Courier Service

Qn: Can you think of any family that does NOT have someone in the US? I failed to come up with too many.
Why then, do relatives of friends of relatives we know still manage to give us something to carry for them after our visit to India? Don't they know other people? Perhaps we are those people? Hmm....
Last time, as we were struggling with packing our stuff after the wedding into our 4 suitcases (I insisted on my trousseau; not to be outdone, my mom-in-law insisted on two urns that were the size of a watermelon each), there was a telephone call, and a man who was the father of a friend of a friend was calling- can you please carry two small packets for my sons- they are quite sick, and need this- he said.
My husband, who actually thinks that each receptacle is some version of the Akshayapatram, does not get the concept of finite volume.
For example, we had a smaller suitcase, and a heap of clothes and the ubiquitous urns, and some of the gifts that we carried back, plus a little boy that we had promised to smuggle into the country, and he still thought there was more space for a huge cooker!
He insisted it could be done, till we packed everything in, and then he saw for himself what space was, yet he insisted the boy could have fit in, if only I had packed right!
Anyways, my husband, who had no clue what the situation was, agreed whole heartedly, though my mother in law salvaged the situation by adding that we would if we had space in the suitcases.
With about 7 hours to go for leaving the house, we packed with gusto, trying various permutations and combinations to get it all in. Finally, we managed to fit everything in, but had not yet received the package for the ill sons. Eventually, the “mama” did arrive with the packages, and smiling, he handed them over. My mother in law’s hands bent over, and she was screaming in agony. “Too heavy”, she said immediately. Expecting the shot put, I carried it gingerly, while “mama” was waiting in anticipation. It was really touch and go at this point- the packages that is, my mother in law had to be probably hospitalized for fracture, but that could wait!
My husband meanwhile had arrived to greet “mama” and told him we had space. The only possible space by now was in the hand luggage, and with the flimsy bag we had for hand luggage, I wasn’t too sure. Well, too late anyways, and we packed it in our luggage.
Would it fit the hand luggage requirements? It weighed about a hundred and two pounds I think, and what medicine could probably weigh so much? Maybe it was a stone to smash his head against? Or was it a grinding stone or “kalloral” as we called it? Maybe it was just bricks, to avenge something my father in law had done to their family? We passed the security check, and I carried the precious cargo. All’s well that almost ends well, as we arrived without any problem.

