Finally, look ahead

I am trying to be rational and positive but the cacophony is getting to me. Here is our first chance at things changing, at growing a backbone after decades of being a doormat and there are too many whiny voices. And the complaints are laughable and most times, extremely self-centred.

I will be the first to admit that Narendra Modi's appeal to the people of Varanasi to start cleaning up the city made me selfishly happy. All our lives, especially when city dustbins haven't been easily available, our parents have drilled the value of not littering, into us. As a result, I continue to hold on to greasy wrappers and juice tetrapaks for hours (and days, if needed) until I find a dustbin. I absolutely hate it when others litter and don't understand the kind of person that can just throw garbage on the side or middle of a street. So, Modi's call, in a sense, was vindication of a personal principle for me.

But I get really annoyed when people whine on social media about how a BJP government might end India's freedom to wear jeans or infringe upon the rights of Indians to live with a partner of their choice. Are you serious? Do you really think, instead of tackling the inherited legacy of more potholes than roads and a state of permanent hunger and crippling destitution, the new government will expend effort on stifling an upper middle class Indian's right to don jeans? When it needs to prevent the rampant acts of terrorism and punish those who dare commit those acts, it will spend time hunting down those who choose to live with a same-sex partner?

Really? That's what is top of mind for you when a huge chunk of your compatriots live without any basic civic amenities or dignity despite working harder than you or I, in our middle-class existence can ever imagine? Contrary to whatever dynastic mouthpieces may say, poverty is not a state of mind. It is a very hard fact. It is crippling and we have to work very very hard to make it go away. Because when you watch your children starve to death or watch your wife die in childbirth in extremely unsanitary conditions, neither your religion or your sexual orientation matters.

And lest I be misunderstood, nobody should ever be persecuted because of their way of life if they are not hurting others. But we are not a developed country and do not have the luxury of only focusing on the rights of the middle or upper classes. As Indians, we owe it to our country to make it a more equal place. And a huge part of that is pulling our countrymen (and women) out of the crushing poverty that has become their lot.

So, keep those jeans on and live with your partner, married or otherwise, gay or straight. Just make sure you think about your country first. Because only when we are developed and people don't live in desperate want, will any of us really be secure. Even building our little gated Elysiums won't save us from the wrath of real poverty.

So, let's look ahead and give it our best shot. Let's work with this government that wants to change things for the better and see how their work measures up to their promises. We will be stupid if we don't.

Unplugging and haat-mukh dhuwa

As we stepped in after walk-celebrating the first hopeful glimpse of spring/summer, I made a beeline to change into my 'home' clothes. And, out of the blue, remembered my family's tradition of ghorot-pindha and baahirot-pindha kapur.

Somehow that jolted my brain into thinking of a recent Tweet (or was it Facebook post) about the pointlessness of trying to 'unplug'. And how, I really don't unplug anymore other than my almost automatic need to change out of 'office-wear' and into home-wear. As I tried to distill it for (read ramble at) my 'phoren' husband, I told him about my family's emphasis on 'haat-mukh dhuwa' (washing your face and feet) as soon as you came home for the day. We were expected to wash, change and would only then get something to eat. And I can barely remember any exceptions.

Thinking back, this practice seems like unplugging to me. A way to make sure that you don't bring home your work and are able to devote yourself completely to your family. Conversely, with the lack of ubiquitous connectivity, you could typically devote yourself pretty completely to school or work while there. Ma always says that Hinduism and Indian traditions developed from societal need and were very logical and this particular one definitely seems to fit the bill.

As we explore values like 'Being Present' at my company in a time when it's become so difficult to focus on one thing at a time, I promise to hold on to haat-mukh dhuwa. I have a hunch though that this might be a case of keeping the symbol alive while allowing the meaning to slip away.

Bright lipstick does not equal rebellion

She is old news. The media, maybe even her celebrity family have moved on to more current topics. But I have had this note in my drafts for some time and I wanted to write it out. So, (late) Sunanda Tharoor, here's why I think you don't deserve my admiration.

I don't know much about you except for what little the media (social and otherwise) has decided to publish and I apologize in advance for my ignorance. But since this blog is just about my opinion, here goes.

You  were lauded by many and criticized by many others for your decision to live life on your own terms instead of following patriarchal rules. Both of these are values I admire. But I don't think you really lived outside those patriarchal norms. You may have ignored the rules of 'virtue' but you definitely seemed to adhere to other patriarchal rules. You seemed to personify the 'modern' high-society (read Page 3 socialite) woman. The kind that is typically distinguished by a particular kind of make-up and fashion choice more than anything else. The kind that helps establish the 'requirement' that women must look a certain way irrespective of the profession they are in -- a very patriarchal expectation.

So, if you were conforming to the patriarchal rules that worked for you and rejecting those that didn't, why were you lauded as a rule-breaker? Is that a crown that's now awarded to those who wear bright makeup and fashionable apparel? Because that is not the definition of a rebel. This smells like a new patriarchal rule to me.

Palpitations are pesky

I have decided that I don't like 'overly happy' people. (I don't think overly is a real word but it's the right adjective in this instance). I guess I always knew it somewhere deep down but just hadn't figured out if saying that out loud would make me a misanthrope.

