The Mysterious Case of the Noisy Newspaper

Alright. So the kids are outside playing, I’m sufficiently caffeinated, and I’ve managed to avoid the never ending game of spider solitaire that usually gets in the way of writing. I have another fun India story for you. Hopefully you’ll find it as entertaining as I did.

I was reading my trusty Times of India paper and not The Hindu the other day (because the newspaper man must be asked at least 4 times before I get the correct paper on a consistent basis, but that’s a story for a different day) as I was sipping my morning coffee. This is quite the routine of mine and I do it pretty much every day, along with checking what blogs I can remember I used to follow. This day, however, I was behind on newspapers for 3 days. I settled in to plow through them all at once. My housekeeper Indira was here and was in the kitchen washing the dishes.

I was nicely reading some unimportant clip about Bollywood drama when the paper started buzzing. I’m not talking barely there vibrations from a fan or my imagination, I’m talking cell phone/adult toy type vibration level. I sat there for a moment dumbly looking at the paper thinking that papers are definitely NOT supposed to vibrate. Then the thought came to my mind that perhaps a rogue bee/wasp/hornet zilla had become stuck inside the paper somehow. We all know how much I love the bees.

I immediately did the most logical thing possible and threw the paper across the room. The vibrations stopped, so I went to investigate. I gingerly lifted one page at a time, ready to make my escape should an angry, sting-ey insect come out looking for vengeance. I found nothing, so I figured he had tumbled out of the paper and was waiting in some dark corner under a piece of furniture planning his next attack.

I grabbed the paper and sat down again to read. No one should be at all surprised that the paper started buzzing again. I of course let out a small shriek and threw the paper again. Indira came into the room concerned that there was something actually wrong with me. I of course was standing there like a cartoon with my hand over my mouth, embarrassed that I was screaming like a little girl about something I hadn’t even seen. I again, slowly sorted through the pages. When I got to the back, the paper started buzzing like mad on the floor. In the middle of the page long advertisement was a small black device. We figured out that it was light sensitive (which was why it turned on when I had the paper open, but not on the floor) but couldn’t really figure out why it was there. It seems like a super expensive, hassle worthy advertising trick, but I couldn’t figure out any other reason for it.

So. Indira had a good laugh about my imaginary bees and I sheepishly went back to enjoying my coffee.

Well played newspaper advertisement – you definitely got my attention, even if I didn’t buy that car.

 

Becky

This That and the Other

Mood: Stabby. Someone is doing construction in the apartment above ours and for some reason, must pound on the floor all the time. For the past week. Stabby people.

Listening to: Minority – Green Day.  As well as the pounding.

Another post full of random, scattered thoughts coming your way. I probably should be working right now. Am I? Psssht. Absolutely not. The urge to spit out things floating in my head was entirely to strong.

So. Emraan Hashmi. For some reason, I can’t help but enjoy this bugger and his acting. I’ve heard that he’s an absolute ass in real life and seems to think he’s God’s gift to actors worldwide.  I’m not sure if this is true or not, but so the rumor goes. Emraan, honey, if this isn’t true, you should hire some new P.R. people. I’d love to love you for your personality too. Anyhow, I love how this guy emotes. In a recent article I read, the author thought that Emraan fit best in a simple setting where his acting/emoting skills could be on display because that was a true gift of his. I completely agree.  One more thing Emraan – no with the long hair. Just no.

This, Lovies, is Emraan. In case you didn’t know, I’m not a fan of the mustache at all (please Indian guys, for the love of baby potatoes, just stop it!), but he totally pulls it off. You just know he’s about to break into song or some type of romance. His face just screams it.

This is a favorite of mine, just because it looks like he's having so much fun. I get such a kick out of masculine dancing confidence here:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8CuIax5CMB4

Ok, moving along.  I know this is childish of me to get so excited about, but I got my very first blog spam comment the other day. Aw, my little blog is getting so grow up. And we’re done with this. So thanks random bike shop for trying to advertise something that has nothing to do with my blog for free, but no.

