poisonwood-desidiary

Euro English - what a concept (borrowed from a note I received)

2012-01-25T08:28:00.000+05:30

T he European Commission has just announced an agreement whereby English will be the official language of the European Union rather than German, which was the other possibility.

As part of the negotiations, the British Government conceded that English spelling had some room for
improvement and has accepted a 5- year phase-in plan that would become known as 'Euro-English' ..

In the first year,
's' will replace the soft 'c'. Sertainly, this will make the sivil servants jump with joy.

The hard 'c' will be dropped in favour of 'k'. This should klear up konfusion, and keyboards kan have one less letter.

There will be growing publik enthusiasm in the sekond year when the troublesome 'ph' will be replaced
with 'f'. This will make words like fotograf 20% shorter.

In the 3rd year, publik akseptanse of the new spelling kan be expekted to reach the stage where more komplikated changes are possible.

Governments will enkourage the removal of double letters which have always ben a deterent to akurate speling. Also, al wil agre that the horibl mes of the silent 'e' in the languag is disgrasful and it should go away.

By the 4th yer people wil be reseptiv to steps such as replasing 'th' with 'z' and 'w' with 'v'.

During ze fifz yer, ze unesesary 'o' kan be dropd from vords kontaining 'ou' and after ziz fifz yer, ve vil hav a reil sensibl riten styl.

Zer vil be no mor trubl or difikultis and evrivun vil find it ezi tu understand ech oza. Ze drem of a united urop vil finali kum tru.

Und efter ze fifz yer, ve vil al be speking German like zey vunted in ze forst plas.

If zis mad you smil, pleas pas on to oza pepl

Ode to Fall

2011-09-23T21:19:00.002+05:30

What is it about an October Maple ?
Competing against the crisp fall sky
It stands tall and confident and glorious

It knows it will soon lose all its leaves
And yet it happily sheds the lazy green of summer
To reveal a deeper, more striking color.....
Its inner core that has always been there
A warning of the upcoming winter
The October maple should fill our hearts with dread and sadness
And yet we bow to it in awe and wonder

What is it about the October Maple ?
We see it shed its youth and playfulness
And emerge as a mature and seasoned adult
Ready to step into the cold and dark of winter
And yet it makes us happy ?

Is it the knowledge of a battle won ?
Is it the knowledge of a life lived to the fullest ?
Is it optimism, hope or simple faith
that the leaves will return again
And the tree will be stronger
and even more beautiful in the spring ?

Ode to the Mumbai Monsoon

2011-09-11T23:40:00.002+05:30

oh how i love the promise of the Arabian sea

waves madly dashing ashore

dark storm clouds on the horizon

the rumble of thunder,

and the pouring rain.

yes, I know. this storm too shall pass and nothing

nothing will ever be the same again

i love the prospect of new possibilities

the seeds of hope enclosed in every drop of precious rain

i love the promise of the phoenix
and knowing that it will rise again

yes i love a mumbai monsoon

yes i love walking in the rain

i love the cool refreshing feel of raindrops

on my parched and fevered face

i love the sound of children thrash and giggle

as they engage in a futile race

but mostly i love just sitting on that retaining wall

staring into the Arabian Sea

and fantasizing about all
the wondrous things life holds in store for me.

Everything remains the same

2010-07-10T13:12:00.003+05:30

Hanging around the lunch table on a Saturday and we got talking of gulab jamuns. Perhaps it was right after eating the dudhi halwa that mom made - from scratch with raw dudhi and milk. And we talked about mava - the delicious brown solid that the milk turns into when it has been allowed to slowly evaporate for a a long long time. I've become a huge fan of the solid, and don't anyone ever tell me that the stuff they sell in a can in America is a substitute - cos its not.

Anyway mom talked about how gulab jamuns are made from mava - the brown solid. A little flour a little cardamom and you roll the damp mava into little balls and fry them up, before dropping them into saffron and cardamom flavored sugar syrup. Yummmmmmmm ! The stuff you make from a Gits packet - doesnt even come into the territory.

So mom was telling us about how when she was young they would make huge thalis full of Gulab Jamum for parties and to send to dad's friend, and about how she cannot even imaginge making that many so causally any more. She said, we were young and we would just undertake these huge projects and never stop to think of cost or calories......

And so I thought back to about a year ago in Memphis. Her parents were having a party for many reasons, and for no reason. My young niece Shruti decided she wanted to make "Cake Balls".

