Writer's Block

Retrospective Series 13: When the Universe conspires

2011-03-13T19:54:00.010-05:00

This weekend, an event had me traveling back in time and set my Retrospective bells ringing. As my little one gets to understand the concept of money, counting and addition, we (rather it was him) decided that it was time to get a piggy bank to collect pocket money earned or gifted. The exercise was pretty exciting for all parties involved because the little one was getting a big new responsibility with perks attached and the parents were reliving their own childhoods and were sharing stories with each other of their first piggy bank.

That brings me to my interesting flashback. My first piggy bank was miles away from looking like a piggy bank. You know what it looked like? It looked like a television...not the flat screen ones in case you were wondering; remember this was the 20th century. It was an old fashioned Cathode Ray Tube Television with a bug's antenna on top and a locked door at the back to take out the collection. The coins/notes went in through a slit on the top of the television.

Me the proud owner of the bank would wait for my allowances/gifts and other miscellaneous revenue sources to fill up my piggy bank. That was the easy part. The difficult part was the withdrawal. You see my parents treated it like it was their savings account and would want to make sure every purchase was transacted through them, in their presence and with enough documentation to prove that the purchase was indeed something they approved. But for a kid everything is a legit purchase isn't it? From the street corner cotton candy to the shaved ice to the tender green mangoes sold by the lady near the school grounds. Ah, green mangoes; now that is something mouth watering if enjoyed with a dash of salt and red pepper seasoning. Needless to say it was forbidden at home and talk of using the piggy bank stash to buy such things would have been suicidal at best.

So what could a sweet helpless little boy do? Its not like he could rob a bank or something now could he? Oh wait....

Now the bank(the piggy bank, for the unknowing internet trolls who are eagerly looking for a confessional from a bank robber) was located in my room and so scoping it out was very easy. I spent a couple of days examining the entire structural details of the piggy bank. The cover on the back was made of plastic with a simple lock that could be picked by an adult(or a smart kid) in a matter of seconds using a screwdriver or a geometric compass. (I learnt that later)

But novice bank robber that I was, I hadn't yet figured that out; So the only reasonable way to pry out some money was to hold the bank upside down and using my geometric compass hoodwink a couple of small coins through the slit on the top. After a couple of days of excruciatingly painful acrobatics with multiple instruments, I managed to retrieve a couple of coins that just barely added up to the cost of a tender green mango. I was so elated. I had managed to withdraw some dough without any evidence of tampering, no serious scratch marks or paint peels on the piggy bank and since my parents did not necessarily keep a running tally of the money inside the bank, they would be no wiser about the missing money.

The coins in my pocket, I was very eager to go to school the following Monday. I eagerly waited for lunch break, gulped down my lunch and ran out the school gate so that I could catch the vendor selling the mangoes. (You see unlike in the western world, I grew up in a place where hawking outside a school was tolerated to a certain degree)

I asked for a nice long mango, paid the money and ran back into the school grounds. Finding a shady spot under a secluded tree, I started working on my mango. I had barely relished the first bite when I spotted a black spot in the corner that I had just bitten into. A poke and a little exploratory prying of the mango's innards revealed a completely worm eaten and fungus filled mango in my hand. The emotion of the moment cannot be ever captured using any known human language. I was utterly devastated. Weeks worth of work had been spoiled by a worm. A measly ugly yucky worm. How dare it yank my chain this way? How could this happen? What had I done to deserve this? Oh wait...

That day I realized a naked truth long known to the ancient peoples of the world. The Universe does conspire. Whether you attribute it to God, the Jedi force, nature, plain old karma or just sheer molecular resonance, it does conspire. So the next time you think of doing something that is even half a shade shy of honest, think again.

Retrospective Series 12: Children of a Lesser God (Apologies to Randa Haines)

2008-11-02T20:33:00.002-05:00

Everyone experiences certain incidents in their lives, that change them permanently one way or the other. One incident that I remember changed me and affects me to this day.
I was probably 9 when this incident occurred, but I may be off by a year or so. The sight of the boy is clear as day in my memory, despite all this time having passed. He was probably a couple of years older than me, tall, lean as a stick, bones sticking out; especially evident because he was completely naked. He was shivering from head to toe. I don't know how he came to our door that afternoon. My mom first saw him through the window and she ran to the door to find out what was happening. The boy managed to extend his hand and indicate that he was hungry. I saw tears well up in my mom's eyes as she dashed to the kitchen to get some food for the boy. I just stood there at the door, trying to understand what was happening. I had never encountered an incident like this in my protected life. What was going on here ? Why was the boy without clothes, why was he shivering ?

My mom returned with some food in a disposable plate and gave it to the kid. He sat on our front porch and gobbled up the food so quickly that I still shudder when I think about how hungry he must have been. While he was eating my mom went back into the house and got him some of my used clothes. The rest of my memory is quite faded and I don't know what happened next. But one thing is sure, that day changed a certain part of me. The fact that I remember that incident to this day tells me that I was pretty much shaken up after coming face to face with some stark realities of life for so many kids; poverty, hunger, abandonment. I was blessed enough to be shielded from those realities all that while and when I was forced into such a situation, I could not fathom how something like that could exist.

Did I ask my mom after the boy had left ? What did I ask her ? Did she explain to me... that I think she did if I remember correctly. Did I understand ? I am pretty sure I did, though I am not sure if it lasted for more than a couple of days because a kid is easily overpowered with newer memories being formed, especially joyful ones.

I don't know what triggered my mind to think about this incident, but I tear up every time I think about it. Fast forward to the 21st century and what has changed ? Living in a developed nation, I don't ever see anything like that at least in front of my eyes. But inner cities in America, rural areas in India and China, and almost every city in Africa is probably witness to such incidents daily. A kid somewhere is woken up from a slumber that he was in. Faced with seeing a brethren of his stark naked, hungry and clutching to dear life. How can we proudly call ourselves human beings ? All the religions of the world and the holy men who profess to be messengers of their respective Gods, should be ashamed that we are still living in a world where we cannot care for our own children. All the leaders of the world should hang their head in shame, because we cannot feed our own children. And all the people of the world who have a meal at their table, should hang their head in shame because charity is unknown to them. Shame on us people. We can be better than this.