The day the fans are cleaned will probably have to be today. I’ve been putting this off for WAY too long. Ceiling fans in India have the tendency to get disgusting really fast from all of the dust floating around. Mine are no exception. I foresee some entertaining moments where I try not to fall off a chair while slopping soapy, dirty water everywhere. Note to self: Do not wear a white shirt. Fortunately, I like this kind of chore as long as it’s not getting in the way of other things that need to be done. Unfortunately, I have work on my plate, ideas bursting out of my head, and kids that cannot wait another 5 minutes to eat for the 86th time today.  You both need to go do school already. Like now.

Indira has been pulling the nosey mother in law card with me again. Yesterday, it was because I had not cut a mango that my youngest was eating. Daddy G has this funny possessive streak about mangoes. More specifically, the way they are eaten. The proper way to eat one is to thoroughly smoosh  a whole mango, pinch the stem end off, and suck the juice and pulp through the hole. So this is the way we’ve been taught to eat Badami mangoes – which are absolutely amazing by the way. Indira decided that this was a ridiculous idea because my daughter was getting mango everywhere. Um…I do believe that’s what sinks are for. Trust me, she’s washable. She also got after me today about not having veggies in the fridge. Seriously? My fridge is stocked full of fresh, homemade food. Why do I need excess vegetables in there getting stale? I do know how to plan grocery runs. I’ve been doing it my entire adult life. You don’t cook for us anyhow, why does this worry you?  Just because you don’t see me cooking (and this is on purpose because without fail, you feel the need to take over and do it for me) does not mean people in this house are not eating veggies. Completely the opposite. Back up a bit please!

What’s new in your world? Drop me a comment people. I don’t bite. Well, most of the time, but I promise I’ve had all my vaccines.

Becky

Unqualified Plumber

Mood: Impatient - Indira promised to make byriani today. We all know how I feel about that subject.

Listening to: Take it off - Kesha

Our housekeeper Indira was doing the dishes yesterday when she came out with a concerned look on her face. “Uh oh,” I thought, “This usually means she wants me to do something.” I was right.

“Madam, sink is running slowly Madam. Please call plumber for tomorrow.”

Damn it.  Le Sigh. A couple of things created this response in me. The first thing was that I really, really don’t like calling strangers on the phone. I don’t know why and it’s not a phobia type thing, but I really would rather not. Second , even if I ask Daddy G to call for me, he will not do it and then the plumber will come to the house while he’s not home. I’m not really scared of that either, but I’ve heard so many horror stories about service people coming to a house and taking advantage of an unsuspecting lady if the husband isn’t home. The third reason was that this would be the 3^rd time in 6 months I’ve called the plumbing service for this exact same problem.  Our apartment complex has both electricians and plumbers who will come for free (unless something extra has to be installed that is your fault) if you call. They come the same day and are generally good about fixing the problem. The plumbers are also whiney little girls (not literally, mind you) when it comes to doing the work. The first two times they came, they actually asked me why I didn’t pour acid down the drain because it was clogged. Well, probably because it’s not my apartment – I rent, I didn’t want the owner to get blamed for wrecking the pipes if something happened, and I didn’t want to be responsible for replacing the pipes in the entire building. Besides – it’s your job, you’re the plumber. Not how I wanted to spend my morning.

I have been a fixit type for as long as I remember. My mother always stressed to me that you can’t trust a man to come along and do or fix something for you. Hallelujia for that lesson Mom, it was a good one. As a result, I’ve had my own hand drill and tool set since I was 18. I know how to use them too. I’ve been breaking into apartments (all my own, after locking myself out) and retrieving rings and contacts from drains for as long as I can remember. I have yet to blow up the plumbing or spring a serious leak in anything that required an actual plumber for help. I'd rather just do something myself rather than being dependent on someone else to do it.

