I had a wonderful day yesterday shopping with the mother in law! Not a statement you are likely to hear very often I know, particularly when the arch nemesis of the house husband is traditionally the m.i.l. It is just one of a number of occurrence's that have happened over the last week in the twilight world of the semi-house husband that have left me realising mine is not a normal existence. I say semi-house husband because I feel I have been operating under false pretences. 'A' has been off work and the m.i.l has been here so my position has been temporarily redundant. I kissed the boy's goodbye last Thursday and agreed to see them again tomorrow, then handed them over to Grandma after first making her promise not to mess up my routine.
Relieved temporarily of my usual duties I find myself gradually slipping back into "lazy dad" mode. You know the one I am talking about, where us dad's pretend we are listening to the check list of stuff we need before we go out but are really wondering if Xabi Alonso has signed for another club over night, or if Glen Johnson's signing will make a significant difference and.......... wow I have never noticed that picture on that wall............ sorry, yes dear I have got it. This is the mode that makes us present, in all but spirit and end's up with a bollocking because an hour ago you said "yes" when the wife asked if you had the changing bag but what you really meant was "I am not listening, I am in lazy dad mode"! I have impressed myself at the speed at which I have managed to switch back into it but am secretly relishing the idea of getting my old job back.
At this juncture I feel it would be appropriate to try and put some meat on the bones of the title of today's blog. I have been involved in my first crash! It was bound to happen. Believing that I could just jump on my bike and ride around the lawlessness of Delhi's highway's, with no repercussion's was clearly insane. I had cycled to the shop to pick up some beer and was sweating my way back when the incident occurred. I was coming up to a t-junction to turn left and in true Indian tradition went to pull out without stopping to look. Unfortunately the rick in front of me had other idea's and elected to slap on the brakes. I managed to skid to a halt but the guy on the motorbike behind me wasn't so lucky.
All I heard was a screech and a crash closely followed by a baying mob shouting and screaming. The rickshaw hit the gas and disappeared in a cloud of dust while I stood there panicking. In India crashes are generally not settled as amicably as back in Blighty. They don't wander round each other's vehicles surveying the damage, while speaking on their phones and asking Churchill to sort them out a hire car. The baying mob usually makes a snap decision who is to blame then kick the living shit out of them before the police turn up!
It was with this in mind that I alighted my cycle and threw my arms in the air gesticulating to the mob that it was all the rickshaw drivers fault and not the little defenceless Westerner. It seemed to have the desired affect and the mob turned their attention's to the rick and it's getaway before calming down when the smell of blood disappeared. In the meantime I had approached the poor biker to find him lying on the floor with the bike squashing his leg. He was an elderly gentleman who seemed to be taking it all rather well. The mob returned and together we helped him to his feet and I began dusting him down and trying to explain how it wasn't my fault and please don't get this lot to kick my teeth in. It was while doing this that the man started to insist he was ok and that it was all no problem while pushing away my attempts at dusting down his shirt, so I turned my attentions to his trousers. I came across no objections to this and then realised why. My hand was no longer brushing against cloth and flesh but something harder, something less malleable, something... something... wooden. The penny dropped and I now realised why he had not been writhing around on the floor in pain. The bike had landed on his leg of mighty oak and probably done more damage to the petrol tank than him. With things's seemingly ok the mob dispersed along with my fear of a shoeing. The sense of relief was overwhelming! It surely couldn't be any better, I had been saved from a kicking by a wooden leg!
With lady luck firmly on my side and a skip in my step I - excuse the pun - hopped back on my cycle with a feeling of immortality and rode off in to the sunset. This is how it seems to be for me at the moment. Successful shopping trips with the m.i.l, being saved by a wooden leg, made redundant -all highly irregular occurrences I'm sure you will agree but all combining nicely to keep a smile on my face. Surely nothing can wipe it off in this fabulous city. Can it?
Tuesday, 30 June 2009
Tuesday, 23 June 2009
Where did it all go right?
According to a 2002 study by the American Institute for Men's Health in conjunction with The American Heart Association, there is a good chance that becoming the indianhousehusband is going to kill me! It is a fact, house husbandry is officially bad for my health. The study found that "fathers that chose to stay at home have an 82% higher chance of heart disease"! How scary is that? My blood pressure has risen just typing it and I have started to projectile sweat - though that might have something to do with the fact that it is in the 40's for the 5th week on the trot- I am struggling to sleep at night and I am off my food. Do these studies become self fulfilling prophecies or is there some fact behind them? Further research revealed even more disturbing news. High achieving women are three times more likely to suffer a stroke! It appears that 'A' and I are seriously jeopardising our health by choosing to change roles. They give no reason as to why this should be but hypothesise that in both cases it is to do with increased stress. What is it that makes women feel the pressure more than men at work and vice-versa for men in the home? More to the point why do 'A' and I seem to be bucking the trend? 'A' positively thrives on the stress and I feel healthier than I have in three years (coincidentally since I last went back to work).
