The Concept of Cleanliness

My team of Indian engineers was once introduced to the employees of a German company. We were expected to work closely together. The get-together was thought to serve as the icebreaker for a great partnership. A German, who had visited India a number of times to settle the deal, took the lead in explaining the Indian way of living to his colleagues.

"Indians associate 'clean' with 'wet'," he started. "Once I asked for my bathroom to be cleaned, and it was made wet all over. Indians believe in washing and leaving things wet ..," he went on.

Fifty amused pairs of German eyes were directed at the Indian contingent. Embarrassed, I looked at my colleague who was busy in chomping snacks with the tastiest beer we ever had. I felt insulted, but the German was making a valid point. Whether it is a temple, a shop-front, or a car, we soak the object with copious amounts of water and leave puddles of dirty water everywhere. Our sense of cleanliness does not allow us to put the lid back on the toilet after use, and some of us feel shy of even using the flush. I have often been disgusted on finding used toilet papers scattered on the floor in aeroplane facilities.

A 'swachchhata abhiyaan' or cleanliness drive is on in India for some years now. People are being persuaded against defecating in the open. Toilets and urinals are being built and women are being allowed the privilege of using toilets in restaurants and hotels even if they don't buy anything there. Two public urinals, both with maroon spotted tiles, have sprung up at strategic spots in my locality. The one in a park faces a bakery. The other, on a road-crossing, is near a shopping complex that also houses a snack maker. One needs absolute courage and determination or utter desperation to use these urinals—the stench is so overbearing!  

Gearing up for action, municipal authorities have used excavators to break covers on rainwater drains and expose the black dirty water to the atmosphere. Slush has been removed and left on the roads. Ten days later, scourges of mosquitoes dance over open drains heralding the onset of dengue and other diseases. Stray dogs judge the slush on the road as the perfect spot to relieve themselves. Vehicles catch the filth in their tyres and spread it to various destinations.

Does cleanliness mean making an area filthy and disease prone? Should good ideas be killed with idiotic understanding and third rate executions?

I do not blame the excavator operator who carried out the assignment, but wonder why the municipal authority did not make arrangements for the disposal of the muck? Are they confident that the entire garbage will vanish in a few months by flowing back into the drain or being carried to different homes? Or, is it a case of a faulted concept of cleanliness?         

UAE Sets a Fine Example

The UAE set a fine example of peaceful coexistence, tolerance and modern ideology by amending an expatriate marriage rule and issuing a birth certificate to Anamta Aceline Kiran, daughter of a Hindu father and a Muslim mother (Khaleej Times, April 28). The step signifies the nation's resolve for the welfare of its populace. Just a few days earlier the foundation stone of a Hindu temple was laid in Abu Dhabi on 13.5 acres (55,000 square metres) of land gifted by Shaikh Mohammad Bin Zayed Al Nahyan, Crown Prince of Abu Dhabi, to the Indian community for the purpose. The act is the essence of 'Vasudhaiva Kutumbakam', a phrase from the Maha Upnishad, meaning "the world is one family".

In contrast, division of the electorate on the lines of caste and religion in India betrays political endeavour to divert attention from real issues and gain political mileage by spreading fear and hatred. Non-resident Indians, being more liberal in their approach, continue to be ignored and cannot exercise their franchise outside India. Sadly, one still waits for the concept of 'Vasudhaiva Kutumbakam' to be truly applied in the country of its origin.

The Woman And Her Parents

As my wife and I sat on the flowerbed outside our building yesterday evening, a woman passed by, commenting, "You two remind me of my parents".

She didn't stop. Not even slowed down.

"Do you know her?" I whispered, watching the middle-aged woman move past in her hasty stride.

"No! Perhaps she lives in our building." My wife replied.

I, too, didn't know the woman. Why, then, she passed a comment but didn't stop for our reaction? She definitely didn't want to strike a conversation with us. She appeared to be from the Philippines, and we being Indians, would have certainly not resembled her parents. Her tone was surely not a mocking one, she rather appeared to be melancholic.    

And then it struck me. She was missing her parents, who perhaps lived thousands of miles away from her. The words had slipped out of her mouth involuntarily, leaving her with no choice but to quickly walk away in embarrassment. She had perhaps reached the stage when one starts noticing in everyone a glimpse of the person ones misses terribly. Sometimes it is the posture, sometimes it is the voice, sometimes it is a particular mannerism, and sometimes it is something that cannot even be pinpointed. One starts finding an endearing shadow, an endearing fragrance even in complete strangers. And when the cruel reality affirms its ugly presence, little option is left other than to feel embarrassed and make a hasty retreat.

She had seen her parents in us, complete strangers.

I wonder what makes us see our parents in strangers, but become strangers to our own parents? Why does the communication collapse to such an extent that even the basic gestures of greetings and appreciation require an effort to make? What makes us live thousands of miles apart under the same roof? What prevents us from accepting our parents as normal human beings – why do we expect them to confine themselves to play the roles of distinguished baby sitters, butlers, home managers, cooks, demigods, etc?

Did the woman treat her parents in a similar manner, and was repenting now?

I will never know. I don't know her. And even if she crosses my path again, I doubt she will stop by to have a word with me.

She and her parents will remain a mystery.             

The Shoe Saga

"We need to buy new shoes for Maira. The old ones have become too tight," declared Nitasha, my daughter-in-law.

Nitasha's declarations are always backed up with deep research, and must be contested only at one's own peril. Moreover, how could she ever be wrong about her daughter, Maira? So, though I had an impulse to point out that it were not the shoes that had shrunk but it were the feet that had grown; I looked the other way.

