned to my husband Bob that he used to drive very large vehicles. He probably didn’t need to explicitly tell us this since he drives like he is in the biggest vehicle on the road, not reality since we are in a 4 door sedan. He steers our car in the path of oncoming vehicles as though it is an Army tank. And he could definitely use a refresher on the rules of the road, especially the one that states that busses have right of way. We have even drag raced with a bus, during the adrenaline pumping 30 secondsI just closed my eyes and sucked in my breath, far too stunned to speak. I am happy to report that we won by a hair. Dubey floored the accelerator and succeeded in narrowly passing the bus just in time to make a left turn at the next intersection. Of course, Dubey muttered “idiot” after we had passed the bus as if it had been the bus driver’s fault. It wasn’t as I can attest along with the gaping passengers in the bus who were probably wondering what idiots were in the white sedan that raced below it like Jerry to it's Tom.

There was another time I was on the phone with Bob, who was on the way home with Dubey, and we were in mid conversation when all of a sudden I heard an intake of breath and a sharp, “Watch out!” followed by a dial tone. I looked at the phone and immediated phoned Bob back. “Are you okay?” I asked sucking in my breath. “We hit another car,” said the calm voice back at me. Later I found out that Dubey had hit a car while trying to turn left. Mind you that the car he hit was in the lane left to him and was going straight. Dubey clearly believed he was in the right saying only, “I gave my turn signal. He should have known I was going to turn left.”

We have on several occasions bumped pedestrians’ arms as they walk innocently down the roads oblivious to this new terror roaming Mumbai streets. I have grown accustomed to scrunching my shoulders together as we approach pedestrians who walk too close to the path of our vehicle in a futile effort to will our car to narrow. We have even bumped a woman holding a baby. When Bob accosted him about this Dubey just said that if the mirror had hit them then it would have been his fault but since it was the side of the car it must have been their fault. They seemed okay. The worst incident to date occurred once when I leaning towards Nikhitita, who was in her car seat. I heard a woman shriek. I jerked toward the sound, glancing out my window just in time to see a woman pick herself up off the ground. Thankfully she was alright but both she and her irate male companion proceeded to rap on the front passenger side window of our vehicle screaming in anger at our driver. Dubey shouted out that she should face the road next time. A fair point, but if inattention meant asking for a nudge from a car there would be bodies stewn all over Mumbai. After a heated exchange we were thankfully waved on our way ready to wreak havoc on the next unsuspecting pedestrian, autorickhaw, car, or maybe even bus?

Billboards

noreply@blogger.com (Danakka) — Wed, 08 Feb 2006 21:08:00 +0000

January 31, 2006

Women Empowerment. I see those two words nearly every day as I take my daughter Sandrine to school. And I see them in a most unusual place. These two words are printed across the back of quite a few autorickshaws. There are usually other printed words in Hindi but since I don’t understand them it is these two words that stand out in my mind.

My daily weekday routine involves going with Nikhitita and our driver Dubey in the morning to drop off Sandrine at school and the ritual repeats again in the afternoon when I pick her up. There are several points along out route where the traffic is unbelievably congested. We find ourselves bumper to bumper with rickshaws, two-wheelers and other cars and for a brief moment we enter other people’s lives as we pass each other with oftentimes only a foot or so to separate us of which a quarter of an inch is taken up by the window pane in front of me. Some days it’s a rickshaw with 5 school children all squeezed together with their backpacks on the bench that seats 3 comfortably an on other days it may be a single woman clutching a plastic shopping bag and speaking into ther mobile phone. And the air is as congested as the roads with the honking of horns and the rough words of drivers who motion each other to move here and there in the hopes of moving traffic any which direction. Every day as soon as we enter one of these junctions, I know right away whether Sandrine will be late to school or not that morning.

Our previous driver Rahul had a knack of getting us to school on time regardless of what time I came down with the kids. Depending on whether I was on time or 5 minutes late or 10 minutes late he would take different shortcuts. One such shortcut (reserved for when we were 10 minutes late) took us through an unpaved road and right past a colony of shanties, which like our subdivision in the South Bay suburbs were separated into different tiers, There were those families who lived out in the open, families who had contructed tents of tarp and those who were fortunate to have used corrugated metal to make a more weatherproof and permanent dwelling. Of course in our subdivision the dichotomy was less severe as the diffences had to do with square footage of the homes and sizes of the lawns. I also noticed that many of these “homes” had auto-rickshaws parked outside of them. Sadly, a day’s work ferrying people around only afforded them a meager place to call home.

