Moving Books

In my whole life up until now, the longest I have ever lived in the same place is six years. We lived in Kuantan, a coastal town in Malaysia for those years when I was in primary school, and I have just reached the same milestone here in Bombay. Which I guess makes Bombay as much my hometown as anywhere. Although if I had to choose one for sentimental reasons it would be Cooma in the Australian Snowy Mountains where I did most of my growing up. Physically at least.

Even during those longer periods of residence in the same town or city, I have always moved house at least once. We were renters while I was growing up, and this is the first time in my life I have lived in a house which didn't belong to landlords. It's kind of a strange concept to get used to. "What do you mean we can't move house? The toilet leaks!"

I'm starting to learn, finally, the possible benefits of not being a vagabond. Being able to hold onto my book collection being one of them. I'm not talking about an impressive library of leather-bound rarities. My books are mostly paperbacks, and while there are a few loved classics, many belong to the fantasy/SF genre. Of course the higher proportion of these may be because they always seem to come in trilogies - or series (so far I'm up to book 10 in the Malazan Book of the Fallen). So throwing out a single book often means sending two or more with it for company.

There's really no logical reason for me to be so attached to my books. Most of them I'll never read again. There are so many wonderful new books published all the time that there's little incentive to re-read anything. But occasionally I do. In between new books for example. When I find myself with nothing I haven't read in the house and no way to get to a bookstore quickly. That's when I discover some new meaning in 'Lord of the Rings' (shut up) or remind myself what it is Richard Dawkins is saying again. And then there are times when I'll just be in the mood for one of Haruki Murakami's short stories or a passage from 'Moby Dick' (nobody told me that book was so funny). And where would I be if I couldn't find them?

My mother, who had to move us from rented house to rented house, always managed to take our entire book collection with us. One of my earlier memories includes unpacking boxes of encyclopedias, and that wonderful papery smell of old books. Mum would no sooner have left one of her Asimovs or Bradburys behind than the family pet. Actually we did have to leave the family pets behind when we moved from Malaysia to Australia, but the books came.

So I guess when it comes down to it, what shelves full of books mean to me isn't just hours of entertainment and education. They mean home. They mean coming back to familiar characters and places no matter how unfamiliar actual surroundings. Seeing those spines and titles neatly lined up (or in my case in a chaotic jumble) gives me the sense of comfort some people get from artwork, or an old family sofa. So if a future move means I have to cull something, I guess it'll be my wardrobe. And maybe the 'childcare' books. Never read those anyway.

Holi Holiday

Yesterday the kids and I, along with the rest of Bombay, celebrated the Hindu festival of Holi. Like all good Indian festivals, Holi is a mixture of craziness, camaraderie, spirituality and the very real possibility that someone will lose an eye.

I've been told Holi celebrates the beginning of summer. The festivities involve dousing your friends, family, or complete strangers with coloured powder and water. It is not a good day to wear your best white linen. (Actually, since all Bombay seasons seem to be a variation of summer I'm not sure what the party is for. No doubt there are other significances. I'll check.)

On Holi it's as though Bombay becomes a giant paint-ball arena. On the streets, gangs of boys roam armed with their packets of powder dyes and military grade water pistols, ready to strike at passerbys, the more unsuspecting the better. Usually in high spirits from either 'bhang' a drink brewed from cannabis, or ordinary alcohol, these gangs can get rowdy and are best avoided at all costs. Especially if you are on a motorbike and things like visibility and balance are important to you.

Most people in the city celebrate in big groups, either at parties or within their apartment complexes, known here as 'colonies'. Last year our colony went all out and erected a huge rain shower in the car park under the trees. Food was laid on and grandparents, parents and kids alike ran amok with their super-soakers. The atmosphere was that of a huge wet, colourful carnival. The teenagers particularly seem to enjoy playing Holi, perhaps because it's the one time of year they can make physical contact with someone of the opposite sex without raising eyebrows.

This year, with city-wide water shortages, there was no rainshower but still no lack of coloured water in the water pistols. Some things are sacred after all.

Recently there has been a drive to make Holi more environment and health friendly. The coloured powders sold on the streets have been reported to contain all varieties of toxic substances. Every year you hear of at least one person going blind or having a severe skin reaction from 'playing Holi' with dodgy dyes.

