What Pride?

Aren't you glad that laughter is so good for people? If nothing else, I can feel that I'm making the people around me healthier. You know there's a story coming. . .

Sometimes after work, I have an informal Tamil lesson from one of my Indian co-workers. Today I practiced some of the words on my way in to the office, while referring to my "cheat sheet." When I came in the door, I tried one phrase (basically "How are you?") out on the receptionist. I had to say it several times before she could figure out what language I was speaking, let alone understand the phrase. Not a resounding success.

I decided to try again with my teacher. Surely he would understand. Still took at least three repetitions, before he replied, while shaking with laughter, "I was doing fine before you got here."

Desperate for success, I tried again with another co-worker. Totally confused looks were my only reward. I gave up temporarily, needing to go do something that offered me some chance of success.

After lunch I pulled out my cheat sheet again, reminding myself to slow down and focus on speaking clearly. My third victim from the morning's fiasco was even willing to stand and chat with me, in English, but throwing around a few of my Tamil vocabulary words. As the three younger guys on the team returned from lunch, something came over me. I believed that I, even I, could speak Tamil and be understood. "Sappitingala?" ("Have you had your lunch?") I threw out, slowly and clearly. Yes (or maybe it was Yeah), came back the answer, accompanied by smiles and even applause. I probably shouldn't admit it, but I took a slight bow.

A little success made me crave more. (Heard in an unidentified Indian house in Chennai, "Didn't it sound like that foreign woman was asking someone over and over whether she had had her dinner, as she walked by?") I greeted my landlady this evening in English, so as not to immediately startle her, but followed it slowly and deliberately with "Sappitingala?" (The question also applies to dinner.) "Illai," she answered with a smile, and watched to see whether I understood her answer. I did!

How Many People Does It Take . . .

. . . to dress an American in a saree? Well, including the one who's just standing there, it seems to take five.

Dwayne, one of my coworkers from Orlando, has come to Chennai to do some training for a few weeks. He arrived last Friday morning, and since Saturday was a work day for those in the office, the plan was for him to stop by to meet everyone that day, but not jump into the training until Monday. The Indians I work with wanted to do something special to welcome him, and we decided as a group that we would greet him in traditional Indian dress. That was a fairly big deal for them, since the men always dress in a very western fashion, and the salwars which the younger women, and I, normally wear are not really the traditional south Indian garment.

But it was a much bigger deal for me, since I had never yet pulled out the saree given to me before leaving the US, along with the matching blouse that I had had sown here, and worn them. Part of the reason is that the blouse didn't really fit that well after it was sewn. And I wasn't sure that it could be fixed very satisfactorily. But I knew that I would eventually do my best to adjust it. Besides, the saree material would mostly cover it, so it might go unnoticed.

I asked my landlady, who has been wearing sarees all her life, if she would help me Saturday morning. She asked one of the servants who comes each morning to come early to help also, since she always fixes her own sarees so nicely.

I had no idea just much work it would be. As mentioned above, I basically just stood there and allowed the ladies to fold, pin, and wrap the lovely material around me. I did help by stooping at the appropriate times, I think.

Once everything was secured and I was pronounced lovely, I took my usual walk to work. It took a little longer than usual, and of course, I was quite self-conscious. A couple women made encouraging comments to me, some smiled in a friendly (but uncharacteristic) manner, but most amused me by pretending not to notice anything out of the ordinary. Come on, people, it would be very impressive to act as though this is how I dress every day of my life, but I know I'm not pulling that off!

Anyway, a number of people at the office knew of our plans, and I was greeted quite enthusiastically. The three lovely young women in the Human Resources Department had all donned sarees, also, even though Saturday usually calls for more casual dress (but still salwars). As they gathered around me, two of them asked whether they might make some "adjustments." After the long session at home, what was there left to adjust? But I allowed it, while nixing the idea of basically starting from scratch. Unfortunately, the pictures taken before leaving home were lost, so I can't let you make your own comparisons. I can't even say which was better, or whether you'd notice the difference.

In fact, I think I've said plenty. Let's get to the pictures.

You know who this is. Don't you?

This was taken right after my "adjustments," with Jerry, the receptionist; Jemimah, the only other female on the programming team; and the three lovely HR ladies. Yes, I'm a little taller, but otherwise I'm pulling this whole ethnic Indian thing off, right?

Here's the whole team. The men are wearing dotis; I wasn't sure the younger guys were really going to play along. But isn't it great?

