Alien meet up

Whenever I go to town I can count on numerous stares and comments. Though globalisation with tourism, tv, and internet should have made the encounter with (white skinned) foreigners less exotic and strange, there are still enough people who have to show that I am not like any one else they are meeting on the streets. I got used to it and by and large can deal with it quite well, but still, it alienates.

Whenever I go to town it is also most likely to meet another alien. He is a man, maybe in his forties, a victim of polio I assume. His body is crippled and he cannot walk upright. Instead he keeps knee-caps and rather crawls on all fours through the streets. He has his usual location where he will be on all fours, lifting his head and hand up and begging for money. Some people give him money, but surely all people give him a stare.

There is actually an instance where I met this person, in which we both had left our alien position. We were both invited for a baptism, I as a relative, he as I assume a sort of fellow businessman since his begging location is right in front of the shop of the child’s father. I and he were dressed in presentable garments according to the occasion and took part in the function.

Ever since, when I see him in town I greet him or give him a smile and he will return it. I never ever give him any money. For one, because I feel I made his acquaintance now like I make the acquaintance of many other people during such functions and he is no longer any beggar on the road. Secondly, because of this invisible bond that brings him and me in a similar category against the rest of people walking around in town staring at people who don’t fit into their perception of how the world is supposed to look like. A bond of aliens meeting up at the road side.

“Swallowing the wrong way” – Relief the right way is not so easy

Family visits are great! When the part of our family with small children comes for vacation from the Gulf, the house turns into a lively chaos. Everyone takes turns to get a chance to take care of the little ones, much to the delight of their parents. Especially the one year old is a real attraction.

One day it was my turn. I had fed the small one pieces of chapatti and was completing his breakfast by giving him water to drink from a small steel cup. He had just started to learn drinking from a cup. After a few sips it happened. He swallowed the water the wrong way and started coughing.

Within a split second several thoughts went through my mind: How should I react? My culturally learnt approach would be to slap with my hand on his back. The expected reaction in India, I knew from my observations, is to tap with the hand onto the head of the person. Scientifically, I once saw on tv, neither approach does have much of a realistic effect. The head tap I know only in theory, but I am not very experienced to tap onto the head the right way.

When I had taken my decision and was slapping the back of the poor one coughing, my mom-in-law appeared. While I was slapping on the back, she started tapping on the head to do the right thing to give relief to the baby.

Even after we both stopped our attempts the small boy was coughing for a little longer before everything was finally alright again. Hopefully till date he is ignorant of different cultural concepts of giving relief to people who swallow the wrong way and he at least felt cared for when we both tried our different concepts on him.

Clash of 'Cultures'

A passing note on a recent incident in the supermarket:
I had finished my purchase, had paid my bill and gathered my plastic covers (should discuss about the environmental concern another time). Now, I was on my way to leave the shop.
There were two doors, both glass doors with two wings each. Through one I had entered the shop. Therefore, I was heading straight towards the other door. On the left wing was written ‘push’. So, I pushed. The door didn’t open, instead it clashed against something. I realized the black plastic box on the other side of that wing and thought, ok, this seems blocked, I will try the other wing. Again energetically I pushed now the right wing of the door; unfortunately with the same clashing result. In the same moment I realized the real cause for the clash -the huge shutter in front of the door was actually lowered just enough not to allow the door to open-; I also realized the commotion of watchmen outside the glass door, who were very concerned the door might break. A friendly staff opened the door by pulling and let me out. But she let me only out to a confrontation with the watchman who was accusing me of intentionally trying to break the door. I felt very annoyed about this and left the place cursing the watchman.
While walking home the incident stuck to my mind? How did this happen? Why was I so determined to use this door, why was the watchman so reproachful about my attempt?
I reached a conclusion at this: different systems! In Germany, if a shop has two doors, one is the entrance, one is the exit. And if on top of that, it’s written ‘push’ on the door, there is only one approach to this situation - push; a system that works on simple rules. In India, maybe the system as such is more complex, no simple rules apply. And please, don’t think I am trying to make fun of this, I am serious. German road traffic works on the ground of a complicated system of rules. Just like in India traffic functions according to a much more complex playing together of different factors, and it works, leaving a shop also requires not only to apply rules but to take the overall context into consideration before acting.
I guess it’s not easy to switch ‘systems’, but maybe keeping this thought on mind, I might be able to avoid a few further ‘cultural’ clashes.

Oldie oder Evergreen?