I was pondering these facts while travelling to the gym -in the vain hope it would lower my now ballooning blood pressure- in an auto-rick when I realised just being in the "rick" travelling on the manic Delhi roads was probably shortening my life expectancy so why worry about it. Unfortunately worry I did because you see that is what I do. Worry!! In fact that is what all us male Conde's do. Worry. If there was an Olympic event for worrying my dad would now be sir Jim Conde after winning 5 golds on the trot. I have always denied it but If truth be told I would be Matthew Pinsent to his Steve Redgrave. I worry about the minor things like Rafa breaking into a sweat (anything from chronic dehydration to Ebola in my eyes), to Iran developing a nuclear weapons capability (surely imminent if I have nothing else to worry about). I actually laugh at 'A' because she is a worrier yet this is just a big macho facade, the tears of a clown to hide the fact that life in general terrifies me. I do my best worrying on public transport on my own and thus started drifting into worry world on the way to the gym.
The worry this time is that I have never really been much good at anything. The fact that I feel more suited to being a house husband might have something to do with the fact that I have been crap at pretty much everything else. I am worried that if I fail the course I am about to do there really is nothing left for me to try! If I did find something new to try what would then happen if i was crap at that as well? Oh no the blood pressure is now sky high and I think I could actually pop it here in the "rick"!
A set of traffic lights snaps me out of it. When you pull up at a set of lights in Delhi you snap out of what ever you are thinking of because all of a sudden the draught stops and the heat hits you. It is a heat like nothing else, the sun beats down through the vinyl roof and up from the asphalt through the metal floors slowly roasting you. A drip of sweat on my legs and a tap on my arm from a child of Rafa's age begging makes me realise that life holds no fears for me. A huge amount of what you see in this wonderful country of contradictions makes you realise you have nothing to worry about at all. Most people reading this (if anyone does) have been born in to incredible privilege and should be hugely thankful. I now know that the path you choose doesn't really have any influence on your chances of suffering a stroke, no one can say what percentage chance of getting heart disease I have and nothing is preordained. It is all about how you cope with the day to day struggle that we all have and actually trying to enjoy it. When all is said and done I am tremendously lucky, reasonably fit and incredibly happy. I am just worried now it will all go wrong!!
Friday, 19 June 2009
De-constructing the house husband
In my new role as Indianhousehusband (how much longer can I use the term new role)? I have become more curious as to the extent of house husbandry around the globe. I wonder if - as I think in some of my more paranoid moments - it is viewed as career failure on the male's part, plain laziness, a sign of weakness or just plain weird! I think all these thoughts have gone through my peers - and family's -minds when told what we were planning to do but discretion being the better part of valour thought again about voicing it. I have to admit that from time to time I have sat and thought about our reasons myself, particularly when- like this morning- I get 'the fear'!
The fear is an odd little idiom that arises some morning's on 'A's' departure to work. It is not a literal thing, just a small nagging doubt in the back of the head that suddenly screams:
"she is gone, now you are all alone, how ya gonna cope"?
It disappears as fast as it comes but it is there long enough to make an impression. I think it will eventually go for good and I now think I know why it happens. This is all essentially alien to us bloke's. We are not - so the scientist's tell us - genetically predisposed to looking after children, we just do not have that maternal instinct. There is probably an element of truth to this but as far as I am aware, it is not proven that women are better at childcare than men, it is just that we have not had the practice. Well this myth is about to be destroyed, trampled under the size 11 feet of the Indianhousehusband. I vow to Finally bring us house husband's out of the closet, liberate us from our shame. I am going to become the poster boy for the stay-at-home-dad generation! Once I can make a decision on what to give the boy's for lunch!
Now this is essentially the problem and mainly what the difference is between mum's and dad's and I don't know if it is instinct or just practice. 'A' always seems to be completely,effortlessly in control. She never seem's to have to think about what to do for lunch or where to take them for fun or even what to dress them in. When I think of lunch I struggle to get passed beans on toast and some mornings it can take me an hour to get the boy's dressed! Is it just me or is this the norm for all men, working or not? Is this a maternal instinct kicking in or practice and planning?
I think it is fair to say that house husband's in India are a bit of a rarity, a google search of house husband in India tends to turn up things like this:-
Woman found buried in basement of HOUSE, HUSBAND arrested.
Woman beaten to death in her HOUSE, HUSBAND charged with murder.
Or my personal favourite:-
A man who becomes a HOUSE HUSBAND in India has taken leave of his senses and clearly has some mental health problems! (quote in the Indian express)
Despite this it does occur, although less frequently than around the world. Canada would seem to be the most liberated place when it comes to house husbandry, mainly down to the parity in men's and women's renumeration. This gives the couple the option of deciding who would like to be at home rather than who has to. All very civilised I am sure you will agree and our decision was taken along these lines. Like our own Tony Blair, who made a Faustian deal with Cherie - and no doubt beelzebub - that whoever got elected to parliament first would be the one who's career they followed (even at the possible detriment of the other's equally high flying one). The only difference's being that our decision was about who could get us to India first and there was only really one high flyer in our house and it wasn't me! All things considered though I still prefer the Indian explanation of it all. It is typical that this fiercely spiritual country should come up with one word to describe how home life should be, GRIHASTASHRAM.