She started by making 3 pan cakes. These she proceeeded to crumble in the food processor. Then she mixed in cake frosting to make a big gooey paste. This she chilled in the refrigerator for a few hours. Then at 10pm after the dinner dishes were done, she brought out huge sheet pans and started to mould the cake and frosting paste into balls. The paste was cold. And we had to try spoons, ice cream scoops to ladle out perfect little balls. Finally, we gave up and dug in with our fingers.

The balls were then dipped in a chocolate sauce. Once the sauce firmed, we drizzled the whole platter with more chocolate! 4 hours after we had started the cake balls were done. You ate one and felt like you'd consumed 1000 calories. And we had made about 400 of these things. I made Shruti promise "NEVER AGAIN" shall we talk about making cake balls... though Shruti, the yoga teacher heard this story and is looking forward to making some.

I wonder if Shruti will look back at that evening and think - What were we thinking!!!

Is it or isn't it Maida or The Quest for the Perfect Samosa

2010-07-04T18:42:00.001+05:30

My maid Radhika has been asking mummy to teach her how to make samosas. We've always prioritized it down among other Gujarati things, primarily because I can always get a passable samosa in the office cafetaria.

However, since we did not have much to do today, we decided we would embark on Project Samosa.
I hit the internet, and checked out recipes from a few of my favorite chefs. Mummy learnt to make samosas from Rewa Ba but she has hopelessly doctored the recipe over the years, and I was going after a particular taste.

So we made the filling in the morning, and I tasted it till I got it just right. Probably finished a quarter of the potato in the tasting. The plan was to make the dough in the evening.

While Radhika was at her own home and mummy was taking a nap, I decided to make the dough. I decided to add an extra little surprise that I've picked up over the years. I was going to add a teeny tiny bit of yeast to the dough to make it extra flaky.

There were many containers in the many cupboards in the kitchen. I recognized the rice flour and the chappati atta and the besan.. and kept looking for the maida. I wasn't going to let mom do her favorite half maida half atta under the guise of making a healthy samosa.

I stumbled upon what I was sure was maida. I made the atta with a generous sprinkle of ajwain and it tasted yum. The teaspoon of yeast bubbled up nicely. The atta worked very well. I had what I thought was the perfect samosa dough.

Mom woke up from her nap, Radhika arrived, and we embarked upon the process of rolling out the dough. Radhika thought we did not have enough dough. And I said, Yes, let me make some more. When she saw the container - she said she did not think it was maida. She thought it was cornflour. Mom bit into the crispy samosa and said "Oh its too crispy to be maida, it must be cornflour." I told them I did not think cornflour would feel so much like maida while kneading and cooking.

Papa ate up 2 samosas and said he did not really have the experience to tell anything other than that samosas were damn good.

So for the second batch of dough I used the "alleged" maida. It felt like rice flour. But mom and Radhika both swear that that is what Indian maida is like. So we are waiting for that batch to soak up. And soon we shall have the results.

The Das Sisters - Kukoon

2010-07-04T15:11:00.011+05:30

Kukoon (Devkanya) - the youngest, and legend has it the most beautiful, talented and charming one of all the sisters, exuberant and enthusiastic.

Married at the age of 16 to a young man in Bhuleshwar, Kukoon moved to Bombay around 1946. She soon charmed the in-laws and their neighbors with her unique looks, her stature, her beauty and her talents. She became friends with mom's cousins and through them with Mom.

At Navratri, she would ofen reduce the gathered crowd to tears with her rendition of the Gujarati garbo "Dikri to Parki Thapan Keh Vay" - A daughter belongs to a different family. Gujarati lyrics can be found at http://gujaratigazalslyrics.blogspot.com/2009/05/dikri-to-parki-thapan-parki.html, and some day I just might get around to translating them.

You might have read in When Mummy Met Daddy about how Kukoon bua was instrumental in arranging my parents marriage. She was a favorite in our home as well as in my grandparents, and that of mom's Somi masi, who lived next door to Kukoon bua's in-laws.

Which made her senseless death all the more tragic, and all the more difficult to bear.

Kukoon bua's mother-in-law was rumored to have been a demanding and domineering sort who placed all kinds of demands on her young daughter in law. Raised in the Gujarati tradition of believing that a daughter's place is at her in-laws, and she must always work on preserving their reputation, she kept most of this from papa and the Haldwani family and the Chokseys.

