Mango

Without question, one of the most enjoyable things about being in Southern India is the year-round availability of regionally cultivated, tropical fruit. Currently we are at the height of mango season and wherever you go, there are mangoes being consumed. Wiry men with bare feet push carts loaded with yellow ripe fruits around the neighborhood, restaurants tout their ‘fresh mango juice’, and visitors arrive with two or three large fruits in tow. This is the time, as many home gardeners know, that creativity trumps all as you struggle to find different ways to beat the race to spoilage. Just in the last week, belying our ‘rookie mango status’, we accumulated over 10 without even trying! Fortunately, we all like it…and it’s nothing like the other Mangos that we like.

I can remember my grandfather telling me stories about his time in the South Pacific when he was in the military, eating mangoes and reacting with a severe rash, which he likened to coming into contact with poison ivy. Fortunately, for Kaia and I, this allergic reaction was not passed along. If you have ever tried to cut a mango, they are not so easy to slice up, especially the ripe ones. After paring off the skin, you end up with all different sized strips or chunks and, as the large seed clings tightly to the flesh, you are often left with a sticky, juicy mess—perfect for a two year old with impatient hands and a love for fruits to amplify ever the more.

Yet, if you were to watch me finish off a mango after slicing it up, you might think that I was the toddler, considering how I suck and slobber all over the large seed, gnawing off what I think is the tastiest part of the fruit—that which has clung to the seed. Kaia has often watched me with the kind of look of disbelief that is reserved for children when their parents do strange and/or embarrassing things. There will be more of these looks, I am sure.

Why I Love this Time: A small stuffed animal cat, which he has named “Jaggie”.

mangos!

all mine!

Temper

For me, to say that one ‘loses their temper’ is a misnomer. In fact, what is much more accurate, albeit a subtle difference, is that you FIND it. Tucked deep away under the multiple layers of socialization and discipline, it is rare to find a situation where this emotion emerges without some degree of associated damage that you later feel terrible about—an unwelcome visitor, the vestige of some unresolved issues, and ripe for armchair psychoanalysis. As someone who has a closer relationship with their temper than most (read: I certainly haven’t lost it, as I know exactly where it is), one aspect of my parenting has been to try and demonstrate to Kaia a more calm and peaceful way to approach problems and situations. As many parents know, children learn so much from just watching you behave. Sure words matter, but young kids really get the adage, “I judge not by what you say, but by what you do”. For me, one of my fears is that Kaia will find that his temper is often close at hand as well.

Part of what substantiates my belief that this is a behavior that is learned at a young age, from watching close adults, is that my parents are very level-headed and calm people. If you were to fill football stadium seats with descriptive words and phrases about both of them, anger and temper would be sitting in the upper loge alongside Bob Uecker. But, if you look at my grandparents, especially my grandmother, there you can find the dictionary entry for temper—and someone who can re-find (and unload it) at any time. I suppose that, since I spent a great deal of my formative youth at their home while my mom finished school and my dad worked, that I picked up a few skills in irrational behavior and illogical frustration. Such is the supple mind of youth.

Over time, of course, like any good subject ruled by the panopticon, my temper made like Smeagol and ran from the light of good behavior, driven down into the bowels of a forgotten land. Of course, from time to time it would emerge, fed by impatience and lack of sleep, but for the most part it was controlled and in its place. That is, until I came here and, like Bilbo Baggins, something in the cultural winds has blown the tempers’ core out of hiding. It has been refound.

The incident that catalyzed the re-emergence was the culmination of a series of frustrating episodes that were lathered up from a 100 degree heat. Kaia has never been able to nap without being carried or driven in a car and, because our ‘new’ car (notable for its selling feature of being ‘good at dodging cows’) decided to crap out a few weeks ago, this has meant that, around 130-200pm every day, I have to carry him around outside for 15-30 minutes to get him to go down. Not so bad if you’re living in Seattle, where you can enjoy the gentle breeze and 75 degree temperature, but here, where the 100+ degree heat and 80% humidity beat and squeeze you of all energy, there is little to be enjoyed. This particular day I had also been attending to a few different domestic repairs, which in this country are not a simple, nor peaceful event.