Es ist an der Zeit über ein Kochutensil zu schreiben, das in den meisten deutschen Haushalten völlig in Vergessenheit geraten ist, vielleicht noch im einen oder anderen verstaubten Keller aufbewahrt wird: der Schnellkochtopf. In meiner Erinnerung findet der Schnellkochtopf seinen Platz gleich neben der Kartoffelschälmaschine (eine Maschine, die eine ganze Anzahl von Kartoffeln binnen kurzer Zeit in ebenmäßige runde Kugeln verwandelt, böse Zungen sagen murmelgroße - aber das ist ein ganz anderes Thema.).

Einst revolutionierte die Erfindung des Schnellkochtopfs die Küche. Auf einmal konnten Garzeiten von Gemüse, Fleisch etc. beträchtlich reduziert werden. Allerdings haben Tiefkühlpizza, -gemüse und die Mikrowelle schon die nächste Revolution hinterher geschoben, die den Schnellkochtopf ins Vergessen geraten ließ.

Umso erstaunter war ich, als ich nach und nach in allen indischen Küchen, die ich zu Gesicht bekam, eben jenen Schnellkochtopf fand. Und hier war er gar nicht verstaubt, sondern in ständiger Benutzung. Jeder Haushalt in Indien hat mindestens einen Schnellkochtopf. Es gibt sie in verschiedenen Größen, Preisklassen, von verschiedenen Herstellern, mit verschiedenen Systemen. Jedes gute Haushaltswarengeschäft führt sie und hat dazu noch einen Reparatur-
Service, der ohne Probleme, Ventile, Dichtungsringe, Griffe etc. austauscht.

Meine Schwiegermutter verwendet in ihrer Küche zwei Schnellkochtöpfe, die sie -wie sie nicht ohne Stolz berichtet- schon von ihrer Mutter geerbt habe und die mittlerweile 40 Jahre alt seien. Das besondere am indischen Schnellkochtopf ist das kleine Gewicht, das auf das Ventil im Deckel aufgesetzt wird. Wenn der Dampfdruck im Innern hoch genug ist, zeigt sich das, indem sich das Gewicht hebt und mit einem pfeifenden Geräusch überflüssigen Dampf ablässt.

Selbst in indischen Kochbüchern hat der Schnellkochtopf seinen festen Platz (für interessante Einblicke in die indische Schnellkochtopfküche: http://www.ifood.tv/blog/pressure_cooker_recipes). Will man ein Curry mit Lamm oder Rind zubereiten, findet man oft als Hinweis auf die Garzeit die Anzahl der „Whistles“, die man das Fleisch kochen lassen sollte, oder dass man nach zwei „Whistles“ auf niedriger Flamme weiterkochen sollte. Diese „Whistle“ – Pfeife ist eben jenes Geräusch, wenn dem Ventil der Dampf entweicht.

Nach anfänglicher Skepsis ist auch bei mir der Schnellkochtopf in der Küche mittlerweile nicht mehr wegzudenken. Im Schnellkochtopf kann man einfach alles zubereiten, nicht nur Fleisch, sondern auch Reis, Linsen und Gemüse. Der letzte Schritt, um mich vollends zu beeindrucken und zu überzeugen war allerdings getan, als ich erfuhr, dass man im Schnellkochtopf sogar Kuchen backen kann (ein echtes Schnellkochtopfkuchenrezept: http://www.awesomecuisine.com/recipes/972/1/Easy-Home-Made-Cake/Page1.html)!!! Zunächst konnte ich es nicht glauben, aber da ich ohne Backofen einen frischen Marmorkuchen doch zu sehr vermisst habe, musste ich es einfach ausprobieren. Es hat geklappt! Und geschmeckt!

Abstract: In Indian kitchens I rediscovered the pressure cooker, after it had been an almost forgotten childhood memory in my German experience. I give some information and anecdotes about pressure cooking in India. Included is my all time favorite, the pressure cooker cake, which I couldn't believe to be reality till I baked and tasted it myself!

Don't loose your color!

“Be careful, you will loose your color”, was the well meant advice of quite a few fellow Indian students during my first time in India. This cautioning I had to listen to whenever I set out for some sun bathing. Coming from a country where the concept of summer holidays is basically that of setting out to the beach for sun bathing and being born into a generation of people for many of whom getting a maximum tan is the ultimate completion of beauty this sounded rather alien to me.

Mostly, I would jokingly reply that I won’t be losing my color but was rather trying to gain some. But with the number of times I had to listen to this concern, the seriousness of the matter started to dawn on me and I rather became concerned. Slowly but surely I understood that the question of color and complexion was a predominant topic in Indian society.