I have some links that I care about, read and see if it moves your heart.
One.org
Freedom from Hunger
Bread

Retrospective Series: Part 11: Greener on the other side.

2007-05-10T21:25:00.001-05:00

Its been a bleak weekend so far, been drizzling since morning. Bit nippy for this time of May actually. Amidst such weather, a hair cut is what my restless mind has been focused on for the past week or so and so to put that nagging to rest, I decided that I should have a hair cut, weather not withstanding. Drove to the strip mall in my community, remembering that a new stylist had opened shop in the neighborhood. This was a nice opportunity to check them out. Walked up to the counter, a lady greeted me

"Hello"

"Hi !, I'd like a Haircut and Shampoo please"

"Sure, whatz your name ?"

"Be El Ay Hech"

Tap, tap, tappity tap...beep.

"Thanks, follow me please."

Followed the lady, plopped in her chair and I waited for her next question...absolutely certain of what it will be.

"What kind of a hair cut would you like ?"

"Blah , Blah , Blah, Blahhhh blaaaahh blah. Not spikey please !"

Small grin... and out comes the comb and the trimmer, and she gets to work on my hair.

I leaned back in the chair and my flash back switch immediately turned on. When I was growing up, precisely on the last Sunday of every month my dad would schedule a visit by the hair stylist (ahem, barber in cruder 20Th century parlance !!). The hair stylist would come home, with his kit, complete with scissors and comb, oily gel(that stank to high heavens actually) and all sorts of paraphernalia. The mystique was in figuring out what the next contraption would be used for. There was this little device with two handles that looked like a lawn mower, only smaller, as if shrunk in some scientific experiment. It went "Clippety clippety clop" when he used it to trim the sides. It was an old world equivalent of today's electric trimmers. A hand mirror positioned at an appropriate angle provided me the necessary view of the locks being discarded. A razor that was sharpened on a barber's stone, was the mechanism to trim of excess hair on the nape of the neck. Invariably that resulted in a cut on my nape and I hated that pain the most.

The most interesting part of the entire hair cut though, was the conversation. I would be asked everything that one could possibly ask a person. Right from what grade I was currently studying in, what were the subjects that I liked, to what I wanted to be when I grew up. I actually did not enjoy this invasion of privacy even then. (Talk of someone being far ahead of his times..ahem ahem ;) ). Anyway I put up with it because this person was an old barber that my dad considered to be good and good barbers were very far and few. So the 'Asian-guilt-and-duty' charm worked its way into me and I could never get myself to say anything against this person. All said and done, the task would take at least an hour. There was no rush. The world waited for the barber and so did we.

Years passed by and the barber retired, his son took over his reins and the son continued his dad's legacy. He watched me grow out of school, into college and beyond. But the conversation would always be very personal, I knew everything about his family and his home and he knew everything about my family and my life. Well almost everything. He still doesn't know about the dash of honey I would pour into the ant hill below the badam tree. You see I would love to see the ants signal each other and create a frenzy when they discovered food right at their doorstep..but then I digress and that is a topic for some other day.

After I moved out of home, I never got to hear about this barber. But sometimes on occasions such as this, I tend to remember those conversations.

"You like it ?"

The voice suddenly woke me up from my day dream.

The lady was smiling and looking at me expectantly. I noticed that she was finished with the hair cut and had even trimmed the sides.

"Yup, that looks perfect" I said.

She led me to the shampoo station and a couple of minutes later, I was standing at the front desk writing her a tip and bidding her good bye.

I checked the clock as I walked out and it was 20 minutes since I had come into the salon. I know the ladies are amazed at this, but a guy's hair cut does only take that long, if at all. I have had stylists finish it up in 10 minutes flat. I loved the chance to dream when my hair was being trimmed, something that I would long for growing up. This new stylist had let me be to myself and hadn't bothered me. My earlier stylist was a nice lady, but chatty like my old barber. When I moved from that place, I missed the conversations that I would have with her. We would exchange stories of our respective countries, our childhoods and our current life. The location was different but the conversations had a similar ring, something very personal. The fact that I am thinking about the conversations tells me that even though I had crossed over to the greener side with this new stylist, I had not liked the lack of conversations. The cliched grass is not greener on the other side, isn't it ? But I had to discover it for myself.

Retrospective Series: Part 10: Cold winters and early mornings

2007-02-06T23:48:00.000-05:00

We've had a relatively mild winter this year. But things have suddenly changed for the worse in February. Tonight as I tap out these words, the mercury is hovering in the single digits outside. Its pretty warm and cozy inside, thanks to the central air conditioning. Yeah when I talk about single digits, I mean temperature measured in degrees Fahrenheit, so that would be about -20 degrees Celsius. Brrr.... ain't that cold ? Its snowing lightly too and the cold air is gonna make it stick and skid prone in the morning. Winter in North America, well at least the parts that really do have a winter, unlike the lucky folks living down in Hawaii or Florida for that matter, is not really a time to find the best of cheer. The streets empty out at sunset, which at this time of the year occurs between 4 and 5 pm. All our tropical plants have now been lugged indoors and are being kept alive by the heat of the central air. The lack of humidity does take a toll on the poor beings, especially the Jasmine and the curry plant, but we do compensate for the lack of moisture with an extra helping of mist and water for the roots. But one can tell that they are not in the best of their health, nor pleased with the cross they are made to bear.

Its not as if their human counterparts are any better off either. Especially the ones that were raised in tropical or temperate climes. I have a theory about these things. It proves itself over and over again, whenever I see a person in early fall wearing a thick fur coat, way too thick for his/her size and bulked up with all the padding inside. I think to myself...aha, this person is definitely new to a North American winter ! The reason is this. Once you get used to living in such climes, you rather quickly learn that the secret of staying warm in such weather is not in wearing the thickest coat that you can buy at the mall, but rather in the number of layers you wear. The more the number of layers inside, the warmer you feel. You see if I were to go on a tangent here and try to rationalize why that is the case, you would hear me explaining about the way heat is conducted in insulating mediums, and how every layer of insulation adds up, and also perhaps point to the science behind the thermos flask. In simple lay man terms, it is easier to explain that each layer of clothing, followed by air trapped between the layers, creates an insulating medium which in turn traps your own body heat and voila you have invented the worlds best space heater. I digress again.

