Akilesh

This is a very difficult post to write, and one that I wish with all my heart I didn't have to.

It wouldn't be right, or possible even, not to write about this since Deepa has been such an integral part of our experience in India.

Yesterday Deepa's five year old son Akilesh died.

If you've been following Maya's blog for a while, you'll know that Deepa is the lady who comes in every morning to do some cleaning and cooking and looking after Lily while I write. She is twenty-eight years old and a wonderful, gentle, calm spirit who works incredibly hard and is completely and utterly devoted to her husband and two little boys.

Akilesh went to school on friday, right as rain, but over the weekend developed a fever, was vomitting and had diarrhoea, so they took him to hospital and he was put on a drip. Deepa and her husband, Gopi, were about to take him home in the morning as he seemed much better but he had a sudden, violent epileptic fit (the first ever) and passed away. Sorry if this is unpleasant to read but, as I said, I really feel that I need to write this.

Akilesh was a gorgeous, bright-eyed, happy little boy. Over the months in India, Deepa has become a real friend to me and the truth is, I've never had a friend who's lost a child before. At least, not a friend of a similar age. We feel devestated, but of course our feeling of loss can be nothing in comparison to that of Deepa and Gopi's.

I just hope that in the next week before we leave I can be a friend to Deepa in some way as she has been to me.

Reflection

It is chilly winter time in Bangalore: people are wrapped up in shawls, thick jumpers and woolly hats and Maya, Andy and I all have full blown colds. Oh, I should also mention that it's 28 degrees. Am I being serious? Yes. Are we going to get the shock of our lives when we arrive back in the UK next week? Probably. But at least we already have colds!

To change the subject entirely, I wanted to take you on a little journey down a road near to where we live. The way that our area, Indiranagar, is laid out is long main roads, known as 'mains' interestected by 'crosses' and cut across in the middle by a huge busy road called One Hundred Foot Rd. Several weeks ago, a rickshaw driver took me a way I'd never been before to get to my destination, down the bottom end of sixth main. It was interesting because I know sixth main on the other side of One Hundred Foot Rd, but the bottom end of Sixth main couldn't have been more of a world apart from this, and I decided there and then that before we left India, we'd all walk the length of sixth main to get a better feel for it.

So off we went on saturday morning, Lily and Maya on our backs, attracting all the normal stares and wide smiles. Here are a few of the things we walked past down the first half of the road (the part I was unfamilar with):

small shop fronts with hanging bananas,
scruffy dogs wheezing in the shade,
women carrying huge tubs of water back to their homes,
chickens pecking in the dirt,
paper mills and flour mills,
clothes strung up in front of ramshackle houses,
people doing puja at small shrines and temples......


and then we crossed over 100 Ft Road on to the other side of 6th main, the familiar side, and this is what we passed:

a French boulangerie,
an Italian gelataria,
an IT solutions office,
expensive looking bejewelled saree shops
and even a pottery cafe.

And I thought to myself, well this is Bangalore, isn't it. This single steet is a microcosm of this city. I know that it's common for developing world cities to have one foot entrenched firmly in poverty and another in new money, wealth and enterprise and a dual economy with a Hugo Boss outlet next to a man selling mangoes off a cart. But Bangalore seems to particularly represent such a dichotomy: this is, after all, glam IT city which Barack Obama is allegedly (according to the tabloids here) 'scared' of because of all the IT whizzes overtaking the techincal expertise of his own citizens. Yet, like any large developing world city, it's growing at a rate faster than it knows how to handle. Bangalore is bursting at the seams and it's sometimes not a pretty sight, though this is something that Andy has come more into contact with than me through his work.

Ok, hands up, this hasn't been about Maya at all this posting. But here we are, here's my Maya bit: if you look at picture 2, you may be thinking, my God, how much longer can this child really be carried for in a saree? This is a good question, and the answer is, she can't. Maya is three and a half and she's getting a bit heavy, even for superman Daddy and so this journey down 6th main was Maya's very last expedition in a sling. But what a great last expedition.

ps - As an aside, we ended our walk on saturday morning at the park we often go to at the top end of sixth main. It wasn't till after I'd taken the photo (picture 4) of Andy and Maya that I realised what was sticking out of the yellow rickshaw. Since I'd just written a blog on rickshaw drivers, it made me chuckle (double click to enlarge it) - I wonder if it was my boozy, drunken friend having a quick forty winks before ensnaring his next victim....