One day as we were slowly making our way through one of those slow points along our route and I was staring at the words, “Women Empowerment” it struck me that it was very easy to read things on the backs of auto-rickshaws since the heavy congestion in Mumbai limits the speed of vehicles.

Suddenly it hit me that these rickshaw drivers should sell the space on the back of their rickshaws…why not have Nestle or Amul or Reliance or other corporations buy advertising space on the back of auto-rickshaws? I wonder if there is any restriction on this type of activity. I think that it would serve the autorickshaw drivers better if there was a marketing organization to serve their collective interests. Sure the organization would probably have to take a percentage but it would have the direct relationship to corporations and negotiate favorable terms for its member rickshaw driver/owners.

Transporting passengers back and forth may not be enough to earn a livelihood so why not supplement by selling roving billboard space? It’s not a new idea. One of the teams did something similar on the fourth season of Donald Trump’s The Apprentice but using banners on the back of horse drawn carriages in New York City. The banners, which were meant for flat surfaces didn’t fit well and if I remember correctly the team lost. In any case, I am not suggesting banners but rather a simple call to action. I would imagine that a colorful stream of moving banners over Mumbai could be aesthetically displeasing if not downright dangerous.

A few days after having this breakthrough I did notice a stall completely painted bright yellow and red and boasting the Lays Potato chips logo. It was Nitin’s Pan Bidi Shop. Pan is a mildly intoxicating ground mixture of betel nuts and spices while a bidi is a particular type of unfiltered Indian cigarette made of tobacco and wrapped in a leaf. Neither have anything to do with potato chips but quite a few vehicles with potential consumers passed the corner that the bidi shop was positioned on and as a result saw the corporate messaging. Why shouldn’t something similar work on autorickshaws? Another couple of weeks later I did come across a rickshaw with mouthshut.com printed in the top center in lieu of women empowerment. Maybe moving billboards have already hit Mumbai?

Effort

noreply@blogger.com (Danakka) — Thu, 02 Feb 2006 11:42:00 +0000

January 26, 2006

A week ago was my husband Bob’s birthday. I won’t say how old he is but suffice it to say that he is well past the age when you can count the candles on the cake but young enough that when you invert the two digits that make up his age the resulting number is well within normal life expectancy.

Finding Bob a thoughtful gift has been difficult for years partly because he doesn’t ask for much so there is no singular “must have” for him. There are only four things that he revels in: family, food, cricket, and Hindi films/music. My initial thought was to get him tickets to see a live cricket match (preferably in Mumbai) or maybe tickets to a Bollywood entertainment extravaganza, which keeps many of these actors and actresses busy when they are not filming. But given that at the time we had not setup internet access (which I use for researching these types of things) in our flat I decided to save these for another occasion and focus on food and family. First was the birthday cake of course. I knew that he liked chocolate but he wasn’t too fond of the typical chocolate cakes sold in most bakeries here. I asked my sister-in-law, the veteran Mumbaiker, for advice on bakeries. She gave me a few names but then suggested that rather than go through a bakery I might want to call a woman named Roshini who lived in Bandra (as did we) who apparently made only one type of cake, but it was a very special chocolate cake. Her only caveat was that she had never tried this woman personally but had heard rave reviews about her cakes from others who had. I leapt on this knowing that Bob wasn’t too fond of the standard chocolate fare found in Indian bakeries. Now on to family. Unfortunately Bob’s sister and family live in South Bombay, which from Bandra (on the Northern side of Mumbai) could take up to 1.5 hours one way on a busy workday. And as it was, Bob’s birthday fell on a Thursday. We decided that the logical course was to go with the cake to South Bombay on Saturday and do the cake-cutting then. I proceeded to call up Roshini and place the order for a Saturday morning cake pick-up.

I also wanted to plan a special dinner for Bob on his actual birthday. I knew that one of his favorite dishes was chicken biriyani. We had not purchased meat or poultry in Mumbai as of yet so I inquired about shopping options from our maid. My maid suggested a cold storage place and told me that there was a good place in Pali Hill (part of Bandra). The day before Bob’s birthday I took the maid and Nikhitita, who anyway always came with me to pick up Sandrine from school (she gets done at 2:45 pm) and then we all went to Pali Hill. As we drove past, I was dismayed to find that the place she knew of was closed. She said that she knew of another. That establishment and yet another one we passed were closed. I was perplexed. Why on a Wednesday afternoon? Were they all closed on Wednesdays? Finally we stopped at another cold storage place (the last one that she knew of) and the maid got out to see why it was shuttered down. She came back and said that the sign stated that it was closed from 1 to 4 pm. “Why is that?” I inquired. “It must be their nap time,” she replied. I pointed to all the other open shops around us and said, “Apparently only cold storage guys need to take naps.” She laughed. Since it was already 10 minutes to 4 pm after all of our running around, we decided to wait. Nikhitita was getting agitated in her car seat so the maid, two kids, and I got out to position ourselves in front of the shop, while the driver looked for parking. Another woman was already queued up and tapping her foot impatiently as she waited. With an exasperated look on her face, she quipped, “They are always very late but I put up with it because their meat is very good.” She was right. The cold storage owner and his staff only returned a quarter of an hour past the posted return time. But we finally had the chicken which we needed for the biriyani.