From the gas repairman who used our kitchen scissors to cut and refix the gas cable, to the mechanic who wanted to drive across town to get a Phillips-head screwdriver, to the plumber who shorted out the electricity repairing the watertank, I have come to learn a few truisms about home maintenance here: One, there is no such thing as a simple repair—I’ll repeat that again—there is NO SUCH THING AS A SIMPLE REPAIR. By this, I mean that what should take 5 minutes, might take 3 days because they forgot to bring the right parts, if any at all—that is, if they decide to show up at all. Number two, often fixing one problem creates two more—take for example the aforementioned water tank repair, which led to a shorting out of the electricity AND a hole in the door from when they removed the false ceiling to get to the tank. Number three, expect a lot of people. When I saw the electrician(s), plumbers and AC people come on the same day, and it started looking like a tea shop inside the flat, all I could think was that there was some joke about ‘how many Indians does it take to change a lightblub’ in there…

But back to the situation, the entire morning had been dealing with home repair and the car had just broken down for unknown reasons. It was hot and humid and Kaia was fussy. It was the perfect storm. All that was needed was the nudge over the tipping point.

The unwitting victim of my avalanche of temper (which is really just a conduit to anger, isn’t it?) was the driver of a compact Tata Indica car. Kaia and I were walking (I was carrying him) on the side of this very (relatively) slow street. We walked by the black car and just after we passed, I felt the bumper butt up against my left leg, causing it to buckle. It was hardly a strong impact, but enough to throw me off balance and put a minor scare into Kaia. This was the second time that I had been hit by a wayward driver (the first was a motorbike where Kaia and I were the only other people on the road), and I told myself after the first one (because I was a bit shocked at what had happened) that, if it happened again, I would be sure to let the other party know how I felt. Safe to say, it was a temper explosion.

I have never gotten that upset and started screaming at someone like I did with that person. I was yelling at him and swearing in, of course, a language that he could not understand, but I am quite certain that he felt my wrath. I slammed my hand down on the hood of his car and kept pointing at Kaia to say that I was holding a small child. To his credit he was trying to apologize, but after I slammed my hand on the car, he too got a little upset. Yet, this just made me more mad. I was not aware that I could elevate my voice and get so angry, but the fact that it put Kaia in danger pushed me to unfamiliar territory. I don’t know if it was some deep-seated, primal instinct but whatever it was, this guy felt the full brunt of it.

I continued walking, and Kaia eventually went to sleep, but there were two things that stayed with me beyond the event. The first was that how I did not regret, in any way, what I had done, or how I treated this other person. I was talking to a friend the other day about this, and I explained it as being a clear line in my mind that was crossed and that, being a parent, has really defined where these lines are. To not feel regret is to know that they do exist. The other thing was that Kaia had been there to witness the entire spectacle and, surprisingly, he did not start crying or get upset, when he most certainly knew that I was. I have no idea about what must have been going on in his head, but this definitely was papa ‘losing his temper’. Of course, in 99 out of 100 times, reacting the same way would result in more problematic consequences, and I do not/did not want to show him that this kind of behavior is normal or even acceptable. But this is a true challenge as I encounter these moments when I find my temper. How to best respond and parent at the same time? Maybe in the same way that this place has led me to re-find this temper, it will eventually lead me to a state where there is nothing left to find. Such would be par for the course in India.

Why I Love this Time: Unprovoked, big, wet kisses.

evening puja at temple

Cake #2--Steaming!

Cake #1

Dinosaurs!

Birthday Morning

Birthday

Today Kaia turned 2. Probably the day meant more to me than him.

Why I Love this Time: The best 24 months of my life.