My kids were told by their teacher to brew up dyes made from vegetables and edible spices - helped by mummy of course. Nice idea teacher. We bought non-toxic dyes at the supermarket.

As usual Holi ended with everyone in the shower scrubbing away at patches of blue, red and orange, with varied success. Sometimes it can take a couple of days to get the dye off completely. My kids went to school this morning with bright pink splotches on their scalps. Not to worry, I'm sure they won't be the only ones.

(Ok. I've looked into the mythology behind Holi and there is more to it. But there's a burning woman involved. Again. Damn it. What is with Indian mythology and burning women? Anyway, I'm just going to stick with the summer explanation.)

A Great Help

For a few years now I have belonged to an expat Mother's Group. They hold playgroup meetings once a week, although now my kids are in school my involvement is mainly restricted to the internet. Every day my inbox is full of questions like 'Where do I buy quality diapers?' 'Can anyone recommend a good pediatrician?' and 'Is it normal for baby poo to be green?' (Yes to that last one in case you were wondering). But overall the single most posted request on my Mothers Group message board is 'Looking for a good maid.'

For many expats, unless they come from very wealthy and/or Asian backgrounds, having a maid is a new experience. One they very quickly become accustomed to. In the beginning of course, having someone in your house doing your domestic work may feel a little strange. You're basically allowing a stranger into the most private areas of your life, the place where normally only your closest family would see you.

I've seen quite a few women resist the idea when they first arrive. This generally changes around the birth of their first child. Suddenly the independent privacy loving modern woman who couldn't bear having a cleaner in their homes for even a couple of hours a day is begging for help to find full-time live-in staff. "No references? Not a problem! Can you start this afternoon?" And when I say staff, I mean at least three people. A well-off family in Bombay generally employs a minimum of a cleaner, a cook and a driver. Add to this a nanny and a general household maid and the 'help' can easily outnumber the 'family.'

To the locals, having a maid is no big deal. To the expat it is a wonderful, sometimes slightly guilty, novelty. They agonize about how much to pay, when to give holidays, what bonuses to present and fair working hours. And so they should. On the other hand, experienced maids to expats know exactly how to exploit their employers awkwardness. If she or he plays her cards right, a nanny or driver can earn twice the amount of an office worker, for a good deal less hours work.

In our not so well-off house we employ a full time nanny and a part-time cleaner. My husband and I drive ourselves and I do the cooking - although the nanny often cooks for the kids because they're much more likely to eat her food than mummy's (daddy doesn't have a choice). Just having these two people is such a wonderful blessing though. I can shop in peace, we don't have to live with my incredibly shoddy housekeeping and hubs and I can enjoy the occasional movie together. I'm even looking to start work soon, knowing my kids are in capable hands after school.

My maid Jaya seems to enjoy her job. Jaya doesn't speak English, and I don't speak Hindi but we both understand a good bit of those languages, so somehow it works. She certainly knows how to keep me in line and is often much kinder to and more patient with my kids than I am. When I say I would be lost without her it isn't much of an exaggeration. I am of course, very aware that she would do quite well without me as good house help are very much in demand. Unlike perhaps messy and culinarily challenged housewives.

(Culinarily is a word, thank you, I looked it up).

Bodhgaya

Yesterday while I was surfing YouTube for chickens dancing to techno it occurred to me that maybe I could make better use of my time. The kids are in school now and I'm lucky enough to have a reliable nanny to help with their care so it could be time to get back to work. Specifically teaching. Something I may or may not be paid for. But no one pays me to laugh at digital chickens anyway.

My teaching so far has all been voluntary. Government teachers in this country are only one step up from voluntary anyway so that's no big deal. I started out teaching at a small school in Nepal which was great - until the royal family was massacred and things became, well, unstable. I then moved to Bihar, which is pretty much unstable all the time, so no nasty surprises there.

People in Bombay don't believe me when I say I loved Bihar. Or at least my little patch of it. I lived and taught in the town of Bodhgaya. There is a tree in Bodhgaya, or at least the descendant of a tree, under which the Buddha is said to have gained enlightenment. As a result it is a bit of a hub for Buddhist pilgrims from all over the world, during the cooler months anyway. During the summer it was mostly just another small rural town, with an unusually high number of monks.