With this in mind, I decided to check out the sink before calling the plumber. Sinks in India (at least the newer ones anyway) operate the same as western ones. The aerator just unscrews, most of the time easily. After taking it out, it was apparent why the water was not coming out of the tap at full force. The aerator holes (all 50 microscopic ones) were clogged up with dirt and tiny rocks/sediment. I’m not quite sure where they’re getting this “clean water for washing dishes” but I call bull. I couldn’t figure out how to get the aerator open (it was clearly 2 pieces) and I didn't want to break it, so I grabbed a pin and cleared out all the holes by digging out the bigger rocks and pushing all the dirt and junk through to the other side. After screwing it back in, it works fine.  I’m glad I didn’t chew out the plumber, it’s not his fault the water is dirty.

Phone call and visit averted. Insert sigh of relief here.

Becky

Oh the Humanity

Mood: Overheated and disgruntled

Listening to: Istrumental version of Pal Pal Bhaari – from the movie Swades

I admit it, I am unashamedly pulling an ostrich. We have nothing in the house to eat for dinner and I am supposed to be whipping up delicious curry and vegetable and chicken type things, but I needed a few minutes to cool off.  The mountain of laundry is still laughing, but slowly becoming smaller. I’m coming for you mountain, just wait. Now that I have a metric ton of laundry to do, it is taking forever, not only because of the water situation, but also because of the drying situation. My old trusty wooden drying rack is no match for 3 loads a day of laundry. It holds exactly .75 of 1 load. The remaining quarter is hung up after I re-tie the porch clothesline a few times.

After waking up at the ungodly hour of 8 am (quiet down Mom, this is still early for me), feeding and clothing the (bickering, always with the bickering) natives and myself, and bolting down my non negotiable cup of coffee, the girls and I set out for Delhi Public School.  This is not the 1^st, or even 4^th time I’ve been required to do this and I hate every single last trip. My eldest daughter started there in January and went until school ended in April. I cannot even tell you the amount of monkey shenanigans we have had to put up with at that school when we got her signed up. I still have nightmares.

Well folks, school starts again for her on Friday. We also have younger daughter starting there next week. 

Consequently, the school expects to be paid tuition fees and bus fees for both girls. Ridiculous bastards. You read that right, there is no included bus fare for children here. If you want a bus ride, you pay, just like a city bus. It’s a nice little side business for the schools. There have been instances in the past where I have had to make 2 – 3 trips just to accomplish 1 thing. Each of these trips costs me a cab fare, which isn’t all that cheap. Bangalore be expensive yo.  Accordingly, I am willing to beg/borrow/steal/stab people to actually finish whatever is that needs to get done.

We got to the school at 10:00 am and were waved into the back way to the administration building by the security guard. We entered and went into the administrative section in the basement. Now. I really don’t suppose anyone is going to be overly shocked when I say that India is absolutely chock full of people. Lots of those people were at the school this morning. I’m not sure what happened, but everyone seemed to look into their morning coffee today and realize with horror that school starts in 2 days and they must get all of their fees/bus fares/uniforms/books taken care of today.  To call it a zoo would be kind. Of course there are no instructions as to what’s going on either. There is a bulletin board up in the center of the room outlining fees in the most confusing manner possible with 2 – 3 people leaning up against it writing checks so that no one else can use that information.

After spending about 10 minutes trying to figure out the meaning of the non linear non logically fashioned information was, we decided to pick a line to stand in. There were about 10 leading to various cubicles. I recognized the fee guy and stood in his line. I had a small freak out over forgetting their admission numbers at home. This, people, is the kind of stuff that results in multiple trips. I decided to try my luck and see if he would be in a mood to look them up.

After waiting in line for 30 minutes, we were crammed in the cubicle with 3 other separate people also having business with him, he asked me write their admission numbers on the back of the check. After hearing I didn’t have them, he scolded me that I should have them. I was sweaty, tired, and about to punch the lady behind me who didn’t have any concept at all of personal space (seriously chicky, at least buy me dinner first!), I snapped back that I just didn’t have them. He calmly helped 3 other people. When he saw I wasn’t leaving, he looked up the numbers. It took all of 3 seconds. Fighting a losing battle with the impulse to roll my eyes all the way around my head, I remaining standing there as he helped 3 more people, even though the checks were all written out and in his hand. He then asked me to write a different check as the amount I had written was wrong. I sighed, stuck out my elbows for some space and then wrote another check. If you would write it so that people would understand, you wouldn’t have to wait for me to write another check. We were assured when the school year ended that we would get a text on what the school and bus fees would be and when to pay them. Of course that never materialized. One more he said, mumble mumble, technology fee. After obtaining receipts, we pushed our way back out of the packed cubicle past the line that had become epic.  

