Domestic Concerns

Alexander and I have been living in our new apartment for nearly a week. The space consists of two bedrooms, one drawing room, a kitchen and a small balcony. We live on the first floor of a new-ish complex with a view of the dirt road and the adjacent building.

In the morning men push carts along the street hawking a rainbow of fresh vegetables, fruits and grains. They pause periodically to announce their goods, shouting up to the many windows that line their route. Children in grade school uniforms ride their bicycles, dogging hazardous potholes and giant piles of dung. By noon the clotheslines of every apartment are adorned with translucent saris fluttering in the afternoon breeze. In the evening the spicy scents of Gujarati food waft through our flat, causing me to salivate. At nine o’clock sharp one can hear the predictable clatter of stainless steel dishware- the signal that dinnertime has ended. From our balcony you can see a column of lighted kitchen windows, each with a woman washing piles of reflective plates and cups.

Our fellow tenants are friendly. The family members who live next door have repeatedly offered their assistance, whether helping Alexander translate to the woman collecting trash or giving me a tray full of ice. The only unnerving part is that the mother, father and daughter are all noticeably cross-eyed which prevents eye contact and gives them the unfortunate look of Siamese cats.

It takes less than five minutes to walk to the back gate of NID. Also within walking distance are several bakeries, a limited grocery store, a barber, an egg cart, a vegetable stand, and a man selling Chinese food. Rickshaws wait at the entrance of our apartment complex providing easy and affordable access to the rest of the city.

I feel very safe and at ease here. The more we furnish the flat, the more it seems like home. We are still lacking some essential things. Still in order are an air conditioner, small fridge, single stovetop burner (and the required gas tank), 2 desks, and some plastic chairs. We have decided to forgo hot water (which wastes energy and requires installation) and also refused to buy a doorbell.

Some of the most important items acquired thus far are the two sets of curtains now hanging in both bedrooms. Before we purchased them our apartment was a veritable theater with a predictable audience of one or two curious bystanders. Another key item is the cheap, stationary bike we purchased from an athletic shop. Although we bought it new, the manual says it was made in 1988. Scrawled across the side in bright pink is the machine’s name: ‘Hero Allegro Digital-1.’ The Allegro is just what one needs for those moments of culture shock. From now on we will bike all our anxieties away! On a serious note, it is impossible to avoid the large amounts of butter, oil, and ghee that are the base of every dish here. Since we cannot exercise outside (due to the polluted air), the Allegro is essential to our health, as well as our sanity.

Recently I bought a plastic tub to hand wash all our clothes. Alexander strung twine across our balcony and inside our kitchen to make clotheslines. It is easy to wash my apparel, most of which is thin cotton, but Alexander’s beloved white tees are strengthening my hand muscles by the day.

Yesterday Barnum’s son’s friend’s cousin came to install a small Aquaguard water filtration system. He was accompanied by two of Barnum’s grandsons both of who are obsessed with Alexander. They take great joy in watching Alexander’s facial expressions as he tries to process every situation. After some serious drilling the man attached a translucent contraption above our sink. The good news is that we can now brush our teeth and drink water from the tap. The bad news is that the water tastes like ass. I have had no problems drinking filtered water elsewhere, but somehow the lukewarm liquid from our faucet is indigestible. I sprinkled an Emergen-C packet into a glassful, hoping that it would disguise the trace of metallic dust, but paid dearly for my ingenuity with a bout of traumatic sour burps. I am crossing my fingers that the water will taste better chilled.