In the Hindu family there is a Griha swami who is the head of the house (the man) and the griha swamini (his wife). In our case 'A' becomes the Grihalakshmi (the wealth of the house) and I become Grihashoba (glory of the house). The Sanskrit word to describe my house-hold duties is Grihast which is derived from the word Grih meaning home. When things are working perfectly a couple are said to live in a state of Grihastashram which literally translates as nurturing your family young and old through the travails of life! Sounds perfect to me, forget maternal instinct, alpha male's, house wife's and house housband's, aren't we all trying to be Grihastashram's?
The fear is an odd little idiom that arises some morning's on 'A's' departure to work. It is not a literal thing, just a small nagging doubt in the back of the head that suddenly screams:
"she is gone, now you are all alone, how ya gonna cope"?
It disappears as fast as it comes but it is there long enough to make an impression. I think it will eventually go for good and I now think I know why it happens. This is all essentially alien to us bloke's. We are not - so the scientist's tell us - genetically predisposed to looking after children, we just do not have that maternal instinct. There is probably an element of truth to this but as far as I am aware, it is not proven that women are better at childcare than men, it is just that we have not had the practice. Well this myth is about to be destroyed, trampled under the size 11 feet of the Indianhousehusband. I vow to Finally bring us house husband's out of the closet, liberate us from our shame. I am going to become the poster boy for the stay-at-home-dad generation! Once I can make a decision on what to give the boy's for lunch!
Now this is essentially the problem and mainly what the difference is between mum's and dad's and I don't know if it is instinct or just practice. 'A' always seems to be completely,effortlessly in control. She never seem's to have to think about what to do for lunch or where to take them for fun or even what to dress them in. When I think of lunch I struggle to get passed beans on toast and some mornings it can take me an hour to get the boy's dressed! Is it just me or is this the norm for all men, working or not? Is this a maternal instinct kicking in or practice and planning?
I think it is fair to say that house husband's in India are a bit of a rarity, a google search of house husband in India tends to turn up things like this:-
Woman found buried in basement of HOUSE, HUSBAND arrested.
Woman beaten to death in her HOUSE, HUSBAND charged with murder.
Or my personal favourite:-
A man who becomes a HOUSE HUSBAND in India has taken leave of his senses and clearly has some mental health problems! (quote in the Indian express)
Despite this it does occur, although less frequently than around the world. Canada would seem to be the most liberated place when it comes to house husbandry, mainly down to the parity in men's and women's renumeration. This gives the couple the option of deciding who would like to be at home rather than who has to. All very civilised I am sure you will agree and our decision was taken along these lines. Like our own Tony Blair, who made a Faustian deal with Cherie - and no doubt beelzebub - that whoever got elected to parliament first would be the one who's career they followed (even at the possible detriment of the other's equally high flying one). The only difference's being that our decision was about who could get us to India first and there was only really one high flyer in our house and it wasn't me! All things considered though I still prefer the Indian explanation of it all. It is typical that this fiercely spiritual country should come up with one word to describe how home life should be, GRIHASTASHRAM.
In the Hindu family there is a Griha swami who is the head of the house (the man) and the griha swamini (his wife). In our case 'A' becomes the Grihalakshmi (the wealth of the house) and I become Grihashoba (glory of the house). The Sanskrit word to describe my house-hold duties is Grihast which is derived from the word Grih meaning home. When things are working perfectly a couple are said to live in a state of Grihastashram which literally translates as nurturing your family young and old through the travails of life! Sounds perfect to me, forget maternal instinct, alpha male's, house wife's and house housband's, aren't we all trying to be Grihastashram's?
Tuesday, 16 June 2009
The coffee morning.
I am back in Delhi after a flying visit back to Blighty where my mind was firmly put at rest. Not only is my mum doing great and being incredibly positive she also found time to feed me up and come up with a solution for Ghandi's heel, which you will be pleased to hear is on the mend. Sometime's only mum will do when it comes to healing ailment's. It is almost like they have 4 years at med. school built in to their dna structure, something the male of the species will never be able to match. Thanks again mum, it was great to see you.
The return flight was filled with equal amounts of excitement and dread. I was pant wettingly excited about the prospect of seeing the boy's and 'A' again but utterly terrified at the thought of my daily routine being demolished by the enemy of the stay at home parent, 'The other half'!! Will she have changed Silas's sleep times? Will she have remembered to let Raffi kick her in the groin for 20 mins in the afternoon to get rid of his agression? (he needs it as he has no peers to do it to). Will she have turned the mossie killer in the boy's bedroom on at night? More to the point, will they have had more fun without me? This is the real problem if I am honest. That little nagging thought that is always in the back of my head that I really do not want answering. Am I really any good at this house huband lark or would the boy's be better off with their mum?Can a dad seriously expect to be able to replace the maternal instinct? Would I ever know how to heal Ghandi's heel? I find myself wondering if mum's are ever riddled with the self doubt that I am currently experiencing. Do they ever sit on the settee watching Jeremy Kyle and think that the children would actually be better off with their dad? I don't think so but, perhaps they do and they are just better at hiding it. Normally I would throw this out to you helpful readers for the answer but now I no longer need to as I have joined the Delhi Network.