The ups and downs of an auto-rickshaw journey

Maya and I have a love-hate relationship with rickshaws, though our reasons for this are very different. Let me explain:

I think we're quite unusual for ex-pats out here as we don't have a driver (not-for-profit company salaries don't stretch that far!) so when we climb into an auto-rickshaw, which we do at least a few times daily, the first thing that Maya is concerned with is the decor: Is is upholestered prettily? Are there pictures on the side? Can you see out the back? And bonus points, most definitely, are awarded for any sparkly or pink bits anyhwere or a Ganesh deity on the dashboard festooned with jasmine. If all this comes together, Maya more often that not will obligingly provide any information required when the driver stops at the traffic lights, peers over his shoulder and starts a conversation with the inevitable first line Your good name?

Maya's Mama on the other hand, as lovely as all this is, is far more concerned about not being ripped off. There's a funny thing about rickshaw drivers, that either they are the most wonderful, charming, polite men (and they're always men) imaginable who you'd love to pass the time of day with having a chat and a cup of chai, OR they are - and sorry to be so blunt - the most bloody rude, difficult, agressive con-artists in India. I dread to think how many pints of sweat I've lost in arguments with them. Where, I ask, are all the moderate in-between rickshaw drivers? They just don't exist, that's all.

Now, as you can imagine, sometimes Maya and her Mama's criteria don't conincide. She's all ready to scramble into a particularly lovely looking one when the driver, not even looking me in the eye, growls a fee about four times what we both know it ought to be. I gasp and start tutting and pull Maya back who's most put-0ut at this missed opportunity of travelling in this beautiful automobile with pink sequined peacocks adorning the side and thinks I am very, very mean.

Having said that however, Maya has over time definitely become wiser to the wily, unscrupulous ways of many of these men and if I'm being forgetful, often taps on the meter to get it turned on. If I'm all hot under the collar too, she's also been known to say to me 'Don't worry Mummy, he's a silly man.' Yes, and speaking of silly men, I've decided to come clean and tell you what happened in our early days here in Bangalore which resulted in the very sensible decision to only take rickshaws for short scoots around our area, nothing longer (Is our imminent departure making me more honest?? Perhaps more of these tales will surface in the coming days....) I'm going to give you the abridged version as I could go on and on but know you're all busy people.

We got in a rickshaw from an outerlying suburb. About ten minutes into the journey, he started swerving wildly, knocked a motorcylist off his bike (who thankfully was ok but very angry) who then came and yelled at the driver and, upon seeing us in the back, yelled at me even more, telling me I was a 'bloody idiot expat' for not getting a driver and going with these drunken fools. Drunk? Did he say drunk? At that stage, I'd like to have got out but we were on a busy dual carriageway. The motorcyclist drove off in a huff and then the rickshaw driver realised he'd brought us the wrong way so decided to turn round into the INCOMING traffic and drive the wrong way down the dual carriageway. At this point, I'd lost all decorum and was screaming at him to turn back. But he didn't. I remember Maya patting my arm reassuringly, telling me everything was ok and yes, we did finally get home in one piece. It's quite funny thinking about it now but at the time it was FAR from funny, it was darn terrifying!

So, the moral of the story is, appreciate the good rickshaw drivers when you get them....and check for alcohol on the breath and glazed eyes before getting into one.

Tinker, Tailor & Chai Wallah

One of the many things I'll miss about India are the ubiqutous tailors, cobblers, chai wallahs, fruit and vegetable sellers and jack of all trades. You name it, they have it here. Even ear cleaners. (Admittedly I haven't spotted any in Bangalore but last trip, whilst in Delhi, a smooth talking, suited man in a park convinced me we musn't neglect our ear cleaning duties. And he did a very good job too.)

