The Neighbors

Good morning world!

It's getting chilly here in Greenville, and the rain has been a transitionary of sorts from the warmth hanging on to the edges of summer to, finally, a smell and nip on the air of fall.

Waking up in the morning gets tougher, too, and I wonder sometimes if humans have some natural instinct towards hibernation in the cold months. But, fortunate for my schoolwork and my mood, I woke up at 7:45AM when my alarm clock sounded and rolled out of my cave of blankets into the cold, still-dark of the apartment. I realized only after I had walked around for 30 minutes shivering in my robe that we haven't even changed the thermostat over from cool air to heat. I took care of this problem and flicked on the heat switch.

Apartment living puts one in weird propinquity with strangers, neighbors, the Indian family that lives through the wall of our bathroom. Often I hear the woman singing or humming a tune while she showers as I sit on the toilet. The bathroom door closed should give me the assurance of privacy, but listening to someone you don't know singing in the shower right behind you while you're relieving yourself is a strange sensation. This morning, I washed my face and brushed my teeth to the sound of a rough, sleep-deepened male voice, the Indian man speaking to his wife in their language about what, I tried to imagine.
"I need you to iron my shirts, they were too wrinkly last time." Or, "The guys at the office are going out for drinks after work, I'll be home a little late tonight." I imagine all the possible topics being devoid of any real emotion, because the tone in his voice is all business, no tenderness.

There are many Indian families who live in our apartment complex. They all work at the big corporate headquarters of a giant company across the busy road. The men go to work and the women can be seen walking up and down the parking lots and streets at the apartments, pushing baby strollers or carrying grocery bags. They still wear the shocking bright pink, orange and turquoise silk saris trimmed in gold from their home country. They let their beautiful, exotic children hang, run and slide at the playground until late afternoon, when they head home to prepare for the men to return from work. Most evenings, this is about the time when, if I am walking down the hallway from our small apartment, curry and saffron hang heavily in the air.

Then, when the men come home and have eaten their dutifully prepared dinner, they will all congregate in carefully pressed pastel shirts on the sand volleyball court beside the playground. A few boys are allowed to accompany their fathers to this men's club.

The women aren't slighted in this. I've seen them gathered, all watching their small children play in an alcove of a parking lot, chatting and laughing grinning their stunning grins.

This morning, I did my routine along side the family that lives in the adjacent apartment. I may have been changing my underwear while the moustached young Indian father was sipping his coffee and thinking about tonight's gathering at the volleyball court.

Sometimes I smile say "hi there" to the woman if she opens her door during the day as I walk to my car. She is only about my age but already has two children, and I feel as if I could relate to her if I tried. She only looks up as an afterthought of being polite most of the time. I realize she doesn't feel the same about us as I do.