a family man

My landlord is at first a mean man. Everything about the first impression he makes is enough to write him off as old, a bit crazy, bothersome, or senile. He has long white hairs growing from his earlobes, and usually only wears a small tank top exposing the tufts of white hairs cascading from his chest. He speaks English but despite his extensive vocabulary, often stumbles over words. He stutters and mumbles until he’s finished a thought, after which he pauses, looks at you, and adds a phrase like, “is it not?”

His face is fleshy and he has big prominent features, and this flowing white hair that is a bit too long. He looks, I think, like my grandfather – who has been dead many years now. His demeanor is also similar to what I imagine my grandfather’s to have been. He is tough, obsessive about money, a hard-worker, argumentative, but underneath it very loving and soft – just sometimes he doesn’t express it in the right ways. When I walk into his home to say hello, or join for tea, or ask where I can buy curtains, he will always say, "Yes. What is it? Tell me." This is his way of saying, "hi, welcome, come in."  

Some anecdotes to illustrate his character:

On Halloween, we managed to buy two small squashes from a vegetable wallah. With a stroke of patriotism and nostalgia for the silly culture of mine, I was inspired to carve a jack-o-lantern. When he arrived home from work, the landlord asked us why, exactly, we had decided to carve a face into our vegetables. Good question. We explained the tradition,  giddy with excitement and pride in our creativity. “So,” he responded, “how…how…how much did this cost you?” – about 30 rupees. “Right, right…so, you are telling me that you have wasted 30 rupees on this creation?” We were so surprised that we laughed out loud. I do suppose he had a point…

Another: this evening I went upstairs, as I usually do, to spend some time around the family and accept any food that is typically offered. (this is one way to live cheaply…everywhere people will always offer you food, and if you accept, you save money and often eat well). After a few minutes of chatting, the landlord told me that the reason I am usually tired at the end of the day (around 10:30 pm, after working 8 hours a day, 6 days a week) is because I am homesick. “You see,” he said smartly, “from what I have observed, you are a family girl. And when you are not with your family, you become tired.”  Writing it doesn’t really do the statement justice. Nevertheless, it was a comment so filled with the love of a father and grandfather – a man who knows the importance and meaning of family.

He is the head of this extensive four-generation family, with his daughters and grandchildren frequently passing through and everything revolves around making sure everyone has the opportunity to grow and become just a little more great than he is. He was born into a family of little money, of a very low caste, married his wife when she was only 19 and illiterate, but has lifted himself and his family into a better life. A life of lots of food, scooter rides around town, and television in the evenings. He bounces his baby grand-daughter on his knee and bathes his mother, 104, who is slowly dying in a bedroom in his house.

He asks me when I will get married. Or at least, when I will return to my family. I tell him I am not sure, but that he is right, I do miss my family. Maybe this is why I am tired, maybe it’s why I visit his family every evening – taking in all the food which sits heavy in my tummy and somehow makes me feel less lonely. I think, at the least, we help each other to realize how important our own families are.