After that, came the mailing. There were separate packages for the two sons, apart from several other things to be mailed, and I walked to the Post Office with the packages in hand. I stood in the counter and figuring out the comparative costs of priority mail vs. parcel post, and the man in the counter explained the concept and gave me the tape to tape up my boxes.
With everything else, was also had to mail some tobacco for an uncle of mine. I had to open up all the packages to fit them in the priority mail boxes that I was given.
Firstly, I tried to figure out the boxes. As usual, though, there were instructions on how to make the box, and I made them pretty quickly. Feeling like an engineer who built the Hoover Dam, I tried opening the individual packages. Of course, the tobacco package reeked all over the post office- I tried spraying some of my instant masala-smell removing perfume, but this was no regular masala smell. This made the whole post office turn to see me, and suspect me as a possible smuggler of God-knows-what, what with my harried look and furtive glances.
I tried to ignore them, and hastily put the packages into the designated box, and tried to seal it. Please someone, help me with this. Why is it that the higher a person’s level of education, the lower their simple skills? I cannot, for the life of me, figure out how to use the huge tape dispenser. I mean, I had seen people use it, they seemed to do it perfectly, but by the time I was done with it, I had almost mummified myself in brown tape, and had a couple of nicks from the “Warning: Sharp Edge” part of the dispenser. The tape was all over the package, and I felt like it could never go down from here. So all was good.
So I tackled the son’s packages next. I opened them up to find packets and packets of rice podis- you know the kind- the lemon rice powder, paruppu podi, and milagu podi, and curry leaves podi etc. (They are powders to be mixed with rice in various flavours). I thought- well, I suppose this could be argued as being medicine- though in a roundabout way, and maybe he was homesick! While transferring them over to the USPS boxes (I had regained my confidence by building another box by now), one of the packets opened, spilling all over the floor. Well, it could go downhill from there!
There was almost a smoke screen of paruppu podi, and anyone who knows what it is, knows it induces coughing on inhalation. And so it did. I wanted to be Seeta Ma so I could summon the Earth to swallow me up. Or at the very least, swallow the paruppu podi up!
So after collecting some of it from the floor, I figured I could just take the rest home, for my own use. Wasn’t I entitled to a courier fee? Then, I figured that that act might beget something worse the next time, and so I hurriedly proceeded to put the tape on the paruppu podi as well.
So, I was all set with the two boxes. I had some other things to be mailed to another friend’s son- this one in Idaho, and I faithfully did that without any incident.
Some sermonizing here. Whenever you mail something to a state like Idaho, you don’t mind mailing even a ton of things, cos you imagine a huge state with nothing but aisles and aisles of potatoes in the grocery store. But you come across a place like New Jersey, or Virginia, you know there’s lots of places there to get your Indian groceries. So you feel bad when you have to courier for a person just so they can save a couple of dollars, or are particular about taste. This situation, of course, can be salvaged by offering the courier some amount of the same stuff that has been packed for mailing. Thank Yous are great too, but we get all the Thank Yous we’ll ever need for 8 generations in this country!
Anyways, I have to admit that my father is a compulsive package sender and receiver, though he is now undergoing the 8 steps in his anonymous group. The treatment has been hastened by my brother moving to Chennai, and therefore not many people he can ask or send stuff through.
To return to my plight at the post office, after the two boxes were in front of me, I realized I should have written the address as soon as I made the boxes, cos now I knew not which was which. Wouldn’t want to send snuff to the sick child! I tried sniffing both the boxes, but all I could smell was the tobacco, and coughed intermittently.
So, reopening and resealing them, I finally finished mailing them. Heaved a sigh of relief, thanking the Gods who gave the man in the counter a bad cold- maybe it was Bhooma Devi? She figured the earth moving thing might be too much, and just gave the man a cold so he couldn’t smell? Good job, Bhooma!
A couple of days later, we received a call from the receivers of the packages, thanking us profusely. Almost made me forget the weight of those packages. Almost.

ELEC-TRICK-ALS AND ELECT-WRONG-ICS

I may sound like an old woman unable to change with the times, but let me tell you one thing. I cannot understand some technology. I just don’t get it.

Even though I think I got a head start on it. We got our first computer a ZX Spectrum, way back in 1987, I think. It was a nice black keyboard, and my father thought it would be a useful thing in future. And man, was he ever right!

All I could do with the manual that came with it was make my name appear endlessly on the screen- of course I soon graduated to saying stupid things including swear words and general instructions (“Make this stop if you can”). My brother was a pro, and to prove it, he had a program that he saved and kept working on everyday.

To prove he was real, he would look puzzled, stare at the screen from time to time and make elaborate calculations in a long notebook (my sister and I seriously suspected it was his daily expenses account, which would also explain his puzzlement)! He was writing something in “machine code”, a game, he would later divulge, which used the hexadecimal notation, and all that eventually led to, as far as I can see, was his becoming something of a world expert in the 16s table.

We, of course never got to play the game, though the manual that came with the instructions came with wonderful diagrams of the dragons that the program would create. Inexplicably, my brother took matters into his own hands, and eventually became somewhat of a good cartoonist!

And the games we played, we had to feed in with a regular tape recorder. It would play high pitched beepy noises while loading into the computer, making us wonder if it was indeed an audio tape of S. Janaki’s songs! There was a game where the player had to guide a robot to safety, and it looked like it could never be done.

I was at the lowest rung, my sister was a bit better than me, but my hero was my brother! He had not only rescued the little robot to safety, he was bored because he had done it too many times!

(I sometimes think that the fascination that a computer game holds to a player is the same as sex holds to an adolescent mind, it's the unknown that interests them so!)

10 years later.
I’m sitting in my room in the apartment I share with my roommate who is a tech buff, or so I think. She walks near me, at the exact second that I have thought of her volume as being a bit too high. What are you saying, she says, looking at me. I’m baffled. Nothing, I mumble, thinking perhaps something slipped out of my tongue.
Why are you doing this, she continues. I don’t know what to say, as I was just wincing at her high voice again. Thought some expressions showed, and mumbled an apology, saying, “But you are a bit loud, you know!”

Her voice, which has been steadily increasing in volume and pitch, has now reached a crescendo. “I don’t care,” she screeches and then pokes her ear. I am flabbergasted. What am I gonna say for that?

