TOO SMALL FOR THE BIG PICTURE
My name is Malathi, nicknamed “Smallathi”, always in the front row in group pictures, I have very
little to say about my stature. Ever since I moved to the States, I’ve been constantly reminded of
my it. Back home I was considered average height at least.
I sit in my living room watching the snowflakes as they descend softly like mini angels. The din
from the snow blower outside is nerve-wracking. The view outside the window and the racket from
the yard seem to showcase jointly the anomaly in my little world. There was a time when the jarring
noise from the snow blower was music to my ears.
It is ten years today since I’ve moved into this condo, been watching the snowflakes adorning the
window panels and balancing on the bare branches of the trees on the lot line, flocks of birds
forming a sharp cone and nose-diving to the south. I’ve been enjoying these glorious moments to
my heart’s contents.
A strong urge for a hot cup of tea hits the nerve in my head. I go into the kitchen, fill a cup with
water from the faucet, and stick it in the microwave. Flop, flop ... water starts trickling from the
faucet to a beat. Probably it's not shut fully. I push the handle down, no, still trickles; I swing it to
the left and then to the right. The trickle stops for a second. Ha, my mistake. I should’ve shut it
right the first time. Um … I drop a tea bag into the cup, return to watch the dazzling view of the
rising sun. The whiteout cloaks the branches.
"For you, condo is the way to go," Jenny, my realtor, said at the time she showed me the condo.
''You can own a home, no worries of shoveling snow or mowing lawn. Trust me, when those
machines rattle, it’ll be music to your ears. You may even enjoy watching them with a book in your
lap and a cup of tea in your hand. ... This is a small complex, you see, just four buildings, thirty-
two units; it’s like back home, the extended family and all ..." She says, with a twinkle in her eye. I
was not amused, keep it to myself though.
"Beautiful view of the trees and the lake farther up there."
“Where?”
She leans on to the window and says, “There!”
I go to the window, stand on my tiptoes, stretch my neck, “Where?”
“Look to your far right.”
I press my face to the window pane and catch a glimpse of the water glistening through the
branches.
Sold!
In thirty days, I was the proud owner of a condo in a small complex with thirty-two units.
The garage door across from my unit opens. A lady comes out with a shovel and starts clearing
the snow that piled up in front of her garage, after the parking area has been shoveled. A bulb
goes off in my head, I should do the same. I go out and shovel the snow in front of my garage.
She sees me and smiles, I smile back. No big deal, just a little bit of shoveling.
The faucet is erratic, drips only off and on. I couldn't decide if I should call a plumber. Maybe the
manager will have some ideas. But then again, it seems such a small problem! … All the same, I
decide to call the manager.
"Hello," the manager says.
"Hello, this is Malathi."
"Who? Monica?"
"No, not Monica, Malathi .. "
He does not remember, understandable. He manages three complexes.
"Sorry, what's your name again, Molina?"
I wobble through the spelling. "No, not Molina. Malathi. Em as in Mother, A as in ..." I go blank.. I
can't think of a word that starts with A.
"M as in Mary, A as in Adam?"
"Yesyesyes, Adam. And then L as in last."
"N as in Nancy?"
"No, not N, EL, EL," I yell, almost. I had better be careful lest I should offend him.
I get through my name. Now, on to the problem.
"My kitchen faucet is leaking."
"What?"
"Leak ... uh ...Faucet. The faucet is leaking."
"Ma'am, you've to speak slowly. Tell me again. Start with your unit number."
I start all over again. Like in the tenth grade English composition class. Spellings, similes,
metaphors, verbiage ...
"It is inside your unit, that is your responsibility. You need to call a plumber."
"Okay," I hang up. I don't know any plumber. I was hoping the manager could find a plumber for
me. I'm wrong, hum. What the heck, maybe easier to live with an occasionally leaking faucet than
deal with a plumber. I decide to call the plumber later in the evening, and the next day, and the
following day. I haven’t come around to it yet.