The Delhi Network is a support group for ex-pats of all nationalities which offers advice and support to the 'newbies' in town. They meet at a hotel very near us on a Tuesday morning for tea and cakes so I decided to go along with the boy's to see if I could meet some like minded fella's to bounce my new found paranoia off. I arrived in the hotel and was suprised but not displeased to find it populated by women only! The boy's and I had stumbled into the very heart of the beast that is "the coffe morning"! I can only imagine what the look on my face must have been like but I am thinking something along the lines of Mary Whitehouse being shown a video of Debbie Does Dallas, pure horror morphing into mild intrigue! Standing there looking like six o'clock half struck a lady asked if there was anything she could do for me? Resisting the urge to dive straight in and ask whether she thought dad's could ever do the parenting 'thing' as well as a mum's, I asked who I needed to speak to about membership? Within five minutes I was sat at a table with a dozen women, a jam doughnut and a large skinny latte discussing whether or not the Peter and Katie split was just for publicity. I didn't even know who Peter and Katie were and assumed they were talking about someone from the club. Then someone mentioned Jordan and the penny dropped. It is at this point when in my normal circle of friends that the the size of her tit's would come up but instead I commented on what an excellent business women she appears to be. Apart from Jordan I felt completely at home as we discussed what we do and do not miss about home, how important routine is for children and how hard it is to get a decent croissant in Delhi. Two hours fairly flew by and I found myself actually enjoying myself. Maybe it was the adult conversation that I have been craving, maybe it was the coffee, or maybe it was the fact that I was the only adult male and had two very cute kid's in tow and hence got quite a lot of attention. I am not sure but rest assured I am now a huge fan of the ladies coffee morning and can't wait for the Clarins make-over which is happening next week.
I think I am now gradually getting the hang of being the indianhousehusband. It seems that 'guilt' and 'easy option's' are essentially what it all boils down to. It is the easy option to give the boy's biscuits and chocolate rather than make them eat fruit but giving them the easy option makes you feel guilty. Watching Cbeebies is an easier option than making a spiderman mask with them but makes you feel guilty. Letting them entertain each other while you take time to surf the net is the easy option but again the hand of mr. guilt is always tapping on your shoulder. I am fast learning that when looking after the kid's, the more you put into it the more you get out. The easy option is not really an option after all. Feeling's of guilt are best replaced with the pure smug elation of watching them eat a bowl of fruit or jumping off the bed in their home made spiderman masks. If I can just learn to make cup cakes for my Tuesday coffee morning's and take an open university course in pre. med. I think I could end up being perfect! Got to sign off now as I need to look on the clarins web site and find a good face scrub before next week.
The return flight was filled with equal amounts of excitement and dread. I was pant wettingly excited about the prospect of seeing the boy's and 'A' again but utterly terrified at the thought of my daily routine being demolished by the enemy of the stay at home parent, 'The other half'!! Will she have changed Silas's sleep times? Will she have remembered to let Raffi kick her in the groin for 20 mins in the afternoon to get rid of his agression? (he needs it as he has no peers to do it to). Will she have turned the mossie killer in the boy's bedroom on at night? More to the point, will they have had more fun without me? This is the real problem if I am honest. That little nagging thought that is always in the back of my head that I really do not want answering. Am I really any good at this house huband lark or would the boy's be better off with their mum?Can a dad seriously expect to be able to replace the maternal instinct? Would I ever know how to heal Ghandi's heel? I find myself wondering if mum's are ever riddled with the self doubt that I am currently experiencing. Do they ever sit on the settee watching Jeremy Kyle and think that the children would actually be better off with their dad? I don't think so but, perhaps they do and they are just better at hiding it. Normally I would throw this out to you helpful readers for the answer but now I no longer need to as I have joined the Delhi Network.
The Delhi Network is a support group for ex-pats of all nationalities which offers advice and support to the 'newbies' in town. They meet at a hotel very near us on a Tuesday morning for tea and cakes so I decided to go along with the boy's to see if I could meet some like minded fella's to bounce my new found paranoia off. I arrived in the hotel and was suprised but not displeased to find it populated by women only! The boy's and I had stumbled into the very heart of the beast that is "the coffe morning"! I can only imagine what the look on my face must have been like but I am thinking something along the lines of Mary Whitehouse being shown a video of Debbie Does Dallas, pure horror morphing into mild intrigue! Standing there looking like six o'clock half struck a lady asked if there was anything she could do for me? Resisting the urge to dive straight in and ask whether she thought dad's could ever do the parenting 'thing' as well as a mum's, I asked who I needed to speak to about membership? Within five minutes I was sat at a table with a dozen women, a jam doughnut and a large skinny latte discussing whether or not the Peter and Katie split was just for publicity. I didn't even know who Peter and Katie were and assumed they were talking about someone from the club. Then someone mentioned Jordan and the penny dropped. It is at this point when in my normal circle of friends that the the size of her tit's would come up but instead I commented on what an excellent business women she appears to be. Apart from Jordan I felt completely at home as we discussed what we do and do not miss about home, how important routine is for children and how hard it is to get a decent croissant in Delhi. Two hours fairly flew by and I found myself actually enjoying myself. Maybe it was the adult conversation that I have been craving, maybe it was the coffee, or maybe it was the fact that I was the only adult male and had two very cute kid's in tow and hence got quite a lot of attention. I am not sure but rest assured I am now a huge fan of the ladies coffee morning and can't wait for the Clarins make-over which is happening next week.