After this initiation into the topic, I slowly started noticing the impact of color-obsession. Next to usual cosmetic and skin care products in the shelf I came across ‘Fair and Lovely’. I was rather shocked to learn that products to bleach the skin were readily available and widely used by different kinds of people. Since those initial discoveries the market has changed rapidly. Next to ordinary ‘Fair and Lovely’ http://www.fairandlovely.in/ there is now ‘Fair and Handsome’ (the product aiming at the male customer) http://www.fairandhandsome.net/ and ‘Fair and Lovely Ayurvedic Balance’ (to give it a more natural connotation), and numerous other companies have come up with their own brands in plenty.

The brands seem uncountable, and unfortunately there also does not seem to be a shortage of actors ready to be their brand ambassadors. Initially, I was disappointed to see John Abraham, the hero with Kerala roots who made it big in Bollywood, giving his face for a product like this. But by now, there is hardly an actor who does not have a tie up, Shah Rukh Khan himself, next to Deepika Padukone or Katrina Kaif, to name just the real big ones. And I don’t think they even ever thought of any ethical aspects involved in tying up with a fairness cream. It just seems to be so much part of everyday life.

As long as the matrimonials are still trying to euphemistically call the darker complexion of a girl wheatish, as long as the delegation who comes to negotiate a marriage proposal claims that the girl is “very, very fair”, this will not change. And the recent trend to sell fairness under the cover of sun protection and healthy skin is just another strategy to perpetuate this beauty concept. I wish obsession with skin protection would take the place of obsession with skin complexion. And the sales of cosmetic products would rise due to concern about skin cancer and other related diseases for people of all skin colors and tones.

Anti-aging remedy

There are those days when I start thinking. I am still far away from becoming a senior citizen, but also can’t deny that the sweet sixteen are gone by days. Though I would say by and large passport photographs of mine don’t look much different from what they looked 10 years ago, when I take a closer look in the bathroom mirror, I have to admit that the wrinkles have become more. Having crossed a certain age, there are those days when I can’t help contemplating and also complaining about getting older.

Living in a surrounding where talks about one’s cholesterol, pressure, sugar (diabetes) are common topics starting from young age groups, I am maybe also exposed to constant reminders. Self-evaluation has to come to conclusions which are not too flattering. Those extra kilos because of my weakness for food can’t be shed as easily as it used to be. The six-pack is something I know from the glitz and glamor world, but when I look down my body my concern is rather confining the number of flabby belly rolls. The horror of becoming old, fat, and shape-less is haunting me in my dreams.

Recently, I started watching video clips of latest Tamil movie songs as a pass time. I couldn’t help but notice that especially the male act has to master quite acrobatic dance performances. I slowly narrowed in on an actor called Vijay as my favorite. I found him a very good and young looking actor, whose dance sequences were impressive. Sulking and with a good portion of envy, while thinking again of the problems of getting older, I thought he is performing so well in his dance numbers only because he is still young. Intrigued, I started searching the net for my new cinema hero. Soon I found the official fan site http://actorvijay.net and an entry in wikipedia http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Joseph_Vijay. To my shock and disbelief I had to learn that Vijay is older than me!

This justification for sulking and self-pity burst like a soap bubble. I guess I had to rather acknowledge him as a source of inspiration. Physical fitness is not only a gift of youth but a matter of discipline and work out. There is no excuse. The sport shoes in the corner are not a subject for meditation but need to be used. Unless and until then weary thoughts of getting old are no longer permitted.

Do not disturb?

Beggars, as they are called in the common conversations in Kerala, they live without a shelter, their belongings in bundles and plastic covers, many of them having come from other regions of India, now stranded, with not much perspective for a different life. Usually, we notice them when they come to ask for money. Depending on our mood, we might give a coin or might shoo them away, afterwards continuing our way without a second thought on them again or at best remembering them as a disturbing factor in our routine.

This time, I was sitting in the car, waiting for my husband. The car was parked next to a big open space, in which many people camp during day time. Dark clouds covered the sky and the first big drops of a heavy rain started splattering on the ground. First, I saw an old man securing a heap of bundles with a piece of tarpaulin; after a few moments he went towards a building to seek shelter under one of the roofs there. Then, my eyes caught the sight of a woman. She was standing and talking to someone sitting on the ground. Taking a closer look, I saw that the man had no legs. The woman gave him his shirt and disappeared. He put on the shirt. After that he took a circular shaped piece of old tyre, I think. Pushing himself up on his arms he sat on that piece of rubber. Then, he started tying different strings attached to the rubber piece around his body. It was such a simple means but used in a rather perfected way with a complex technique. This wasn’t all. He then moved himself a bit forward by pushing his body up with his arms. First, he angled one old rubber slipper out of the grass, then another one. He slipped his, -no, I told you, he had no legs-, yes, hands into one each of the slippers. Some belongings he kept in his lap. Then, slowly, he started to make his way across the road to reach the shelter under the shop roofs, too. Pushing himself up and forward, up and forward, the body parts usually not supposed to be in direct contact with the ground, the grass, mud, and tar, are barely protected by those two different rubber products.

