Anna arrived Tuesday, Dec. 2nd. Coming to meet her at the airport, I learned that it is not free to go INSIDE to greet arriving passengers. You have to pay 80 rupees, a sum that is under $2 but basically unaffordable for most Indians. That means that most of the people inside are hotel drivers holding signs that say
Taj Hotel
Mr. Jones
and they compete for display space on the railing that lines the passageway where people are "born into" (well, that's what it seems like as they enter through the bottleneck and look around, confused, as if they're not sure who and where they are) Delhi. So arriving passengers walk slowly up and down, looking at the signs, until they locate their names amidst the hundreds that are there. And as soon as one recognizes his/her name, they signal the driver like an old friend, and the sign is withdrawn, leaving an opening that provides an opportunity for another round of sign-switching. The movement happens in a split second; it's probably at the molecular level; suddenly the drivers have changed positions and the signs are in different places.
When Anna arrived, I had waited for almost two hours, clutching a pathetic sign made with pink marker on lined school paper that said "Welcome Bunky." I tried to keep it folded and hidden, but every time a new wave of passengers came through, I hopefully displayed the sign among the others. And the passengers, none of whom were Anna, looked hopefully at my sign. It was kind of embarrassing. I did notice that one flight brought a group wheeling Sony flat-screen plasma TVs through the gates. I couldn't tell whether this flight originated in Hangzhou, China, or from some city starting with "A" that I had never heard of and don't remember even now. A forgettable place that grows plasma TVs.
I tried to hide but Anna saw me long before she saw the sign, though she dutifully (it must have been jet lag) allowed me to take her picture. At that time, I noticed a sign behind her that said "Mr. Karl Heinz Luther." Was it just coincidence? I think not. I did not notice, however, the sign that said, "No photographing the airport." Fortunately the guards did not arrest me for my second photography violation. As soon as I looked at the picture, I realized why they prohibit photography; there are zombies at the airport. Just look at the eyes.
On our way out of the airport, there were hundreds of people - those who could not afford the entrance price - waiting for their loved ones. One man stepped forward, as many often do, to offer assistance with Anna's bags. I walked briskly past, avoiding his eyes, and heard him talking to Anna, so I turned around to tell him to get lost. He was saying, "Are you the daughter?" The nerve of this guy - oh, wait - I looked at his face. This was our taxi driver. He had gotten tired of waiting in the parking lot and had come to the door. And yet another example of Ellen's insensitivity.
Anna quickly settled into the apartment and, despite her accusations that I had become one of "them" (people who have housekeepers who call them "ma'am"), she accustomed herself reluctantly to the daily lassis, having her bed made, and the laundry services. Jet lag was a problem for the first few days, though. She reached the catatonic phase by Day 3, when we went to a "St. Nicholas Day" party and Anna said, "Don't introduce me to anyone else. I just want to sit here and not talk to anyone." The next day, after her first long night's rest, we discussed what I could tell people about her in order to excuse her behavior, as my friends had already started to avoid us. We were trying to think of a physiological disorder that would result in staring into distant space while others talk to you; I'm sure that there are several. We considered the inability to speak, but then we had to get rid of hearing ability also and, hmnn, probably sight. I decided that "jet lag" would have to do, as Anna was heading straight for "human vegetable" status otherwise.
Here's Anna after her recovery from jet lag, next to the puppets I bought in Jaipur that she claims look "angry." One of them, though, looks happy though less intelligent. These puppets lead complicated lives. But remember that Anna is a psychology major writing her Comps (a Carleton senior thesis) on relationships. For all I know, while I am gone during the day she is doing group therapy with the puppets.Anna is also apparently young and strong enough in appearance to (unlike me) be given the privilege to carry a heavy box of groceries. The clerk handed it over to her as if they shared an understanding of the needs of old people (i.e., yours truly). But she willingly, even cheerfully, carried it up the multiple flights of steps to the apartment. I wondered, "Is she still jet lagged?"
End of blog entry (Jan. 1). Yes, Anna continued to smile on occasion, and she became an unofficial teacher's assistant in the kindergarten for a couple of weeks before we left town. The only fact that mars this happy story is the fact that I passed my Thanksgiving cold germs on to Anna and she was miserably sick for several days. Fortunately Triza, the housekeeper, happily took on the role of nurse and made hot soup and tea for Anna while her neglectful mother was drinking cups of wine at staff end-of-term lunches. In fact, when Triza called us by accident on Christmas Day, she asked how her "little daughter" was doing. And when we saw her again yesterday, her face fell noticeably when she learned that Anna was gone. Just as the "Open Hand" coffee shop staff will miss Anna's regular hot chocolate order, and the kindergartners will miss playing tag with her at lunch, and I will miss her sense of humor and daily hugs. Despite all of this nostalgia, for some reason Anna does not relish the thought of my coming to Carleton as soon as I get home to spend more quality, non-blogging time together during her Senior Week.
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