Walking with Mani

Cesar Milan is a genius. Sure, Matt and I knew our dog needed more exercise but we used lack of sidewalks, open sewers, and congested traffic as an excuse to skip Prithvi's evening walk. About two months ago our little street dog's territorial instincts became a bit too much to handle. She claimed the couch the seat of her imperial control, growling if ever I deigned to glance in her direction. We knew we needed to make a change.

I turned to the "dog whisperer" for ideas to help us reclaim our couch. After searching through many reviews of his books, I chose Cesar's Way: The Natural, Everyday Guide to Understanding and Correcting Common Dog Problems. I learned that we were treating Prithvi like a human when she really needed to be treated like a dog. And our dog needed more walks with her "pack", aka Matt and me. Little did we know that our pack was missing one of its most important members.

Mani is small for a Chennai street dog but boy is he scrappy! He has sturdy legs, an athletic body, and an alert but kind face. Yes, he is smelly, greasy, and probably home to a colony of fleas but he is a sweetie. We met him when we first moved in a year and a half ago when he started following us any time we came home from the grocery with our bags full of tasty treats. We thought this was pretty funny and dubbed him "Bags". Six months later we learned he had a real name and was something of a celebrity in our neighborhood. Apparently the old guy has been supervising construction sites for the past five years, stamping his approval with paw prints in wet cement.

Mani did not take to Prithvi immediately; it was far from love at first sight. At most he would lift his head as she sauntered past and would silently bare his teeth if her curiosity brought her too close. However, once he got used to sharing his territory with her he had a change of heart. One day Mani began to escort Prithvi on her w-a-l-k's.

With a pat on the head from us, Mani allowed our little Indian dog to sniff his rear to seal the pact. From that point on we have gone walking with Mani. We are quite a sight, our pack of two chatty Americans and two Chennai street dogs. We get more stares than we used to now that we walk with Mani. I can't blame them; it is not every day one sees a clearly kept dog playing with a street veteran like Mani. I also acknowledge that Matt and I are part of the spectacle. I imagine the witnesses of our pack outings thinking "there go those crazy Americans with their dogs. I bet they keep that one in the house! Gross!".

At first people tried to scare him away from us; they thought we didn't want him so close. Eventually our neighbors realized that we liked our stray escort. To tell the truth, Prithvi's behavior changed dramatically with her increased exercise and I suspect due in part to her friendship with Mani. While we treated her like a human, he treats her like a dog. Thank you, Mani!

The dogs patiently wait for each other when they stop to reinforce their territorial rights or say hello to their friends along the way. When we get back to our building Prithvi trots inside while Mani stays at the gate. He knows his home is on the street and that his fans of the neighborhood will continue to feed him and give him scratches behind the ear.

While she might be Princess of Sharanalaya Apartments, Prithvi has accepted her rightful place below Mani, King of RA Puram.

How many does it really take?

Americans strive for efficiency. We invented the cotton gin, the telegraph, the assembly line, and rolled toilet paper. Americans favor precision. We like post cards, Cliff's Notes, headlines scrolling at the bottom of our TV screens, and, gulp, Twitter. We like our goods to be cheap and our information to come quickly.

India does not seem to share our love affair with streamline. In a country whose population figures run ten digits, tasks are completed differently than in places with fewer people to employ. There is someone to do the shopping, someone to do the cooking, someone to do the sweeping inside, and someone to do the sweeping outside. There is one person to wash the laundry while his neighbor will iron it. My short time on the sub-continent has elicited from me three distinct responses to this colossal change: confusion, irritation, and amusement.


Confusion: How many does it take to load luggage into a car?

I confess that Matt and I have much to learn when it comes to packing. While we have both traveled extensively, packing for a trip can hardly prepare one for packing to move. Yes, four suitcases should do it. That is more than enough room, too much, maybe. Incorrect. Baggage handlers marked three of our four checked suitcases as "heavy"; "heavy" doesn't quite do the weight justice.

