Real Life in India

When we landed in Ahmedabad, a driver picked us up and he drove us around  Gujarat everyday, from city to city.  His name is Bensi Lal.  None of us know if that's his first name, or if Lal is his sir name.  After a few days, I noticed by dad added Bhai.  It literally means brother, but is a familiar sign of respect as well.  I bet not many other people, besides his actual family, calls him Bensi Bhai.

He put up with us for five days over seven cities.  Nice guy.  He only spoke Gujarati,  so we couldn't really talk to him much, but he and my dad chatted a little bit throughout the various long drives.

He dropped us off at the hotel in Ahmedabad on the first day, and we asked my Dad where he was going to sleep.  He said his fees to the car company included a room for him, and that was the end of it.  On the second night, we had a dinner party in Rajkot, and Dad invited him to join the family and eat with us.  He never showed.  

As we were walking to our cousins' house that night, we noticed his van in front of the hotel, and he was in it.  Dad stopped over to talk to him for a minute, and we learned two things.

         1. He tried to go into the party three times, but was turned away by the hotel staff.  Dad even told the front desk he was invited, but that didn't seem to stop them.

         2. He sleeps in the van, and like every other nightmare he intended to do that in Rajkot.  

What the hell did the fee Dad pay for get used for then?

That's all the information he gave Dad, and he didn't push.  But Swati, Nina, Jeff and I were careful to get everything out of the car after that, so he had as much room as possible to stretch out.

Sunday was a super long, extremely difficult day.  We spent over 15 hours in the car driving through the dessert back to civilization.  We stopped really late, at like 9pm to eat dinner.  He had us wait because there was a water park, and he knew that it would be clean, with reasonable western toilets, and bottled water - we clearly appreciated that.

Dad asked him to sit and eat with us, all throughout the trip, but he declined. For whatever reason, maybe he finally felt comfortable, or maybe he was worried that my dad would be offended - or maybe it was something else - but he finally joined us for dinner.

We wanted to know about him, so we asked my dad to translate.  Nina asked "can you tell us about yourself?"  We asked a lot of follow up questions, and through the conversation, we learned his story.  I feel quite certain no one has ever really asked him before; if anyone had. It certainly wasnt a foursome of spoiled Americans.  I'm also certain his story shocked all four of us.

We don't know how old Bensi Bhai is, but I'd guess he is in his early forties. He has been driving for approximately 20 years, and obviously drives for the car company we hired.  He lives in Ahmedabad, Gujarat; his family, a wife and four children, lives in an entirely different state called Rajasthan.  That's at least 450 miles away.  450.  But Gujarat is a richer state, and he makes 20% more working and driving here.  He sends all of his money home

He sleeps in his car because most hotels don't have a place for drivers.  Some of the hotels do, but even then he won't stay in the driver rooms.  There are big community rooms that are not only inconsistently cleaned, bu at downright filthy.  Showers, toilets, linens, towels.  All community property.  Some accommodation fee, right?  And I thought strangers touching my neck tattoo was bad.  Imagine living your life with community hygiene.   

Well, Bensi Bhai can't.  So he doesn't.  When he gets a decent place, he showers.  He keeps clean sheets in his car, and does the best he can.  He carries his own towels, and water.  When he's local to Ahmedabad, he sleeps in a garage.

And his family 450 miles away? He takes 5 days off every 3 months to go home.  Unpaid.  If you didn't have a chance to do that math yet, that means he sees his wife and children for a total of 12 days.  A year.  

He works pretty much around the clock and makes 6,000 rupees a month. That is 117 dollars.   To be fair, 6,000 rupees goes a lot further in India than 117 bucks does in the states, but he's not raking it in. Although Dad was charged by the mile, and then for the extra time we needed, on the fly,  Bensi Bhai gets paid the same amount no matter what.  So at the end of our time in Gujarat, we owed the company 2,000 rupees.  It's  just profit for them; he won't get a cent.  If he moved home to his family and drove in Rajasthan, he would still work around the clock.  It's unlikely anything would change so that he could see his family anymore.  Not really, anyway, and so making 5,000 rupees doesn't seem like its much worth it.

He believes he could start his own business for the equivalent of about $30,000.  We asked him what he would do differently if it was his business, and he said that most importantly he would pay overtime to his drivers.  It's not because he knows what it's like to drive around the clock for little money.  Instead, he feels that when a company provides appropriately for its people, they will work harder, with loyalty and dedication.  Customers will feel more satisfied, and the company will get more business.    I agree with his philosophy wholeheartedly; this guy needs to teach a seminar at fortune 500 companies.   I know some people; maybe he could get 30,000 for telling people how the hell to manage.