Coming back to the original intent of this post itself, I can already see tomorrow's events unfolding. It shall begin with a snow shoveling exercise to clear the driveway, an unavoidable part of winter. Especially if you want to avoid the fine and a reprimand from the home owners association, not to mention being sued by your neighbor because his cat slipped on the sliver of ice in your driveway while attempting to take a crap under the dried out pot of tropical fern. Then comes the scraping of snow now turned to ice, from the wind shield of the car parked outside the garage. A slow drive to work, making sure that not to slam the brakes too hard, careful with the gas on the inclines so as not to swerve and go skidding into the opposite lane and crashing into oncoming traffic. A regular winter's morning!

The reason I mention all this is because as it turns out, the coldest day growing up was when I would have to wake up at 5 AM in the morning to study for my exams. The only reason I did that was to please my mom, who along with millions of other contemporaries of her time, strongly believes that the eerie dawn hours are the best time for the brain to soak up information. I vehemently challenge that theory, if not for anything else, at least because according to MY brain, that is the best time when a person needs to get a little more snuggly into their pillows and snooze, curled up inside a cozy blanket or comforter. If the above mentioned paraphernalia aside, this also includes another warm body that would be an added bonus. Anyways I digress again. I would wake up, cover myself with a blanket, like a maharishi sitting for a penance, book on the bed and start to read. Couple of paragraphs into my reading, I would adjust the pillow ever so slightly so as to be able to lean in and still keep reading. The next paragraph would go a little bit slower. Soon the pillow would be on my chest, I would be upside down on my belly, the book in front of me, my legs up in the air and the next sentence would start to feel like a paragraph. A few minutes later, my head on the book, the blanket over my shoulders, a snore would be barely distinguishable. Alas, the eerie cold dawn had gotten its victim yet again. The temperature outside of course would be a balmy 20 degrees centigrade ! Talk of changed perspectives in life.

Retrospective Series : Part 9 : Malgudi Days - Swami and his friends

2006-09-10T14:16:00.000-05:00

This weekend, we were watching a DVD rented from NetFlix called "Malgudi Days". Yes ! Yes ! the same Malgudi days... remember the Shankar Nag directed saga that derived its inspiration and stories from R. K. Narayan's collection of writings about a fictional town in Karnataka called 'Malgudi'. It frankly brought back some very fond memories of childhood. I would be riveted to the screen watching episodes of this series as they aired once a week. I don't remember the exact day of the week on which they aired, but Swami and his friends were a real thing those days.... its amazing how the human mind tries to find comparisons to its own real life surroundings when a good story is read or narrated. I would imagine myself with my buddies as we practised cricket in the open yard of my neigbour's home. The two neem trees in their courtyard were as scary as the banyan tree in front of swami's house. Girish karnad who in later episodes went on to portray Swami's dad was the epitome of strictness around school talk circles.

The real drive to watch all this came from a class that my mom took one day when I was in 7th or 8th grade. It was a lesson from our English text book and it was a short story excerpted from R. K. Narayan's book. It was called 'Swami and his friends' . The story was about how swami's dad chastises him for just playing cricket the whole of the summer without opening a single text book. He makes him clean the dust caked books and the story goes on about swami grumbling about all that...I forget the whole story, but that was so close to reality..because come on let's be real here...how many of us have really opened any text book during our summer vacation. I would open books...but they would be strictly limited to novels and short stories, if not comics. So the story couldn't be any more closer to home.

Anyways, I sincerely believe that this series by Shankar Nag was one of the most important milestones in the history of Indian television. It probably can be equated to some milestones like MASH airing on American television. The theme song is probably ingrained in the mind of every person of my generation. Even after so many years they bring back goose bumps when I watch it.

That's my two cents for the weekend.

Citations:

Malgudi days website
Wikipedia entry
Buy the book from Amazon
The Man (R. K. Narayan)

Retrospective Series: Part 8: The Trekkie

2006-01-19T18:09:00.000-05:00

Its winter, so the hikes are down to a bare minimum. In spring, summer and fall, we make it a point to hike more frequently. The woods in this part of the country are amazing for trekkies. Although devoid of exotic creatures that might scare say someone trekking in the amazon jungles, they do make up for that with enough bugs that seem to have a particular penchant for my blood. No amount of deet seems to make any difference, while my wife hikes along, blissfully untouched by the nasty bugs. I console myself thinking, it must be the sweetness of my blood.. ahem.

This trek fever is nothing new. I remember the time when devoid of the internet, summer holidays were filled with loads of free time and nothing much to do. One such day in the summer of 88 found me hatching a plan for a biking trek with my buddies from school. Actually both of them were juniors of mine in school, but they usually ended up hanging out at my place (supposedly to study) in the evenings. The destination planned was a shrub and eucalyptus grove that doubled as a wild life sanctuary on the outskirts of town. In fact it was a conserved wild life sanctuary that was home to two rare species, the 'Black Buck' and the 'Great Indian Bustard'.

Fuelled by the dream of emulating heroes from child hood novels like the Hardy boys or one of the characters in Enid Blyton's novels 'The Famous Five' or 'The Secret Seven', we were three dudes on rickety bikes(The pedalled variety) with a mission. In very Don Quixotic style, our mission was to spot the rare black buck or even rarer bustard on a day trip that would take us deep into the forest and back.

Our moms packed us a picnic spread, the contents of which I forget. We biked some 5 km before we reached the outskirts of the forest. It was dry, featureless, dusty and completely devoid of any signs of life. The little spots of asphalt that existed underneath us till then quickly disappeared as we went deeper into the forest. We struggled to pedal on the gravel as it wreaked havoc on the flimsy tires. Remember this was not the fancy 'All Terrain Bike' that is so common these days. It was a bike from the days when the concept of gears was unheard of(At least in the town that I grew up in). While pedalling up an incline, one is going at it alone, with no help from the gears.