This was a close view! You can reflect on it in different ways. There is a possibility to admire the clever usage of actual waste products as quite functional aids for physically challenged people, thus too, seemingly invented by the concerned person himself in a quite self-reliant manner. But you have to be careful as well, not to be called cynical, interpreting people’s misery as their chance. Another way of looking at it is, of course, to be shocked how people with disabilities have to live in most difficult circumstances without any medical care, professional support etc. Especially, if pictures of sophisticated care facilities in several countries come to your mind, you have to consider the overall reality that not only physically (and mentally) challenged people often end up living on the roads, but numerous so called ‘normal’ people as well.

This incident rather appealed to give ‘second thoughts’ and to ‘remember them as disturbing factor’ but in a rather different sense. Those on the streets, whether physically challenged or not, they are human beings, often struggling to lead a life, not even mentioning a life in dignity. I don’t have simple solutions and I know very well that their situation evolves out of manifold factors on different levels. But what struck me is that we should not and we cannot forget: they are human beings, human beings like you and me.

The Silence of Sound

Every year in the first week of May the state of Kerala witnesses numerous processions at the occasion of the festival of St. George. You can notice churches decorated with myriads of light bulbs, fireworks and crackers in the evening hours, the sound of music groups and devotional songs played over loudspeakers. Since there are plenty of St. George churches, there is also a countless number of processions taking place every year. In one of them I took part.

Our church made grand arrangements for this year's procession. After the evening prayer, people slowly gathered at the starting point of the procession. A small girl told me that she had heard, there were even processions with elephants. Ours didn't have any though. But apart from this small draw back, there was nothing else missing: Two traditional drummer groups, a brass orchestra, and two jeeps with installed loudspeakers playing devotional music were ready to accompany the procession.

The procession of a festival is supposed to have meditational character. During the walk the participants are meant to pray and ask the saint for his or her intercession. Honoring the exemplary life of the saint, people hope that the saint might intercede on their behalf to God and help their petitions to be heard.

My position in the procession was somewhat in the thick of it. I could simultaneously hear the intense drum beating, the loud trumpeting of the brass orchestra and the blaring music from one of the jeeps. All this mixed into a dreadful cacophony. I did not know whether to laugh or to cry. Instantly this urgent thought came to my mind: how on earth could I solemnly take part in this procession and put myself into a prayerful mood???

The procession started, and after a few minutes, the sounds surrounded me almost like a cloud. And inside this cloud, I could detach myself from the things happening around. I was carried by the sounds into a very spiritual experience, that made me calm down and become very silent inside. I did not notice the cacophony but rather felt the sounds a soothing background for my prayers.

Pay role number or Personality?

A visit to the supermarket. Nothing special. I just went to the usual place and bought usual things. With my basket full of things I waited at the cash counter for my turn. After paying I took my basket to the counter, where they check the billed items with the items in the basket and put your purchase in shopping bags. This is a quite slow process, I feel. Many a times, it had cost me lots of patience to still take the shopping bags from the girl at the counter with a smile. That day, while waiting I used the time to have a closer look at the girl. Young she was, she did her work slowly and concentrated. She was wearing a maroon colour overcoat like all employees. When I had almost turned my attention to something else, I suddenly noticed the badge pinned at the coat. I focused my eyes and read:

May I help You
No. 123

The usual shopping routine was disturbed. How ironic to keep a badge, which on the one hand offered personalized help to the customer, but on the other hand had the help come from a number. Number 123. It sounded more like a tag for a machine, a robot, but not for a human being.
A recent piece of information came back to my mind. Someone had talked to these young girls working at the supermarket. And they had told her, how they were all staying together in a dormitory, had very few leave days, and got a meagre salary for all this hardship.
Such working conditions are not an individual case. When a fire had struck a huge shop in Chennai one night and an employee died in the flames, the newspapers suddenly reported about very similar working conditions to those of the supermarket girls in Kerala.
When I read about it at that time, I was convinced that it was a phenomenon of big cities, never thought of the possibility of similar working conditions in tiny towns in Kerala. But it seems a much more common phenomenon. Ironically, this supermarket even belongs to a chain, whose concept is to offer consumer-friendly prices, below the maximum retail price. But this concept unfortunately does not seem to include an alternative approach to employment conditions.

