Talk is cheap, labor is cheaper

Today is Sunday and while it should be restful, I tried to get off my HBO-watchin' keister and do some physical work. Gopa mashi went home for a while to tend to some of her own domestic affairs and I have been fending for myself in the spacious, empty flat which my grandfather built and my father was raised in. Well...almost. Sarika cleans the house, Lokhi takes the garbage and recycling and Kailash makes runs to the shop for my instant noodles and coffee (Nescafe: bleh). The fact that I have no permanent or live-in household staff tends to scandalize people here. Afterall, in India--as my father and countless weekly US newsmagazines remind me--labor is cheap. Most Indians above a certain income rarely wash a dish because of the abundance and availability of domestic servants. A horrifying thought for Americans, I know, as we never actually see the human beings who our consumption patterns exploit.

You can imagine my uncle's surprise as he came upstairs for a visit and found me doubled over a massive bucket washing my laundry by hand. For a moment, I felt bold, independent--street-smart even. Who says mem sahib from America can't take care of herself? I imagined myself washing laundry in clear stream in a quaint Indian village as I hummed a Magnetic Fields song to myself. "What are you doing?" asked my confounded uncle, "and didn't I tell you not to leave this door open?" I apologized as I squeezed the water out of my mud-stained pants.

2.5 hours, 14 mosquito bites, 12 garments, a bedsheet and a towel later, I was proud. I was also exhausted and the back pain from my fall down a flight of cement stairs last night was compounded by all that bending over. I am glad to have done my arms and cardio for the week, however. No wonder people in India don't pack on the rice pounds like I do...

Anyway, the neighborhood dhobi is now my new best friend. I can't wait until he gives me the "I told you so" look Monday morning.

Bourgeoi-licious,

TKP