She slowly retrieves something from her ear. No wonder she speaks so loud, I think, envisioning a future where voices are no more than 90 dB, where flowers are all yellow and purple, and my hair never needs to be combed (that’s my least favorite activity)! Poor thing, that must really hurt, having a blockage in your ear.

She then turns to me and smiles. Hi, she says, at the very instant I recognize the dark goo from her ear to be an earphone for her cell phone. OK. So this conversation never happened? I was shaken from my thoughts by a good old, “Arre, you know what happened yesterday?” in a soprano that had me clutching my juice glass and covering it with a blanket.

Anyways, after that, I only responded to her when the sentence was prefixed by my name, but I had to listen to her every word anyways. So flowers are still in all colours except green, and I still need to comb my hair.

Well, in my defense, I am far ahead of people in things like chatting and installing an uninstalling a program. So I thought I was getting there, when I encountered another technology that seemed very benevolent, to everyone else at least.

I was a reporter and had to set up an interview. So I get an email giving me a “bridge number” to dial into, and a password.

Now again I might seem like an old maid, but I am used to interviewing people face to face. Phone conversations freak me out most of the time- I guess I think people will soften on seeing my innocent face if I screw up, but in a phone conversation, they only have my not-so-sweet voice to go by.

Anyways, the word “Bridge number” seemed awfully technical, and I immediately called my husband for help. He assured me it was just a toll free number, and the password was just something to route you to the exact conference. Emboldened by his kind words, I dialed in at the appropriate time, and I suppose I was early for the “interview”. The automated machine asked me if I was the leader of the conference.

I thought about that for a while. Was I really? Or was the PR person really the leader, is a journalist ever the leader, or do they just get bullied around by the PR types and the newsmakers? Intense philosophical thoughts emerged from the one message. Anyways, I just stalled and it asked me for the password. It seemed horrible like a frat meeting. (You’re asked a password before you enter, and I guess people ask you if you’re the leader too, cos they’re too drunk to recognize anybody)!

After a minute or so, the others dialed in, and were all introducing themselves. Now, I also like to visualize people when I’m talking to them. So, here I was, trying to put a face on each of the faces, while talking to them and also trying to sound intelligent. Just too much, I say!

To add to it all was the PR person who, I was sure, was recording this conversation for legal matters as well. So, between trying to transcribe everything accurately, and being nice, and all the faces floating at me through the single phone line, I was distraught.

I had to ask all possible questions, because I could not run into this situation again, ever!

It went pretty well, until the next day I receive an email from my editor about a story, and on following up, I get a message with another number and a password.


There are some technologies I think are just hype- like something called Bluetooth. I think it’s wireless, and I’m sure it’s more complicated than that, but you should hear people talk like that is something totally imperative in their lives. We were shopping for a cell phone, and a friend says, Oh! But get a cell phone with Bluetooth!” C’mon, we’re getting a cell phone at a time when its status has gone way up there with food, water and shelter- think we’re really tech savvy?
And read this page about why it’s called Bluetooth (to scare little kids away?)

While we’re on the latest rage, let’s talk about digital cameras please. Being a student of television technology makes people think I know a bit about digital cameras and things. I do, but digital cameras are really hard to keep up with. Of course, people don’t always realize that, and it’s one of things where almost everyone always has an opinion. And some people use terms like resolution, megapixels and in extreme cases, even “boogeyman” to scare people off digital cameras.

I constantly use the first two words to wriggle my way out of any technical debate. “So the resolution and color enhancement might be good, but you should also think of the reproduction quality”- you know, things like that. If only my parents had thought of that!

Till another day!

OF WASHERS AND DRYERS

WARNING: Major grossness to be expected. If your idea of gross is hearing or reading the word piss, shit or fart in its literal meaning, then please skip this blog.


It's been swept under the carpet for too long. These things that do not seem to be discussed at dinner parties(for obvious reasons). It's time someone speaks about them, and lays it all on the table.