The girl handed over my shopping bags to me. This time it wasn’t difficult to give her a smile and a thank you, despite her not having been the fastest that day either. I tried to interact with her as a person, and not a mere number.

On the Road with Comrade, UFO and the Holy Family

Comparing the public transport, I must say that especially rural areas definitely have a better connectivity in Kerala than in Germany. It is a quite easy and well organized means of transport to get around various places in Kerala. Of course, the comfort of the travel is debatable: To get a seat you have to be either lucky or traveling at the right time (the noon heat, when no one else is interested to spend time on a bus for example); whether you have to share a small bench with a woman, who is equally round as you, is still a question – in most cases your knees will anyway suffer if your height is more than 1,5 m since the benches are arranged so close to each other in order to save space. If you don’t catch a seat, your height will again decide about your travel comfort, the taller you are the more you will sway around the poles, you are desperately hanging on to, at every turn or pothole.

Anyway, before entering the bus you need to know some basic hints: In Kerala you find the Kerala State Road and Transport Corporation (KSRTC) busses and the busses operated by various private parties. The KSRTC busses are easily recognizable because of their bright red color. Private busses are much more individual and creative in their design. Apart from various color variations, the most striking aspect of them are their names: Very popular are St. Mary, St. George, St. Jude and other saints, or -in one go- the (entire) Holy Family, Fatimah, or Lakshmi as reflections of faith. Lulu’s and A. Brothers’ seem rather reminiscence of ownership. But then you have the truly creative ones: Comrade (any political affinities?), Passenger (thought those were inside?), UFO (any relation to the driving style?), Galaxy (safely to the next town would be enough for me!) – to name just a selected few.

A last one, essential to survive in Kerala busses: Bus travel is a gender sensitive issue. Before entering the bus, one should find out the seating arrangements – are the women (who still get usually less space allotted in busses) seated in the front or back of the bus? Mostly, for KSRTC busses the women’s seats will be in the back, while for private busses they will be in the front. But exceptions from the rule are always possible. Negligence can make the journey either way uncomfortable – women might have to bear the stares and what not all trying to survive in the men’s section, while men have to fear the almost violent action taken by women to secure their space.

I am marrying a family – part II / Ich heirate eine Familie – 2. Teil

Last Sunday a small scene finally convinced me to have a few words on an amusing fact about different cultural concepts:

Scene no. 1 – Years ago, me still an innocent newcomer to India, I tried to engage in small talk with a small girl at a children’s camp. I asked her, how many brothers and sisters she had. She replied promptly: 12! After overcoming my initial shock, I tried to ask, how many of them were boys and how many girls. Then the girl started explaining: Alice Aunty has 2 boys and 1 girl. Beena Aunty has 2 girls. …What an insight to an astonished German student!

Scene no. 2 – Last Sunday I am introduced to a youth member in a church. While we are talking another young man enters into the circle and starts engaging in the conversation. Pradeep just mentions, that it is his brother. For a split second my mind goes off the conversation and on to notice the striking difference in the two people’s appearance. But ok, siblings can look different, can’t they. A minute later, another young man comes and stands on the other side of him, and again, he just says, “This is my other brother.” This time I can’t help it but my mind seriously rebels, since the third one again doesn’t seem to have anything in common with either of the previous 2 people.
Just when I started to try and come to terms with this amazing dissimilarity among siblings, the information became complete: the one was a maternal cousin brother and the other a cousin of the paternal side. Relief for the tortured German soul!

It is quite striking how different cultural concepts are so deeply rooted in a person that even after many years, I was still not prepared that the word ‘brother’ could be used in any other sense than for an own brother, born by the same mother.
On the other hand, I must say that in many cases I also wonder whether the relation between first cousins is always so intense and close as a relation between own siblings. At least in my case, I can say that the relation between me and my cousins comes in no way close to the relation I share with my siblings. Therefore, I still feel a hesitation to extend the use of the word to other than one’s own sisters and brothers.

(Zusammenfassung: Ein junger Mann stellt mir zwei andere junge Männer als seine Brüder vor. Die drei sehen so unterschiedlich aus, dass ich erleichtert bin, als schließlich klar wird, es sind Cousins. Ein junges Mädchen erzählt mir von ihren 12 Geschwistern, die sich schliesslich auch als die Kinder ihrer Tanten entpuppen. Ich bin so daran gewöhnt, dass Bruder und Schwester immer leibliche Geschwister bezeichnet, dass es mir schwerfällt, mich von dieser weitergefassten Verwendung nicht irreführen zu lassen.)

