Home Sweet Home

I was very happy to finally arrive in my home city of Hyderabad, particularly when a smiling family of three greeted me at the airport. Rani is a chemistry teacher at the high school here, and she is my designated "facilitator." She has a list of responsibilities from the Fulbright, including taking me to local parks, train stations, and restaurants. Her husband Mani is an artist specializing in Ganesha, the deity that has an elephant head. They and their 7-year-old daughter came to the airport to pick me up.

Mani was too excited about the opportunity to be my guide. When they couldn’t decide what restaurant would suit my delicate stomach, he decided that they would take me home with them so they could cook for me. So on the way home he stopped at a shop and disappeared for a long period of time. He apologized for the delay and explained that they first show you the live chicken before butchering it. Although I wasn’t very hungry, it sounded a whole lot better than the dead chickens that hang around the outdoor market all day in the sun.

So I arrived in their cozy apartment and Mani continued to eagerly ask me questions and then just as eagerly answer them. After I had listed all of the countries I had visited, he asked me which was the most beautiful. Then he proceeded to tell me that Switzerland was the most beautiful. When lunch was ready, they sat at the table with me and watched me eat. I had been warned that this might occur, but it still felt very awkward, particularly because they served me a lot of food and I wasn’t particularly hungry. After a few bites of each dish, Mani would look at me and say, "I think it is too spicy for you" or "I do not think you like it." It was clear he was trying to predict what I was thinking, but he wasn’t very good at it. I told them I was not very hungry, but in India most things are not spoken verbally. Americans tend to be more blunt and open with their feelings and opinions, whereas Indian communication is much more beneath the surface.

This cultural difference became even more apparent after lunch at 3:30. Mani told me that they would bring me to my apartment now (finally, I was so anxious to see it!) and then they would pick me up later for dinner. Rani protested and said maybe I was tired and would want to unpack and relax. Her husband adamantly protested. "I have been with German and Irish people! They do not get tired!" The conversation went back and forth in front of me, and I looked on helplessly. I’m sure neither of them thought I would be forthcoming with an opinion of my own. To my chagrin, ultimately Mani won and I was to be picked up at 7:30.

But finally we arrived at my apartment and I lugged my bags out of their car for the last time (oh so many over-weight fees at the airport—it’s the curse of being an English teacher who wants all these books with her!). The landlady’s son greeted me with an English accent and helped me carry them in. Soon after, the landlady, Zeba, greeted me. I am living on the ground level of their house, and they live above me. The apartment was surprisingly large. After seeing Rani’s very modest apartment and hearing her apologize many times for it’s size, I was embarrassed to see the space that only I would be occupying--a large formal dining area, a good-sized living room with TV, a kitchen, two bedrooms with double beds, and two bathrooms with hot water and western toilets. All in all, it’s bigger than my house in Wallingford. I’ve decided to just close off the extra bathroom and bedroom. I don’t want to clean them anyway. My first move when I arrived? Put up the mosquitto net, of course.