It is a dull, rainy morning at the Dujiangyan Panda Base in Chengdu, China, and my husband and I are inside a large giant panda cage. We both are in blue jumpsuits, purple raincoats and orange gloves, looking like background dancers from a ’80s Hindi song. Soon, I am instructed to scoop up panda excreta into a metal bin using a long spade. My husband is sent to the other end of the cage, to scrub down a tiled wall.
You see, having flown all the way from India for a holiday in China, we have volunteered to spend a morning cleaning out panda cages. When we are done with the cleaning, we will get a chance to feed the pandas some lunch as well. While we do the cleaning, Wu Wen, the usual occupant of this cage, is leaning back in the garden enclosure just outside, enjoying a leisurely breakfast-in-bed of bamboo. I stare at her lovingly (as one must when seeing a panda). She stops mid-bite and turns to look at us standing in her cage. She is utterly cute, of course. But she also looks slightly supercilious, as if to say, “Ha ha! Another gullible tourist.”
If my parents were here, they would agree completely. When we return home, I proudly show the joint family my panda pictures. “Chee!” “Yuck!” I find our efficient Chinese guide has taken pictures that are too sharp and too detailed for this audience. I swipe frantically to find something more impressive, but the damage is done. “Why go to foreign countries to clean a zoo? You could have done it in Mysore.” “Mysore zoo even has a white monkey now. I will forward you the photo on WhatsApp.”
“How much did the Chinese pay you for cleaning panda cages?” my dad asks. I had no option but to confess. “Hmm. Actually, Appa, we paid money to do this.” “What? You paid them? Did they give you many gifts? Free t-shirt?” “I got a certificate with a panda picture on it. And some stickers.” They all look at me like I am insane, then burst out laughing. “Why don’t you pay us and clean all the bathrooms? We can also get certificate and stickers from our Xerox shop.”
The irony was not lost on me. As a typical Indian, I don’t even clean my own house. My spending habits are a familiar topic for discussion. One time, I went for a heritage walk down a three-km stretch of Bengaluru’s famous MG Road. My parents were like, “They took Rs 500 from you and made you walk?”
Amazon and Flipkart have made things worse. Now they know exactly what I spend and how often. “Some box or the other will keep coming for Suchi”, my parents say, “It will look like she has bought a big TV, but open the box and there will be just one small plug or pencil sharpener.”
I always thought the husband was immune to such things but it is not so. Last year, my parents told him they wanted to register for one of the walking events held alongside a popular Bengaluru run. “Sure, I’ll register for you.” said the husband, “Let me just pay the '500 per head and…” “500-aa?” “Per person,” my husband said unhelpfully. “But they are calling it a fun walk. And we are the ones walking!” My husband explained that he also pays for his marathons, sometimes in four figures.
“You have to both run 42 km and pay thousand rupees?” Put it that way, it did sound ridiculous. Everyone thinks the generations that follow theirs are careless with money. I think I am pretty careful with my money, compared to my younger family and friends. But maybe there’s something in this after all. Maybe I am paying for things that should be free. Either that, or I’m just getting old.