As I think back on other of Bob’s birthdays, I won’t lie. There were many where I gave up trying to figure out what he wanted and simply made a trip to the local mall and picked up some mundane gift. But there were also times when I made chicken biriyani or chocolate cake for him from scratch. And it is strange but that effort was different than the effort here. I planned what to do, found the recipes, bought the ingredients, and actually made the biriyani and chocolate cake with my own two hands. This year the maid prepared the biriyani and as it turned out the driver picked up the cake on Saturday morning. In past years it had been my solo effort to get things ready for his birthday. Although the end result was similar this year it took the effort of many more people. Of course I had decided what to do for that day and then there was my cold storage adventure with the maid, driver, and two kids from which I learned that cold storage purveyors need to nap in the afternoons.

On Saturday the day we were to cut his cake, it turned out that Bob had an opportunity to play cricket for half the day with his colleagues from work. So in a way I was able to give Bob a little bit of family, food, and cricket for his birthday. What about Hindi films or music? Well, our anniversary is coming up…

Goggles

noreply@blogger.com (Danakka) — Sun, 29 Jan 2006 12:35:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (Danakka) — Wed, 25 Jan 2006 17:14:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (Danakka) — Mon, 23 Jan 2006 19:52:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (Danakka) — Tue, 10 Jan 2006 13:20:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (Danakka) — Wed, 04 Jan 2006 16:44:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (Danakka) — Tue, 03 Jan 2006 17:08:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (Danakka) — Sun, 01 Jan 2006 16:41:00 +0000

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?

The Committee

noreply@blogger.com (Danakka) — Sun, 01 Jan 2006 06:43:00 +0000

December 23, 2005

I have always thought of Indians as living in largely male-dominated societies. My experience is that of the women congregating around the kitchen, or covering their heads at religious gatherings, or giving up their careers for the men in their lives. Now, given that I have spent over 25 years of my life in the U.S. I would say that this is mostly through my observations over the years in the U.S. What I have seen in India parallels this closely and lends credence to those who believe that societies have more to do with the people who compose it rather than the country in which it exists.

I remember a conversation with a friend’s husband in the U.S. regarding his desire to purchase a new car. I merely stated that he should go ahead and get one if he felt that he needed it. He had been having a series of troubles with his car and this was certainly a necessity rather than frivolousness. He looked at me a little sheepishly and stated that the request was “up before the committee.” We both laughed as I knew immediately that the committee was his wife and my friend. Although he was the breadwinner in the relationship, it was clear that the division of power hinged on much more than mere financial contribution.

Back in Mumbai, I continued apartment hunting alone with the agent as my husband had already seen many of these places and needed to go in to work. As the agent probed me about the flats, it became increasingly obvious to him that I kept reverting back to two that were slightly above our budget (as dictated by my husband’s posting). He was masterful when he subtly suggested that I ask my husband to talk to his manager about increasing the budget. And he was outright sly when he handed me the fodder for that conversation by casually stating that someone else who was in Mumbai for a one year posting had a bigger budget (although he did not have a family).

Regardless of country and maybe even nationality (as my non-Indian friends may attest) it appears that although men still tend to have most of the explicit power in society they can’t make most decisions without the approval of a one woman committee.

Survival

noreply@blogger.com (Danakka) — Thu, 22 Dec 2005 19:00:00 +0000

December 22, 2005

Today we went out to look at apartments. Having decided against lugging two small children around for days of apartment or flat hunting (as they say here) my husband was good enough to do a first pass over the prior two days and short list a few candidates. The driver was to take the kids and myself to meet my husband, the real estate agent, and the office manager from his work in Bandra. Our hotel is located in Lower Parel, in central Mumbai. The distance is not supposed to be too great but I'm finding that going anywhere in Mumbai takes at least 30 minutes.

Ten minutes in the air-conditioned car stuck in traffic and both kids were knocked out. What is it about cars and kids falling asleep? We used to take the kids for a drive in the car when they couldn't sleep when we were in the U.S. and ironically it seems to work here too. However, a major difference is that in the U.S. it was the steady rolling of the car that put them to sleep while here they seemed to have found some rythmn in the ever-present possibility of a collision, the constant stopping and starting, and horns blaring in the traffic around them.

