knock knock

I am an individualistic American ice queen sometimes.

The best example of late is my doorbell situation. Living sans servant, I have to answer my own door when the multitudes come each day starting around 8:00am. It's usually a parade of people from the para (neighborhood), including relatives, workers, service folks and salesmen. In Kolkata, people know who their neighbors are. Everyone shops at the para grocer and everyone uses the same dhobi (door-to-door laundry guy--our dhobi actually remembers my father from his childhood and asks about him regularly). I guess people become much more familiar with each other in a way that we in the American suburbs cannot fully understand. Clearly, I am failing in my duties as a good neighbor. Every time someone comes to the door, I yell out the traditional Bengali “KAY?!?” or “who is it?!?” when I get a visitor just to be safe. The trouble is, everyone seems to feel entitled to answer back with a simple “AMI!” (it’s me!). How am I supposed to know which “me” it is? I can barely recognize my own voice over the noise of the honking rickshaws and blaring horns of Soviet era cargo trucks.

The son of the mistri who lives upstairs: “KAY?” “AMI!”
The cleaning lady: “KAY?” “AMI!”
The cable guy who came once to collect the bill: “KAY?” “AMI!”, as if we had some kind of intimate connection.

All I gotta say is that I come from a place where it can take decades to get on an “it’s me” basis with someone. I used to date a guy who would identify himself every single time he called me, even though I had caller ID and we dated for nearly four years.