As Predictable as the Sunrise

When we moved into the apartment, our relocation expert, Vinnie Kumar, suggested we have some domestic help. He said that there were people working in the building that could probably help. And who other than Buchi Babu was able to secure someone to help us. Buchi was arranging the timing, cost, and tasks.
Reluctantly Deb and I said “yes, we’ll try it”. Six weeks later, two mops, several ruined items, and a new street sweeping broom later, we’ve decided the experiment was really NOT worth it.
Now there is much more that leads up to this, so I will start with, whom else, Buchi Babu. Buchi’s assignment, according to Dr. Reddy (now she’s no longer one of the Reddy, Reddi, Reddy neighbors anymore since she and her family moved into a new villa in Secunderabad that combines not only their home but their “body and mind” clinic as well) is to maintain our apartment. Buchi initially took this task on by using his friends as maintenance which includes his friend that took the role of electrician/plumber/carpenter. I am reluctant to use the term handyman because I don’t want to embarrass Buchi’s friend or disparage some very good people I’ve known who were truly handy persons. Then there was Mr. Gums who is the husband of the doctors’ Reddy cook. Mr. Gums, I’m convinced, is the serial paint spatterer throughout the apartment. As I continue to remove paint spills, roller overruns, and the ubiquitous paint spatters on everything that shouldn’t have paint on it, I know that someone who has no idea what he is doing painted the apartment. Now, Mr. Gums is also the Reddy’s gardener. One of these days we’re gonna have to see their new place. Deb is convinced I’m beginning to show signs of dementia and that is one of Dr.-Mr. Reddy’s specialties on the “mind” side so that gives us an excuse to go. But for the second time in the last month, Buchi brought over nylon window screening as a solution to our lack of a metal-mesh vent screen in the range hood. But Buchi’s problems were compounded about two weeks ago when his father became ill. And this is where the predictability starts.
Now I have to stop here for a moment as one of the six green parrots who live in the penthouse on top of the Hill Top Residency is hanging on my broadband wire just outside my office window and squawking wildly to his friends and relatives. As with all the electronics cables for the building, our broadband cable was flung over the side of the building from somewhere above. The TV cable is the same way, only it cascades from an interior atrium area. But, as usual, I digress. Channeling Grandma Ruth’s storytelling again. All of a sudden, a squadron of the parrot’s family comes swooping in to displace the pigeons that also claim part of my office window ledge as their turf which they mark out and you can imagine how they do that. There is a whole community of at least a dozen different bird species that populate the building and cliff face around us. The one large raptor cruises by daily like Don Fanucci (the Black Hand in The Godfather II) causing the pigeons to fly off in all directions. One of the parrots returned to perch on the window ledge and tap on the window like the beggars tapping on the car windows.
Sadly, Buchi’s dad died after a couple of days and Buchi had to go to his village for the funeral and be with his family. Now, while tragic for Buchi’s family, Buchi’s departure exposed a great deal of what Buchi took to be his job of taking care of the apartment. Buchi had explicitly told me to pay him for the domestic help. As Buchi was away when the help was to be paid, we paid her directly, only to find out the amount we agreed on was 25% less than what the help was expecting. So sorry! We paid what we had agreed on with Buchi. The domestic was not happy, but then again, neither were we. Also, while Buchi was away, the power went out late on a hot muggy night and the inverter failed to work. Deb was certainly not happy. Fortunately the power failure only lasted about an hour, but it exposed a chronic concern about the quality of electrical work that was done to install the inverter. Upon inspection, I couldn’t help note that the inverter had actually been disconnected from the entire electrical circuit. Upon a simple switch-the-wires process, I reconnected the inverter. It began its charging process. The inverter was put to the test the very next day as a power disruption occurred early in the morning. I immediately went to the master bedroom where Deb was still asleep and noted that the fan was still working (a key criterion for the inverter’s successful operation) and then proceeded to the office where the florescent light was also working (the other key criterion). So, the system worked well. The power was restored, the inverter recharged. OK, OK.
Upon Buchi’s return to Hyderabad, Dr. Mrs. Reddy asked him to pick up some stuff for us which is a constant annoyance to me. Don’t get it for me, tell me where to get it. When he came to the apartment he looked like a feral dog that came out on the wrong side of one of the territorial disputes we hear each night. He gave me the materials and told me he HAD to speak with me. I told him I couldn’t that day, but the next day would be good. My initial thought was that the Reddys had fired him for all the things that had popped up during his absence. But I told him that we didn’t want the domestic help anymore and to tell them not to come – ever again. The next day Buchi shows up and says he’s waiting for the domestic help to arrive. Not good. So we have a row when she arrives and complains that she was underpaid and overworked. I think I sprouted another six arms (Angry Shiva Time) and started yelling. Deb came in and like an angry Parvati or even Kali, she was sprouting arms and I thought she might add a couple of skulls to her belt as well. I then gave half a month’s pay to the domestic and told her to leave. I told Buchi to leave. Stress levels declined dramatically.
But Buchi came back like a bad penny later in the afternoon. It was then that the predictability manifested itself. He showed me a picture of his mother he had on his phone. She was seated in the corner of a darkened room, looking terribly sad. He then showed me pictures of the orphans at the orphanage in his village that his church sponsors. Then he told me he wanted Deb and I to join him at his village in December for Christmas. But then he told me he was personally asking me for financial assistance for the orphans and for his widowed mother who now owes about 100,000 Rupees to the hospital where his dad stayed until he died. THIS is and was predictable. We had read in the literature, we were told by the cultural trainer, and we were advised by other expats: all the folks will be asking you for money for their sick relatives, funerals, or whatever. While this is NOT Buchi, you get the picture. Now I have to tell Buchi that Deb and I talked about it and (1) before we leave we may contribute to the orphans, but (2) we’re NOT contributing to the Buchi debt relief trust because (a) we don’t trust him, and (b) we’ve got debts of our own.
I feel much better now. It’s much like I imagine being hit by a speeding bus. You never believe it will happen to you until you step out into the street and in this case, over a pile of litter and into a pool of water from the street flooding from the monsoon.
Catharsis over and out.