Thirty-Six Days

Some of you have asked for my address in the past, and when I gave it to you privately, I let you know that the mail system here isn't known for being extremely reliable. So, most decided it just wasn't a good risk to send anything. While perfectly logical, that was a little disappointing on this end.

Enter Mom, who’s not going to let a little risk and expense—turned out to be more than a little—keep her from getting some good, dark chocolate to her daughter who is suffering (yes, meant to be read with a smile) in India. She let me know that she had sent it on January 4, so I started watching for it about two weeks later.

It’s a good thing I wasn’t holding my breath. Two weeks, three weeks, four weeks. . . . Hope waned. Mom mentioned other items in the box that she hoped someone was making good use of. I tried to face the fact that, even if it did eventually arrive, the chocolate might not be any good, after all this time in a warm country.

This finally moved me to actually go to the post office to inquire about it. After sending someone to check on it in the back, it was obvious that the man I talked to agreed that it should have been here by then (nearly four weeks after it had been sent). But he assured me that it would probably arrive tomorrow or the next day. (Is endless optimism a common Indian trait? I’m not sure; I’ll have to watch for that.)

Well, when I arrived home yesterday, there was a box sitting in my landlady’s living room. I tried to hold my reaction until I knew for sure that it was mine. Her enthusiastic greeting increased my hope. “You owe me a treat!” she said. Not only had she sent a friend to the post office to inquire for me—though with no more success than I had—but she had repeatedly asked the mail carrier to watch for it. Her son suggested that it had had to go through customs, so that probably explains the thirty-six day delivery period.

The contents seem fine, and there were several things that I didn’t know were coming. I’ll not give a detailed inventory, but I’m now the happy owner of not only two kinds of dark chocolate, but also tea, hot cocoa, cough drops, and two microwavable meals, in addition to a couple of toiletry items.

Sure, I could have continued to live without all of these items (maybe not chocolate, but you can get that here, even if it’s not as good as what she sent), but it was so nice to receive a care package from home. Thanks, Mom!! And thank you, Lord, for getting it here!

All Things Become New

It's amazing how the things you take for granted have to be looked at in a whole different way in a new culture. For instance, milk. I've always been a big fan of milk, buying my gallon of 1%, and usually having no trouble finishing it off—between cereal in the morning and a glass of cold or hot with chocolate at night—before it goes bad.

Don't try to find that gallon of milk in Chennai, though. Half gallon? Nope. Liter? Well, that you can hunt down, as long as you don't look in the refrigerated section. No, it's right there on the shelf, complete with warnings that it's "best" before 120 days from manufacture, and should be refrigerated once it's opened. Now that's a good deal--just load up those pantry shelves and toss one in the fridge the night before you're going to need it. One problem—could you see this coming?—it's just not that tasty. Whatever "toned" and "flash heated" mean, it's not "taste unaffected." As usual, you pay a price for convenience.

Yes, there is another option for the milk connoisseur. You can buy a half-liter of pasturized, delicious milk in a bag. But this you need to drink within a day, or two at the most. As usual, you pay a price for taste.




Could there be a best-of-both-worlds? Yes, there is, when you live in India, with a sweet, elderly widow. I don't know if they're called "milk men," but there are people who will deliver these bags of milk right to your door in Chennai! In fact, some of the gates have milk boxes mounted on them. When I discovered that my landlady had a bag (or maybe two) delivered each day, I asked if I could get one each day along with her. Since she has assumed quite a bit of responsibility for my health and welfare—and there's really nothing I can do about it one way or the other—she went right to work on it.

There's one more thing you should know. Traditionally Indians have boiled their milk before using it. There was a day when it was essential, but now the bagged milk is pasteurized, and it is not necessary. But—and I report this based on observation and discussion—the older generation just isn't comfortable drinking milk that hasn't been boiled. Those in my generation will freely admit that it isn't necessary, even as they are going about the daily ritual of boiling it. So, my landlady takes my bag of milk each day and puts it into a "milk boiler" until it whistles for a while. Then she pours it into a little metal kettle that she has set aside for my use. (Warm milk on cereal is really a lot tastier than it first sounds.) After I finish off my day's worth of milk in the evening, I wash out the kettle and make sure it's back on the dining room table before I go to bed, so it will be filled with delicious milk once again, before I arise for the day!

Okay, yet one more thing you just have to hear on this subject. I know some of you remember the days of the milkman bringing the bottles to your doorstep. My landlady remembers when they used to bring the cow from house to house and fill up their containers!

A Taste of Kerala

Today the four of us were invited to have lunch at the home of an Indian couple that is somewhat affiliated with our organization. Believe me, I've eaten plenty of Indian food, but having a home-cooked, authentic Indian meal was just about a first for me. In fact, with the exception of one small Christmas party, this is the only time I've been invited to the home of an Indian family for a meal.