The staff of The Claridges Hotel in Delhi made a team sport out of loading the car with our bags. Four of them stood around surveying the scene. There was the man who opens the car door, the man who opens the hotel door, the guard, and the driver. They discuss which bag should go in first. Where should it go? Ok, we'll put two in the trunk. Now we'll put one in the front seat. Wait, turn it on its side. No, not like that, like this. Hmph. Well, let's try this. They all have ideas about how it should go. When all was finally crammed into the small car, I was dumbfounded at how it took so many people to accomplish that one end. Couldn't have one person done all of that in less time? Perhaps, but that is not how things are done in India.


Irritation: How many counters does one have to visit to check in to a flight?

Matt and I were eager to catch our flight from Delhi to -at long last- settle in to our first home together. We each took a luggage cart, piling them with our bags. A younger man with Down's Syndrome hijacked Matt's looking for a tip. He lead us to what looked to be the correct place. In the U.S., and Western Europe for that matter, one checks in inside the main terminal. Not in Delhi. The guards stopped us, requesting to see our tickets. We confusedly explained that we booked e-tickets and still needed to pick them up. He pointed to a separate building.

So we lethargically pushed our bags to the appointed hall to collect our "tickets". After standing in line and presenting our passports, the ticketing agent handed us print-outs of our itinerary. This is what we had to get? Are these our boarding passes?

No. There was another counter inside the terminal where we would leave our bags and get our boarding passes. Seriously? My irritation was minor but I certainly felt it. Why would we have to get two different pieces of paper that said the same thing? Ugh. What a waste of time! This seems ridiculous to me. C'mon India, let's cut time and cost by doing all of that at the same counter! But...that's not the way things are done. At that moment I could not see any reason behind it.


Amusement: How many people does it take to open the front door?

After waking up at 6am, the useful side of jet lag, I decided to join Matt for his first morning at the consulate. I was so excited to meet all of our new colleagues that I paid no attention while locking the front door to our apartment. Mistake.

I spent the next six hours introducing myself to new people and saying hello to those we knew from DC. I toured the consulate and got a better feel for the American community. A group of us braved the streets to go out to lunch where we had decent approximations of Mexican and Chinese cuisine. At this point I was quite content to head back home to start unpacking. Matt's sponsor called for his driver to take me home; it is strange to be chauffeured everywhere, but it is also necessary.

When the driver dropped me off in front of our apartment I smiled, said hello to the guard, and headed upstairs. Unaware of my imminent difficulty, I shoved the key into the top lock of our door.

One turn to the left. Click. I then focused my attention on the bottom lock. One turn to the right. Click. The door is still closed. Another turn to the right. Click. Still closed. Pushing on the door was not going to work so I tried my hand at another turn of the key. Nothing! So it went for about fifteen minutes.

When the heat and tired frustration finally sunk in, I ventured outside and down the driveway to enlist the help of our guard, Brashant. He sat draped over his plastic chair with two friends chatting at his feet. With the most pitiful face I could muster I held up my key and explained that I was having trouble opening my front door. Brashant hopped to his feet and followed me up to our apartment. Another fifteen minutes passed and we were no closer to getting me inside. Accepting his own failure, Brashant asked me to wait a few minutes. He soon reappeared with his two friends from the street: one with his flared jeans and Jheri curl and the other with his Caterpillar-like mustache and pot belly.

The three of them formed a semi-circle around the door, grasping for a turn at the locks. Together, then individually, then together again they tried any number of combinations to open my door. Not one of them was correct. I could do nothing but smile and laugh with them, men smaller than I. They were so kind and quite determined to help "madam" inside. In the end they called the building manager who took some time but eventually performed magic on that puzzle of a door.

How many does it take to open the front door? Sometimes just one, but sometimes more than that. India is already teaching such lessons. Living in a big city in the U.S., people don't concern themselves with the problems of others. Not here. Life is still lived on the community level. There are many people and they make them selves indispensable to one another. And for them, it works.

How many does it really take? I used to think I knew, but now I am not so sure.

-Abbie