Summers, as I said before are hot in Delhi. Still the early mornings are passably cool, and the stone floor of my parents’ apartment remains moderately cool, when the morning tea-drinking time arrives. Something’s never change. The sabziwala is there everyday around noon, hawking his fares in the sing-song, repetitive voice I’ve come to associate only with roadside vendors. And then there’s the tea-drinking ritual which lives on. We drink tea in the morning, before breakfast “to wake up”, after breakfast “to relax”, after lunch “to finish up lunch”, and then at “teatime” which is around 4 pm. There is tea also right before dinner, and that pretty much wraps up the caffeine intake for the day. We drink tea, intermittently during hot days, and during the cold days. So much tea, so little time !
Among other things, its funny how quickly you get used to the phenomenon of being stared at. After these years in the US, where you get used to anonymity in big groups, in India its like I have 2 horns on my head. In markets, people are standing around, chatting, staring, looking; that’s what they are active onlookers. In malls, guys and girls throng the atria and the halls, supposedly doing nothing. They aren’t buying anything, but the look of prosperity lingers. It is probably “in” to prosper and modernise as Mom puts it, as she proudly recants names of new shopping complexes and recreational annexes, and the fact that now even the bai has a color TV + VCR, and the bai’s daughter will only wear jeans. I’m not sure that wearing jeans is a sign of modernity, but apparently everyone else does; at a family function, I’m one of the very few younger folk turned out in a salwar-kameez. I get distinct “how uncool” vibes from the aunties, even !
At the aforesaid family function, I am air-kissed (no real kissing, dahling; these are just poofs of air smacked into the atmosphere) and hugged by long-lost relatives, and lots of folks are mock-annoyed with moi for not winging it to their homes right after my plane landed in Delhi. Am no kisser, but kiss back with enthusiasm. Am no actor, but gaily reassure everyone that I will be at their doors teps pronto. Get tired in the process and head inwards for sustenance. Anyway, as we all settle into the air-conditioned comfort of the room, talk hinges on food and fashion. Am roped into young-wife-talk, which is primarily about clothes and jewellery. Although a big jewellery junkie myself, this casual information exchange on purchasing gold and diamonds in large quantities scalds my ears. What is it with us Punjabis ? Its like we see people and go “Ready ? Get set. One. Two. And flaunt your wealth !”
All this forced listening at family gatherings, makes me long for concealed ear-plugs, a good book, and some nimbu-paani, in that order.
Time, for me, is a variable thing, since I am on vacation. For my parents it moves a bit faster, and for my siblings, who are all working now, its life at top-speed. Long hours are expected and given at work (8-12 hr. days) and my cousin works 6 days a week. Yes, everyone has servants, something that would cost me a big chunk of my salary in the States. Servants cook, clean, chauffeur, garden, baby-sit, queue up in lines to pay electricity bills and much more.
Young couples have it better than before though. Lots of young people are buying houses earlier and setting up their own homes. Leads to way more freedom in lifestyle than before. However, since you are attached to society through mothers, aunts and mothers-in-law, favorite questions in family trivia include marriage and children. If a girl of marriageable age and not married, you are hounded by questions of impending marriage. If a girl and married you are hounded by questions of impending children. Extremely tiresome, but has led to the development of the art of polite snubbing. Polite snubbing, I am told, is an underground art, developed by and for the use of the 20 somethings against nosey relatives, and must be practiced in stealth and absence of immediate family, failing which retribution can be swift and painful.
The “Nanny diaries” is about a nanny (well, duh !), who is called Nanny throughout the book, her employer Mrs.X and her son Grayer. Mrs. X is the original size 2 ice maiden, and thaws only at the extremities, and only for her son and her philandering husband. Nanny wishes to quit faced with such an cold employer (pun intended), but stays on because of the 4 year old Grayer. Initially hostile, Grayer is a genuinely sweet kid. Nanny is a 21 year old at NYU, sharing a tiny apartment with a room-mate and the room-mate’s hairy boyfriend (who often sleeps over).
Also read 
“Million dollar baby”
