Globetrotter asked:
I had to walk over a high pile of giant grey pumice-like gravel to get to the entrance. Each chunk was a 2 inch radius of quasi-roundness, making each step a guaranteed wobble. Once I made it to the opening without losing my balance completely, I had to duck my head because the overhead was about a foot too low. There were two flights of steep steps, each about an inch too short, encased by the stone walls of the building. This made for a claustrophobic dare-devil climb. Making it to the door front felt like a small victory, and I wanted to do a little dance - but I controlled myself.
After ringing the bell, it was only a moment before I could hear the double locks being undone. It was the young maid who welcomed me inside by opening the tarnished dark wooden door a bit wider and immediately returning to the laundry.
I had just returned from a short errand to buy a cell phone recharge. This was my friend’s house, and I had already been a guest for a week. It lacked the amenities of an American house, like a smooth sidewalk in a front yard and a proportionate entrance way, yet it felt like home.
This being an Indian household, I removed my sandals at the door where four other pairs of shoes were already lined up – each belonging to a family member. The first belonged to Didi, Hindi for elder sister, my friend Rajiv’s aunt. She was in the kitchen, home on break from her clinic, making roti to eat with lunch. The second belong to Rajiv, my friend, who was in the toilet. The third pair belonged to Mummy, Rajiv’s grandmother, who was in the lounge watching a Hindi soap opera, and the fourth belonged to the maid who was sitting on the floor in the shower stall washing clothes by hand.
The flat was not far from the railway station, and from the lounge window I could see the frequent passing of commuter trains. Better yet was the fact that no matter where I stood in the house, the trains could always be heard. I found this to be a strong selling point because the constant rhythmic passing of train cars had an ethereal calming effect.
In the guest bedroom was a door that led to a small balcony, big enough to sit 2 or 3 chairs. This was my favorite place to hang out. Standing on the balcony and looking below me was a line of squatter housing. It was one long row made from scrap wood and tarps where 4 or 5 families must have lived – each in a makeshift room about 4 and 1/2 meters wide. Rajiv enjoyed throwing the rubbish out onto the tops of the houses. He had no respect for them because they dirtied up his neighborhood and ruined his view. And if they made any noise at night the sounds could be heard vividly in the guest room often because the door was left open in the summer. Otherwise it would be too stuffy.
In India, everyone takes a nap together , so it wasn’t unusual for Didi or Mummy to invite me to lay down beside them in the afternoons once lunch was over and soap operas were finished. It gets so ridiculously sticky hot in the summer that naps are a must if you want to reserve your energy and keep your sanity…
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