Kaia and the Ambassador 

Here to There

There are many ways to get from point A to point B in this city, and how you make that journey most certainly shapes how you see and experience this place. Take for example, the auto-rickshaw. In this low-riding, open-air, three-wheeler, you feel every pothole, inhale every belch of exhaust from neighboring cars and busses, interact with every stoplight beggar, and haggle over the fare with each and every driver. The buzz of the engine, the sheer amusement of swerving in and out of traffic, and the personality of each auto is something not to be missed when visiting India, however, when I am riding in one with Kaia, I often wonder if I am committing some minor form of child abuse…or at least pushing my luck that he’ll not develop some acute asthma or funky rash. After any ride longer than 10 minutes in an auto and you’re tasting the Indian streets with each breath, wearing the grime of modern transport, and left feeling the bumps of the road. Usually Kaia responds to such rides in the most appropriate way: he falls asleep.

Another common mode of transportation is the ever present Ambassador taxi. Ideally suited for the Indian road, it runs in all seasons—from the monsoon’s flooding to the high temperatures of summer—and can be repaired quickly and cheaply by just about any mechanic. While you would never confuse the tight suspension and annoyingly low ceiling with anything luxurious, it is nevertheless a good way to get around in the heat of the day. But unlike the way that being in an auto rickshaw puts you in intimate contact with the road, the Ambassador is just a bit more separated. Dark tinted windows and the positively chilling air from the AC (not to mention the padded walls and ceiling, sometimes with flashing lights!) effectively shield you from much of what goes on outside of the vehicle. Beggars take less time to try to look in through the windows and you can hardly smell anything, what with the sub-zero air swirling around the cabin. Yet, the sturdy and resilient Ambassador is typically not well equipped for city travel with an infant. Kaia enjoys sitting on my lap and, when parked, playing around with the Ambassador’s dashboard and steering wheel, but the lack of seatbelts make it a poor solution for day-to-day travel.

Because we need a vehicle on a regular basis, and we have child safety concerns burrowed deep into our outlook, we decided to purchase an Opel Astra. I wont get into the crappy situation that we got ourselves into with the purchase of this vehicle (although, replete with adultery, deceit and swindling, it does make for good conversation over a beer), but for the purposes of this entry, it was a smooth, safe option that (at the time) made good sense. Now, with the purchase of this car also came a full-time driver with over 15 years of maneuvering the madness of the Madras street. A very kind and quiet man, Lingappan—or at least his ability to avoid accidents—reminds me frequently why I have no interest in getting behind the wheel in this country.

Perhaps what symbolizes more than anything the way that having a nice, private vehicle in this city does to your interaction with what is going on around you, is captured on your glasses, in the moment that you exit the car. After being ensconced in an air conditioned environment, with padded seats and a nice suspension, it seems far away from the visceral experience in riding in an auto rickshaw. But the moment you open the door, the temperature difference surrounds you and your lenses become as foggy as can be—you cannot see anything but blobs of color, effectively you are blind to what is happening around you. This is one of the tensions that you grapple with here on a regular basis as a foreigner who can afford certain luxuries far out of the reach of most Indians. For us the decision was determined almost entirely on Kaia’s safety. After crossing my fingers every time I stepping into an auto, to see him buckled into his Britax Roundabout, overcomes any sort of guilt that might creep in. Yet, this is not to say that it isn’t there. As I said to open this piece, how we get from point A to point B in this country says a lot about who you are. I guess in my case it I am telling others that I am obsessed with Kaia’s safety….if they only knew what they tell us in the States….

Why I Love this Time: Puppet shows.

Joyce and Kaia

Help

Prior to coming here, and even for the first month or so, I was certain that I could maintain my sanity—and write a dissertation--while meeting all of Kaia’s needs, tending to domestic chores and preparing meals. Perhaps, in my entire life, I have never been more deluded. With the intense demands upon my wife from her work and the tedium of trying to get things done here in a modestly efficient manner, heaped upon the everyday tasks of washing clothes, cooking food, cleaning the house, and on and on, by the end of last month I was a complete wreck. There is no small coincidence between the silence in my postings and the tremendous toll trying to manage this household and Kaia by myself, in this country, has had on my ability to think and communicate. I was seriously starting to lose my mind.