After maybe half an hour or so of biking we decided to leave the wide road and enter the forest at a trail head. How we decided to do that is quite scary, now that I think about it. We had no map whatsoever of the forest, and none of us had been there before, so the first trail head we saw prompted us to make a quick choice. And for those of you who have hiked in US forests, a trail head might sound very appealing. This was no such trail head. It had no markings, no indicators. The only reason we discovered that it was a trail head was because of the slight depression in the ground from all the foot falls.

A form of shrub called the 'Lantana' is a common feature in the deccan plateau. The thorns are long pointed needles that can cut a toe or finger and probably even sever it. The reason I mention it is because the trails are usually littered with fallen thorns like these. In most cases much of the path is fenced on both sides with this wild shrub. The last thing you want is to be biking straight into such a welcoming arm. But that is exactly what we did, as we biked along the trail's curved and meandering route, practically oblivious to the danger.

Hardly five minutes down the path and we heard a loud 'splat' and a hiss. It was our friend 'Lantana' piercing through my friend's bike tires. So after a few helpless glances at each other, our biking expedition turned into a bike pushing expedition.

An hour or so deep into the forest, we found a clearing to have our first break, spread out our munchables and tried to admire the dusty beauty or lack thereof of the surrouding thickets. The eucalyptus trees added a medicinal fragrance to the surrounding air, especially during the flowering season. Other than the patchy shade from these trees and the occasional twirp from an unknown bird, we were in absolute wilderness country. As dry as Sub Saharan Africa. Our hopes of seeing deer, and the bustard were already on the wane.

Dragging ourselves and the bikes from the spot, we went on deeper, came up to a fork in the trail, not knowing which one to take, just randomly picked one and went trotting along. Another hour, a couple of bottles of water later, we were still aimlessly wandering around with no animals or anything green in sight. Very soon the trail seemed to breakup into many forks and then merge and then break up again. After a while we had no clue about how we would trace our way back. We did not have bread crumbs either to leave a track, like Hansel and Gretel.

We soon came upon an artificial watering hole meant for the animals. It was bone dry with cracks in its clay bed. We had our lunch and soon started again on our trail, not wanting to think about retracing our path back. We even talked about the worst case scenarios if we could'nt get back to town before sun down. Would they send a search party ? Would we be able to survive on the rations we had ? The thrill of being lost and the dangers of it was hitting us at the same time. We didn't know if we had to be excited or panic about it.

Shoe laces undone, dust covered, we soon came upon a hillock and decided to climb atop to get a better view of the surroundings. What we saw was probably one of the best sights of the day. The hillock sloped down and opened out into vast farm land. And out there beyond the fields we saw a narrow asphalted road and beyond that a hamlet with smoke stacks sticking out. We had no idea what the village was called nor if we had walked into another dimension of space. We were just overjoyed to have found fellow humanity.

When we reached the hamlet we asked around and realized that it was a cobbler's village on the outskirts of our town, on the same road that we had taken just that morning. In fact, all the while we thought we were "lost" in the forest, we were just walking back towards town, except that it was through the forest trail instead of the road. We got our flat tire repaired and rode back home, feeling elated that we had averted a major disaster. The fact that we did not even see a sparrow, made no difference to us. The fact of the matter was we had come out of an adventure however trivial it might sound now. At that point, we were pretty embarrased to talk about it amongst ourselves. The topic was never mentioned among friends and no one heard us rattling out the adventure the way I am blogging about it now. But in retrospect, I realized that we tend to associate more value to the destination than the journey. Maybe this was another of life's lesson, to tell us we should'nt.

Retrospective Series : Part 7 : Christmas Cheer

2005-12-21T23:57:00.000-05:00

Driving down the road towards our home, we are engulfed on both sides by brightly lit bushes, trees, snowmen, santa, the occasional train model, even a wierd looking cartoonish blob that remotely resembles a christmas tree. The edges of the homes are covered in dainty little yellow lights, mixed with blinking purples and red and green. The couple of snow falls that we have had since early december, add the final touch to the Christmas feel as romanticized in the children's books that we all grew up reading. Turn on the radio and almost every FM station you tune into has a rock, jazz, country or classical version of the christmas carols blaring. Yes, it definitely feels like Christmas. In fact, by the time its the 26th of December, you are thankful that this overload of cheer is finally done with.

I write this as we are busy preparing a plum cake (baked at home, indian style) for our Christmas party. As I was mixing the dough, I was reminded of christmases long gone by. Christmas was definitely a unique experience growing up, because in a town comprising of 3 christian families, the neighbours definitely were very curious about this wierd celebration during the cold winter months. The church from a nearby town would send down its choir for the Carol singing and the kids from the neighbourhood gathered to hear the orchestra on the move. I would be practically terrified of the attention this yearly display brought onto our family. My parents cherished it because it probably reminded them of their childhood growing up amidst church and carol singing. No such luck for me as I dreaded the questions my friends in the neigbourhood would ask me the next day. "So who was the fat guy in the funny suit ?" "Is he related to you guys ?"

Two things that I eagerly waited for during this season was the baking of the cake and the Christmas tree. I would be the errand guy, buttering the pan, grinding up the spices, getting the zest out of the orange rind, cleaning and drying out the raisins. Then of course after the cake mix was poured, I would have the honor of cleaning out the mixing bowl with my fingers. Today in hindsight, that would have been considered a health hazard because of the raw eggs in the mix, but then when you are a kid, its "Bacterium - Step aside - Big daddy is coming over."

Decorating the Christmas tree was a saga of its own. Consider this; In the middle of a temperate deccan plateau, a fir, pine or spruce was almost unheard of. So what does one do ? The alternative, a conifer that is grown as a hedge tree in homes and parks. The first evergreen conifer that we used as a Christmas tree was literally stolen from a park. (I was not involved in the actual stealing by the way..nor were anyone from my direct family. Somehow the tree was found lying in our backyard, probably left there by Santa's elves... wink wink.) After that christmas we planted our own evergreen conifer in the yard to use as a live christmas tree. Ok, now that we had solved the problem of finding a tree, what about the decorations ? Unlike our current Christmas tree in front of the bay window, which we decorated by buying a truck load of buntings and lights from Home Depot, my childhood trees were decorated with improvised glitter. We made do with sparkly streamers and little string lights. Painted cubes of thermocol made up the gifts hanging from the branches. The brightly colored eggs were missing and little balloons took their place. Kids and adults from the entire neighbourhood would come home to take a peek at the christmas tree. No one had seen such a tree other than in movies or in books.