And it's not as if a particular trigger set this rant off. It's more a case of having to deal with the overly happy-type too often. The kind that seem to pour excitement down a phone cord/air-wave, into myriad social media channels and (the worst) in-person. The kind that makes you feel like a misanthrope just because you don't automatically love all of humanity (I am not even sure if loving all humanity is necessarily safe). 

The kind that I have recently discovered, gives me palpitations. And forces me to calm my quick breathing. I think somewhere along the line, social media is to blame for pulling the dust covers off the overly happy-type. Pre-the barrage of constant emotions on display for the public to consume, the overly happy-type was probably bereft of the right communication channel. That's certainly changed. And with it, the ability to display unceasing happiness has increased manifold. Now, an unsuspecting (often sarcastic) comment by me on my limited-audience social media profiles risks being flooded with 'Likes' by an overly happy-type. This, in addition to the fact that the overly happy-types will always share the many joys in their life -- new cars, clothes, partners, holidays, babies, houses (if Indian, preferably in foreign lands) ad nauseum via their own social media profiles.

I think I would feel a little more kindly towards the overly happy-types if their updates sometimes included sarcasm/a mention of someone who was not themselves or somehow connected to them/some form of negativity. Anything, basically, that proved to me that they are less angelic and a little more human. I guess angels just cause my heart to palpitate. They feel a little too unreal. Fake, maybe?

Of Nomu's mysterious ways and passports

The first 'one a week' blog post, a little over a week late. For someone who calls themselves deadline-driven, I certainly am lax with personal deadlines!

Anyway, I suggested to Ma that she and I write at least once a week (hopefully the frequency will increase) through this year. I think it will be a good way to motivate each other to write more frequently and also stay in better touch. We'll see but no harm trying :)

Warning as you (my precious few readers) start to read this: this is yet another travel-related post. It's about lost and found and messed-up passports. As I stood in the security check line before boarding my flight to India, chatting on the phone with my husband, telling him (in great detail) about the snaking queue, I was only half-paying attention to anything else.

So, when the ground crew came by asking that we check our belongings for someone else's passport, I was pretty sure that that didn't apply to me. I remembered collecting my own passport at the check in counter and made sure it was in my hand. Since I knew I couldn't have picked up anyone else's passport at the counter or anywhere else, I only gave my bag a cursory glance through. Security check done, mad rush to the plane since I was among the last few to board and I settled down for the 14-odd hour flight home.

A little over midway into the journey and after chatting about Indian politics at length with my seat neighbor, I decided to fill out the immigration forms and dug for my passport. I can't even begin to describe my horror when I opened it and saw someone else's face staring up at me. I flipped through the pages in the hope that I was seeing things and my face would appear when I came back to the bio page. Naturally, that didn't happen. So, I dug in my bag again fervently praying that I would find my own passport. Thankfully, the next passport I pulled out was indeed mine.

Since my seat neighbors were fast asleep, I buzzed for the attendant and waited. After three attempts, one of the flight attendants stopped by and I explained to him that I had found someone else's passport in my bag. He looked confused and then alarmed even as (I am sure) I looked horrified at the thought of how the owner of the passport must be feeling. He took the passport from me and went to consult with the team. By now, my neighbor was wide awake and very curious about what was going on. I repeated what I had said to the attendant and he tried to console me saying that I had done the right thing by returning it. One of the lead attendants came by and asked me to step to the back of the plane with her. Once again, I explained the situation to her as she incredulously asked me how this had happened. As I sadly (and patiently) explained to her that it was impossible to find anything in my bag, I had visions of Ma's blue-black travel handbag which would bring forth the most amazing treasures as soon as we needed them--from paper napkins to water bottles to Vicks. As an adult, I had definitely succeeded in packing a world into my travel handbag but was far from being able to make things appear magically!

Anyway, end of this story, the airline took my name and that was that. Fast forward to the end of a very relaxed vacation with my family and a six-hour halt at Delhi airport before boarding the flight back to the US. After practically hugging a phone booth at the domestic terminal for most of that time and then sauntering into the international section a couple of hours before my flight, when I stood in the final security check queue at the departure gate, I was in for another shock.

I heard the airline/airport personnel announce my name. When I identified myself, the person who was calling my name asked me to step out of the line and show him my passport and other travel documents. As I took those out of my bag, the episode from the inward journey flashed into my mind and I sent a quick prayer up for help.

But unlike the person who's passport I had brought with me, I had a knight in shining armour who had a phone with a broken screen--Avneet Singh Matta. Mr. Matta was the airport security person who had announced for me and who kicked off a series of phone calls to set things right. In between calls, he told me that the dunderhead airline official who had checked me in (extremely unwillingly) at my original port of entry, had entered an incorrect passport number. As a result, the international travel security system was throwing up an error. After about 40 minutes of some serious negotiating, he was finally able to get me and my bags on that flight.

