Manufactioning qality

“I can’t believe it broke already!”

There are times when the wrapper will still be on the product, and yet already it has disintegrated into its constituent parts, so that it resembles a mechano set, or a pre-assembly Ikea purchase. Max will be given a brand new toy (usually in desperate mollification whilst in a hot, public place), and mere picoseconds will elapse before he’s holding the various dissembled pieces, his face a mask of dismay.

It boggles us constantly that anyone would actually manufacture anything so ephemeral. Notwithstanding the cheapness, surely the market demands products that last and perform their stated function. Our house is littered with melted electrical switches, miniature car axles, and can openers that look like they belong in Uri Geller’s house. There are fixers and menders for every conceivable thing in India, so perhaps they’re in cahoots with the factories. The western mantra of Reduce-Reuse-Recycle, has its Indian counterpart: Purchase cheaply-Break-Fix-Break-Fix-Break-Litter.

Invariably, after a fork has bent double like a paperclip, or new cellotape has curled dryly backwards in the style of a fortune-telling fish, the packaging resembles a cruel taunt: Number1 Product! First Class Standard! Export Quality! It is impossible to imagine whence it could be exported -to the Neolithic era maybe, where a flimsy pair of blunt, unhinged scissors would be cherished and put to good use.

Maybe it’s the environment itself. We’ve already had problems with our laptop and DVD player, and Kate’s Leatherman is now only useful as a tin opener or paperweight. The heat, humidity, salty air, downpours, legions of insects- all of these conspire to age everything at a rate that makes it look like a time-lapse film of rapid deterioration. Hopefully it’s not affecting the humans, especially since Max is freshly out of his two-year warrantee.

Entrepreneurialism

‘Season’ is a mythical time in Goa, when a king’s ransom can be made in just a few months. It would seem that a tsunami of cash will wash into town and everyone is getting their buckets ready. When we arrived, there was a choice of two places to stay (and really, one of those wasn’t habitable yet). Now, you could stay in a different guest house every night until April. Often, when travelling, you ask yourself whether there is enough local infrastructure to support the tourism. Here, however, we were wondering if there will be enough tourism to support the local infrastructure. It’s now mid-Novemember, and the promised hoards of foreigners are mostly just German pensioners ambling along the main street in beige shorts.

An English family we befriended came round and were asked by our landlord, Sandeep, if they needed laundry doing some time. They assented vaguely. On the basis of this concrete commitment, Sandeep bought a brand new Whirlpool washer-dryer. Our friends then happening to find another house elsewhere and aren’t even coming to Agonda. We now do covert buckets of washing, very quietly, and commit to nothing.

Sandeep seemed a little less present last week, so I asked where he’d been. “Busy, you know. At the restaurant.” What? Eating?

“No, my new restaurant.” There had been no previous mention of starting up a restaurant, but he was confident that it would be up and running in a day or two. “We will call it…Paki Tree!”

“What??”

“No? You don’t like? …Paki House?”

He runs through a few variations- Paki Hut, Paki Place- as Kate and I issue frantic ‘halt’ gestures. It turns out that ‘parki’ is Konkani for ‘bat’, and there is a large tree of bats behind the restaurant site. He has gone for ‘Akansh’. I don’t know what that means, but hopefully nothing too racist.

Getting a bargain here is a bit like trying to get a good price in a ski resort, or in Leicester Square, or on a space station. Everyone shakes their head and agrees that prices have gone up drastically. Our former selves would have been run out of town for having insufficient funds before the words ‘organic latte’ had left our lips. I hope the German silver foxes can shoulder the burden of keeping the Goan economy afloat.

Baba

There is a very nearby ashram on a hill, inhabited by a quite extraordinary ‘baba’ or ascetic holyman. The place is a little rough around the edges, and is frequented by a curious range of visitors, devotees, yogis and westerners. The discourse is wide and esoteric, and often hilarious.