As tonight's cake bakes, the aroma is definitely kicking up some old memories. Hot cake fresh from the oven is something to die for even without memories attached to them.

Before signing off for the long weekend, may this be a merry Christmas for everyone. May there be peace on earth. May the coming New Year be a pivotal year in everyone's lives, may all our dreams turn into reality, may there be less suffering and misery in the world and above everything else, may we all strive to be better human beings. God bless.

Retrospective Series : Part 6 : A struggle for the minds of our people

2005-12-13T00:14:00.000-05:00

"Liberalisation is not a process of mechanical economic policy-making, but a struggle for the minds of our people, and we do believe we are succeeding,"
- Manmohan Singh, Prime Minister of India, Dec 2005.
ASEAN Summit.

The year was 1990. A crisp new decade. I had just finished my 10th grade and was moving on to a different school in a nearby town for my 11th and 12th grade. Television in India was exemplified by a Goliath called Doordarshan which broadcast one channel to a billion people. The 22 minutes of singles picked from Bollywood musicals and showcased as 'Chithrahaar' was the prime time show of the week. The 9 pm news usually featured Rini Simon who would read out a government sponsored baritone of the days events. A turbaned man surfaced from the depths of anonymity to become the new finance minister in a fledgling congress government. A government propped up by truck loads of money and horse trading. The prime minister of the day, Narasimha Rao seemed to place a great deal of confidence in him and when I heard that this guy was a Doctor in Economics and yet had managed to become the Finance minister of the country, I was shocked. It was an unheard of event. In my experience the only educated people that I could remember having ever occupied political office were a few of the presidents. Other than that, everyone else was the usual "son of the soil" "wolf in sheep's clothing" kind of muck. As a kid, I had written essays on the population problems that India faced, the illiteracy that was endemic across the poorer parts of the nation and myriad other subjects. Ironically I do not recollect writing any essays on improving the economy or the money making potential of the country and its country men.

The next two years of school were tumultuous because of the gut wrenching competition to get into a professional degree program at a good University. Amidst all this personal chaos, I began noticing that we had more television channels beamed into our homes via private satellites, news was no longer served in baritones, MASH was the coolest show on TV and 'Bold and the Beautiful' was the king of Soaps. I even got to see my first computer and during fall of that year I programmed my first bouncing ball game in GWBasic.

During this period the debate in the country was intense. The doom Sayers and the eternal optimists both waxed eloquent about their end of the story. The doom Sayers cribbed about how the country was going to be relegated to the imperialistic pits of the 21st century and the eternal optimists harped on how the country would turn into a Singapore wonderland overnight. After I got into an engineering program, the debates and the essay competitions at the University too suddenly changed tone and tenor. Everything was about 'Liberalisation'. It was natural, because engineers are usually one of the first beneficiaries of a liberalized economy. 'Competition success review' a geek digest that catered to the fanatical Indian wanting to appear in any competitive exam was strewn from cover to cover with analysis and statistics on the new liberalisation policy and how things were getting better with the economy.

I ended up taking the side of the liberals in all my writings and debates. This was not necessarily because of a firm ideological belief, but rather one driven by reality as my middle class parents were evidently one of the beneficiaries of the new policy. I was living a life metaphorically far away from the real poverty of India and hence I never had an opportunity to better appreciate the negative sides of the changes. My mind had been converted towards a policy of liberalisation and I lapped up every word written or spoken about it.

Things were definitely getting better for the middle class as the years progressed and I got into the job market around the time that the IT bandwagon hit town. The winter of 2005, finds me in the US, reading the online edition of the Indian Express and I saw this quote attributed to Manmohan Singh, the same turbaned guy of the early 90s, who is now India's prime minister. I couldn't help but think, how true this statement was. Liberalization indeed is a struggle for the minds of the people. I converted early on because the conditions of real life aided me towards such a position. Would that have been the case if my family had suffered job losses, lower wages or I had trouble getting into a decent school or find a decent job ? Life is too complicated for every incident to be attributable to a hand full of causes, but nevertheless we always need a handful of causes as the scape goats. Liberalisation is one such scape goat.

Today I can proudly say that Liberalisation has my ideological support, but the journey towards that ideological position was fuelled entirely by the realities of every day life. I just happened to be lucky to see it from the good side. Are we even close to providing that realistic foothold to every Indian living so that he can climb onto this bandwagon and call it his own ? I am not sure. But achieving that goal, I believe is going to be the struggle for the country as a whole. A struggle for the minds of our people.

Retrospective Series : Part 5 : Are you from India ?

2005-10-18T00:32:00.000-05:00

Are you from India ? Something that I have been hearing so often these days! In most cases there is a certain astonishment, certain joy in the voice of the questioner, not a disdain that one might suspect. Some evenings, when my wife and I are dead tired after a long day's work we stop by at a nearby Afghan Kabob place. Simple place, a dump by american standards, but nevertheless amazing food. The lamb kabobs are worth their weight in gold. The first thing the lady at the counter asked my wife was "Are you guys from India ?". Then she said .. "I like India". We never pryed into her reasons for liking India. But I did not have to. I have heard this from so many people from so many different cultures. Flashback to 1997. One really cold evening in October, Arhaus, Denmark. My friends and I are waiting for a bus to take us from downtown Arhaus to our hotel VejlbyKro. A man standing next to us, comes closer and asks us if we are Indian. We reluctantly say "Yes". He then went on to narrate to us how he was an Afghani, who had lived in India after the civil war broke out. He studied in India and then later emigrated to Denmark. He even invited us to a party later that week and my friends who went claimed it to be a wild one. Same country, different time, probably 1998, my friend and I were stopped on the street by an elderly danish gentleman. He asked us the same question. "Are you guys from India ?". Again a reluctant "Yes". He then exclaimed "Wow, what makes you guys so intelligent ?" I was actually taken aback for a moment. But then he went on to tell us how danes always pride themselves in thinking they are a smart bunch and it was always interesting to see another culture that was outsmarting them.