It's the tailors I'll especially miss though. They are absolutely everywhere and although they generally have the reputation of being unscrupulous, as far as I'm concerned they are amazing. For a small sum, you can have clothes made, altered, copied, whatever you want.

Next week at the creche I volunteer at, we're doing a craft activity making Christmas tree balls covered in different fabrics. The tailor in the second picture always has a huge jute sack of discarded material outside the workshop which I often take little tid-bits of. But the other day, I asked for the whole sack - he thought I was most odd, dragging the sack off down the road, two little girls in tow but anyway, yesterday Maya and I went through it all to divide it into a creche pile and a pile for me for making Christmas tags, wrapping paper etc. Maya immediately made a little nest for herself (picture one) and chose her favourite scraps for me.

I thought I'd also include a picture of another tailor I've used a fair bit here (picture 3) and his workshop. His name is Malek Malek and he has dark, brooding eyes rimmed with kohl and wears skinny jeans. On the other side of the wall of his workshop are framed prayers from the Quran and as you approach the workshop, something about the whir and clickety-clack of the sewing machine are strangely comforting.

Kisses for chappatis

Maya knows something's up. Obviously we've told her we're Blighty-bound but haven't gone into masses and masses of details. But a couple of days ago she demanded that her Little Prince suitcase be brought down from the top of the cupboard and she's been packing and re-packing since then: 3 books, a bouncy ball, a t-shirt and 2 pairs of pants. All the essentials.

Having said that, Maya continues to well and truly live for the moment, in that wonderful way that only children are capable of. She is full of talk of her friends at school, the songs they are learning and ongoing demands for chai and cake. I had a chuckle yesterday when I picked her up yesterday as her teacher Paula told me that she was eyeing one of the little boy's, Eeshan's, snack boxes at break time which was filled with chappati and jam. Eeshan told her that she could try some if she gave him a kiss. She didn't even think about it....ah, the pull of chapatti and jam!

Time for a Lily post

Here are a few things you might like to know about Maya's little sister:

* Lily has now reached the age of eighteen months. And she's never even been to A & E. (Maya had been three times by this age, though probably more out of parental panicking than necessity!)

* She has now spent half of her life in India.

* She eats spicey food like a trooper, a proper little Indian girl. In fact, she eats any food like a trooper, and people who says she's petite haven't seen the size of her belly.

* She is a dab hand at hailing a rickshaw. When we stand at the roadside, drivers are far more likely to stop if Lily sticks a finger out rather than me. After all, she's far cuter.

* She has humungous feet. Seriously, they are something to behold. Shoes that Maya wore age 2 are already way to small for her. Either she's going to be very tall or.....she'll just have humungous feet.

* Since her very short haircut (pictures 2 and 3), her nickname is now Bob. Had to be done, as she often couldn't see through that fringe of hers and steadfastly refuses hairclips.

* She loves her big sister with loyal fervour, follows her around and puts up with all Maya's bossing around until enough is enough, then gives her a good whack and toddles off.

Delicate matters

This afternoon we went out for a lunch at a lovely South Indian restaurant and Maya and I came a-cropper in the ladies room. Now, I don't want to go into great details of intimacies of the ladies room, but here it is in brief:

We are used to loo roll. And loo roll is more often than not, not used here. Indian readers amongst you, I'm not saying there is anything wrong with the system used here....on the contrary, there's alot less paper wastage. However, what I will say, is that after almost eight months of being in India and I'm still not used to the spray thingumajiggy method. Many restaurants do have loo roll. But many don't also, and this particular one today didn't. And I had none on me. No problem, I thought, we're pretty used to this. But when I tried to....erm...spray Maya, I managed to completely miss and the water went all over her pants and trousers. And I mean ALL over her pants and her trousers.

'Don't worry, Maya' I tried to say cheerfully, 'it'll dry!' But she knew this was a plain fib, she was soaked and she was howling, poor love. So we went back up to the restaurant and there was only one thing for it: to strip. Now I'm not sure what the waiters made of this, but we hung her trousers over the railings so they could dry in the sun. We decided to draw the line at doing the same with the pants though. So Maya ate lunch in soggy undies. And Mama felt very bad and vowed to herself to aim better next time.