Of course, it would be pretty difficult for him to realistically save up enough money to make any that happen.  And so, it remains a far away dream for him.

I tell this story not just because this is a person's real life, but because it strikes me as a realty for people in India.  The middle class is growing richer, affording drivers, owning businesses, etc.  The working class, however, is abused, taken for granted; they learn to live with it though, because lets face it - this life is  better than their parents', in a very real, financial way.  And, I don't think a guy who drove a car for a company 20 years ago, maybe even 10, would have any thoughts about how to run their business differently.  Perhaps he wouldn't even think about owning his own at all.

I'm positive that Bensi Bhai is in the minority, but if he is out there, there are more.  Hidden gems, with stories that seem ordinary, even though he couldn't be ordinary if he tried.  

This story has a lot of other pieces of Indian tradition and culture wrapped up in it, some very subtle, and some very blatantly obvious.  The punch line is this: working class people are less equal, in a very real, socially acceptable way.  It doesn't occur to a hotel staff that anyone would invite a driver to a dinner party, so they send him away. Worse, no one on that hotel staff cares enough to find a decent towel or toilet to give a driver.  And, it doesn't occur to a driver that people want to talk to him, sit with him, eat with him.  We asked him every single day, and I know that he was incredibly thankful.  And yet, he wouldn't sit with us any other day, though he often ate in the same places as us. He was gracious, but uncomfortable.  But if people don't keep pushing, it won't ever change, because it doesn't occur to anyone to be offended.   At least in the US, we can find people who have the common decency to be appalled. 

Home, Sweet Home

I made it home last evening, and I'm happy to be here.  I loved the trip, nearly every part of it, but things like this are physically and emotionally draining.

I have a few more entries that I am working on, and even though it may seem odd to post them now that I've returned to the States, I will do it anyway.

I have a feeling things might come to me over the next few months, things I couldn't process yet, or that I didn't know how to say.  If nothing else, at least I'll know this is here.

Thanks for following, and I'll post more soon!

It's easy to forget

Saturday April 21 - Sarasia 

Today is going to take some processing; I have a lot of thoughts that I hope I can articulate eventually, but at least for now, I can set the stage for what we did - and why. This morning, I wake up after a much too brief night of sleep, and 6 am comes fast.  It's four hours to Sarasia, where we only plan to visit for no more  than an hour.  There is nothing there, and no one would willingly go there.  Except us.

Sarasia is the place where my father spent the first 6 years of his life.  I've previous made mention that Papa was a doctor.  When India obtained its independence, the British left behind the infrastructure of hospitals, schools, government, etc.  But there was nothing in the villages.  Papa and Ben left their families to go to Sarasia, so Papa could be the village's first official doctor.  I've heard my dad talk about this place often, but couldn't actually even picture what it was like.   When my dad lived there, they didn't have electricity, and to this day, the house and the commissary still don't have it, though the town itself does.  In some ways, progress has come.  People have cell phones, and I saw a commercial ice cream stand on our way out of town.  On the other hand, these people can't tell us their addresses, or maybe they just don't have one.

My dad couldn't go to school when they lived there.  It was too far, and too dangerous.  So a tutor came, and he studied in the kitchen for what would be first and second grade.  When his schooling was over, he walked next door to his dad, and helped him file paperwork, or clean up the office.  It was just the three of them, and the villagers.   My dad recounts the stories of being being teased by cousins in the city because he didn't go to school, or watch cricket.  He didn't see a movie until he was well over 7.  He listened to the radio for about an hour a day, because that's what the battery life allowed.  And he waited patiently for the mail because when his stuff came for him, he finally had something to do.  

His life might have been much different than the people who lived in cities, but he got to be part of something bigger than school and movies and city life.  He and his family provided structure to a community that had nothing.  Papa was not just a doctor, but tried to teach them about sanitation, nutrition, national pride.  These people didn't even know India wasn't independent, let alone the fact that they finally were again.  He measured rain fall with a rain gauge, and reported on it.  He was much more than a doctor for that community.

When we get to the site today, the house is boarded up.  It's been abandoned long ago.  The rain gauge is filled in with rocks, and the porch is literally full of shit.  But, within minutes, a huge crowd of people gathered. I don't think I'm exaggerating when I say it was easily 50 people.  One man said, in Gujarati, "Will you come back?  It's only when you come that we remember what this place used to be." He means the doctor's house in Sarasia, but it occurs to me that's infinitely applicable to life.