At our gym, the Yoga instructor chants shlokas before and after a Yoga class. Indian classical music plays in the background and it definitely fills you with pride that an amazingly popular vedic science is being spread far and wide. Down in philadelphia, while vising an old buddy of mine, I met a west indian neighbour of his. He said "You are from India..right ?" I said "Yes." He said, "Maan, I am from the greatest cricket playing nation in the world and we share a bond". I said, you are "West Indian". He said.."Definitely." We talked about cricket for a while.

Even at the customs counters there is definitely a noticeable difference in response in seeing an Indian passport. Something that is very welcome to everyone who has travelled and been scrutinized for being Indian.

Some may find this pretty trivial and romanticising what is not really true description of all cases. Some may even think it is prejudiced and stereotyping. But hey who cares, there are some things that must be enjoyed for the sake of enjoying it. Don't think too deeply into the what, why and how. Just let it be. It is a proud moment when someone asks you this question. So just live it. Living as an expat Indian, one takes simple joys in simple events that connect you to India. Case in point, Ravi Kapoor plays Bug on Crossing Jordan. Another regular star on ER is Parminder Nagra. Hollywood probably was the last bastion left for Indians to make their presence felt. Way to go Guys !

Retrospective Series: Part 4 - Assistant In Chief

2005-10-01T16:19:00.000-05:00

This is turning out to be a nice sunny weekend. Something of a rarity as Halloween approaches. Sometimes after an intense week of work(Steam blowing from the ears and heated brain storming sessions, kind of work); I believe a weekend with a large dose of mundane, physical work is called for. I cannot possibly give a medical explanation for how the brain recuperates during that rest, but I can guess with reasonable accuracy. The brain cells say, "yo buddy, you go take a hike. I ain't budging for the next two days !". Monday's are a pleasure after such weekends.

So here I am having just finished cleaning my deck with a powerful cleaner, then washing it up to get rid of the soapy residue. I am now waiting (and blogging) for the sun to dry it up. Then a nice coat of sealant will protect the wood for the winter and maybe for the next couple of years.

As I was doing this, I could not but think of my childhood. I was my dad's assistant-in-chief. A designation that I created for myself, knowing that I was his errand boy when he started on a home improvement project. Being an only child, its not as if there were other assistants for me to be chosen chief of staff. So whether it was painting the bathroom in our backyard, building the garden benches, laying cobble stones underneath the clothes line, I was always lugging around my dad's home improvement tools. He has a natural engineer's perspective for these things, so he can conjecture up a project and finish it to perfection with enough analysis being done in his head than on paper.

One interesting fact (and my wife agrees with me on this...you see, she was the reluctant assistant to her dad too, and usually ran away appointing her kid sister in her place ) about being an assistant to a master craftsman is that you always see the ease with which he does things and wonder; "Wow, that was so cool...can I try that dad ?". "No, of course not, you will mess it up!" would come the reply. I would sulk for a minute and then at the first instant that he was looking away, would try the same trick on a block of wood or tile or whatever the material he was working on. I don't need to tell you how it usually turned out, do I ? Someone is a master craftsman for a reason, and someone else is an assistant for exactly the same reason. Little do the tiny brains realize this universal truth.

Anyway, I would always want to perform the important tasks. Why should I be the one to lug the tools around? Why should I clean up the mess afterwards ? Why can't you ask me for all the tools at the same time ? My dad always asked me for stuff one at a time. "Can I get the hammer ? Oh the big screw driver ? Not this one, the one with the star head."

Now that I am doing it, I know how important it is to pay attention to detail, the process, and the need to have a handyness to perform these tasks. But thanks to genes, I am not so bad myself. My dad chuckles when I tell him this over the phone. I am sure, in the true indian gurukula tradition, he still has a trick or two up his sleeve that he hasn't taught me yet.

Things are no different when one grows up too, isn't it ? We see a master craftsman working at his trade, no matter what it is and we wonder; "Wow, that seems so cool. Can I try that ?" We never change, do we ? At least I haven't.

Politically Incorrect : Ravings of a mere mortal.

2005-09-26T18:21:00.000-05:00

Washington, DC. 38°12′, -77°10′. In the United States, the governor's race is heating up in Virginia, and we have a lot of talk about widening the I-66, the main artery that feeds DC from Virginia. I-66 is a freeway with a lot of history and today it is exactly that, just an old relic. The lack of space to expand on both sides within the beltway(along the lines of the ring roads in India) has made it a commuter's nightmare. The DC metro area is already one of the cities with the most traffic congestion in the United States. A lot of debate and open forums are being held in the capital to address these issues. Every time I open the local county newspaper (Loudoun county), I see big front page articles about town hall meetings, requests for opinions and other related items aimed at involving local people and communities in resolving this growing urban problem. What is more enlightening is that its not just people, but corporations that rally behind these initiatives and push the government into action. The corporates have a very vested interest which is perfectly alright in this case. A mall or hospital will lose business if traffic problems prevent access to their facilities. Despite all this, I still notice a certain lack of speed in the implementation of these proposals. I say that because living in this country you start expecting everything to happen at lightning speed. The culture of instant gratification has been perfected to utopian levels in this country. This is both good and bad at the same time.

Bangalore. India. 12°56′, 77°35′. Everytime I speak to my dad, I ask him one of my favorite questions; Has the road from our home in Bangalore, leading into Hosur Road been widened and asphalted without pot holes? I am not really surprised when my dad replies that it has only gotten worse by the day and that the traffic congestion is horrendous. This is the story of one of the prime locations in Bangalore, where technology companies and the by product of their boom, the housing market, is making a killing. Home and land prices are sky rocketing, people are busting the city to the seams. But everywhere I read and hear the common refrain is that nothing much is happening to the infrastructure. Six years back, that road from my home was a mess. Six years later, it is still no better. I also hear from friends and relatives that downtown bangalore is so packed during business and evening rush hours that most people have stopped venturing out in their cars or have started hiring drivers who will yell and scream on their behalf, while they sit back and read the evening newspaper. Six years ago when I came to the US, there was a similar problem with three major freeways intersecting down in Alexandria, some 20 miles from here. The I-395, I-95 and I-495 intersected to cause one of the most dangerous traffic intersections I have ever seen. I always dreaded taking a route through that part. Today a billion dollars later, the mixing bowl project is well on its way to completion, perhaps a little over budget, a little delayed, but nevertheless easing traffic congestion in a big way.

