To those who think of germs

Our maid, thanks to her culture, has some different standards for the kitchen. Now, she's in there, the kitchen, cutting up vegetables that, by American standards, would be called rotten and thrown out. The inside of the onions are not solid. The tomatoes, discolored. But, it will all get fried or boiled or cooked into one big, ricey mush, so I just try not to think about it. I made pancakes this morning. I was in the middle of it when she walked in trying to make sense of what I was doing. I told her that we were making American chipattis. That was a bad idea because she immediately cranked the stove up to its highest and reached into my smal bowl of batter and kneaded it in her unwashed, just-touched-a-collection-of-door-knob hands. But, that's ok. It's all going to get cooked off. Yesterday, I saw her washing dishes. I've tried to stay out of her way when she's working and I would be happier if I'd continued to do so. She stops the sink, fills it with water, and just gets the food off. No soap, no clean water. The oil stays on, and the tea leaves fresh crescents of brown on the plates daily. Indians don't embrace soap the way Americans do, which leaves everything covered in oily films. After eating with their hands, they rinse them. They go on with their day, touching the telephone and leaving their breakfast, lunch, and dinner oil on it and everything with which they come in contact. They touch the walls and, at waist level in many houses, there is a wide band of oil that is a discolored brown. Of course, the refridgerator handle is covered, as are all of the faucet knobs and handles. The cupboards have a supply of oil, as well, on the outside, not the inside of them. Indians also don't wash their hands after going to the bathroom. And if they do, it's without soap. Walking outside leaves a film on a person as well. Air pollution accumulates on hair, on skin; it burns my eyes and lungs. It is disgusting.
But, that's enough for now. Love and cleanliness to you all.