Weird Family Names

It's occurring to me that I reference my grandparents in different posts, but I never explained anything about what their names are  We don't call or reference them in the appropriate way at all.  Imagine me being different!  I can't take credit for it, of course, but my dad is always doing his own thing.  See where I get it from?  :)

I should call them Dada and Dadi - that would be grandad and grandma in English, but specifically refers to the paternal side.  My mother's parents, if Indian, would be Nana and Nani.  But I digress.

When my father was small, people called his mom "Ben."  Although it literally means "sister", it can be used to respectfully refer to someone who is familiar to you.  Since that is what everyone called her, my dad just started calling her Ben too.  And when we finally met her, it stuck.  Therefore, when I reference Ben, she is who I mean, unless there is a name attached in front.  Just as we called Ben Ben like our dad did, we called his father Papa.  So, my grandparents are simply Papa and Ben. I have a hard time remembering that most people we are meeting now don't know that.  I referenced Ben to someone in Ahmedabad on Thursday, and they looked at Swati in confusion.  Ha!  Whoops. Now that that's clear, I'm off.

A few small corrections from the first post

A few quick changes and edits from Friday's post.  I suppose bucket list #2 is well on its way now.

1. Her name is Kusam Foi with a K.  She is the daughter of Dr. Kaka, my grandfather's eldest brother. 2. My 'perfect stranger', who remarked on the ink, is Bhala Kaka.  He is Kali Foi's brother, and their mother was Papa's older sister.  Her name was Harvidya Foi, but my grandfather called her Nenba because he couldn't say "Ben".  Ben means sister.
3. The correct spelling would have been fuas, not foias.

Insomniacs beware: even you can't survive India

Thursday April 20

It's Friday morning, and I wake up after 8.5 hours of solid sleep.  It's the first time I laid in a proper bed in over 48 hours.  I've never known the meaning of the word exhausted until now.  Holy tired, Batman.

Its not just the plane ride.  Everything we had done in Ahmedabad was done immediately upon arriving, including a short visit to our uncle's house, after that dinner party, until later than midnight. No one seemed tired except us.  I think I'm convinced that Indians just don't sleep. Ever.

We rush out of Ahmedabad about 4 hours west to Rajkot.  In every sense of the word, Rajkot is home to the Antani family.  Papa and his brothers lived there, and their father did, and his father did.  People in Rajkot know the Antanis.  It's not because we were or are rich.  We're not particularly beautiful.  We don't own palaces, and though some of us do, many of us don't hold highly esteemed positions in the government.  So why are we famous?  The Antanis were  a long generational line of doctors.  Papa was an internal medicine doctor, an amazingly gentle man, who treated ailments and disease with medicine, but people with respect.  I didn't know him that well, and my time with him was devastatingly short; he died when I was just shy of 8, but I didn'teven meet him until I was 4.

We visit the temple that my dad calls "the Antani temple"; it's not literally ours, but it's the temple where every major family event would have taken place throughout our family's life in Rajkot.  The temple is dedicated to Lord Shiva, one third of the trinity, representing life, and all intense emotions --- love versus hate, joy versus anger --- and nothing in between.  As soon as we enter the compound, we are met by a man who lives there, a priest, the son of the priest from Papa's day.  His wife finds us shortly after wanting to know what she can make us.  Though we are not  hungry, and know  we can't drink water, we eventually compromise with masala chai.  Masala chai, by the way, is what people in America pay 4 dollars a cup for at Starbucks.  Actually, it's what they think they buy.  Comparing Starbucks to Masala chai is like suggesting Arby's will be the same as your mother's Sunday pot roast.  In any case, I have been drinking it since I was 4

As we sit under the roof next to the temple, drinking our tea, it occurs to me that in every  place we go, we are welcomed with tea, water, or sweets like ice cream.  It's a delicate balanced of accepting so as not to offend, and protecting our delicate stomachs from water born illness, or gluten-contamination.  It's my experience that deeply wrapped in the framework of Indian relationships is a show of love with food and drink.   Women prepare and fetch, and men and children accept.  It's not talked about, but it just is.  Our brief time in Rajkot today is no exception.