I think I am now gradually getting the hang of being the indianhousehusband. It seems that 'guilt' and 'easy option's' are essentially what it all boils down to. It is the easy option to give the boy's biscuits and chocolate rather than make them eat fruit but giving them the easy option makes you feel guilty. Watching Cbeebies is an easier option than making a spiderman mask with them but makes you feel guilty. Letting them entertain each other while you take time to surf the net is the easy option but again the hand of mr. guilt is always tapping on your shoulder. I am fast learning that when looking after the kid's, the more you put into it the more you get out. The easy option is not really an option after all. Feeling's of guilt are best replaced with the pure smug elation of watching them eat a bowl of fruit or jumping off the bed in their home made spiderman masks. If I can just learn to make cup cakes for my Tuesday coffee morning's and take an open university course in pre. med. I think I could end up being perfect! Got to sign off now as I need to look on the clarins web site and find a good face scrub before next week.
Monday, 8 June 2009
Ghandi's heel
I have got Ghandi's heel. I know this because a gentleman at the chai stand told me. It never ceases to amaze me what you can discover at the chai stand. Ghandi's heel is a particular nasty looking problem where most of your heel skin rots away leaving it looking a little like an elephant's foot. It is known as Ghandi's heel because the great man himself was afflicted with the problem because of the thousands of miles over several years he walked around India leading his people from the darkness into the light. He did these vast distances wearing a pair of wooden flip flop's! Seriously, he made them himself and if you have never seen them Google it to see how uncomfortable they were, it is astonishing that he got from his house to the street below! It is with a fair amount of guilt then that I have succumbed to the same problem, seeing as how I have been wearing a pair of £1.99 vulcanised rubber Top Shop flip flops and have walked no further than from my house to the shops twice a day. It is a truly disgusting looking thing, not helped by the fact that here, you could wash your feet 20 times a day and still never get them clean. During our stay at our luxury hotel (don't want to name it for fear of arrest after this confession) I liberated a good 40 bars of L'occitaine soap which we have subsequently found out sells here for about £8 a bar! I have used about £200 worth trying to rid myself of Ghandi's heel but to no avail and am now spending hour after hour hanging out with the chai wallah in the hope of finding someone who can give me a cure. All suggestions gratefully recieved.
After my last desperate post, things have taken a turn for the better (despite Ghandi's best efforts). Better news has come from home but still I am heading back for a few days to put my mind at rest and hopefully cheer up my mum. We have also now managed to get a housekeeper called Indumathi who is only 3' 2" and could probably fit in my pocket. She uses a stool to get to the cutlery draw but is great for cleaning under the beds which she does without bending down. She is also a fantastic cook and is serving up the most amazing variety of spicy curries which has helped enormously in lifting my spirits. If the way to a man's heart is indeed through his stomach she could well be a future mrs. Conde. She was one of many we saw and at the money she wanted per year even the queen of mean, the ayatollah of low dollar ie Amanda didn't have the heart to beat her down! Oh shit, She has just read this over my shoulder and stopped my pocket money which means no chai hence no cure for the heel.
I have been trying to get my head around how the Indian roads work as we are contemplating buying an Ambassador. The Ambassador is made by the hindustan motor company of India and based on the Morris Oxford. It is pure Raj understated cool and I am very excited at the prospect of cruising round Delhi with the family in relative safety -compared to the seat of your pants terror associated with our daily auto-ric rides. The main problem is that I don't want a driver, I want to be able to drive it myself and in order to do this I need to get to grips with the roads. In an effort to do this I have decided to take the bull by the horns and pound the asphalt on my mountain bike which probably has the same risk factor as biking down Everest. Each manoeuvre could easily be your last. If the thundering traffic doesn't get you there is a good chance the heat and polution will. It is quite an experience and causes utter amazement at every set of lights to the gobsmacked comuters. I was told yesterday that the only people that cycle on the Indian roads are the people that have absolutely no other choice. I am doing it for pleasure, something they find very hard to understand. So far, what I have managed to glean is that pedestrians make way for cycles, cycles for motorcycles, motorcycles for auto-ricks, auto-ricks for auto-vans, auto-vans for cars, cars for busses, busses for lorries and everything for cows! There seems to be two basic rules:-
1) There are no rules
2) Always remember rule 1
The highway code will have to be completely rewritten to drive here, nothing we percieve to be right on the roads apply! For instance if you are entering a roundabout, those already on it have to give way to you as long as a) you are driving really fast and b) you beep your horn very loudly. It is compulsory to never stop at a t- junction and under no circumstances should you ever look to the right before turning left. It would also appear that at any time, if enough people try you can turn any road into a one way street. All that needs to happen is traffic to slow and if nothing is coming the other way everyone proceeds to drive down the wrong side of the road and anyone coming that way has to move over, (usualy on to the pavement). It is utter mayhem, cars seem to just fit with every other vehicle just sliding past by a matter of inches. I really don't know if it will ever feel "normal". Luckily for me I happen to have a ready made driver perfect for the road conditions here. Someone who has never really paid any attention to the highway code. Someone who (as anyone who has been in a car with her will vouch) has no sense of space and no fear. Step forward Amanda. Congratulations, you are my new driver!