Frankly, things have not always been like this. When I first moved in, there was no professional
manager. The unit owners formed into an association in my third year. Everybody pitched in, yard
work, gardening, little repairs, suggestions for improvements ... we worked together. We hired
professionals for snow removal, lawn mowing, trimming the trees, etc. The pleasure of living in a
condo, the pride of home ownership we all felt. For over four years now, we have a board of
directors and a manager, things are changing fast. We have meetings—quorum, calling to order,
motion, seconding a motion … the entire show, to the tee.
The board of directors calls the meeting to order. The secretary looks around, counts the heads,
twenty-three, says, "We have quorum."
Then follow the steps, I sit there recalling the steps in a traditional puja—the president's report,
the secretary's report, the treasurer's report and the manager’s report. The president talks about
a brilliant idea suggested by the manager to increase the value of our units. He suggests to buy
the piece of land between our complex and the lake, and build more units. A great investment
opportunity, he says. Who owns those units? We all own, we all will be the shareholders. Who’s
got the money for such a big project?
"I can advance the money," the manager says.
Somebody from the back row says, "We thought all units are owner-occupied."
"We'll offer rent
to-own option. In a few years, we can convert them to owner-occupied. Since there is a lake, the
units will be sold as lake front properties. The entire complex appreciates in value."
There is one more glitch. Before we embark on that project, we need to make improvements on
our lot. Chop the trees, a rock park—make it “contemporary.”
"No, we like the trees. They serve as a barricade sheilding our buildings from the street."
"The trees are old, the’re rotting, ready to fall anytime. We could get into bigger problems," the
manager says.
He has ready-made answers for every question raised. Every rule has loopholes, only you have to
find them ...
The discussion is over. A unit owner in the front row makes a motion and another seconds it. The
secretary counts the votes - eleven yeahs, eight nays and four abstain. The motion carried.
What a crock, my heart moans. Look at the numbers. In a complex of thirty-two owners, a board of
five drafts a proposal and six more approve it. Just eleven, that is 33% of the members succeeded
in getting a proposal put in place. Or, it can also be argued that twenty-one unit owners have not
supported the proposal—counting the nine unit owners who did not care to show up, eight nays,
and four abstentions. The motion carried all the same.
My pleasure of home ownership starts to fizzle. A white hair gleans on my dark sleeve. Am I losing
my hair? I'm going to lose an arm and a leg, and a piece of my mind too, with all the new things
that are being proposed to help the complex appreciate in value?
Then comes my heating bill. A whopping one hundred and fifty times higher than the preceding
season. I rub my eyes just in case the numbers are playing games with my head. I know the
thermostat setting is same, heating degrees are fairly comparable, and I know I did not leave the
doors and windows wide open. I am extremely conscious of environment and so constantly check
all these. How can this happen? I don't remember ever seeing a heating bill like this. For four
months in a row, November through February, the amounts have been $53, 75, 53, 75. Strange
sequence. It’s almost like “women and weather are unpredictable” is wrong. I return the bill to the
manager asking him to see if he made a mistake.
Six months go by, not a word from the manager. Maybe he is too busy for small things like my
heating bill. For someone who could advance money for an eight-unit building, $200.00 is
probably lunch money. Or, is it just me?
Finally, I receive a letter from the manager. There is no explanation for the ridiculous hike in my
bills; just a reminder, a "past overdue" notice. It ticks me off. Whatever happened to my request to
check the bill for accuracy?
I sit down to write another letter reminding him politely of the contents in my previous letter. I know
they, the board and the manager, prefer a phone call as opposed to a written letter but I am not a
phone person. Where I come from, phone is not the way to go. We are around each other, sitting
in the same room, eating in the same kitchen, and sleeping in the same room most of the time.
Even after thirty years in the States, I havn't gotten used to the phone. It feels like talking to a wall
(come to think of it, I do stare at the wall while on the phone). Besides, for in a case like this, it’s
hard to explain over the phone, I can't. When I write, I can think, edit, rearrange my thoughts and
present them correctly.