More studying of the cryptic board to try and determine what bus fees for the year would be.  We went to the transportation office, also in the basement only to find it empty. Of course, they moved the transportation guys to tables on the opposite side of the room without leaving any trace in the original office. How logical. Another line to wait in. Hooray! At this point, both of my girls were very, very unenthusiastic about going to school and even bothering to finish this business, but after being home for almost a whole year between American school break and Indian school break, those kids are going to school. Someone handed us waivers to sign. I was busy writing a check out and just took them. The girl urged me no fewer than 3 times to fill it out. Take a breath Pollyanna. This line will take 20 minutes to go down, I have plenty of time to write 1 check and fill in 3 blank spaces. After being directed to the end of the shortest line (not the one I was standing in), the girl demanded to see my forms. Must. Not. Roll. Eyes. Ugh too hard, much eye rolling happened. Last time I checked, my signature and the date wasn’t really all that difficult. She then wanted the check. Keep in mind, she wasn’t at a table, she just wanted to make sure I had done it right. Again, I’ve been writing checks for the last 10 years, I’m not all of a sudden going to forget to sign it or put the incorrect date. After our 5 minutes with the transport guy, we were done in the basement.

We left and crossed the campus to get youngest’s uniform and books.  One look at the ginormous uniform queue (line) and we decided to try our luck with the books instead. Oldest paid for and received her books previously. The book store employee kindly informed me that I have to pay for the books in the admin section in the basement. I started laughing at this point, which is never a good sign. There was absolutely nothing in the basement indicating we needed to pay for books there. Back across the campus we trudged. 

This time, the rear door was locked and only about 300 people were in a small space in front of the door. They were giving out small chits with numbers just to get in the building. Although it’s better than I remember, Indians do not do lines. They do mobs, herds, clusters, etc. If you are stupid enough to wait in line, people will just go around you and stand as close to the thing you want as possible in hopes of getting waited on next. Fortunately, I can also play this game. Dragging the whining girls along, we crammed in next to the door and collected a chit from the girl at the door. This was great in theory, but not really practical. Almost every single person in the entry way had some reason or other why they shouldn’t have to wait in the line at all. I started laughing again when it didn’t matter at all what number was on the slip of paper. If the door was open, people tried to stampede like cattle, even though they had been asked nicely to wait patiently. The school people in charge were completely overrun with obnoxious questions, excuses to go inside before everyone else, and trying to be polite with all of the hot argumentative parents who decided that random entry was totally unfair, yet they wanted to be let in right away anyways. One parent took over and called numbers in order. All of those people, including us, surged at the door at once. When we finally got in, we headed downstairs again. After several pointedly ignored questions about where the book fee cubicle was, a parent took pity on us and pointed us in the right direction. 5 minutes later, we were crossing the campus again to pick up the books. By the time we got the books, the uniform queue was unmoved. I only booked a 3 hour taxi (and I thought I was overdoing it!) and my time was up if I wanted to get back home in the half hour I had left. I was hoping to get home before the housekeeper came too, because she doesn’t have keys. If I’m not home, she doesn’t clean. The children cheered as we left. The ride home was uneventful. I still ended up getting home after the housekeeper came, which means I scored some dishes to wash tonight too. Sigh.

Delhi Public School: 8  

Me: 0

Becky

I'm Afraid I'm Going To Have to Punch the Tailor

Mood: Happy, in spite of it all

Listening to: Alien Vs. Predator

When my mother in law came to visit me last month, she brought me a sari. I was super excited because I only have 2, which I have worn many times, and can also drape my own saris now.  My housekeeper Indira recommended a tailor in our neighborhood, so we brought the fabric to have it sewn. Tailors here are typically men, even for the ladies.

