Things That Bang

So, are you Tamil or Kannadiga?

The lady whose daughter is to be my maid shook her head.

No, we are Telegu.

The pretty girl and I looked at each other and smiled. It was back to the drawing board for me. I would probably be buying the Learn Telegu In Thirty Days book.

My previous maid who ditched me had taught me a little bit of Tamil and I taught her a lot of English. She wanted to learn Hindi. I told her we didn't speak much Hindi so English it was.

She went back to her village, taught her kids English, taught her relatives some nice English cuss words that she made me teach her, and then after two years of work, the lady disappeared on me.

So now I am back to square one but this time I am going to spend most of my time with someone who feels as much an outsider in Bangalore as me.

Lata doesn't understand Kannada, Tamil, Hindi or English. She's from a small village in Andhara Pradesh and lives with her family close by.

She peeked at me from behind her mother who blabbered in broken Hindi, "We have to save for her marriage. We need the money. We don't want her to work at the Garment factory, men look and touch."

I nodded. I knew what she was talking about. Lata seemed like a sweet young girl, impressionable. She is friendless, knows only a few local people through her family.

We are both the same - immigrants making Bangalore our home with affiliations to other states that have become mere nostalgic memories.

Here in my little corner of the world, people from all over India live around us. My neighbors are Marwaris - they run the local electricity, jewelry and plumbing shops- they are called 'Setus' by the locals, Tamilians abound, Andhraites, and apart from us the only Punjabis here are the techies living next door who play hip hop once in a while, apart from the regular loud boombox variety of music.

We all meet early in the morning on our sides of the road waiting for the garbage truck, with our filth in shopping bags or proper garbage bags. Some of us are in nighties and some in shorts. All of us rumpled and all of us outsiders.

A grimace for a smile passes as our eyes meet and we walk back to our homes.

People knock on our gate - they want Mango leaves or Neem leaves, some ask for Marigolds, some admire the roses. 

They chatter in Kannada or Tamil and I reply somehow. The locals look at me and know I am an outsider. My looks say - Northie. Skin color and features scream the difference.

But I feel I am the same as they are. I see the same problems that plague all of us - health, money, home, education.

We find ourselves discussing these mutual matters - the ladies and I. They tell me I am easy to talk to, friendly and easy to relate despite the differences.

Needy old me looking for some people to chat with wonder out loud - What differences?

They titter and I read their mind- She is weird, returned from America.

I smile, let them out of my home and stare at my Learn so and so language books.