But as fortunate would have it, one evening at the nearby (authentic, but expensive) Japanese restaurant, the manager struck up a conversation about how we were doing in our life in Madras. I communicated to him about, perhaps, needing someone to spend a bit of time with Kaia during the day, just to help to give me some time to clean and cook, much less relax and write. He said that he might have the right person in mind. He would talk to her and pass along our number, if she was interested.

A few days later, a woman called and introduced herself as Joyce, a mother of three children, two girls and one boy, ages 11, 8 and 3. She had been working in the homes of expatriates for over 20 years and her English was impeccable—likely better than mine after a long day of babbling with Kaia. After inviting her over to our home for an interview, it was decided that we would do a one week trial period to see how Kaia and her got along. While I found her to be very sweet from the moment that I met her, one of the reasons that I have been so reluctant to hire domestic help is that I did not want to ‘manage’ them. It is very common in Madras to have domestic ‘servants’ (as they are called here) working in some capacity in people’s homes. It is said that the easiest life for any South Indian is that of the upper-middle class wife. She does not have to even lift a finger in regard to cleaning, cooking, shopping, childcare, laundry, ironing, you name it. All she has to do is manage the help. Perhaps it was my discomfort with being even associated with this kind of lifestyle, or the idea of someone calling me ‘sir’ that, even in the face of impossible labors on my time and mental health, led me to think pessimistically about this situation working out long-term.

We decided that, given the size of our apartment and the time that we needed help, Joyce would work ‘part-time’, which in these parts means from 9-3, Monday-Friday. Many domestic jobs require the women to be there from 8-6, or even later, six to seven days a week. This is considered to be full-time and, for this, the typical pay is 2,000 rupees a month, or about $45. If you do the math, it is about 19 cents an hour. A very difficult wage to rationalize, but person after person admonished me to ‘never pay more than 2,000’. This was going to be a problem for me.

As someone who is a firm believer in the baseline principles of a ‘living wage’, more than doing the currency calculations and comparing the costs of such services in the US or Japan, it would be important to ask Joyce what she considered to be fair and appropriate. She said that she was typically paid 4,000 rupees a month for full-time work (60 hours a week), and that this was good for her. Since we would not need her on a full-time basis, I suggested that we pay her 3,000 per month, plus 600 in travel expenses for bus and the occasional auto rickshaw. By this metric, she receives about $70 per month, but at around 60 cents an hour it is over three times the amount that an Indian family would pay for her work. Still it is not much, but she is happy, and in the economic structure of domestic help, she is most certainly in the upper tier of compensation. We also have helped with her children’s schooling with 5,000 rupees and, typically, will give one month’s salary during Pongal, the most celebrated holiday in these parts. Something that I have truly learned here is how tricky and contextualized the issue of fair compensation can be. Because we are being paid in US dollars, there are times when we will compare wages to others working in the US (often they are higher), but of course, here it allows us to live in an apartment across the hall from the President of the Meridian Hotel in Chennai. Unlike Japan or the US, where inequality is often hidden behind layers of materialism and silence, here it is right in your face, often literally as you look into the eyes of qualified, hard-working people with similar priorities, and realize that you will make more in one hour than they will make in one month.

Inevitably for me the issue comes back to the question of how you address these issues with your children. Of course, Kaia is far too young to have this conversation with, but there is something to be said for practicing humility and respect, and ensuring that it is clear that this wealth we have is truly a great privilege and something to be stewarded with the utmost modesty. What amounts to nickels does count for something with many people here, and it is not just those who are begging professionally on the street.

So long story short, Joyce has been a real godsend thus far. Just in the few weeks that she has been here, I’ve been able to write, think, rest and recover—things that seemed to far away just a short time ago. Asking for help is not the easiest thing to do, but there is something quite liberating in the act. Living here, I anticipate that I’ll be doing it more and more.

Why I Love this Time: Hearing him say ‘frog’, pronounced in Kaia language as ‘fuh’ga’, with an accent over the ‘uh’.