By the time Mom and Dad had been married 2-3 years, Kukoon was approaching 5 years of marriage. She still had not conceived and provided her demanding mother-in-law with an heir. Little is known or discussed of what all transpired in that household leading up to her death.

Mom and Dad were busy with the next big family wedding. Mom's older brother Bhagwan mama was getting married to one of Mom's classmates from High School. It was an arranged marriage. The bride, Urmila mami, was the oldest daughter of a wealthy business owner in Bhuleshwar. Though regulation of the gold market had slowed down the Chokseys business, Urmila mami's father had planned a grand wedding.
The bridal party travelled in an open convertible bedecked with flowers through the streets of Bhuleshwar. And a good time was had by all. .....except Kukoon bua.

She spent the day planning exactly how she would commit suicide. She knew that the wedding was important to my parents. She did not want to do anything to spoil the event.

And so she waited until it was all over. She wrote a note explaining that she had chosen to end her life, because she saw no way ahead. That she did not want to cause any more pain or inconvenience to anyone.

When her in-laws finally found her, she had consumed a whole bottle of a lethal acid compound. By the time they got her medical attention, it was too late to do anything for her.

Emotions in the family raged high. A beloved daughter had been cornered into taking her life. The Das family wnated the in-laws to receive the toughest punishment imaginable. That was when Gordhan kaka, the uncle that had arranged the match, and a powerful magistrate in his own right, stepped in.

He persuaded the family to think things through - "We have already lost our daughter. Pursuing a court case will not bring her back, and will drag all the families through the muck." He persuaded my grandfather and my dad to help bring a speedy conclusion to the case, protecting Kamala ben and family.

Kukoon bua - we never had the opportunity to know you, but your spirit lives on, in the countless nieces and nephews who may never have heard of you, but who have learnt from my parents and their siblings that ill-treatment of a daughter-in-law is unacceptable.

The Das Sisters - Shanu Foi

2010-07-04T15:11:00.009+05:30

Sanu (Sukanya) foi - Sanu foi was a gorgeous, outspoken young woman, with many talents. I remember her singing on the terrace in Haldwani on the summer evenings when we all gathered there, thinking that is whom I want to be like. She had a strong, powerful, confident voice.

She was married to an accountant from Calcutta - the oldest son of one of the Gujarati families from Kapadwanj that had moved to Calcutta. Bhupendra fua also had a great zest for the arts, being raised in the Rabindranath tradition, and was a great singer himself. We met their four children during our summer vacations in Haldwani or whenever they came to Bombay.

But I always remained impressed by Sanu foi's outspokenness, for her championing of the right cause and her willingness to speak out for things that were important to her. And I was even more impressed by fua's championing her in each of those circumstances.

The Das Sisters - Shant Foi

2010-07-04T15:11:00.007+05:30

Shant (Chandrakala) foi

Another tall woman, Shant foi bears a striking resemblance to papa, and at various times in my life I have looked remarkably like her. She was married to a young man from Ahmedabad with strong literary skills and a strong interest in Gujarati literature. They set up home in Bombay and had 3 children. Shant foi was also a multi-skilled, multi-talented woman who could do literally anything she set her mind to, and always moved onto the next thing before she had perfected the art of the first one. I see so much of her in me.

Their first home in Bombay was in the Bhuleshwar area but on the side closer to the Masjid Bunder docks. The day the ammunition ships exploded in the Bombay harbor, they lost all their worldly possessions and had to start life all over again.

Never reaching a stage of great financial wealth, Shant foi "made-do" , supplementing the family finances by taking on odd jobs and raised 3 fine children. I remember her as bold, almost audacious, in her approach and outlook to life and situations. I wish I knew more about her.

The Das Sisters - Cho Cho bua

2010-07-03T22:18:00.127+05:30

Cho Cho Bua and Shant foi with random cousins

Cho-Cho (Shashikala) was the oldest. Even in her older years I remember her as a tall woman of great stature, with jet black hair (never dyed) and very fair skin. She was married at a very young age to a young man from the family home town of Kapadwanj. By the time she was 22 years old, she was the mother of 2 boys and a widow. The cruel ritual of Sati was banned by the time this happened. However, even then widows were required to shave their heads bald and wear white saris for the rest of their lives. They also could not adorn themselves with flowers, jewellry or any other decorative objects. Society expected them to merely exist in the background, taking little, raising the children and awaiting death.

Very fortunately for Cho Cho bua, her mother-in-law did not subscribe to the thinking of the times. She was allowed to keep her hair. But she did have to give up all adornments and opt for the simple white sari.