"Lambada" or the sound of going backwards

Friends of ours bought a car, second hand. We were invited to join them for their first ride and we went out together for dinner. After many rides on a scooter through the murderous traffic of Chennai, we all enjoyed the nice and comfortable car ride instead. When we reached the restaurant, we had to reverse the car to park. And there it was: like many cars in India, especially the little older ones (for the new ones you rarely notice it nowadays and you start to think that it’s a gone by fashion of sorts), this one had a tune when putting in the reverse gear. And this was not any tune, not some Bollywood movie song, We wish you a Merry Christmas etc.; this car had the tune of Lambada! The children of our friends said, what a stupid song this was, and which song after all. But for me, Lambada was the ultimate sound of going backwards, rather in a metaphorical sense.

Going back to the year 2000: A student in my early 20s, I decided to spend a year of my studies abroad. Somehow a sudden boldness and sense of adventure took me to India. After arriving here, in the initial stage, things seemed truly strange to me. Even the basic things of life seemed difficult to perform. There were many things happening around me, which were absolutely new to me. I have to admit, a feeling of being lost crept in. One Sunday morning, when I felt so helpless, I hadn’t even managed to go to church somewhere, I suddenly heard a sound. Sitting lonely in my room, I was unexpectedly surrounded by a very familiar tune: the tune of Lambada! This soothing sound of familiarity helped me to develop some courageous and step out of my room. When trying to find out the source of Lambada, it took me a few seconds. I looked around, till I finally understood, that it came from that car which was this moment reversing in front of my residence. I smiled. I had sorted out one more mystery of everyday life in India, and I had found a tune bridging the gap between life at home and life in India.

Going back to the year 1990: We were in our sweet teens, trying hard to grow up or at least appear grown up. Especially during birthday parties we were not satisfied any longer with playing ‘Hide and Seek’ and eating cake, potato chips and chocolates. We wanted to act a bit more sophisticated. Slowly, also an understanding of the difference and yet the attraction between boys and girls entered into our thinking, at a quiet innocent level still, but nevertheless. Working hard on this image change, there came a song to our rescue. Lambada! A hit song by a French music group, that had truly swept the charts and was absolutely popular during those days. The music video featured a popular Brazilian couple dance. Luckily, the parents of one classmate had learned the basics of this quite sensual dance. And one fine birthday party at their house, you could see all of us trying hard to follow the instructions of the mother of our friend. We were really trying hard! The two boys who were also invited to the birthday party were highly sought after dance partners. And we felt like we had grown up quite a bit, just during this one afternoon.

Though it might really be an outdated tune, and our friends’ kids rightly demand another tune if one at all for reversing the car, for me it was heaven to listen once again to this tune which has been part of my life for a long time now.

“Ich heirate eine Familie” - "I am marrying a Family"

In letzter Zeit muss ich immer mal wieder an den Titel dieser Vorabendserie aus meiner Kinderzeit denken. Der Werbegrafiker oder war er Architekt Peter Weck, der sich zu einem Leben mit Thekla Carola Wied und ihren drei Kindern, namentlich im Gedächtnis geblieben ist mir nur Julia Biedermann, entschliesst und wie er mit dem plötzlichen Trubel von drei Kindern umgeht. Ich habe sie geliebt diese Serie, damals, habe keine Folge verpasst.

Ob diese kindliche Vorliebe wohl eine Vorahnung war, eine Andeutung auf das, was mir später im Leben begegnen würde? Man weiss es nicht. Aber ehrlich gesagt kann ich mich an irgendwelche Inhalte nur noch sehr schemenhaft erinnern, obwohl ich, wie gesagt, keine Folge verpasst habe, damals. Nur der Titel, der ist hängen geblieben.

Heute fällt er mir immer dann ein, wenn gerade mal wieder meine Familie „zuschlägt“. Nein, nein, nicht meine deutsche, die beschauliche mit Vater, Mutter und zwei Geschwistern und sehr beschränkten verwandtschaftlichen Verwicklungen. Nein, meine Familie das sind in diesem Fall die beiden Clans (schwiegermütterlicher und schwiegerväterlicher seits), die ich mit meinem Eheversprechen gegenüber meinem Mann sozusagen mit-geheiratet habe. Hätte ich damals schon gewusst, wer alles so an meinem Mann dranhängt, ich hätte zumindest einen ganz schönen Schreck bekommen, glaube ich. Zum Glück gehörte die Einsicht in die weitere Verwandtschaft zu den vielen Dingen, die ich mir für nach der Hochzeit aufgehoben hatte.