I am no expert on anything, but here are my two cents. I think we Indians are used to looking at problems with a highly ideological attitude, as opposed to a practical sense of realpolitik. Just like our bureaucrats and foreign policy analysts we take the high moral ground on everything. Lets take the infrastructure problem as an example. We say either the politicians or the bureaucrats are to blame. OK that is what everyone has been telling us for all these years. Since my childhood. I have written scores of essays on it at school. Population explosion, bad politicians, lethargic bureaucrats are to blame for everything. Yes, agreed. Lets move on and find solutions. Just because the system as a whole is unchangeable, doesn't mean we can't start by changing simple things. The left wing talks of revolution as the savior for this problem. The right wing talks of
a myriad things mixed with religion as the savior. In short, everyone has a reason for why things wont work the way they should work.

Lets think small for a minute. We do not have to do everything with a big bang. Lets try small baby steps..remember Richard Dreyfus in the movie "What about bob ?". Case in point. During the Krishna era of Karnataka, I had heard about a very interesting experiment of public private partnership headed by bigwigs from Infosys and other companies. Now I don't hear anything about that. The changed political weather seems to have blown away that experiment. At least that is the feeling I get. I believe the private sector is as much to blame for this, as the government of the day. So what if the political duds cant make up their minds ? The corporations command the economy of the city and the state, they pay taxes. The corporates drive the boom. Stand up and have your voice heard. Don't you guys do that in your own board rooms ? Don't you all thunder when a project gets delayed ? If India was a more statistically inclined country conducting polls on everything under the sun like the US, I am sure we would have numbers to prove the amount of losses corporations accumulate because of employee frustration, employee sickness and other ills as a result of these problems. You know what, lets create lobbyists like the western democracies. I personally am not a great fan of lobbyists, but hey if that is what it takes to push agendas forward, lets do it. It seems to be working in most developed countries. Why is it that lobbyists for negative change seem to have more success in our country than the ones for positive change ?

OK, so what if I can big mouth these ideas sitting across the cliched 'seven seas' ? How am I contributing to change this mindset ? Sadly I am not, I am just another blogger turning on his tap of frustration and venting. At least others like deeshaa.org seem to be doing more practical things. Bangalorebuzz just states facts. But many more people seem to be at least yelling about it than before. Good beginning. Lets face reality for a second. All over the world, politicians and bureaucrats are the same. But it is the success of a mature democracy to put enough checks and balances around mere mortals to make them rise above their own selfish ways. Just take the enticement for corruption, nonchalance away. Make things as transparent as possible. Let us open source all information archiving, maintenance, and data mining activities of the Indian government. God knows we have enough programmers and engineers and a willing army of data entry operators who have basic degrees or even high school diplomas. What we need is motivation to convert all this paper data into mineable, searchable information banks. If it is out there, lets get it on-line. Lets grease every lethargic piece of bureaucracy into action by dragging them to consumer courts if necessary based on evidence. Lets create a business case out of all this. Lets not do anything just out of a feeling of charity. Let us go away from socialistic notions and use Darwin's theory of "Survival of the fittest". Let us create an environment for the fittest to come forth and fight it out. Let us make every government official sweat for his pay and every action accountable, every act traceable. You don't need an army to do this. Information and Telecommunication technology today can fulfill every single tool to meet these requirements. Look at the STD booths that sprouted across the country in the last century. Why can't we start an information kiosk revolution like that ? Are'nt we the back office of the world today ? Let us become the back office of our own nation.

I think I have vented enough. I am sure someone will read this. I am sure someone may even appreciate it. Some may blow it off as just steam from a deserter sitting far away. But how will that be converted into real change ? How will I contribute to this change, in reality? I am still not sure. My quest for an answer continues.

P.S: Wondering why I have the latitude and longitudes for both cities ? Look at the longitudes. DC is at -77° and Bangalore is at 77°. Two opposite poles. Long ways to go.

Retrospective Series : Part 3 : Waxed Paper Magazines

2005-09-14T00:38:00.000-05:00

Thumbing through this month's National Geographic magazine, I soak in the marvellous images that jump out from every single page of this wonderful work of art. Yes it is a work of art to me because of many reasons. Growing up in India, in the mid to late 80s, magazines like the National Geographic were unheard of. At least to a middle class family like mine, based in a small town in the hinterland. Most magazines I had seen were made of regular newspaper grade material, with dry mono color images. The occasional color image was dot matrixed and was nothing great to write about. Those were the heydays of the indo soviet collaboration and the days of misha. Misha was a soviet import, a children's magazine that probably was an amalgamation of reader's digest, tinkle and amar chitra katha, all rolled into one. Misha was printed on glossy waxed paper and had a touch and feel that was ethereal. I got to read them from a neighbour who got them from a shop keeper who bought and sold old magazines. I remember the first time I actually lay my hands on a book printed entirely on waxed glossy paper. A Indo-Soviet fair was in town and my dad one evening returned home with a hand full of books. The books ranged from history of the world to the wonders of astronomy. The astronomy book especially, had amazing pictures and a smell that felt so 'foreign'. Even though I never read all of those books completely, I cherished having them even if I only flipped through the pages to see all the pictures. Twenty years later, my dad and I living in two corners of the world get to read the same National Geographic magazine. The same glossy prints, the same foreign smell. Twenty years of technology and information revolutions have finally made our planet as equitable as it has ever been.
That is why I consider the National Geographic a piece of art. Yes it portrays nature, yes it does wonderful philanthropic work as a society, but my personal reason tops the list of why I cherish the magazine. To this day, whenever I buy a new book, I smell it because it instantly brings back childhood memories. I have had people make wierd faces at me for doing that in the middle of a book store, but hey, what do they know!