We had a lovely time, and they could not have been kinder or more gracious. While we live in Tamil Nadu, this couple is originally from Kerala--those two states together comprising the southernmost part of India. Their food is a little different, but rice is still the staple, unlike the north, where bread is more popular. Their language is also different from the Tamil spoken here--good thing we all spoke English!

I'm always game for anything like this, but there's also a little uncertainty for me when it comes to food. I had nothing to worry about here. We had two kinds of rice (one specifically the type they eat in Kerala), lovely chicken curry (initially described as "bird"--was it the surprised look on my face that caused him to further clarify?), chapatis (thin, flat, round bread, very nice for tearing pieces off with which to scoop up other dishes), a mixture of delicious vegetables, beet root, bitter gourd (might take a little getting used to) and more. Nothing very spicy, but all very good. Oh, if you're wondering, they offered silverware, but we declined.

The most unusual thing about the experience, for me, was that neither of our hosts ate with us. There was room at the table, and he sat with us the whole time. The wife also sat down, when she wasn't busy serving. They never explained themselves--the rest of the group was not surprised by their not eating, and I seemed to remember reading something about it--but at one point mentioned that they would be eating lunch before going to pick their kids up from school. Odd to us, but normal to them, I guess.

We took an auto rickshaw to and from their apartment, so on the way home we had to walk a short ways to get to a main street where we could hail one. There it hit me that I definitely live in one of the nicer parts of Chennai, a truth that only becomes apparent through comparison. But I don't think this family would consider themselves poor. And nothing important really seemed to be lacking.

Yet another lovely day in Chennai.

Still Here

Greetings! Perhaps I need to reintroduce myself. Sorry for such a long break in new entries. I was warned before I came over here that things would begin to seem normal after a couple months. There's a fair amount of truth to that, though I'm not going so far as to say that India feels like "home" at this point.

Did I tell you that there was a period where I was just so tired of being different? No matter what I did as far as dressing, eating, etc., every time I walked onto the street, I was an oddity. I just couldn't blend in. Well, my skin is as light as ever, and my hair is way too short, thin, and non-black, but I think I'm over it. Let them wonder, but this is where I live. In fact, for six months (two and one-half yet to go), this is where I belong.

Now that things like crossing the street and living to tell about it are becoming old hat for me, I'm able to focus a little more on the finer points of Indian culture. Let me tell you a couple of the things I've learned recently.

As you may remember, I'm living with a lovely, older, Indian widow. Very often when I come in to the house in the evening, she'll ask me whether I've had my dinner. Since my ex-patriot friends and I have gotten into the habit of having a larger meal earlier in the day and having a light meal or snack in the evening--plus I tend to eat later anyway--I usually answer in the negative, but quickly add that I'm planning to have a snack, baked potato, etc. But I've wondered why she persists so in asking. Well, someone at work was trying to teach me a little Tamil, and mentioned that asking whether a person has had her lunch yet (or dinner) is a common Indian courtesy. And if you're at someone's house and answer that you haven't, their gracious Indian standards of hospitality pretty much ensure that you'll be offered something for the meal. Ah! So my hostess continues to ask just because she's Indian.

Another difference that I've been impressed with in this country is the formality of gift giving. As an honored guest at the office where I work, I've often been asked to help give out gifts. For example, when the office had a Christmas lunch, complete with gift exchange, I was one of the first to be invited up to hand out gifts. This consisted of standing on the stage, having a present handed to me, and immediately handing it to the recipient, who had been called up to the stage to receive it. My role certainly didn't seem essential, but I've learned that it was an important one in this culture. As another example, when Alain returned from his Christmas visit to Switzerland, he brought lots of chocolate and wanted to give some to the twenty or so people who work with us in the programming department at the office. He put it all in one spot and invited everyone to come and take what he wanted. People were not reluctant--it was all gone pretty shortly--but a co-worker asked if that was a common way of giving something out back home. Of course, it is; we often like to give people the option of taking as many or as few as they like. But he let me know that here in India, they would always go around to each person's desk and hand him a piece. (And you would not refuse it, but you could slip it to a friend later, if you wanted. I checked.)

Don't get me wrong. Alain's giving out his chocolate in a non-Indian way was not a failure on his part, or an insult to the people at work. Everyone understands that we come from different cultures and different things seem normal to us. But it's interesting to learn what is important to people here.

And it's fun to find out how I can become "more Indian," without coloring my hair!