Mein Bruder hat die Sachlage gleich von Grund auf durchschaut und sagte mir, er wolle eine Datenbank mit Einträgen über sämtliche Familienmitglieder, damit er sich bei weiteren Besuchen in Indien nicht blamieren würde. Nur wenige indische Verwandte wissen es, aber eine beträchtliche Zahl von ihnen findet sich tatsächlich in einer Datenbank. Allerdings habe ich diese schon nach kurzer Zeit im Kopf weitergeführt, besonders weil die Einordnung vieler Verwandter doch eher in die Kategorie „wir sind irgendwie verwandt, und es reicht, das zu wissen“ fällt.

Die Familien sind jedenfalls weitverzweigt. Wo auch immer man in Indien (oder auf der Welt) hinkommt, ein Verwandter/eine Verwandte ist bestimmt nicht weit. Ich mag dieses Netzwerk. Nicht, dass man sich jedes Wochenende zum Kaffeetrinken trifft, aber man weißvon der Existenz des/der anderen. Besonderes der älteren Generation kommt hierbei eine wichtige Rolle zu, sich gegenseitig anzurufen, zu besuchen und auf dem Laufenden zu halten.

Immens wichtige Gelegenheiten, um sich dem/der anderen wieder ins Gedächtnis zu rufen, sind Hochzeiten. Da auf einer indischen Hochzeit die GESAMMTE Verwandtschaft (und irgenwen vergisst man doch immer) eingeladen wird, hat man gute Chancen mit dieser oder jenem ein bisschen small talk zu halten, sich eventuell (wieder) vorzustellen etc.

Eher an individualistische Lebensgestaltung gewöhnt, mutet es zunächst eventuell ein wenig einengend an, aber bei so einem Verwandtschaftsgeflecht wird einem nie lagnweilig. Es ist mir mittlerweile wichtig geworden, zu wissen was die zahlreichen Cousins und Cousinen so machen, wen man vielleicht mal besuchen oder anrufen sollte, weil er oder sie krank ist. Verwandtschaft kann man sich nicht aussuchen, und von daher sind Zusammentreffen auch immer spannend, da man sich mit einem Haufen ganz verschiedener Leute arrangieren muss und man mit Sicherheit enorm im Bereich sozialer Kompetenzen lernt.

Man darf, glaube ich, nicht den Fehler machen, Verwandte und Freunde/Freundinnen zu verwechseln (die gesellschaftlichen Bindungen sind einfach ganz andere), aber wenn man das beachtet, können einem die „lieben Verwandten“ das Leben ein ganzes Stück reicher machen. Und ganz wie Peter Weck in der Serie habe ich es nicht bereut, eine Familie geheiratet zu haben.

(Synopsis: Based on the title of a popular German tv serial in the 80s „I am marrying a family“, about a man who gets married to a woman with three children in their teens, I am reflecting about the rich family life in an Indian family including the wide-spread net of relatives. This is definitely a stark contrast experience for me to my family life in Germany, mostly centred around my nuclear family. But I recommend this as a very entertaining as well as feeling cared about experience.)

Multi-lingual blogging

Dear readers,
having put some thought in it, how to actually make my blog available for as many people as possible, I decided to try and keep my blog bi-lingual. There are a lot of people who won’t be able to follow a mono-lingual blog, and yet might be interested in my topics. Therefore, I will have selected entries in German.

Hallo,
Nach einigen Überlegungen habe ich mich entschlossen zwischendurch auch Beiträge auf Deutsch einzustellen. Vielleicht macht das mein Blog interessanter für ein breiteres Publikum und leichter zugänglich als ein rein Englisches. Viel Spaß beim Lesen!

To queue or not to queue – or how to queue?

Recently, when someone talked about what aspects a critical view on Indian society would contain, one of my (Indian) relatives instantly said, “Indians don’t know how to queue – go to the post office, go to any place where a queue is supposed to be formed, you will find people pushing, entering from the wrong side, overtaking…all without batting an eyelash”. My relative seemed seriously enraged about this matter.

Used to perfect German queues, one behind the other, a straight line (and if someone tried to break this perfect order, you can be sure the rest of the queue will teach this someone soon, that in a German queue there is no foul play), I have to admit, feelings of disbelief, astonishment, annoyance, slight anger overcome me once in a while, trying to await my turn patiently in a queue but having to realize that no one else seems to be interested in any kind of orderly queuing.