As I was about to board the flight, I asked if I could recommend him to anyone for his amazing help and he said that there was no need. Desperate to show some sign of gratitude to this unbelievably low-key individual, I dug into my bag for a bar of chocolate I knew I had. Of course, this was my bag that we are talking about. It swallows passports, so a chocolate is no big deal. So, I had to let Mr. Matta go without even being able to thank him properly.

I arrived at my seat and settled in, continuing to dig, just in case the chocolate magically appeared. And I guess I was nearing Ma's handbag magic, because this time, it did. The plane was still being held for another passenger who was receiving medical attention, so I rushed to the front and asked if Mr. Matta was still around. He wasn't but thankfully, one of his colleagues who had talked to us earlier, was. So, I explained what had happened and asked him to give the chocolate to Mr. Matta. After an initial refusal (I can only imagine how puzzled he was by my insistence), he finally accepted, smiled and said he would give it to Mr. Matta.

As I walked back to my seat, feeling a little happier and extremely relieved, one of the attendants laughingly said to the colleague that Mr. Matta should go on the airport and airline's ads. I agree, my knight in shining armour would be a good partner for the Maharaja!

The happiness in independence

I scoured Facebook today to see what people were posting for our Independence Day (I am going to call it I-Day). And it should have made me smile to see the Happy I-Day wishes. Strangely enough though, it didn't.

All I kept feeling as I thought of I-Day was that we have failed those who brought us independence. And possibly pushed a lot of people much below or at least into the same deep trenches that the colonial British had them in. Of course, it didn't help that I was listening to patriotic Hindi songs on Gaana.com's loop, which kept switching between the Mr. Bharat mold and telling the world how unique India is!

But as I read the Assam Tribune every day (I often rely on my husband for any non-Assam news), neither happiness nor success screams from its pages. Instead, I see violent uprisings in my home state as people demand separate states, or a steep hike in the price of onions that roundly beats inflation. I read hollow statements that the state and central government make about border conflicts that are claiming young Indian soldiers as they do absolutely nothing to save these lives.

And I find myself searching for the happiness in our independence.

As I step away from reading about my country, and back to my life in a well-functioning, rich land, I often feel like I have cheated my country. Be it the great super-subsidized public higher education that I received and definitely did not pay back fully or the fact that any volunteering I do, does not directly help someone back home, I find it tough to accept that I can't do more to give back.

Among the few things that I can do from here is to contribute money. And since I find it hard to ask others to donate to a cause I believe in (I would probably stink at fundraising), I was thrilled when I realized that my (awesome) employer matches donations to non-profits of the employee's choice. You can donate up to USD 1,000 and they match it fully. So, last year, I got a full match for donations to four small NGOs based in Guwahati, Assam. NGOs, which were far from the big boy scale and for whom this money made a serious difference.

I thought that some of you who struggle with how to help people back home may want to explore options like this with your own employers. Big companies are much maligned (and sometimes for good reason) but they also have the enormous power that comes with size. Be it the amazing power of employee engagement and volunteering or good ole' cash.

End of the day, if you can work with the system and still do some good, big isn't that bad at all. It definitely makes it possible for me to make things a little more right. And maybe some day, help bring that happiness back into my I-Day.

We are friendly people around here

As we left the city (more like the suburbs) behind and headed south to Lake Erie, the traffic decreased. One of the main highways that we took was the QEW (Queen Elizabeth Way). They even had a little picture of a crown above the QEW on all the signs--long live the Queen, I guess!

The landscape changed too and suburban homes and malls gave way to farmland. While it was very charming, a practical warning to city dwellers--it's really easy to get lost in farm country! The roads have names but sometimes a sign at one end of the road will say X and a sign at the other end will say Y. So, you travel about 20 minutes hoping to reach your destination and see a different name and you scratch your head wondering if you took the wrong road in the first place. Let's just say navigating farm country involves getting turned around a bit :)

Though I admit that Google Maps and MapQuest served us well. We first asked for directions when we were about thirty minutes away from Port Maitland at a food trailer. The temperatures had soared by then and we figured we deserved the ice cream shakes that they were serving. Though my stomach turned a little to see two men biting hungrily into good-sized burgers--it was just too hot for me to eat anything that heavy!
The old lady at the food trailer knew exactly where we wanted to go when we hesitantly told her the name of the place and gave us really easy directions--once you get to the river, go over the bridge and then take the left at the petrol pump. And if you get lost, just ask. We are pretty friendly people around here!

Umm, get to a river. What if there is more than one river, our city brains thought. We'll be smart, we thought. We'll combine her directions with our map. So, we got to the river and our map said, go straight. So, we did. And then had to stop to ask for directions at a wayside auto repair place. The shop was manned by two elderly men, who not only knew the area well but had also mastered Google Maps! So, they drew us a quick map and sent us off on the right path (the earlier lady had been right, of course).

We finally arrived at the Port Maitland to a fluffy welcome from Sisi and the elderly couple who owned the place. A quick luggage drop-off and rinse later, we were at the 'pebbly' Lake Erie shore. The sun shone down brightly as we ran into the water with our Go Pro camera ready to do some underwater photography. As I sat splashing water and blinking in the sun, I crossed off one item from my travel list. Lake Erie, done :)