I have mentioned briefly before how wonderful the community we live in is, and in particular, how caring our next door neighbours are. What I haven’t mentioned is Dylan’s somewhat unconventional way of establishing these friendships. In the words of our now-friend Saumil “I have seen a lot of homeless people around the city, and they often have no shoes. But never a white guy.” As I said, unconventional.
There was a fire alarm, some time back in March, before Jasper and I arrived here. Except it wasn’t a fire alarm exactly, because for some reason the alarm didn’t sound, and the tannoy we now know they can use to name and shame each and every apartment into evacuation wasn’t working that day. We know it’s working now since the mock fire drill last weekend - "will the residents of Apartment 5102 please assemble downstairs immediately. We repeat, immediately. 5102”. So, instead of a fire alarm, it was a fire. A small one, but enough to get Dylan up off the sofa where he was taking a post-work, pre-cricket breather. Smelling the smoke, he went to open the door and saw the corridor filled with it. The way he tells it, it was only after he heard the door slam behind him that he fully took in the fact that he wasn’t wearing shoes, had no phone and no key on him. Now that I am here, I question this daily as it takes me 3 or 4 attempts to slam the door shut without using the key to ease the catch of the lock. Still, the result was Dylan standing in a corridor filled with smoke with nothing but the clothes on his back. Thank goodness he was dressed, or he might not have made the same sort of friendships.
Once downstairs (able to use the elevators still, or it would have been 21 flights of barefoot stair running), Dylan joined a chaotic throng of residents who were in equal parts worried and angry at the electrical fire (worrying), and the lack of fire alarm (displeasing to say the least). As he hopped from one barefoot to the next, in an attempt to communicate to a security guard that he needed to get hold of the master key to get back into the apartment, he was rescued (and interpreted) by Saumil, who by happy coincidence, had a spare pair of shoes on him. Recognising, at some point, that Dylan was not some homeless vagrant, but in fact his parents’ neighbour, Saumil took charge. Having sorted the key issue (by summoning a master locksmith from 3 hours away), Saumil proceeded to invite Dylan to his apartment where they had dinner with Saumil’s wife and 8-year-old twins, and drank gin. I suppose, now I write it down, a friendship forged over 3 hours of gin is fairly conventional.
Since Jasper and I have arrived, the hospitality has been more than extended to us, and we are now at the point where Jasper rushes to the door when the bell rings, to see if some tasty treats (in particular, thepla) have made their way down the corridor for him. And it’s not just this lovely family who have made us feel so welcome; other neighbours, on meeting us for the first time, introduce themselves with their name and apartment number and insist that if we need anything, we can pop over. I believe they genuinely mean it, but luckily we haven’t had any crises yet.
This generosity of spirit might have something to do with the fact that we stand out a bit. Not a bit, a lot. We are immediately identifiable as the new kids on the block, and from what I can glean from other mothers who stop to chat and seem to know Jasper’s name despite my having never met them, the children in the compound are more than a little intrigued by our cheeky, blond-haired, blue-eyed mischief-maker. But I’ll take what they are offering, as it has made settling in here a lot easier. I just hope that Jasper learns that he can’t do anything without everyone knowing; I have had one precocious 7 year old tell me that the basketball coach had to ask Jasper’s didi to take him somewhere else after he repeatedly tried to gatecrash a junior training session, and another tell me that, in his opinion from having watched them, Jasper’s didi is very strict with him. Not strict enough around the basketball court, if the rumours are true!
Whether they are behaving or not, little people are great connectors of mothers (and didis/ nannies of course). There are 5 tiny terrors in the compound; all of whom will turn two in December or January, and who make for a lively, impromptu playgroup most evenings. A couple of weeks ago, on a particularly hot evening when the much older children were running riot in the indoor play area, Jasper and I were invited up to play at home with one of the other babies. It was fascinating; for Jasper because of the unbelievable range of toys this boy has, and for me, because two of the other mothers immediately started to question me about how I met my husband (on the hockey pitch in Yangon, for anyone who doesn’t know). Both of them, it turns out, had arranged marriages. I don’t know why it surprised me, but somehow their international educations and outwardly modern attitudes still leave room for some very traditional family values. They explained that they were allowed to say no, if they didn’t like the husbands selected for them by the matchmaker, but both of them were very happy. They then directed me to my newest obsession on Netflix, namely a show called Indian Matchmaking. I am hooked! While it is undoubtedly sensationalist TV, and mostly follows impossibly glamorous members of the US Indian diaspora on their quest for love, there are a couple of scenes from Mumbai which makes it feel like research for my life here. I now know that most marriages here are referred to as just that, marriages, and were arranged or assisted in some way. A ‘love marriage’ is what Dylan and I have. While it’s obviously not part of our culture in either the UK or Australia, it does make me think about Jasper and his potential future partner; if I could help him to find someone that had similar family values, earning capacity and personal interests, why wouldn’t I?! Don’t worry, I won’t intervene. Unless I have to*.
*Applications will open soon.
Photo: Jasper laughing in the face of my attempt at pizza night, as he wolfs down a roti from next door.
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