Retrospective Series : Part 2 : Black, no cream, 1 Sugar

2005-08-29T00:45:00.000-05:00

The aroma of freshly brewed coffee is unmistakable no matter where you are in the world. Whether you are walking down 5th avenue in New York, museum hopping in downtown DC, or wading through the crowds of Brigades in Bangalore, the aroma emanating from a Star Bucks or a Cafe Coffee Day tingles your brain and drives your taste buds into an ecstatic frenzy. Alright, this may not be for everyone, but any Coffeee junkie will back me up here. The taste of coffee though is an entirely subjective and geographical matter. Coffee has been my morning fix ever since I left home in search of my calling. My first job in Bangalore came with the perks of a hot steaming cup of coffee served at my desk. Talk of small indulgences. Very soon the lady who served coffee knew the exact times when I would go and ask for a second and third cup before lunch. This coffee that I was served was regular indian coffee, probably an instant blend and was very sweet. My taste buds enjoyed them, getting accustomed to the overload of sweetness and extra helping of milk in the steaming cup.

The dawn of a new millenium, found me enroute to the United States. After a gruelling 20 hour flight into NewYork's JFK, my friend and I were ready to drop dead from fatigue and jet lag. Our minds were a twisted knot of synapses. Needing to kill half a day before we could catch our next prop plane to Richmond, Virginia, we loitered around the airport. An aroma familiar to our senses wafted through the aisles. We walked faster as the aroma drew us towards it, like two zombies in a scary movie. We stopped in front of an Au Bon Pain. A coffee paradise and bakery. We walked up to the counter glancing over the menu. Under coffees, there were a million options. After an eternity of non decision, we both finally decided to order a tall french roast, no cream. The barista poured a steaming cup and rang us in.

Cup in hand we both walked over to the condiment bar. I added a couple of sachets of sugar, stirred it up and took a small sip.Hmmm... "Did I add sugar ? I thought I added sugar. Let me add some more." Couple of sachets were dumped and stirred into the coffee. Another sip. Yikes. What is wrong with this thing ? Why is it so bitter ? What is happening to the sugar ?

6 sachets later, my friend and I were exchanging weird glances and wondering what the hell we had ordered. After a few more brave attempts to fix the coffee and failing miserably we threw the concoction into the nearby trash. Must have been the french roast, probably some wierd coffee blend. We also made a mental note to avoid Au Bon Pain during any future coffee adventures. Sure enough, days and then months passed by and we got settled into our new american lives. Every coffee place we went to and every coffee blend we tried from the Columbian Supremo to the Star Bucks Espresso, were all bitter and unfamiliar to the taste buds sweetened by Indian coffee. Soon I realized that what I was drinking in America was one of the true flavors of coffee, unadulterated by chicory, a sweetner used extensively by the indian industry to take away the bitterness inherent in the bean. Aha !

Many winters later, I swear by the Columbian supremo, a dark roast that has become part of a daily routine. I now drink black, 1 sugar, no milk. Goes very well with a dunking croissant or a danish or the occasional bagel. Acquired tastes are just another part of our lives. The cup of Java in my hand as I review this blog, is just one among them.

Retrospective Series : Part 1 : A Lifeless Collection

2005-08-23T00:48:00.000-05:00

Growing up in a small town has its benefits and disadvantages. The disadvantages probably outweigh the benefits. The fact that an entire world filled with wonders waited outside, occasionally dawned on me, partly thanks to the loads of books that I read from the decrepit local library. Funded by the government, this dungeon of a place had dust collecting over its books. Layers of dust encrusted the books literally. After every visit to the library my mom would hand me a napkin at the doorstep, so that I could wipe the caked mud off the books. I would flip them over a couple of times and give the pages a nice ruffle, a humble effort to get rid of any insects that could potentially be hiding between the covers. After thoroughly washing my hands with soap I would then be allowed to enter the confines of my home. Even after all that ritual my mother never really overcame her unease with the dusty books being present in the house.

I would diligently look at the borrowers record taped to the back of each book; hoping to decipher when it was last borrowed. Invariably most prior borrowings would be at least 5 to 10 years before mine. That is a long time difference for a book to be lying idle without being read. What a shame ? It filled me with despair that I was forced to read books no one ever read, but deep down inside I also felt a pride that in a town of at least a 100,000 people, I was one among an elite few, mesmerized by the magic of the English word. In comparison, the library had a reasonably good collection of Kannada books, the local language of the town and there was no dearth of readers for that fare. They even seemed to get new books added to their collection occasionally. I would walk up to the librarian ever so often, enquiring about any new English books that might have been accidentally added to the collection. He was a grumpy man who never had the slightest trace of a smile ever on his face. He would look at me as if I were asking for a business class reservation to Mars, on the next launch of the space shuttle. His usual spiel went along the lines of how funding was limited, and how most of it was spent towards acquiring local language books that had greater circulation. Dejected I would go back into the dusty aisles of the english section, continuing my quest to find interesting books to read.

It was to me a very lifeless collection. Lifeless because that is what it seemed to me during those days, especially when I was in 7th and 8th grade. Ironically, looking back, I realize that I given the smaller collection available to me, I ended up experimenting with unheard of authors. At least unheard and unimportant to me at that time. I had managed to read almost all of the classic works of English literature by the time I was in engineering school. I had read books ranging from the sleaziest of pulp fiction to the most philosophical treatises ever written by the likes of Fyodor Dostoevesky and Fredrick Neitzsche.

Every kind of book was admissible regardless of genre, to kill time during the summer holidays. The incessant heat prevented me from playing outdoors during the day and the only recourse was to read. Encyclopedias, medical treatises, Plato and Socrates, Arthur Conan Doyle's Sherlock Holmes, Isaac Asimov and his Science Fiction, Thomas Hardy's 'Jude The Obscure', 'Return of the Native', Poems of John Keats and the list goes on and on. All of these works invariably made it into my list of reading material. What started out as a quest to read children's novels like the Hardy Boys and Britain's famed children's book writer Enid Blyton ended up as an amazing introduction to the classical works of literature.

Talk of a lifeless collection.