As I looked outside there seemed to be constant action. Curtains that served like doors on the makeshift shanties that sprang up from a mish mash of cloth and steel and brick and whatever else would withstand the elements waved open in the wind revealing block after block of women mixing "who knows what" in steel vessels, men squatting in circles chatting earnestly to one another, and small children with tangled hair climbing over rickety walls in search of something. Although not much to speak of, these shelters were certainly bustling with activity.

Ironically, we cut short our "short list" of apartments since it was taking so long...the traffic, picking up keys, feeding hungry children, getting in and out of two cars all seemed to take so long. At the end of the day, we say only 6 of the 11 places that we planned to see and would have to go out again tomorrow.

I am sure if others were to watch us getting in and out of the car and walking through apartments, and discussing what we liked and didn't they would think that we were busy too. However at the end of the day I felt that we didn't get as much done today as we were used to accomplishing in the U.S. Can't figure out if it was the traffic, the pace or what? I couldn't help but wonder if many of the people that we passed during our drive accomplished what they wanted to. But as I compared their "homes" to the "homes" that we were considering I realized that it is all relative. Mere survival was an accomplishment for them.

Education

noreply@blogger.com (Danakka) — Tue, 20 Dec 2005 16:58:00 +0000

December 17th 2005

It was a little chaotic getting to the hotel from the airport with 13 pieces of luggage, 2 children, and a husband (just kidding). Actually my husband Bob was arranging all while I was standing around with the kids trying to gauge how I was going to survive in this city where somehow 6 people had now become involved in the task of getting our luggage into a couple of cars. They all had different ways of doing it, they all wanted some compensation and they all spoke only broken English. In the midst of this chaos, a young beggar boy not much older than Sandrine was looking for a handout. My husband went in one of the cars with half the luggage and I went in the other with the rest of the luggage and Nikhitita and Sandrine. We would be driving from the north side of Mumbai (where the airport was located) to the center of the city which is where our hotel was situated.

On the way to our temporary hotel (where we would stay for approximately a month) before moving into our "permanent" housing I passed the time talking to our driver, Srinivas. The girls has fallen asleep tired of the travel and heat. Turns out that he was also from the South (as were we) and he had 4 children. He had moved from Chennai to Mumbai for work some 40 years ago and was settled here now. He had a great pride in his voice as he told me that the oldest son (all were boys) was studying in University. He also told me that he went back to Chennai to visit his parents every three years as it was too expensive to go more often.

I nodded with understanding. When I was younger we didn't go to India that often. My parents (both with higher education degrees - Ph.D. and M.S.) had come to the U.S. later than most of their generation and wanted to save for their children's educations.

As she moved restlessly in her sleep, I looked over at my sleeping Sandrine who would be four in March, realizing as I did that this was her third trip to India. She had already gone to India the same number of times that Srinivas would in a decade.

Every parent wants better for the next generation than their own. I suppose that this holds true regardless of caste, creed, or occupation. Although they had very different backgrounds, when it came down to it Srinivas was no different than my parents in believing that education offered the promise of a better life and both bestowed that gift on their children at the cost of seeing their own parents.

Fortune

noreply@blogger.com (Danakka) — Mon, 19 Dec 2005 09:07:00 +0000

December 15th 2005 - December 17th 2005

So, today my family and I left the Bay Area, California to embark on a one year long adventure in India. It felt a little strange to be travelling in the comfort and extravagance of business class to a country where so many of the people live in abject poverty. But that didn't stop me from leaning back on fluffy pillows, enjoying crabcakes, and sipping cocktails. Travelling with two small children, a 3.5 year old and a 10.5 month old mitigated some of the enjoyment but by no means was I roughing it.

My 3.5 year old, Sandrine, passed the time watching animated movies over and over again. Thank goodness for on-flight entertainment and the small child's comfort in repetition! Several of the flight attendants took a liking to my 10.5 month old, Nikhitita and one in particular spent time talking to me. It was evident that she liked children and seeing no ring I assumed that she was a happy go lucky single girl in her mid to late twenties enjoying the nomadic lifestyle of a flight attendant. As she cooed and caaed with Nikhitita her facade came down and revealed a married woman who had suffered one miscarriage and who yearned for a child of her own. Suddenly I felt blessed instead of annoyed to have two healthy children talking through "Wedding Crashers" and interrupting my 3 course meal.

The trip was a gentle reminder that fortune comes in many forms. There is richness that comes through material wealth and there is the richness of love that you can only find in family. I would take the latter over the former any day.