We Indians are used to certain methods of hygiene. The underlying tenet is of course that washed is better than wiped. We love washing our clothes(so does everyone else, but let's leave that out for a minute), and drying them seems to be left to nature. Same with vessels, and our floors. And obviously, same with our arses ( the British spelling was just to soften the grossness blow)!
So if one is brought up from childhood on the wash principle, it follows that it becomes very difficult for one to shift to the wipe mode. I have observed many people, and this is an issue they struggle with even more than their identity, their minority status, or even their layoff.
In fact, a filmmaker friend and I were discussing a possibility of making a film on this topic alone. Would make fascinating watching (not to mention that it was a definite contender for awards, considering the area of anatomy it dealt with).
Anyways, there are some people who are able to adjust to it naturally. They can wipe and carry on with their lives as if nothing has ever changed. They have placed a stone on their heart, and blocked out the voice that cries to be heard.
Some of us are not able to do that. We are washers from cradle to grave. We are largely identified by the presence of Empty Yogurt tubs in our bathrooms.
To digress and speak about my personal experiences, when I first set foot into this country(actually even before that, in the 27 hour travel time), I thought I could manage. As a month went by, I realized there was something missing. I could not concentrate on my studies, and I was always distracted. It was then that I discovered what was wrong. I could not live with the guilt of being a wiper. But I lived in a house with other Americans, and could not risk be identified, not to mention the Indian girl who seemed to have made the transition from washer to wiper without any trouble.
It was then that I decided- I had to be a closet washer.
I used up more toilet paper than anyone else, and thought I had perfected the art. I wiped, then dampened the toilet paper, and wiped with it (that was as close as I could get to washing- sometimes I squeezed the paper to get a better simulation of wash), then finishing off with another round of wipe. This was perfect, I figured.
Not for long. My bowel movements needed to steady, and they still would not. So as far as I could, I put off bathing till I had passed them. Then I just had to wipe, and my bath would take care of the washing etc. This was a great idea!
For obvious reasons though, this only worked half the time, when I could afford to wait for a bath. The days I couldn't, I was under so much pressure, that they wouldn't comply. So I had to deal with passing them at school, where it was even worse.. there was no dampening system :(
Though it seems frivolous compared to other problems men and women have to face, it really comes down to personal experience. I could have sworn I would have traded with a jobless ragpicker (now if she were a ragpicker, that would be her job, wouldn't it? hmm...) if only I could find a solution that pleased all!
Meanwhile, a German friend of mine visited Egypt and was showing photos of the latrine in Egypt, and was describing with wonder how there is no toilet paper in any of the bathrooms, and how they used to carry their own. I, who should have defended the Egyptians, and told my friend how bad it was for us to have toilets without water, just sat there, saying nothing. I still feel guilty for not standing up for my fellow washers.
Two years passed this way, and then I moved out and have now come out to the world- I am the proud displayer of two Yogurt tubs in my bathroom. The wash and wipe routine seems to work great, except when I visit India now. I hated people who said this, and I hate myself for saying this, but wash alone does me no good. I long for the days when I can wash and wipe, and be myself once more. Is this what they call Americanized?
Never mind that my home is in Chennai, which is facing such a huge water crisis, and that I might have to be a forced wiper on my next visit!
I love the running water in Indian bathrooms though, and showering in the tub feels funny. Speaking of tubs, one grouse I have with my body has to do with a warm bath in the tub.
I love the tubs in every bathroom here, but hadn’t had a bath in it till recently. I guess I never had this much free time, or was just scared of it, like some kids feel with a new toy. They have to get used to seeing it around for a while, then touch it, and only then can they play with it.
Anyways, the first time, I stepped into it, got a nice lather working, and just soaked myself in it for a minute, and I got a call- from nature. Very irritated, I chastised myself for not checking with nature before I got in the tub. So I hurriedly took a shower and answered the call.
The next time, I did ask nature, and then got into the tub. Lo and behold! (hey, I haven’t seen that word since “Gem Collection of Russian Folk tales”!) In ten minutes, when I was just getting into it, she calls again! I thought this must be a freak accident, and the next time, finished all I needed to, drank one cup of tea, waited till that was passed, and then got into the tub. All I could think of, though, was whether Ma Nature was calling me anywhere, anytime soon. After 10 minutes of obsessing about it, Ma must have realized I was looking for her, and promptly knocked on my door!
Needless to say, that was the end of my fascination with the tub.

