Tea with the neighbor
My neighbor kind of looks like Gandhi. He's skinny, old, bald, and Indian. He usually wears loose fitting white pants and no shirt. He invited me in for breakfast and tea this morning. I'd already eaten breakfast, but I had some tea.
It's my policy to nearly always accept invitations because you never know what may come of them, even though there is a chance that only awkwardness will come. This morning wasn't too awkward.
My neighbor is called Aziz. He went to JJ Art School in Mumbai, which he says is the biggest art school in Mumbai. He said he'd worked many years as a graphic artist. The paintings lining his home looked like what I'll call Indian Impressionism -- bright colors, cloudy shapes, but with traditionally painted Indian people -- simplified facial features and bodies, big eyes.
His children are in the U.S., and he lived in New Jersey for a number of years. He worked in a warehouse. It's hard to believe this because he showed me a picture of him at the warehouse, and he was old. At the same time, it's also believable -- believable that a solidly middle class man like this would go to India to work in a warehouse. Lots of immigrants forsake their education and training upon immigrating the U.S. to take more tedious jobs because even the tedious jobs in the U.S. can pay more than middle class jobs in India. On my train ride from Agra to Delhi, I was surprised when this accountant with a family of four told me that he supports his family on the same salary as my summer salary. Rents are cheaper in Delhi, but still.
You never know who you'll meet when you talk to strangers. At lunch in Delhi, I was sitting alone in a busy restaurant at a table for four. The waiter asked me if I minded sharing my table with another patron. I said no. An Indian man sat down. He ordered a beer and asked if I wanted some. I wasn't planning to have beer, but I said sure, why not. This man ended up being very interesting. He was a Sikh from Punjab, and he had taught English in Kenya in the 70s. Then he was a Rhodes Scholar, studying English at Oxford. Now he owns a heating and cooling maintainance business in Bandra (my suburb in Mumbai). He said he had wanted to be a professor, but stumbled into this career, and it was a good one. We're supposed to drink more beer next week in Bandra. He had wanted me to stay and drink more in Delhi, and I would have, but I had to meet Babalu, my driver, for more Delhi site seeing.
You just never know who you'll meet by being friendly. Of course, I know that in India, it helps that I'm a white man -- people are usually anxious to talk to white men.
It's my policy to nearly always accept invitations because you never know what may come of them, even though there is a chance that only awkwardness will come. This morning wasn't too awkward.
My neighbor is called Aziz. He went to JJ Art School in Mumbai, which he says is the biggest art school in Mumbai. He said he'd worked many years as a graphic artist. The paintings lining his home looked like what I'll call Indian Impressionism -- bright colors, cloudy shapes, but with traditionally painted Indian people -- simplified facial features and bodies, big eyes.
His children are in the U.S., and he lived in New Jersey for a number of years. He worked in a warehouse. It's hard to believe this because he showed me a picture of him at the warehouse, and he was old. At the same time, it's also believable -- believable that a solidly middle class man like this would go to India to work in a warehouse. Lots of immigrants forsake their education and training upon immigrating the U.S. to take more tedious jobs because even the tedious jobs in the U.S. can pay more than middle class jobs in India. On my train ride from Agra to Delhi, I was surprised when this accountant with a family of four told me that he supports his family on the same salary as my summer salary. Rents are cheaper in Delhi, but still.
You never know who you'll meet when you talk to strangers. At lunch in Delhi, I was sitting alone in a busy restaurant at a table for four. The waiter asked me if I minded sharing my table with another patron. I said no. An Indian man sat down. He ordered a beer and asked if I wanted some. I wasn't planning to have beer, but I said sure, why not. This man ended up being very interesting. He was a Sikh from Punjab, and he had taught English in Kenya in the 70s. Then he was a Rhodes Scholar, studying English at Oxford. Now he owns a heating and cooling maintainance business in Bandra (my suburb in Mumbai). He said he had wanted to be a professor, but stumbled into this career, and it was a good one. We're supposed to drink more beer next week in Bandra. He had wanted me to stay and drink more in Delhi, and I would have, but I had to meet Babalu, my driver, for more Delhi site seeing.
You just never know who you'll meet by being friendly. Of course, I know that in India, it helps that I'm a white man -- people are usually anxious to talk to white men.
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