Anyway, I start writing again, giving all the details why I thought the bill was a mistake. Once again,
no response. A third bill arrives with the amounts showing past overdue. What's he doing with my
letters? Is this his way of telling me that I must call if I want his attention?
Frustrated, I write to the president. I don't hear from the president, but the manager shows up.
"Let me check your thermostat," he says.
"It's working fine. It's new, installed last year."
"Let's see. That's a start."
I say okay. After a few minutes he tells me the thermostat is working fine.
"What next?"
He says he'll be back next week and leaves.
A month goes by. No sign of the manager. Time for the next billing cycle. I get the bill for October.
I didn't notice that the heat was on in October. I got the bill all the same and it shows the usage
and the amount. My anger reaches a new level.
I ask my neighbor about their heating bills. Nothing unusual. I tell him my sad story.
"Well, the manager has no time to look into all the nitti gritty details," he says.
Nitti gritty? I don't understand. I'm not talking about a twenty or thirty dollar hike; two hundred
dollars is big enough amount, a cause for concern for me at least. If I let it continue, my next year
may exceed my mortgage, I suppose. My blood boils. Somebody has to account for this atrocity.
Manager is not giving me answers, or the board president or the secretary. And certainly from the
other unit owners.
I find an attorney and try to explain the problem. He dismisses it with a wave of hand. "No, you
don't want to involve me in this. Try to work it out with the management."
"Can you send them a letter at least?"
"No, I don't think that's a good idea. Let's see what the manager says."
I am losing it on the double. I turn on the TV. Peoples court is on. A tenant suing the manager and
the manager counter-suing the tenant. The case involves the plaintiff blames the manager for not
taking care of repairs and the manager, claims he never got a phone call from the tenant.
Amusing, almost similar to my situation. I pull up my chair and turn up the volume.
I go over various scenarios in my mind, what if I drag my manager and the board of directors to
the court.
The judge on the 24" screen delivers the verdict, "It is your word against his. You say you've
written to him and he says he has never received your letters. You do not have his replies to show
that he had received them. I feel sorry for you but I need evidence. Without evidence you have no
case."
I slouch in the chair and let the steam out. I hate the judges who say "You have a case but you did
not prove it." In disgust, I change the channel.
The President of the United States of America is delivering his weekly speech, clutching the dais
in front of him. "We are winning." Really? Why don't you talk about the soldiers killed every day
and the families that depended on them?
"We are making progress." What progress? Where're we heading?
"The economy is booming. We have created 150,000 new jobs." People are taking low-paid jobs
with no benefits. How does that translate in that 150,000 jobs?
The president throws his arms into the air and says with a plastic smile, "You should look at the
big picture."
That is the crux of the problem. You look up, look at the big picture, and you lose sight of the little
people at the ground zero level in the process.
I get the message, I've no choice but to move out. This complex is growing big and I'm too small
for the big picture. Something inside my head snaps. I am not going to go away without letting the
big picture folks feel my existence. I sit down to write my last letter to the manager.
"I haven't heard from you in a month. I'm not going to wait for one more season, go through the
same rigmarole one more time, and let you blame it on the power company, and hurricane Katrina
for the big hike in my next heating bill. If you don't or can't do it, I'll arrange for an inspection by a
professional heating systems inspector myself and deduct the cost from the condo fee."
This time the letter goes by registered post, a return receipt requested.
(Or, I can end the story like this:
I get the message, I've no choice but move out. This complex is growing big. The big picture is
getting too big for me and I am too small for the big picture. I call Jenny, the realtor.
"Can you meet me? I want to move out."
Jenny comes, listens to my story and asks, "Where do you want to move?" Her eyes are glaring
steadfast on the lot across the street. )
***
Note: This is a story about immigrant experience in home ownership. I tried to depict that a
foreigner does not handle things the way a native speakers can handle. Is that clear in the story?
I have two endings, not sure which one works better. What do you think?
I am also considering other titles like "condo life, no candyland" or "my day in court." What do you
suggest.
Thanks.
Malathi