WEEKENDS

Long weekend - I first heard this almost as soon as I landed in Philly. The Labor Day Long weekend was coming up. I pondered about what that could mean for a while, could not think of anything except the outlandish, and decided to ask my new roommate. "Oh! It's a weekend of 3 days- Monday a holiday as well," she explained. So it was just a Monday holiday!

The thing we prayed for every year- the thing we looked up in December when Appa's complimentary calendars started arriving. We longed for the red letter date next to the red letter date for Sunday, and hoped and prayed that Diwali, or Vinayaga Chaturthi, or Pongal didn't fall on a "natural" red letter day. Of course, we were disappointed about once in two or three years, and on the average, the festivals usually evened out, but we still kept looking every year.

Somehow knowing when the Monday holidays would be for the next however many years you care to know about doesn't seem so appealing. The joy of suddenly having a Thursday off for New Year, or a Bakrid Tuesday is somehow more alluring than the security of assured 3 day weekends thrice a year. But then, weekends never mean anything much back home. You know that right away, even when you visit.

Most offices work Saturdays anyways, and though they tell you it's a half day, you pretty much know right away that that means that it's actually 5 pm, only they will never admit to that.

The day starts with my looking for the newspaper, but of course the newspaper goes strictly by seniority, and by the time it reaches me, I no longer want it, cos all the puzzles are marked by evil siblings anyways. I keep telling my father that I cannot understand the Sunday magazine, it's too complicated, so they have to change to a more readable magazine that does not deal with terrorism in Uganda or moans the loss of natural habitat in Burundi, but rather talks about some gossip and interesting news. My father looks at me like I'm the monkey in the zoo that just asked for more rights!

After about 9 am, mom can be located in front of the TV. Mom is now hooked to the TV, and she has replaced the clock with her very own time zone- the MST or Mega Serial Time. She knows the time by the number of the break on the mega serial that's currently on, right down to the number of the ad.

Consequently, she wants the time told to her in MST, but if you don't quite understand it, she has a mind of a Ramanujam to figure it out. Only try asking her to learn how to send email, and she has a lost look on her face. "It's so complicated," she says.

During the 10 am lunch, where she has dispensed with the hot idli breakfast ("You all hated it so much anyways, why are you complaining now?") and has preponed the noon lunch, there is discussion about the lives of other people. "You know, Sita had no right to ask her sister-in-law to get out". "But then, she asked for it, she had no right to poison her husband's mind against her too." "Shiva was anyway having an affair, and perhaps it's best for Sita to get away, you know." My interest piques. I suddenly feel hip! All these affairs and scandals among people we knew? We are becoming part of the elite! The most I used to hear were lists of people whose kids were having a "love marriage".

The final verdict is dad's- "We'll just to wait and see tomorrow, but knowing them, they'll probably stop right before telling us anything." Duh! Of course!

Right after lunch, we sit down for more TV, and within 5 minutes, all of us are sleeping. Except mom, of course. I'm sure she giggles with glee every time she sees us doze off- "The sleeping pills are working," I can hear her thinking!

The evening is whenever we wake up, and after a hot cup of coffee, we play the "What can we have for tiffin" game. Where my mom rejects everything that takes more time to make than the time remaining for the evening movie- and she tries to talk slowly and painfully to exclude the possibility of her making tiffin.

Upma, my sister says. My mom thinks(20 mins more for the movie) You know, with Upma, it's quite funny. Because sometimes the vegetables are not exactly right (15 mins), and then if the rava is also not quite done, then it becomes a real problem(10 mins). But wait let's ask Appa. She goes looking for Appa (5 mins). And then, she's sure no item can be made in 5 mins, and so she announces- "Oh! no! The movie's gonna start any time now. Why don't you make whatever you want?" My sister: I think I'd like some matricide!

Somedays though, the movie is really bad, and she makes something really great- like Pakodas. So she can get away with referring to the Pakodas for another 5 years!

Anyways, after the bad movie and the great tiffin, dinner is in relative silence, the conversation mainly started by one person who suspects the morning’s curry has by now, gone bad. Tasting follows by each member, each announcing his/ her take on the allegation. While my mom’s verdict is always that it has NOT gone bad, everyone just leaves the curry in the corner of their plates, oblivious to mom’s glares. Mom has herself, of course, not served herself even a bit, taking the “woman sacrificing the curry for the family” image.

Sleep follows till the next day, which is a working day already! Yeah, weekends never mean anything much back home.