Mom remembers an argument between Cho Cho bua and her mother Rewa Ba. Cho cho wanted to wear her hair with a part in the middle. Rewa Ba telling her that as a widow, she could only wear it pulled back. Cho Cho bua was only 24 years old then - condemned to live without heed to fashion remaining functional and never allowed to appear attractive.

While Cho Cho bua was not allowed to appear attractive, she was encouraged to become independent, which was a very rare privilege for women of that time. Her mother-in-law took over the responsibility of raising the 2 young boys while Cho Cho bua went away to college to study . She stayed in a hostel at the college, and returned to take on a job as a teacher in the local school in Kapadwanj.

This ended up being a career with many good results, as she was able to raise her children with the support of her mother-in-law. She was able to make up for the dent in the family finances following her husband's death. And every summer she was able to take the kids to Haldwani on vacation. Most importantly, the teaching career gave her a place where she could express herself in a gainful manner. And it gave her a pension guaranteeing her an income till she died in 2008 at the age of 81 or thereabouts.

Certainly a lonely and difficult life,but one that might have been much worse had her mother-in-law not encouraged and supported her independence.

When Mummy Met Daddy

2010-06-27T15:27:00.001+05:30

Papa had arrived in Bombay and moved up from Jogeshwari to Bhuleshwar. He was living at Gordhan Kaka's house at Kumbha Tukda and commuting by tram to the mills in Parel.

His youngest sister, Devkanya aka Kukoon was married into a Gujarati family that lived across the street from Kishore Bhuvan. Mom's Somi masi was neighbors with the family. Kukoon was a beautiful, talented and exuberant 16-year old. She soon became a part of Somi masi's extended family, and became friends with the Choksey sisters, especially mom.

Papa in the meantime was quite despondent - he had been engaged to be married. Weeks into the engagement his fiance and her entire family were wiped out in a deadly and tragic fire.

The young Kukoon was determined to find a match for her big brother and proceeded to persuade her mother in law Kamala ben and Somi masi to explore an alliance with mom.

Mom, was the second oldest daughter of a large family. While the oldest daughter had been married when she was just 13, my grandfather's more liberal bent of mind prevailed and at 20 - mom was still single and helping Ba run Kishore Bhuvan. The one suitor that she had been shown, she turned down, much to the chagrin of my older aunt - who counseled her that she really should not be picky. After all she was already 20, and there were several other sisters that were of marriageable age.

Somi masi discussed this with Ba - who was a little concerned about marrying her daughter to someone outside the Patan community, and particularly to someone from a place called Haldwani, which sounded like it was in a jungle. However, the young Kukoon persisted.

There was a chance encounter - Mom and Thakore mama stepping out of the hospital where they had visited Hansa mami saw Papa in the street. Mom oblivious to the strings being pulled behind the scenes, is said to have remarked to Thakore mama that there was an attractive man (or something like that). This message was relayed to their parents who were starting to receive very strong feelers from Kamala bhen.

One morning Ba instructed mom to go visit Somi masi. Mom that that was a bit odd, cos she almost never visited Somi masi. Most of the visits were FROM Somi masi and Kukoon and Kamala bhen. However, mom picked out a pretty sari, that she was sure she would not be allowed to wear and asked Ba for permission. It was granted without question.

So mom put on her pretty sari, went downstairs and crossed the street to Somi masi's. When she got there, she was asked to go stop in at Kamala bhen's. Inside Kamala bhen's house was a whole crowd of people, including dad's mother Rewa Ba. Mom completed whatever flimsy tasks that Somi masi and Kamala bhen had come up with and returned to Kishore Bhuvan, oblivious of what had transpired.

Within a short time, Rewa Ba informed Kamala bhen that she would like to pursue the match. This came back to Kishore Bhuvan through Somi masi and a formal meeting was organized. Rewa Ba, Kukoon bua and papa came, accompanied by a few other people. One look at papa, and mom was convinced. Papa's mom Rewa ba had made up her mind for papa. A formal proposal was made.

Mom's father - Bhai - approved. Ba, despite her concerns about the remoteness of the location, was swayed over by Bhai - who told her it all felt right to him.

The "gol-dhana" ceremony - where the engagement is formally proclaimed was held at Gordhan Kaka's house in Kumbha Tukda. Sarla bhen Kilachand of Kesar Sugar , Rewa Ba's friend from Baheri, and from one of the leading families of Patan was also present. This helped reinforce the "rightness" of the arrangement.