After my last desperate post, things have taken a turn for the better (despite Ghandi's best efforts). Better news has come from home but still I am heading back for a few days to put my mind at rest and hopefully cheer up my mum. We have also now managed to get a housekeeper called Indumathi who is only 3' 2" and could probably fit in my pocket. She uses a stool to get to the cutlery draw but is great for cleaning under the beds which she does without bending down. She is also a fantastic cook and is serving up the most amazing variety of spicy curries which has helped enormously in lifting my spirits. If the way to a man's heart is indeed through his stomach she could well be a future mrs. Conde. She was one of many we saw and at the money she wanted per year even the queen of mean, the ayatollah of low dollar ie Amanda didn't have the heart to beat her down! Oh shit, She has just read this over my shoulder and stopped my pocket money which means no chai hence no cure for the heel.
I have been trying to get my head around how the Indian roads work as we are contemplating buying an Ambassador. The Ambassador is made by the hindustan motor company of India and based on the Morris Oxford. It is pure Raj understated cool and I am very excited at the prospect of cruising round Delhi with the family in relative safety -compared to the seat of your pants terror associated with our daily auto-ric rides. The main problem is that I don't want a driver, I want to be able to drive it myself and in order to do this I need to get to grips with the roads. In an effort to do this I have decided to take the bull by the horns and pound the asphalt on my mountain bike which probably has the same risk factor as biking down Everest. Each manoeuvre could easily be your last. If the thundering traffic doesn't get you there is a good chance the heat and polution will. It is quite an experience and causes utter amazement at every set of lights to the gobsmacked comuters. I was told yesterday that the only people that cycle on the Indian roads are the people that have absolutely no other choice. I am doing it for pleasure, something they find very hard to understand. So far, what I have managed to glean is that pedestrians make way for cycles, cycles for motorcycles, motorcycles for auto-ricks, auto-ricks for auto-vans, auto-vans for cars, cars for busses, busses for lorries and everything for cows! There seems to be two basic rules:-
1) There are no rules
2) Always remember rule 1
The highway code will have to be completely rewritten to drive here, nothing we percieve to be right on the roads apply! For instance if you are entering a roundabout, those already on it have to give way to you as long as a) you are driving really fast and b) you beep your horn very loudly. It is compulsory to never stop at a t- junction and under no circumstances should you ever look to the right before turning left. It would also appear that at any time, if enough people try you can turn any road into a one way street. All that needs to happen is traffic to slow and if nothing is coming the other way everyone proceeds to drive down the wrong side of the road and anyone coming that way has to move over, (usualy on to the pavement). It is utter mayhem, cars seem to just fit with every other vehicle just sliding past by a matter of inches. I really don't know if it will ever feel "normal". Luckily for me I happen to have a ready made driver perfect for the road conditions here. Someone who has never really paid any attention to the highway code. Someone who (as anyone who has been in a car with her will vouch) has no sense of space and no fear. Step forward Amanda. Congratulations, you are my new driver!
Thursday, 4 June 2009
Bad news Bad news
Thought it was all going too well. Everything appeared to be perfect and yet yesterday it all seemed to fall apart and I had a meltdown of Chernobyl proportions! It's amazing how two pieces of bad news from Blighty can have such differing effects on the psyche of the househusband, one piece knocking me on my arse and the other picking me right back up again. I feel a long way from home all of a sudden and possibly (dare I even mention the word) HOMESICK! It is a very perculiar sensation, something I have never felt in all my time away before but I think I finally understand exactly what it is. India suddenly doesn't feel like home, albeit I am sure temporarily. I feel an overwhelming urge to be back with the rest of the Conde's at this time and am finding it all a bit overwhelming.
The first piece of bad news happened to coincide with my first really tough day with the boy's. I think Amanda used to find the monday tough after a weekend of the whole family being together and this Monday was a horror! All set to start pontificating on the ease of house husbandry and ready to smash down the facade erected by women who paint home life as hell on earth, I got stopped completely in my tracks. Unable to get my head around the bad news and with an unhappy hot baby and a Rafa like a coiled spring I gradually start to lose the plot. Unorganised, emotional, tired, hot, humourless and suddenly very lonely I find my patience wearing thin with the boys. I try to focus on what I have enjoyed so far but can find no solace, everything is shit. India, house husbandry, heat, children, cooking and most of all the 3000 miles seperating me from Mum Dad and Paula (my sister).
After two days of hell and using my usual technique for dealing with worry and stress -ie ignoring it and letting it gradually bubble to the surface - the erruption came over a bottle of cheap Indian white wine (so bad it has to be virtually frozen to even contemplate drinking it). Amanda as usual copped the worst of it as I ranted about my general hate for everything including her sensible, pragmatic approach to any problems. Sorry, PARTICULARLY her sensible, pragmatic approach to any problems. I had now decided (wrongly I hasten to add) it was all in fact her fault and that we should never have come here blah blah blah blah blah - hang on Natasha Henstridge is just about to get naked in the film Species on tv, a moments respite! - blah blah blah blah. I think you get the picture. After much blah blahing from me, a few tears, alot of patience and understanding and sensible words from my fabulous wife all seemed better again. I am left feeling some what pathetic at my lack of mental strength and worried that I have had a meltdown after only one month but realise the enormity of what has happened and vow to get tough.