I can't begin to explain the traffic getting out of Rajkot.  No one brings a car there and we shouldn't have, but we didn't really know.  People are pissed at us, but they take it in stride.  It takes us almost 40 minutes to get out of there, and we absolutely disrupted the flow of traffic for the day.  Nina, Swati, Jeff and I are mesmerized at the entire scene.  I hope the pictures do it justice.

The dinner party in Rajkot is phenomenal.  It was planned by Jignasa Ben and her family.  Because of traffic, we are late, so we rush in without my dad, and the room goes silent.  We stand there awkwardly and the four of sit down opposite of everyone else.  Thankfully, they get bored with staring at us, and eventually start talking.  Dad shows up soon after, and everything officially starts.  Jigu Ben's husband mcs the event, and although I missed half of his jokes, people are laughing.  The head man in each family introduces himself, how he is related, his wife and children, and often tells a quick story about my dad, Papa or Ben.  Most of it is in Gujarati, but my dad stops them, and translates whenever he can.  Then people sing, dance, or recite stories or poems.  Many of them are wedding related, dedicated to Swati and Jeff.  So much energy and thought was put into it, into the selections, and I am overwhelmed.  It's a totally different experience than Ahmedabad.  There are a lot more young people, and they don't seem as uncomfortable talking to us.  Manali and Mohit, Jigu Ben's kids, particularly aren't shy, and that makes things much easier.  Dinner ends after 10, and once again, we're beat

Jigu and her family want us to come back to their place, so we do.  It's great, we have fun talking to Mohit and Manali, but it's after midnight when we finally leave.  Mohit drops us home, and I notice a number of families at the hotel with kids who are up.  They aren't just up, but they are up running, playing, shouting.   I asked my dad "don't people ever sleep?" I'm pretty experienced when it comes to not sleeping, but I don't know how people here do it.  

Tomorrow is Sarasia, and we leave at 6 am.  The time in Rajkot is much much too brief, and we're all complete zombies.

30 hours and a Bucket List later --- But, I'm still not married

Thursday April 19 - Ahmedabad

The hustle to get packed for my quick, 7 days in India ends in a mad dash to log off at work, load the car, and kiss puppy girl on the nose a thousand times repeating "I love you and I'm gonna miss my puppy-do."  Like she knows what that means.

It takes 24 fairly  uneventful hours to get to into Mumbai and clear customs.  After four visits, I shouldn't be, but I'm simultaneously assaulted by heat and the scent of body odor mixed with incense.  Breathe it in, Manisha.  No one officially welcomes you to India but after that first breath, there's no need.

A long layover, a 90 minute delay on the tarmac, and a lack of drinking water some 6 hours after touching down in India, we finally see daylight again.  It's not my home, never was, but the familiarity of Ahmedabad rushes over me.  I turn around at a rush of noise to men saying "Uncle!  Uncle!"  They mean Jeff, my brother in law.  Indian men and women always refer to the fair as "auntie" and "uncle", but I forgot since the only fair person I've been to India with is my mom, some 26 years ago.   Well unless you count my sisters, but I guess I wouldn't say we're fair ; we aren't unless we're in India.  Here we just stand.  Not this time though, and I silently think I'm thankful to finally travel with someone else who is more interesting to gawk at.  Indians aren't know for, what we'd consider, tact.  Its part of their (our?) charm.

All of us agreed we need a quick breakfast, a workout (my challengers would be proud!), and a shower.  After, we head out to see Gandhi's house.  It's a beautiful property on the river, with a fabulous tribute to his life, his work, and is most places, his own words.  I find solace there, and many others must too, because kids are playing, men and women are sitting quietly, and some people are lounging with a book.  It's clear that it's a place where people can just stand still, and be.  If I ever found myself living in Ahmedabad, I can probably bet I'd spend a lot of time there just thinking.  In such a big busy city, it's a little sliver of peace.

Then we rush off to find Jeff some traditional clothes.  We have massive amounts of fun looking through hundreds of outfits.  The clerk was serious about his work, pulling plastic wrapped cloth down in handfuls and showing each article to Jeff.  As serious as he was, he had a slight smirk as he tried to figure out this "uncle"with red hair wearing a jhabba, with his harem of women playfully teasing and encouraging him.  He finally picked two-a bright blue and a cream.  Both are beautiful and actually, I think he looks pretty great.  I make sure to tell him he's a really good sport.