The school I taught at in Bodhgaya was run by a Tibetan Buddhist foundation. I'm a bit hazy on my Tibetan Buddhism - too many deities and ceremonies for my feeble brain to remember - but essentially it encourages the virtue of compassion, in this case expressed by building a free school for underprivileged children. The school was run by an Australian headmistress and employed Indian teachers on their staff. Occasionally they also took volunteers, like me, mostly to teach English.

How to describe my students? Most of them lived in impoverished households where alcoholism, abuse and neglect were common. By fifth standard at least three of my girl students were already married. The stories I heard about their lives and things which had happened to them haunt me to this day. And yet, for all that, they were such a joy to be around. They came to school smiling and greeted their teachers cheerful enthusiasm. It was infectious, and addictive. I came to love teaching in Bodhgaya.

Of course there were many challenges working within the children's environment. It couldn't be assumed that even things like basic nutrition were being provided in our pupils' homes. This especially affected the girls, as poor families often diverted most of their meagre resources towards their sons, leaving their female children with only the scraps. Girl students who did poorly at school were commonly malnourished. To combat this the school provided two meals a day to all students, and this made an enormous change to the kids performance. It's funny what we take for granted.

I don't know how much we improved the children's prospects. At the end of the day, most of the boys will no doubt end up eking out a living as vegetable sellers or rickshaw drivers like their fathers - if they were lucky enough to have stable employment. Girls would end up married with children at a young age. Cultural and religious pressures had far more influence than we ever would. But it's a start, and hopefully things will change for the better as each generation is better and better educated. I'm one of those people who thinks education really is the only way to change the world. And at least for their schooling years the kids had a safe place, where they could play and learn and maybe expand their horizons a little.

Whatever the impact on the children of our school, teaching there made a huge impact on me. I will never forget the optimism and hunger to learn of my students, or the kindness and humour of my fellow teachers, who put up with my strange foreign ways. Or the day we put on a concert attended by Richard Gere, where I made a complete fool of myself singing (oh god!) 'It's a Small World.' Hm. Now. Where did I save that dancing chicken?

Wild But Good

Last night we took the kids to the movies. Normally, this is something I suffer through rather than enjoy. Kind of like children's birthday parties. Or getting my teeth fixed. But this particular movie happened to be an adaptation of one of my favourite kid's books 'Where The Wild Things Are' by Maurice Sendak, a beloved classic in many households including my own. So for once I was looking forward to the film as much as my own little 'wild things.'

I confess I had some doubts about the director Spike Jonze's adaptation. Many books are altered beyond recognition for the screen. Things need to be 'racier' these days to hold short attention spans. Colours must be extra bright and the dialogue snappy enough to keep jaded mum and dad amused while the kids chuckle at the overtly slapstick comedy. The effect is like eating your way through an entire chocolate mudcake, good in the beginning but sickly by a quarter way through. I needn't have worried.

For starters, unlike most made-for-children movies these days 'Where the Wild Things Are' isn't animated. There's not even a lot of CGI. The 'wild things' are good old-fashioned puppets - remember those? - and this adds to the whimsical charm the movie shares with Sendak's book. As does the wonderful soundtrack by Karen O., all drums and yowls, exactly as you would expect for this free-wheeling adventure.

Max Records, the actor who plays 'Max,' is a real life boy who portrays the character's conflicting emotions in a completely believable way. He's a lead character you really feel with, and for. The voices of the Wild Things are also well done, Jonze opting for regular adult voices over the expected cartoony tones, further humanizing the otherwise surreal story.

From it's opening with the lonely Max desperately seeking companionship, to the tearful reunion of Max and his mother at the end, this isn't a simple happy fairy-tale. Having said that, neither is so overly complex that even my four and six year olds didn't enjoy it. It can be appreciated on many levels depending on the age of the viewer. And it manages to do that without resorting to either smart-arsed adult humour or juvenile flashiness.

In the end, Where the Wild Things Are stays true to the spirit of the book albeit with enough added story elements to fill a 110 minute long movie. No doubt many will find the pace too slow and the action to scarce for their liking, but for them there's always another Disney movie on the way.