The man is 73 going on 25. At the sight of Max, he immediately sprang into a crouch and rolled out a series of pitch-perfect animal impressions, much to Max’s delight. The baba sits in the middle on a sort of dais, ringed by a thick rope. Max capers about on these ropes, and seems already to be fulfilling the baba’s prediction that, “he will be a famous wrestler, for sure!”

At one point, Kate, whilst pretending to follow Max on some pretext, gleefully sets me up: “Baba, Ben wants you to read his palm!”

I grimace inwardly, and maybe outwardly too. The old man breaks off half a matchstick and traces lines across my palm. All the hallmarks of close scrutiny are there: nods of affirmation, sudden furrowing of the brows, exhalations, and muttered calculations. He would pinch the flesh together, or adjust the hand’s position occasionally, abruptly grab my left hand to examine the two side by side. All in all, it was not an unpleasant experience, and a little ticklish. All the while, I can see Kate in the periphery, sniggering impishly at my awkward captivity.

“Kate says you do not believe in these ideas: palm reading, astrology.”

“Well, not really.” Feeling a little unkind even saying so.

“Yes, I can see. Here it is:” Indicating a small, sickle-shaped line arching down from my ring finger. “…disbelief.”

Checkmate. No arguing against that, then. The neat paradox, and the tickly sensation together made me laugh, and the Baba chuckled in a sparkly sort of way.

“You will write a book!”

“Yes?”

Leaning closer. “Here is the title…” We waited together for a minute or so; me for him, he for divine instruction. “A drop of sand.”

I mulled it over for a bit, thinking perhaps ‘A grain’ is a better modicum of sand, when suddenly:

“Alternative title: Alexander was victorious.” Perhaps I was physically baulking at the specificity, and necessarily historical bent of the project, because next came, “India under the English and under Hindi”

“… um… was that India under the English and under the Hindus?”

The Baba shook his head dismissively, released my hand with a sigh, snatched some remaining crackers from the floor and scattered them to the birds.

“No! India under English and under Hindi.”

Right then.

On the gate outside there are various arcane regulations: no talking; no women or children except on Saturday; ten minutes maximum stay, etc. We ask the baba about these strictures and he laughs heartily. “Rubbish! Now Ben you will do one thing for me next time: bring paint. You will paint over this nonsense writing next time you come!” More laughter.

The visits are predictable only in their unpredictability. Ad hoc lectures take in the gamut of human experience- Queen Victoria, chakras, internet forums, quantum mechanics, Lord Mountbatten.

“Come- you know about this computer business?” He then puts on a pair of reading glasses, whips out a laptop and tries in vain to get the broadband to work.

Last week he declared that the first step in his new plan to spread enlightenment is to take up jogging. At the age of 73. “Where can I find these running shoes? I think I should have muscles- you know: ripped.”

Most of the time, we are lost for words. We nod mutely or employ the ambiguous, noncommittal head wobble.

His diet is fascinating. Last month he announced that we would join him there and then for his final meal before his fasting whereby he would eat only pumpkin until March. The mystery of the decision is impregnable. Why pumpkin? Why March? At any rate, we eat curry and watch in horror as he dabs raw onion into a heap of salt before eating it, chasing it with two whole green chillies. Next time we see him, he’s enjoying a bag of Indian snacks, and then has a few of our crackers. We have tea with him. I ask him how much sugar. “Not much, just two of those spoons.” He’s talking about tablespoons. I gawp as he adds another two tablespoons afterwards.

When we last visited, the Baba announced that we had come just when he was breaking his fast. A bright yellow, spongy cous cous type of stuff is produced, which we eat with mango pickle. It is, clearly, nowhere near March.

I am on the beach one morning when we encounter the baba on brisk stroll. Max and I invite him back for chai, and moments later, there he is, on our porch reading Where the wild things are. Periodically, he lobs fistfuls of Indian snacks for the crows, until there’s a Hitchcockian density of birds in the garden. Then he announces- “I am happy-”. We wait a few seconds for the end of the sentence, but that is it. It’s not clear why, but this sets us off laughing until all four of us and the crows are guffawing loudly.