Encouraged, Nitasha added, "This time we shall buy her shoes from the Outlet Mall. They offer good choices, and sell at factory rates. We can get a nice pair at 80 Dirhams. Here they sell nothing below 120-130."

Buying things cheap is my passion. I buy cheap soaps, cheap food grains, cheap vegetables, cheap poultry, cheap data, cheap shaving blades, cheap everything. I once purchased a VI-JOHN shaving cream only because at Rs.44 it was a full Rupee cheaper than Gillette. It is entirely a different matter that I felt like a professional barber every time I lathered my face with the cream.

Outlet Mall is only 30 kilometres away from our home. What are 30 kilometres when you are in the pursuit of a good bargain? A 45-minute drive in the afternoon, followed by a ten minute investment on parking, and we were inside the Mall. We – Maira, in a pram; Nitasha, behind the pram; my wife Rani a step behind Nitasha; my son Anupam two steps behind Rani; and I, several steps behind, like a showstopper on a ramp.

We searched one store, then another, and then a third one. The '80-Dirham' shoes appeared to have performed a vanishing trick. Instead, like unscrupulous politicians and insecure bosses, shoes upwards of 135 Dirhams were occupying all prominent positions.

Nitasha selected a shoe for Maira. Maira rejected it with a firm 'no'.

Maira looked at one shoe, but Nitasha rejected it like dirt.

Like true ladies, Maira continued disapproving the choice of Nitasha; and Nitasha persisted in finding fault with everything Maira pointed at. The exchange continued for the better of an hour. Finally, both compromised on a particular pair.

"What do you say, Anupam?" Nitasha looked over her shoulder for a third opinion.

Only, Anupam wasn't to be seen around. It had suddenly struck him that he, too, needed a fresh pair of shoes.

I went looking for him in the Trainer Section.

Trainer shoes! Do shoes train? Can shoes train? Ever? Shouldn't the correct expression be 'Shoes for Training'? I decided to sound the Store Manager about it, time permitting.

But first, I had to locate Anupam, who appeared to have disappeared.

I came out of the Trainer Section. There he was, trying a shoe in another section. He explained that he was looking for running shoes, which are different and should never be confused with trainer shoes.

'Running' shoes? But, shoes don't run. If they are really capable of running, why do they remain rooted to their post on the rack, waiting to be picked up? Have shoes evolved enough to judge when to train, when to run, and when to sit idle like an employee with a secure job – I wondered. But then, there wasn't much time to lose. Maira's longest attention span doesn't extend beyond a few milliseconds, and here we had already lost several precious minutes.

Anupam approved of the pair selected for Maira, In a reciprocating gesture, Nitasha approved the shoes he had selected for himself.

"And these are inexpensive, only 350 Dirhams. Such shoes can't be found below 500 Dirhams elsewhere!" he muttered, getting his credit card swiped at the billing counter.

500 Dirhams! That is, about Rs.9,500. That is, nearly eight times my monthly employee provident fund pension – I did a quick mental calculation.

Two days later, my daughter Smriti and I took Rani to the Sahara Centre to buy birthday presents for her. It had to be some dresses and some shoes, all of which needed to be tried personally for the perfect fit.

Rani didn't like anything that was on display. If I recommended anything, her dislike became more pronounced. 'Manly', 'too 'oldish'', 'too youngish', 'bad colour scheme', or simply 'this thing' were the prominent reasons forcing her to reject pair after pair.

"I want something simple and sober," she cried.

If she was determined about rejecting everything, the salesman was equally determined about making the sale. After all, we were the only customers in the shop. He sat next to her with a shoehorn resembling, but larger than, my fibula. Magically, the vehemently rejected pairs acquired adorable properties. Fifteen minutes later, Rani left with a pair, burning a 375 Dirhams wide hole in Smriti's wallet.       

The very next day we visited the Century Mall for buying general provisions and knickknacks.

As we were taking a look, Rani observed, "Hey! They, too, sell footwear!"

Yes! There were a number of simple and sober and not so simple and not so sober footwear displayed on the racks. Promptly, she started trying the pairs one after another. Finding my breathing down her neck too much of an obstruction, she diverted my attention, "Why don't you select a pair for yourself?"

The right shoe of my three year old pair is not right any longer. It opened an eye near the little toe last month, without causing a difference to the number of my lenses. My 18-month old grey sneakers bought in a 'sale' have black leather patches stitched thoughtfully at the crown of the toe caps by the neighbourhood cobbler. And my six-month old Rs.200 pair purchased with a six-month life assurance has proved true to the promise - a Radcliffe line has appeared in the middle on the sole of the right pair.

I started looking for a cheap pair. Nitasha watched for a while, and finally suggested, "Wouldn't you search in the men's section? These are ladies' shoes."

I gravitated towards the men's section. What a joy it was to try different shoes without a salesman trying to help, coach, and sermonise me; as if I was going to wear shoes for the first time in my life!

I selected a 30 Dirham shoe.

"Why don't you try this one, instead?" Rani offered a different one. She had already selected a sandal for herself.

"Yes, yes, this one looks better," supported Nitasha. She had also selected a similar sandal for herself.

I tried it. I tried again the pair selected originally.

"No, I will go with these only. These are more comfortable." I put the shoes in the shopping cart.

With fading memory, I look forward to support from my new pair of shoes. It has 'Memory Foam' printed on the insole.