Then, I went to pay our electricity bill a couple of days ago. And there I suddenly seemed to be so close to the dream of a perfect queue: they had installed a token vending machine, a display and speaker system. I was greeted by the sound of a female voice announcing: “Token no. 45, counter no. 2”. I excitedly noticed this innovation, was reminded of municipal offices in Germany, where the same system is used. Instantly, I went to the machine, took my token number. Other people came into the room, some took a token, some came straight to the counters to queue and pay. But they were instantly told to go and collect their token.

An old man also had to go back, collect a token and return to the counters. Meanwhile, the female voice kept on announcing “Token no. 49, counter no. 1”. After a short hesitation, the old man asked another man, showing him his token, which number his was. The other man replied in Malayalam, that his was 52. I had listened to the conversation and started to think.

This seemingly perfect system contained certain difficulties. A system has to be suitable and comprehensible for all possible users. But this system definitely could reach only parts of Kerala society. This system assumed that everyone can read. Though Kerala has a high percentage of literacy, there might be still exceptions. And it assumed that everyone can understand English numbers. Something not necessarily the case with everyone in a state of India where the prevalent language is Malayalam.

So, is it a matter of literacy, of education whether I can stand in a queue? Or is it a matter of little thought on how to implement a system and how to make it accessible for everyone?

My initial enthusiasm about the chance to have a proper queue where I could await my turn tension free, had faded away after having witnessed this incident. I felt somehow that my queue had too high a price…the dignity of each and every member of society regardless of education, income etc.

Well-being...

Well-being...
Sunday morning, waking up early, am going to the kitchen, still with eyes half closed, to prepare tea. I can hear the sound of water outside and I know it’s not a nice sound. Stepping outside, I can see that from our water tank on top of the roof water is flowing quite forcefully, splashing onto the ground. What a mess! A pipe is broken and after closing the main water connection to our house, within minutes the tank has emptied its content onto the ground. No running water in the house any more!

From a state of well-being, enjoying the amenities of running tap water in the house, I am in no time and without prior warning turned into a well being, having to draw water from our well to fill bucket after bucket to meet our basic water needs for some time till the plumber would come. I guess my arm muscles and body as a whole got a good exercise till I had filled and taken inside the house enough buckets to be able to take bath, to flush the toilet, to wash our hands and dishes. When the plumber came in the evening, he was welcomed with open arms. And we were glad when he could fix the problem and we could once again enjoy water coming out of the tap when turning it on.

Experiences like that give food for thought.
You suddenly realize how much water is actually needed in a house for basic needs. The most striking realization though is, if I may say frankly, how much water you need to keep your toilet working. When we pull the flush, do we ever think how many liters of water are running through the pipe in that second?
The value of a well as permanent source of drinking water suddenly comes to your mind. For many (middle-class) houses in Kerala still a common appearance, too often their existence is taken for granted. But sinking ground water levels, water pollution etc. are posing a serious threat and make one think for how long these will remain assured sources of drinking water? Those houses without a well have to depend on the reliability and mercy of the public water supply. At least in Kerala, connections don’t provide water 24/7. If you know fixed timings for your area, at least you can fill your tanks. But if taps remain dry without warning for days or weeks, the situation turns grim.
You start thinking about people who not only for a limited time, but permanently have no own water connection in their houses at all. Our well is right next to our house, but people who depend on public water connections or wells have to carry their water distances, often kilometers, liter by liter, bucket by bucket.

Have a sip of coffee!

Coffee, -some people call it the German national drink-, happens to grow in the region of India I have made my new home: Kerala.
In Germany, we love to sit and chat over a cup of coffee for hours. Cafes, therefore, are popular places to hang out. Here, you can catch up with friends and have elaborate conversations, but here, you can also observe lots of things going on around; the café as micro-cosmos offers insights into the ordinary things of life, which make life so special at the same time.
Living as a German in India gives me the privilege to observe numerous things in ordinary life almost every day. Life here is never boring and I enjoy every minute being part of such a vibrant country.
An Indian might not even notice what strikes me here; likewise I might be blind to the extra-ordinary small things happening in Germany day in and day out. So, I take the liberty to collect things happening around me that seem special and interesting to share with others.
I hope the blog will be entertaining and informative for both, people in India and outside. I would like people to keep on mind that I am not only the writer of the blog post, but very often the person to whom the incident behind the post occurred. Therefore, please show lenience in case of any one-sidedness or subjectivity.

Welcome to my little café! Step in, stay for a while, and enjoy reading! It will be great to receive your observations and feedback in form of any kind of comments, ideas, suggestions, criticism.