Many of you have asked me where I have been living in Mumbai, and what the living arrangements are like. I am fortunate to say that I live in Colaba--a bustling, colourful, central area; but the place I come 'home' to every evening pales in comparison. It is an incredibly tight four corners, and on the other side of its thin walls is a crazy neighbour/landlady, with whom I share a kitchen and bathroom. She is an interesting, although terribly frustrating, character.
When her English-speaking husband told us that he and his wife would only be in the flat a couple of days each month, I should have laughed. I should not have jumped at signing the lease. I should not have been so excited at the prospect of privacy. I should have recalled what I have been so frequently told: there is no such thing as privacy in India.
After he tells us about how to use the showerhead, the gas stove, etc., his wife puts in her two cents (perhaps I can call it 6 cents since she manages to talk so much). She only speaks Hindi, we listen, and I turn to her husband and wait for a translation. He knows that outside of phrases like “Hello, how are you?” my roommate and I are at a loss, but he says nothing. She smiles, touches my hair, and grabs my face “sundar, sundar (beautiful).” I try to get over the fact that I hate to be touched by strangers, think ‘suck it up,’ and never expect that she will greet me in a similar fashion almost everyday for the next two months.
He tells us that although they only stay in the flat for a couple of days each month, his wife will be staying for a few extra days. He says that in their rush to get here from Pune to show us the apartment (it’s about a two hour train ride, and it took them a few days), she fell and hurt her leg. For some reason, that means that she cannot make the train ride home, but will be able to fend for herself in Mumbai, and that despite the seriousness of the injury, her husband feels no compulsion to stay.
She must be magic. Through the open door, I see her climb on to her bed, leaning on her cupboard, reaching for the uppermost shelves; walking without a limp or struggle along the cobble stoned streets; cooking her own meals (though not well enough to wash her dishes, which fill up the sink until the maid returns in the evening). I think she senses my suspicion because every once in a while, during these incredible feats for someone with a leg injury, she bends down, rubs her leg, and wipes the smile of her face: “ahhhhh.” The whole situation is wonderfully logical, reader.
She is intensely fussy. She will not hesitate to knock at my door 3 or 4 times an afternoon to tell me things like that I have placed a knife in the wrong place. She gave away the toaster because we used it one day. She locked the door to the cup cabinet, after seeing us borrow a mug. And despite having my own door from the hallway to the apartment, she will hear me tiptoe in if I stay out late at night, and bang on my door:
She yells in Hindi and all I can make out is, “bar? Bar?”
“No,” I say.
“Where? Where?”
I feel badly for her when I hear her go back and forth from laughing, to crying, to yelling, in her hysterical phone conversations. Then she yells at me, yells at the maid (who sleeps in our kitchen), blasts the television all day and night, and walks into my room uninvited, and I cannot stand her.
When my room mate went to Rajasthan for a week, she asked me, “Where is your sister?” Let me explain how strange this question is, and why it was funny to hear her surprise when I explained to her that my roommate is in fact my friend. My background is mostly Eritrean-Yemeni, my roommate’s is British-Italian.
Albeit, she is often well-intentioned. The other day as I lay in bed reading, she flung aside the curtain and said “Omelet, OMELET!? Rudayna, OMELET!?” This terrified me, and I hate eggs, but it was well-intentioned, nonetheless.
This bed I mentioned is a single, shared by my roommate and I. We get the most outraged reactions from people when we tell them this, and we keep saying that we are getting another bed. But, we don’t really put much effort into it. And we come home so exhausted that we sleep like babies. Oddly enough, that tiny bed is home to the best sleep I have had in months.
There are a couple of other noteworthy characters in the building, namely the two men who operate the lift. They are very kind, and seem terribly interested in mundane aspects of our life. The first -a small man with white hair, a moustache, glasses, and a nasal voice- is there to greet us every morning. He is adorably enthusiastic:
“GOOD MORNING? How are you?”
The second is there in the afternoon and spends the night. He is slightly lager and taller, with jet black hair, a black moustache, and often obviously in the previous night’s clothes. He sets up a cot at the entrance of the building at about midnight and spends the night there. At this point, the space to enter is very narrow, and my room mate and I approach with caution after late nights. We tiptoe to the stair-case, reach it, and we think we’re home free, and 16 again…
“Goodnight” he grumbles and rolls over. Busted.
At first, they would always hop into the elevator and join us for the ride. Now it seems like they will come along when they are bored:
“How are you?”
“Good, how are you?”
“Do you want the fan?”
“No, thanks.”
The fan begins to whir overhead.
“Do you make dinner in your home or eat out?”
“What? Um...both, I guess.”
I share this story with my roommate and she was asked the same question.
After annoyances with our landlady’s antics, the fact that she is still living there almost two months later, and the high rent, my roommate and I decided to put an end to our lease. Perhaps it is finding myself leaving the place that has earned so many of my hateful remarks, and laughter at its complete absurdity, is the inspiration to this post. I will miss the convenience of the place, and the slight comfort I have found in returning to it after a crazy day, but I think it is time to go.