When we walked in, the tailor was not very busy. He did however, give my mother in law a hard time and told her he only spoke Kannada (the local language in Karnataka, Bangalore’s state). He then refused to measure me to make sure the blouse he was going to sew would fit right. Tell me this – what kind of tailor doesn’t measure someone?  My mother in law measured me and read it off to him and he took notes. We also left a fitting blouse with him to assure he got the right idea. He told us it would be a solid month before the blouse was done. We both kind of shrugged because the sari really wasn’t a rush job.

1 month later, I took my husband to pick up the sari. For some reason, his shop was closed that day, so we went home. I returned the next day to find some boys tending shop. They told me the blouse wasn’t ready yet. When I questioned them, they told me the tailor was out and it would be best for me to come back the next morning.  I agreed rather unhappily. The next day, I returned to find the tailor in the shop. He told me unfortunately the blouse wasn’t done. Since this was the third time I had tried to pick it up, I gave him a bit of a hard time about it not being done. He assured me that the next morning it would be done if I came by. After asking him 3 more times if he was sure it would be done in the morning, I left.  My husband and I stopped by the next day on the way to my sister in law’s house to be told there was some problem. Could we wait a half hour? No we could not. My husband told him if it wasn’t done on Monday, we wouldn’t pay for it.

I finally got back there this afternoon and it was done. Cue the Hallelujah chorus.

I probably won’t go back to him again. After all, how will I measure myself? I also found it was funny that he spoke both Hindi and Telugu (the language of Andhra Pradesh where my husband is from) along with English just fine. He was just being a prick the other day. Ugh. I’ll find my own tailor, thanks.

In other news, the G family is headed down to do an oogling touristy trip to Sri Lanka. It is our big trip for the year and I am super stoked about it. Hopefully, since there seems to be some interest in my writing (!!!) I will be able to keep up with the blogging while on the move.

Becky

This is the Way We Wash our Clothes, Early in the Morning

Listening to: Jesse’s Girl – Rick Springfield

Mood: Coffee.

Washing clothes is a little different for me in India. For the first time ever, the G family actually owns its own washing machine, rather than just using one from a landlord or funding a laundry mat. The machine is an LG and I would marry it if only it would wash dishes too. That’s right people, mechanical polygamy.

 I have finally gotten the idea of doing smaller loads every day or two rather than doing a mountain every 2 weeks. Go ahead mom, I’ll wait while you gloat and say I told you so! It takes me a while for common sense suggestions to sink in. The inertias, I am attached to it. Anyhow, we use our washing machine on a very regular basis.

However, some of my clothes are beyond wimpy and require coddling. My salwar Kameeze, my tunics from Fab India (because I really want them to last for a while) and my kids Indian clothes all have to be washed by hand. I know I have the tendency to Martha Stewart bomb the house when I am having company, but let me tell you people, I am not cut out for life without machines. If I were a pioneer woman, my Dutch/Viking genes would probably save me from cholera, but would do nothing to prevent me from dying of exposure when I got too lazy to hand wash my clothes for the 10 bazillionth time.

This morning, I decided the growing mountain of disgruntled, dirty clothing just couldn’t wait to be washed. My housekeeper offered to do this for me once (because girl is hustling and always looking for more ways to earn the rupees), but she seems to have a serious delusion about doing more work than she actually has time for. Which is totally not a big deal. This does however make me do the laundry early in the morning before she comes to our house; otherwise she bothers me to do it. Something about me doing any work triggers some guilt response from her.

So I busted out my gaucho pants (because there are few things on earth I hate more than having wet jean hems!!) and trusty plastic buckets, headed to the shower and got to work. One capful of handwash detergent to one bucket of water. Insert one piece of clothing at a time (because these clothes do not like soaking) and wet thoroughly. Crouch down and scrub away. The best way I’ve found is to just rub the cloth against itself. Very bad for the back and knees to crouch the whole time, but it beats bending over and standing up 80 times.  Rinse under the tap, which has by now switched randomly from cold water (the non-fabric-bleedy type) to warm water, which does turn the fabric all bleedy.

