How it all manages to work

Its been a day since my last post and things seem to have have solved themselves..

Not the dogs. Thanks to Ms. Maneka Gandhi's misplaced sense of animal rights, they shall continue to thrive and multiply. So no not that.

The people.

I am getting or remembering why this country manages to work. Why and how it all somehow manages to hangs together. I always wondered about how such a disorganized, completely haphazard economy works. The right hand doesn't know what the left hand is doing. The right hand doesn't even know for sure or believe that there is a left hand.

Here is why it works. The people may well be some of the most inefficient but they mean well and they are sweet. Oh so sweet.

My maid returned this morning and tearfully asked me not to please hire anyone else. I am a sucker for a sob story as anyone else and so told her the truth. I am not an easy one to please, I admitted. Can you do this? I'll pay you whatever you ask but the work has got to be purrfect. Sure, she said. All was well. No issues as they say here. Of course she did a brilliant job today.

Then I paid a visit to the furniture shop I had placed the order at. I went in with guns blazing but after five minutes or so of sparring, suddenly the man cooled off. He even timidly took changes to my order of our bed. I cannot imagine that happening in the States. It was so very easy. I explained to the carpenter, or someone who knew the trade what I wanted and he bobbed his head yes.

The notes he took about the order changes make me shudder though. The order itself was written on a piece of ruled paper in long hand with copious notes in the margins for my customizations--color of polish what have you, tiny sketches to explain everything. Spelling mistakes galore. No wonder they cannot make head or tail of my dining table, I thought. I looked around me. There were some very well crafted pieces. The modular kitchen was a beaut. And so if all goes well, Inshallah, I should have a pretty nifty bed soon.

I visited the Godrej showroom. The man who had taken my order was there--all honey and sweetness. This is the Indian way. He waited patiently as my mum and I stated categorically that the color we had ordered was in fact something else. Didn't lose his temper, didn't roll his eyes at us, which he was well within his right to do. Then he went on to offer us a completely different cupboard and again waited as we hemmed and hawed about that before finally agreeing to the new piece.

All was well. All is well for now.

So this is why it works. People have infinite patience with each other here. Yes they might jostle on the streets. Literally. Rickshaws collide with bicycles and motorbikes everyday. But speeds are low and little damage is done. Mentally and physically. A few curses are let out and everyone goes their way. Bigger accidents happen for sure but on a daily basis these collisions seem to be part and parcel of life.

It's as if everyone expects the worst and so it something good happens they are pleasantly surprised.

That and most people accept that others are quirky and imperfect. Why else would they listen quietly to my father's rantings whenever he is displeased with something?

People will wait and wait until you're comfortable, sure, happy. Its a combination of hospitality, manners, respect (for age, authority, status, if you're a woman).

India has always been described as a land that cannot really be described. It has too many facets. Too many colors, too many shades to have a few adjectives applied to it.

And just when one is tempted to write something off, a sweetheart of a person makes it all well.

Its the same of anything and anywhere I suppose. Delta screwed things up for us and I swore never to travel that airline again until we were seated in our seats on our last leg flying and our stewardess greeted us. Despite her sweet Texan accent, she might have been my mother, so attentive was she. I told her she might be the only reason we fly Delta again.

People--persons really. And India is full of such people. Sweethearts. Truly well meaning people.

I really need to simmer down and adopt a 'tomorrow is another day' attitude and all will be well.

One can but try, no?

What am I doing here??

Can't sleep. Stray dogs bark at night, They howl. They shriek. I want to shoot them all. With eyes tightly clenched I imagine myself wielding an Uzi or AK-47 or some such catastrophic weapon and gunning them all down. I am mad. I haven't slept in days.

The maid is another abomination. She thinks I am some sort of idiot. She has quoted a price for work 50% more than the average. I am mad. I will give her a thousand rupees more if she is honest. I refuse to be cheated. I tell her not to do the floors, just the dishes and that too so I don't go crazy with work. I wonder if I've done the right thing having her return to the place of work where she has been slighted.

The furniture I have ordered is delayed. I call and get a new person every time. I'll call back in half an hour, two days, one day, each one promises. I hear nothing. This from a Godrej dealer. Godrej, a leading Indian company! Right.

The dining table I have ordered cannot be done, they say now. The stand is a problem. Cancel the damn thing, I say in anger.

My husband has a stomach upset from the buffalo milk that he's using to make myriad cups of coffee.

Milk and water. A full time job. Boil each, save each, buy fresh milk everyday. Take care not to drink tap water. Wash the baby's mouth with boiled water.

I have a ball of knots in my stomach. I want to go back. I want to go home.

Today my parents left after having stayed with us through all of the troubles, through all of my whining, through all of my threats to go back.

I see them off in our rented car. I ask the driver to take them back to Bombay safe and sound. My mother waves goodbye, a sweet smile on her beautiful face. I know she wants to cry. I watch the car drive away.

I turn back, try not to cry as I take the lift back to our tenth floor apartment.

I know what I am doing here at last. I know. Milk, furniture, stray dogs and more nonsense, all notwithstanding, this has been the right thing to do. For now. For all.

More...

Thoughts slosh about in the mind about new experiences witnessed, old experiences re visited.

Saw a woman on the street, her expression of resignation, nursing a baby. The curve of the baby's thigh, its face hidden by her sari, protected from the world if only for a short while longer. I think of myself and my baby. I feel like my heart is about to break. Is the baby a boy? A girl? Should I stop and give her money? How much is enough? Enough for her to buy a place to stay and educate her child? Enough for a meal? My car speeds by. I hold back tears. What use is my sorrow if all I do is watch? I feel anger at myself for hesitating and the moment and the scene has passed. I start to cry some hours later while telling my husband about it. He asks me to channel my sorrow.

India is too striking a land of contrasts. It is downright disturbing to see people checking out objects of luxury at swanky malls while right outside one sees the construction workers and their families building more swankiness to the shopping havens living in huts, their children running about finding play and joy in the bricks and stone and mud that form their parent's livelihood. Heartbreaking.

Compared to Bombay there aren't that many beggars on the street. Kids do approach us at certain busy street corners. But its rarer than usual here.

A Kashmiri trader of beautiful saris and shirts stops by. We met him at a home goods exhibition earlier and bought several kurtas/shirts. He has come to us bearing saris. Beautiful, hand-done embroidery on pastel georgettes and crepes. My mother buys a sari. I ask if the artisans might get some of the money that we're paying for the items. He says the artisans work on a monthly salary. I offer to pay him a bonus for the artisans. He refuses to take the money. Give them more work, he says, this isn't appropriate. It doesn't send the right message.

The same applies to the beggars, I suppose. Throwing small amounts of money helps feed them for a meal or two. But systemically, the solution is larger, so much more complicated. Education, work solutions. India has one of the smallest budgets in the world assigned to educating her people. Depressing.

But I feel a renewed sense of joy about getting involved in a local not profit, making a small difference.

I tell my husband. If we can help improve a handful of lives, help a handful of kids escape what is a small twist of fate--they were born in an inopportune place under less than ideal circumstances. My child could easily have been one of them and not the privileged little fella he is going to be and already is.

A handful of kids and a handful of women would be a good start.