All this was followed by my second piece of bad news which oxymoronically was a piece of good bad news! The good bad news in question was delivered by a good old mate who will never know what a tonic he was at just the right time. The guy in question happened to mention to me that work was terrible, bad debts were rife, sales were slow and margins were squeezed. Another ex colleague had suffered a particularly hefty bad debt and everybody was generally miserable. The feeling of schandenfreude was immense and though feeling desperately sorry for a really top guy that things were so crap, it actually made me realise how lucky I am to have this opportunity. How I need to stop feeling sorry for myself , sieze the moment and make something of the chance I have here. To understand how lucky I am to spend this amazing time with my wife and boy's but most of all, appreciate the fact that I am in good health and grow some balls and be strong for the person that is going to need me most over the coming months.
The first piece of bad news happened to coincide with my first really tough day with the boy's. I think Amanda used to find the monday tough after a weekend of the whole family being together and this Monday was a horror! All set to start pontificating on the ease of house husbandry and ready to smash down the facade erected by women who paint home life as hell on earth, I got stopped completely in my tracks. Unable to get my head around the bad news and with an unhappy hot baby and a Rafa like a coiled spring I gradually start to lose the plot. Unorganised, emotional, tired, hot, humourless and suddenly very lonely I find my patience wearing thin with the boys. I try to focus on what I have enjoyed so far but can find no solace, everything is shit. India, house husbandry, heat, children, cooking and most of all the 3000 miles seperating me from Mum Dad and Paula (my sister).
After two days of hell and using my usual technique for dealing with worry and stress -ie ignoring it and letting it gradually bubble to the surface - the erruption came over a bottle of cheap Indian white wine (so bad it has to be virtually frozen to even contemplate drinking it). Amanda as usual copped the worst of it as I ranted about my general hate for everything including her sensible, pragmatic approach to any problems. Sorry, PARTICULARLY her sensible, pragmatic approach to any problems. I had now decided (wrongly I hasten to add) it was all in fact her fault and that we should never have come here blah blah blah blah blah - hang on Natasha Henstridge is just about to get naked in the film Species on tv, a moments respite! - blah blah blah blah. I think you get the picture. After much blah blahing from me, a few tears, alot of patience and understanding and sensible words from my fabulous wife all seemed better again. I am left feeling some what pathetic at my lack of mental strength and worried that I have had a meltdown after only one month but realise the enormity of what has happened and vow to get tough.
All this was followed by my second piece of bad news which oxymoronically was a piece of good bad news! The good bad news in question was delivered by a good old mate who will never know what a tonic he was at just the right time. The guy in question happened to mention to me that work was terrible, bad debts were rife, sales were slow and margins were squeezed. Another ex colleague had suffered a particularly hefty bad debt and everybody was generally miserable. The feeling of schandenfreude was immense and though feeling desperately sorry for a really top guy that things were so crap, it actually made me realise how lucky I am to have this opportunity. How I need to stop feeling sorry for myself , sieze the moment and make something of the chance I have here. To understand how lucky I am to spend this amazing time with my wife and boy's but most of all, appreciate the fact that I am in good health and grow some balls and be strong for the person that is going to need me most over the coming months.
Monday, 1 June 2009
Red is the sign of danger!
A friend of mine Jamie, swears blind that nothing red should ever be eaten. It is a fundemental fact of nature he argues, that anything red should be avoided when it comes to culinary matters and takes great pride in knowing that he has spent his whole life avoiding said colour (apart from once when a tomato was hidden in something from burger king). I once had a very animated call from him to announce with great joy that in the paper that day was a story about a boy who had died from eating a tomato! I can only compare his joy to what Ferdinand Magellan must have felt ,when after sailing the world for the first time proved his theory that the world was round and not flat! Justification at last!
You may ask what this all has to do with life in Delhi? Well I can reveal that I have finally found something that our 'dog in a bin' (Silas) doesn't like eating and guess what it is? Tomato! Bearing in mind he has so far been found eating rupee coins, ants, pigeon pooh, his own pooh and a reclining buddah made of plaster of paris this is some revelation. When you add to this the fact Raf has always had a loathing of the red menace, I have to wonder whether my boy's have been 'got at' by Jamie or he does indeed have a point. The problem is that I have had nothing to cook on for a week and the most readily available food for sandwich making is of course tomato. I am now having to chop it up really small and hide it behind large lumps of cheese as I try and squidge it in to Silas's mouth in the hope he will eventually grow to like it. Raf on the other hand is a lost cause and will no doubt spend the rest of his life harbouring some sick wish that someone dies from a tomato allergy! Jamie, I hope you are happy.