We visit some family, many I already know, and some others who are new to me.  I have the most wonderful experience of meeting Cusom Foi, my grandfather's niece, though she is more like his sister.  His mother, my great grandmother, died when Papa was 4.  His father died when he was 16, and so he was largely raised by his eldest brother and wife, Cusum Foi's parents.  Trying to communicate with her made me realize oe significant regret of my life.   While I understand Gujarati a little, I can't speak it.  Kusam Foi is an oracle, and I know she could tell me so much about Papa, but I can't get it out of her.  I've never been known to object to the idea of a Bucket List, but my first item on the one I just created: Learn Gujarati.  Soon.  Before it is too late.

Finally, its close to dinner time, and we have a party we're hosting --- well, Dad is anyway.  In full Indian dress, we trek down to the hotel where dinner is.  There are easily 50 people there, more probably, and I only recognize about dozen.  I can't make heads or tails of anyone, and I get introduced to everyone the way my dad is related.  It's not helpful, because if he introduced me the way I'm related, then I might have been able to keep it straight. Indian's have a name for every kind of relationship except cousin.  Cousins are brothers and sisters, and everyone here is a "cousin" at this point; to me, here in India though, some of them are aunts or uncles, fois and fais, kakas and kakis, and to many, I'm a sister.  Manisha Ben. I might even be someone else's foi or masse, but I guess I'm not sure.  Anyway, I try to keep up, but I spent a lot of time asking my sisters, "so wait who is that again?".  Bucket list item two: Fucking write this shit down.

As I meet people, I notice they ask Nina of her studies or her work, and they ask Sara about her upcoming nuptials.  They ask Jeff "what he does" which he happily answers.  But the only thing they want to know from me s "why aren't you married?"  It's a fair question, I guess, here in India, but I hate it regardless of my longitudinal placement in the world.   It doesn't help that I'm reeling from a breakup, but they don't know that.  So I smile and say "I guess I never thought about it much."  A bold-faced lie, of course, but I'm not about to get into the particulars of my failed significant otherhood with blood related strangers.  I notice a woman, who looks no older than 60, look up.  It was Kala Foi, who I find out later is actually pushing 80.  She has quiet wisdom and kind smile.  I can tell from her traditional white sari that she's a widow. She has stories too, I can tell, and I want to know them all.

On and on though, I was asked.  And my dad was asked.  Nearly 30 and single.   What's wrong with me right?  I let it roll of me, but it bugs me.  I'm about to get my MBA, I just got promoted -a big promotion-, and I own my home...doesn't anyone want to know about those things?  Jeff remarked finally that he couldn't believe that was a question people asked here.  Unfortunately, it's not just here.  Even Facebook wants to know my relationship status.

The night keeps on, and it's fun.  Not that many people are talking to us, and the four of us are stuck like glue to each other.  Its a language thing.  They feel foolish speaking English with Americans.  Its ok.  We feel foolish, too.  Dinner comes, and in an effort to ensure the allergy-plagued Americans have allergy-free food, the waiter brings us French fries.  Great.  An almost 30 Guju who isn't married and can't speak the language --- eating French fries.  That doesn't help, huh?  All we can do is laugh.

As we're winding down, I feel hands on my hair, lifting up the long ends that are growing out from the buzz cut.  Confused, I try to turn around as a perfect strangerlifts up my hair and then I realize.  My tattoo.  Manisha in Gujarati.  I'm a little panicked.  I don't know how this is going to go.  Indians don't get tattoos.

"It's in Gujarati.   You know right?"

I feel like being a smartass.  Of course I knew.  It's my own neck.  But I restrain  myself.  Then I see his eyes on my wrist.

"Ganesha!  And you know what else it is?"

I do know.  It's an ohm and is a design I picked because I wanted both.   My dad jumps in and says "She did this on her own."  For the first time, I might have detected a lack of disdain for my ink.  It's his history running down my spine, after all.

There is a crowd of people forming around me.  It is a sort of chaos when they realize I have tats.  One niece, about 14, looks horrified and excited all at the same time.  She asked if it hurt and I told her the truth.  Well, mostly.  What would she say if I told her I like the way it feels?  The shock that I'd willingly do something that hurt is all over her face. I guess they aren't so worried about my marital status now, huh?  I think that moment taught me the definition of gawking right then.

Kala Foi makes her way to me to say goodbye, and I think "this old woman must not know what to make of me." I raise my hands and bow with respect as tradition demands, and she whispers "If you haven't already, don't start thinking of marriage now.  I never even wanted to be married."

I smiled widely.  Third on my bucket list: Don't think too much about marriage anyway.