Kitchen Sink Drama: Part One

Life was getting pretty cushy in Delhi. There was unfettered access to Kellogg's cereal, Cadbury's Dairy Milk, brown bread, hell there was even Marmite! I was surrounded by an ever-growing circle of interesting people from around the world. I was feasting on international cuisine in Delhi's restaurants (admittedly it transpired that, despite the waiter's insistence that smoked salmon was practically the same thing, the sushi restaurant didn't actually have any raw fish on the menu!). The flat I am staying in even has its own private stock of Heat and Grazia magazines!I started to worry that I was in serious danger of losing my new-found 'India survival skills', which include; hovering over a squat toilet, whilst simultaneously holding my rucksack and my breath (to avoid the inhalation of eau de sewer), eating rice and dhal twice a day for three weeks, washing in buckets of cold water, sleeping through raucous noise, and of course my most impressive achievement of all, not using toilet paper!

Plus I thought it was about time I remembered why I came here - not to recreate my UK life, but with better weather and cheaper beer - no I came here to have adventures and gain some insight and understanding of Indian life and culture, right? And what better way to do that than to set up home with an Indian family for a while? So I extricated myself from the life of riley I was living in Jangpura, and jumped feet first into a whole other world….

Ramesh, Seema and their five year old son, Anil (not their real names, by the way) live in ****, another suburb of south Delhi, which is further out towards the international airport. I found them through the ex-pat website, 'Delhi-net', where a former lodger of theirs had posted a note saying how much he had enjoyed his two-month stay with them. I phoned Ramesh and he invited me to go and meet the family. So a few days and an auto-rickshaw drive later, I found myself outside the restaurant where Ramesh has recommended we rendez-vous, waiting for him to come and meet me.

A man on a motorbike pulled up in front of me. I immediately noticed something peculiar in his appearance, and realised it was his hair; it was all kind of smoothed over and solid-looking, like on an action man or Ken doll figure. I figured I must have interrupted him in the process, ubiquitous amongst Indian men and women, of applying henna to his hair to give it a red tint! He greeted me warmly and indicated that I should get on the bike - his flat was just around the corner. Riding pillion was something I now had some experience of - my first time being when the owner of the hotel we stayed at in Pushkar came to collect us from the bus station on his bike; I spent the whole journey concentrating on not toppling backwards with the weight of my rucksack. So I hopped onto Ramesh's bike in a fairly dignified fashion, and we sped off down some side streets to his home.

Although this area is considered to be relatively affluent and middle-class, it was not as leafy, spacious or well-heeled looking as where I had been staying in Jangpura. The streets were narrower, the houses more crowded together and the absence of trees and vegetation was noticeable.

As we climbed off the bike, Ramesh explained that he and his wife were indeed in the middle of hair 'henna-ing'. Obviously it's no big deal to venture out in a state of semi-henna here - can't imagine my Nanna feeling the same about facing the public mid-perm! He lead me up the stairs of the concrete building and opened the door into his flat.There was a medium-sized living area, from which another door opened out onto a small balcony overlooking the street. Other doors lead off to the main bedroom, bathroom, tiny kitchen and spare room. The bedroom door was open, revealing a double bed, where a woman and small boy were sitting. The child was wearing the universal glazed-over expression kids acquire when glued to a TV set. He didn't look up, or show one iota of interest in me; clearly I wasn't any competition for the latest cartoon. Seema greeted me shyly, but with warmth.

Already my mind was running ahead of me, trying to envisage staying here, questioning whether I would feel comfortable? I quickly calculated that the 'privacy rating' of this flat was actually quite high as the guest room was sandwiched between the kitchen and bathroom and there was no walking through one room to get to another. Not bad.

Ramesh showed me to a seat on the low sofa and we sat making conversation - the easiest topic being our respective jobs. Ramesh has a background in employment rights and social activism, but was unemployed for a while. Fortunately, he recently found work with the International Transport Workers Federation and is conducting some research about container shipping. He explained to me that this is an area ripe for exploitation and corruption of employee rights, as there are so many different parties involved; one country may own the boat, another supplies the crew, the products come from another country. Then the ship may have to dock at several ports in various countries and a number of countries may be involved in the shipping route itself. His task seems insurmountable, but he says that he enjoys his work and the office is only a 45 minute commute away.

I enquired about Seema's work and Ramesh told me that she has a job with an NGO who work in the near-by slum areas. I probed some more and Ramesh called out to his wife for the answers. She emerged from the bedroom and Ramesh translated as her English was minimal. She works with women; she enjoys her work, but it is hard especially with a child to look after. Unable to resist the lure of, what now sounded like classic Bollywood fare on the tele, Seema soon retreated back to the bedroom.

Ramesh insisted that I stayed for lunch. It was 2.45 and though he denied it, I suspected that the family had waited for me to arrive before eating. Seema carried plates of dhal, rice, scrambled eggs and fried potatoes from the kitchen, depositing them on our laps, and then returned to the bedroom to eat hers and help Anil with his. It was delicious; simple home-cooked food - the best I have had in a while.

Over lunch Ramesh showed me pictures on his lap-top of their former lodger Kai, explaining that he had really become part of the family. Kai had had to return to America, but hoped to make a return visit soon. Ramesh says that he hasn't visited England, but he went to Germany with work. He was due to be staying nine months, but he had found it very difficult. He noticed that people would look at him when he was walking down the street, but then when he attempted to meet their gaze, they would look quickly away. He found it hard to make friends, negotiate the language barrier and he said that he desperately missed Indian food!

I suppose I was reassured by this evident exposure to Westerners and their culture. The 'death-by-hospitality' experience I had with the Indian family I met during my first stay in Delhi, and countless other cultural miscommunications and faux-pas along the way, had left me a little wary. However, this set-up seemed comfortable; Ramesh said that they expected I would come and go as I liked; that I could eat with them if I wanted, but was welcome to make my own food; that I was free to do as I chose. It seemed as though my needs for some privacy and space would be respected. I figured I could do this.

After lunch Ramesh excused himself as he needed to wash the henna out of his hair. He disappeared into the bathroom and Seema, catching my eye, beckoned me into the bedroom. So that is how I found myself sitting cross-legged on the marital bed, watching some dreadful Bollywood film, whilst Anil bounced up and down beside me in his Spiderman suit - still conspicuously ignoring me.Before long, Ramesh wandered in from the bathroom, topless and began rummaging through his clothes and muttering to Seema in a slightly irritated tone - I didn't need to be fluent in Hindi to know that he was probably asking whether his favourite shirt was clean or not! On some levels I was aware of how totally bizarre and surreal this whole scene was. Here I was in the middle of Delhi, sitting in bed watching TV with a woman I have just met, whilst her semi-naked husband gets dressed next to us. And yet it also felt entirely normal, as though we were all sitting round the table, enjoying a Sunday roast together.

Time was getting on and so I made some 'I must be going' murmurs and Ramesh said he would walk me to the rickshaw stand as he was going out anyway. He was attending a social gathering for people who have recently migrated from rural areas and showed me the book of traditional songs they would be singing together! At the rickshaw stand, I expected the usual excess of chivalry - the insistence on playing the role of my personal security guard until I was securely ensconced in a rickshaw and the fare safely negotiated. But Ramesh was in a hurry and happy to let me fend for myself. This act of his sealed my decision; I decided to move in for a short while.

To be continued.