Pressing matters

Husband Tahir is convinced that Delhi is the most dangerous place on the planet. I tell him Rio de Janeiro is possibly worse and that parts of London are pretty bad. After all his home state of Kashmir has had its moments!

But he may have a point. Delhi’s infamous Blue Line buses mow down pedestrians far more often than they should. Scooter accidents are commonplace. Our accountant arrived at the office recently heavily encased in plaster of Paris after falling from a cycle rickshaw. The outer satellites of Delhi such as Noida and Gurgaon are notorious for robbery.

But what Tahir doesn’t appreciate is that one of the most lethal articles in India is in our own flat. It is old, heavy and the control dial tends to fall off. When you use it to press a dampish bit of clothing you get an interesting tingle if you happen to touch the garment. If you touch the instrument itself you get a fairly hefty shock.

It is not the only iron we have. There is a new one – a lightweight shiny thing that is wholly ineffective. It is made of aluminium and just lacks gravitas. So of course it never gets used. We can’t justify buying another so we go on dicing with the possibility of being seriously fried. If this blog ends more or less as soon as it has begun you will know why!

Top dressing

Nearly every day is a bad hair day here. If you have a fine flyaway mop like mine, then it clings damply to your head in the summer humidity and in winter is as thick with dust as an old carpet.

Today was my hair appointment. My hairdresser, Ramzan, is husband Tahir’s youthful uncle and he is a fiery genius. He comes to the flat about 8pm after a hard day at the salon.

Like everything else in this communal set-up, my monthly trim and colour application take place in public and everyone has a comment to make. I have more or less stopped minding. But, if I think about it, I do hate sitting with colour plastered all over my head and my high forehead with its giveaway lines, usually hidden by a kindly fringe, cruelly exposed to the public gaze.

Today, Ramzan was tense and his artistic temperament was showing. We set up in the living room where Godzilla was showing on TV (again) and the assembled company made their comments as usual. Ramzan ground his teeth and snipped faster. My hair tumbled round my ears and an unexpected chill touched the back of my neck.

Brother-in-law Aamir, who takes the mickey out of everyone, was in particularly cheeky form tonight. The more he teased, the harder Ramzan snipped. By the time I was the owner of a neat Judi Dench cut, Ramzan had had enough. “Ladies beauty is secret work,” he exploded. “Husbands and brothers should not see. I cannot work.” He sank onto a stool near the kitchen, his head in his hands. “And Madam does not like the style,” he said mournfully. “I know Madam does not like.”

I protested, but not convincingly. It was beautifully cut but I am tall and for some reason have something about me that prompts hairdressers to go berserk. I have too many bad memories of being addressed as “Sir” after an over-enthusiastic trim. And there are still scars from the time, long ago, when a boyfriend threatened to dump me after I had been worked over by scissor-happy chappie in Lincoln (UK).

How it all began

In 2004, after losing everything to a cunning and conning ex-husband and unable to face the prospect of a bedsit in Tunbridge Wells (UK), I accepted an offer to come to India. One year later, at an age when my peer group were starting to think about grandchildren and retirement, I married Tahir, a Kashmiri businessman based in Delhi.

In the years before this blog starts, we have survived heat, dust, power cuts, ghosts, kidney transplants and hysterectomy. I have partly (sometimes more, sometimes less) adjusted to life in a large, warm, loving and turbulent Kashmiri family, where personal space is an unknown quantity and loneliness not an option. Much of the time is spent in a state of exasperation offset by the kindness, help and support and humour of the family and fascination with the human dramas unfolding around us.

I wanted to write this because, willy nilly, fate has plonked me:

• In the middle of a moderate Muslim family at a time when Islam is feared and misunderstood by many;
• In a part of Delhi, Lajpat Nagar, where foreigners don’t normally live and which is a bubbling cauldron of aspiration and upward mobility in a period of booming economic growth;
• In a strange twilight between cultures, not always comfortable but interesting and doubtless full of valuable lessons if I could just identify and articulate them.