The last day of our lease is quickly approaching. So, with 11 days to spare, I ask you Indian readers and friends….any ideas?!
When her English-speaking husband told us that he and his wife would only be in the flat a couple of days each month, I should have laughed. I should not have jumped at signing the lease. I should not have been so excited at the prospect of privacy. I should have recalled what I have been so frequently told: there is no such thing as privacy in India.
After he tells us about how to use the showerhead, the gas stove, etc., his wife puts in her two cents (perhaps I can call it 6 cents since she manages to talk so much). She only speaks Hindi, we listen, and I turn to her husband and wait for a translation. He knows that outside of phrases like “Hello, how are you?” my roommate and I are at a loss, but he says nothing. She smiles, touches my hair, and grabs my face “sundar, sundar (beautiful).” I try to get over the fact that I hate to be touched by strangers, think ‘suck it up,’ and never expect that she will greet me in a similar fashion almost everyday for the next two months.
He tells us that although they only stay in the flat for a couple of days each month, his wife will be staying for a few extra days. He says that in their rush to get here from Pune to show us the apartment (it’s about a two hour train ride, and it took them a few days), she fell and hurt her leg. For some reason, that means that she cannot make the train ride home, but will be able to fend for herself in Mumbai, and that despite the seriousness of the injury, her husband feels no compulsion to stay.
She must be magic. Through the open door, I see her climb on to her bed, leaning on her cupboard, reaching for the uppermost shelves; walking without a limp or struggle along the cobble stoned streets; cooking her own meals (though not well enough to wash her dishes, which fill up the sink until the maid returns in the evening). I think she senses my suspicion because every once in a while, during these incredible feats for someone with a leg injury, she bends down, rubs her leg, and wipes the smile of her face: “ahhhhh.” The whole situation is wonderfully logical, reader.
She is intensely fussy. She will not hesitate to knock at my door 3 or 4 times an afternoon to tell me things like that I have placed a knife in the wrong place. She gave away the toaster because we used it one day. She locked the door to the cup cabinet, after seeing us borrow a mug. And despite having my own door from the hallway to the apartment, she will hear me tiptoe in if I stay out late at night, and bang on my door:
She yells in Hindi and all I can make out is, “bar? Bar?”
“No,” I say.
“Where? Where?”
I feel badly for her when I hear her go back and forth from laughing, to crying, to yelling, in her hysterical phone conversations. Then she yells at me, yells at the maid (who sleeps in our kitchen), blasts the television all day and night, and walks into my room uninvited, and I cannot stand her.
When my room mate went to Rajasthan for a week, she asked me, “Where is your sister?” Let me explain how strange this question is, and why it was funny to hear her surprise when I explained to her that my roommate is in fact my friend. My background is mostly Eritrean-Yemeni, my roommate’s is British-Italian.
Albeit, she is often well-intentioned. The other day as I lay in bed reading, she flung aside the curtain and said “Omelet, OMELET!? Rudayna, OMELET!?” This terrified me, and I hate eggs, but it was well-intentioned, nonetheless.
This bed I mentioned is a single, shared by my roommate and I. We get the most outraged reactions from people when we tell them this, and we keep saying that we are getting another bed. But, we don’t really put much effort into it. And we come home so exhausted that we sleep like babies. Oddly enough, that tiny bed is home to the best sleep I have had in months.
There are a couple of other noteworthy characters in the building, namely the two men who operate the lift. They are very kind, and seem terribly interested in mundane aspects of our life. The first -a small man with white hair, a moustache, glasses, and a nasal voice- is there to greet us every morning. He is adorably enthusiastic:
“GOOD MORNING? How are you?”
The second is there in the afternoon and spends the night. He is slightly lager and taller, with jet black hair, a black moustache, and often obviously in the previous night’s clothes. He sets up a cot at the entrance of the building at about midnight and spends the night there. At this point, the space to enter is very narrow, and my room mate and I approach with caution after late nights. We tiptoe to the stair-case, reach it, and we think we’re home free, and 16 again…
“Goodnight” he grumbles and rolls over. Busted.
At first, they would always hop into the elevator and join us for the ride. Now it seems like they will come along when they are bored:
“How are you?”
“Good, how are you?”
“Do you want the fan?”
“No, thanks.”
The fan begins to whir overhead.
“Do you make dinner in your home or eat out?”
“What? Um...both, I guess.”
I share this story with my roommate and she was asked the same question.
After annoyances with our landlady’s antics, the fact that she is still living there almost two months later, and the high rent, my roommate and I decided to put an end to our lease. Perhaps it is finding myself leaving the place that has earned so many of my hateful remarks, and laughter at its complete absurdity, is the inspiration to this post. I will miss the convenience of the place, and the slight comfort I have found in returning to it after a crazy day, but I think it is time to go.
The last day of our lease is quickly approaching. So, with 11 days to spare, I ask you Indian readers and friends….any ideas?!
It is remarkable how one can habituate themselves to such infuriating inconvenience. You and your room-mate are a testament to adaptability. All the best in the future. I have no advice than to perhaps get a cot and set it up ....anywhere.
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