I haven’t quite got a handle on how the water in India works. During the winter, the water is ice cold and stays that way unless you heat up the geezer for an ungodly amount of time, and then returns to cold after you have used up the 10 available minutes of nice hot water. During the summer, if you only turn on the cold tap, the water will come out actually cold for 1 bucket of water. After which, it will turn a warm-ish temp for no reason. We often don’t use the geezer during the summer, because if the water is going to come out decently warm, why spend the money on heating the water anyways? Besides, who wants a hot shower when it’s hot and sweaty outside?? Not this Dutch girl. I like me some cold showers in the summer.

Anyhow, after thorough rinsing in which you worry that you will have a non-colored shirt when you’re done, throw into another empty bucket. When you have finished all the clothes, or filled the bucket, walk very, very slowly and carefully (think 80 year old type walking) across the stone tile floor so you don’t fall and break multiple bones because your feet are still wet and snails couldn’t even make this more slippery. Seriously, it’s dangerous.

Hang your clothes on very small, thin strings stretched out across your porch, cursing about why your husband won’t just buy you a clothes rack already. Re-tie 3 of the strings that decide they just aren’t feeling like supporting clothes today. Fuss that the strings are so stretched out your clothes rest against the porch that is covered in dust and pigeon detritus, in spite of your best efforts to clean it every day and chase those little bastards off. Worry that it will be windy again today and that you will have to chase your clothes all over the compound after they blow off of your 7^th floor porch. End up cursing the monsoon rains and hail that soak your clothes when they were 90% dry. Swear that you will never again hand wash the clothes.

There you are people, that is how laundry day is at our house. I’m having some serious white picket fence fantasies about clothes lines and washing machines in the US right now.

Becky

Tales from the Kitchen – Wait a Minute, I Already Have a Mother in Law.

Listening to: Highway Star – Deep Purple

Mood: In a serious procrastination funk. I have family coming over tomorrow and I’m pulling an ostrich

So yes. A Mother in Law, I have one. Indira, my housecleaner and cook rolled into one, however, is seriously vying for the job. This has nothing to do with her son though. While I dearly love my mother in law, I can’t help but be reminded of the Sex in the City episode where Miranda gets frustrated with her housecleaner and reads her the riot act. Similarly, I do have a mother in law and there’s a reason we live in separate houses.

I am a self admitted control freak. I have my processes people, and the Spaghetti Monster himself help whoever tries to change them. Sometimes change is good, I realize that. However, if I can’t find things in my own kitchen – indeed this is more like hiding than just putting them in a separate drawer - we have a problem. If you see me put the plastic spoons in a glass jar every single day, why would you take them and put them in the silverware drawer? Why would you hide the pressure cooker weight a different place every single day? My mother in law used to do this and I never understood it. I really don’t think there was anything behind it, but it is still irritating as hell.

Point 2. I learned to cook Andhra style Indian food from my mother in law. The woman can blow anyone out of the water with her mad kitchen skillz. Aside from Indian food, I have been cooking for the past 15 years of my life and as of the last few, I’ve gotten quite good at it. So taking over my cooking half way through, changing it, and clicking your tongue like you feel sorry for me because I can’t cook is likely to get you stabbed. With a rusty fork.  I am not a 22 year old brand new bride anymore. I know what the heck I am doing. My husband does actually like my food.  I know you don’t see me cooking that often, but that’s because I’m paying you to do it. This does not make me an ignorant orphan who needs you to take over what I’m working on. I do love her food though, so hopefully we can avoid the fork drawer in the future. My mother in law used to do this too, but then again, I really didn’t know what I was doing.

Actually, my mother does this stuff too. I think it stems from a need to be helpful, but it drives me a little batty sometimes. Oh well, back to cleaning. My mother in law is coming over tomorrow. I'll just throw them in the kitchen together and pray it's still standing at the end of the week. 

Becky