Along with the first of finding something Silas dislikes I have had a few of my own in my new role. Some, probably you desperate housewifes may have experienced, some I am sure you will just think weird. After going to visit Raf's new school recently I found myself drifting off and looking out the window as it started to rain saying, "bugger, I have got a load of washing on the line". I am not sure if I said it out loud or if it was in my head but either way I found the experience deeply disturbing. I ended up not hearing a word said by his new head teacher as my masculinity had a subconcious wrestle with my feminine side. Luckily I managed to stay just on the masculine side but then found myself having another first. Going for dinner after the meeting I used the word restroom instead of toilet in the restaurant! I hate the word restroom, it conjures up images of sprawling chaise lounge's and marble sinks which -as anyone who has been to India will know- is actually the total opposite of what a typical Indian toilet is like. I was horrified, it was as if I had turned into some sort of victorian British gent and hence spoilt the rest of my meal. The worst offence of all though was the following day when I morphed into my mum by using the phrase " you are not watching telly on a beautiful day like this" to Raf's request to watch spiderman. I froze on the spot, convinced for a split second that she was actually in the room. I have already found myself using dad phrases like 'wo- betide' and ' by the stars' but to start effecting the maternal sayings of my youth was most disturbing.
Instead of watching spiderman we went to the market and bought Raf a new cricket set which it proudly announced on the box was endorsed by champion cricketer Sachin Tendulkar. We played all afternoon (eventually interupted by a security guard from group2 enquiring if we require security? He didn't get it when I asked if they were half as good as group4!) and Raf is now convinced that champion cricketer sachin tendulkar is his full name! The box also informed me that the toy was educative, safe, non toxicative and non injurious to both life and health! I was very pleased to discover this and it is a great example of the Indian's marvelous twisting of our native mother tongue. At the chai stand yesterday, a well spoken Indian man used the word facilitatatively in conversation to me. His exact words were:
"The proprieter of the chai stand would like me to facilitatively converse with you in order to translatatively converse back to him, is this conducive to you sir"? They definately feel that the longer the word, the better whether it is correct or not. We also heard the phrase 'alternate gender love' used in the same sentence as quentin crisp and An Englishman in New York while listening to the radio! Clearly the word gay hasn't yet filtered into polite Delhi society. Any way I must sign off now to facilitate the rehydration of my body with ozonofied h2o before the too much hot sun becomes injurious to my life and health!
Namaste
You may ask what this all has to do with life in Delhi? Well I can reveal that I have finally found something that our 'dog in a bin' (Silas) doesn't like eating and guess what it is? Tomato! Bearing in mind he has so far been found eating rupee coins, ants, pigeon pooh, his own pooh and a reclining buddah made of plaster of paris this is some revelation. When you add to this the fact Raf has always had a loathing of the red menace, I have to wonder whether my boy's have been 'got at' by Jamie or he does indeed have a point. The problem is that I have had nothing to cook on for a week and the most readily available food for sandwich making is of course tomato. I am now having to chop it up really small and hide it behind large lumps of cheese as I try and squidge it in to Silas's mouth in the hope he will eventually grow to like it. Raf on the other hand is a lost cause and will no doubt spend the rest of his life harbouring some sick wish that someone dies from a tomato allergy! Jamie, I hope you are happy.
Along with the first of finding something Silas dislikes I have had a few of my own in my new role. Some, probably you desperate housewifes may have experienced, some I am sure you will just think weird. After going to visit Raf's new school recently I found myself drifting off and looking out the window as it started to rain saying, "bugger, I have got a load of washing on the line". I am not sure if I said it out loud or if it was in my head but either way I found the experience deeply disturbing. I ended up not hearing a word said by his new head teacher as my masculinity had a subconcious wrestle with my feminine side. Luckily I managed to stay just on the masculine side but then found myself having another first. Going for dinner after the meeting I used the word restroom instead of toilet in the restaurant! I hate the word restroom, it conjures up images of sprawling chaise lounge's and marble sinks which -as anyone who has been to India will know- is actually the total opposite of what a typical Indian toilet is like. I was horrified, it was as if I had turned into some sort of victorian British gent and hence spoilt the rest of my meal. The worst offence of all though was the following day when I morphed into my mum by using the phrase " you are not watching telly on a beautiful day like this" to Raf's request to watch spiderman. I froze on the spot, convinced for a split second that she was actually in the room. I have already found myself using dad phrases like 'wo- betide' and ' by the stars' but to start effecting the maternal sayings of my youth was most disturbing.
Instead of watching spiderman we went to the market and bought Raf a new cricket set which it proudly announced on the box was endorsed by champion cricketer Sachin Tendulkar. We played all afternoon (eventually interupted by a security guard from group2 enquiring if we require security? He didn't get it when I asked if they were half as good as group4!) and Raf is now convinced that champion cricketer sachin tendulkar is his full name! The box also informed me that the toy was educative, safe, non toxicative and non injurious to both life and health! I was very pleased to discover this and it is a great example of the Indian's marvelous twisting of our native mother tongue. At the chai stand yesterday, a well spoken Indian man used the word facilitatatively in conversation to me. His exact words were:
"The proprieter of the chai stand would like me to facilitatively converse with you in order to translatatively converse back to him, is this conducive to you sir"? They definately feel that the longer the word, the better whether it is correct or not. We also heard the phrase 'alternate gender love' used in the same sentence as quentin crisp and An Englishman in New York while listening to the radio! Clearly the word gay hasn't yet filtered into polite Delhi society. Any way I must sign off now to facilitate the rehydration of my body with ozonofied h2o before the too much hot sun becomes injurious to my life and health!
Namaste
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