A wedding date was set. The groom, marrying into a very traditional Gujarati family, spoke no Gujarati. The bride marrying into a family with its home in the jungle had seen lush green fields and jungles only in her dreams. 62 years later they have travelled around the world by car, train, bus, airplane, ship, elephant, horse and camel. While they still call Bombay home, they spend less and less time there.

Zamana of Parents Youth - 3, Kailash Kaka and the Allahabad Connection

2010-06-06T11:31:00.006+05:30

Papa had 2 friends in his youth that grew up with him Kailash Kaka and Shashi Mama. Kailash was a young man he met in Nainital. Shashi was actually his mom's cousin. The 3 of them spent a lot of time together in Mumbai in the late 40s and early 50s. Both joined mom and dad on their honeymoon trip to Nainital. In fact, part of the honeymoon trip was AT Kailash kaka's ancestral home in the hills of Nainital. Mom and Dad returned there atleast once or twice with the infant Dhruvbhai and Uttambhai.

Grandfather was working on a case for the Kesar Sugar factory in Baheri with Jivanlal Chhotalal. The case dragged through atleast one long summer. The case was to be heard at the Allahabad High Court and the Kesar Sugar team needed some Allahabad based lawyers. Who better to represent a well connected Gujarati family, than another set of Gujaratis ? They chose the Dave brothers of Allahabad.

That summer the Kilachands and the entire legal team decided to work out of Naintal. Grandfather and his entourage joined them. By now, papa had become a permanent fixture in the entourage, being called upon to take care of odd jobs like handling grandfathers stuff and running errands in between reading Popular Mechanics.

The Kilachands rented the Chitrakut bungalow on the Lower Ayar Patta slopes from Raja Jvala Prasad. The Allahabad lawyers - the Dave family - moved into Mt Kailash their ancestral home located on the Upper Ayar Patta slope. The Ayar Patta slope leads to Tiffin Top.

The Daves had a young nephew, Kailash. They also had a telescope. That started a friendship that lasted over 25 years, even after Kailash Kaka moved to London And the telescope - it was moved from Mount Kailash to Chtirakut, and used to check out the activities in homes within line of sight of Chitrakut.

When Papa finished engineering college and came to Mumbai seeking employment, he first stayed with his older cousin and mentor Balu kaka in Jogeshwari (a distant suburb). From there he would take the train to the mill that he worked at in Parel. A few months later, Balu Kaka went to London for further studies. Papa then moved in with his mom's uncle - Gordhan Kaka.

While this seemed like a very distant relationship, that is how clusters built up in the Bombay of that time. Gordhan kaka lived in Bhuleshwar near the Kumbha Tukda temple. He lived in a "chawl" or multi-story tenemement. A common balcony ran on the side of each floor. Each unit consisted of 2 rooms a "front" room cum kitchen and a sleeping room. Sometimes there would be a private balcony on the other side. The front room had an area carved out that served as a place for washing and bathing. Bathrooms were housed in a common toilet block at the end of each of the common balconies. People typically rented a unit here, paying a large initial deposit called "pughdi" and monthly rent.

The 2 rooms in Kumbha Tukda housed Gordhan Kaka, his mother, his second wife - the first one lived in Kapadwanj and was rumored to be insane), the children from his first wife, and his son Shashi from the current wife. Papa was welcomed into this family - though being an almost fully grown man, he ended up having to sleep in the public balcony in the area directly outside their unit. He and his black trunk lived there quite happily for several months.

He soon discovered that the Kilachand's Bombay home was quite nearby and Jivanlal and Sarla ben were now spending a fair amount of time in Bombay. So that relationship was renewed. The Daves nephew, Kailash had also taken up residence with his maternal aunt at Narpat Mansion in Girgaum, also a short distance from Bhuleshwar. He renewed his acquaintance with the young Kailash. And Gordhan kaka's son, Shashi - technical dad's uncle, but of similar age and inclination, joined them to become a trio.

While I never met Kailash kaka - he is supposed to have had a zest for the good things in life. When he left India to move to London following his marriage to a young Parsi lady. Papa met him when he visited England in 1964.

Kailash kaka died well before his time, but he left Papa with a stack of records which has left an indelible mark on us. for that's how we were all exposed to Cliff Richard's Bachelor Boy, the Mambo song, Vaya Con Dios, Peggy Lee's When you get what you want.... and my favorite Sixteen Tons from a very young age.

The Zamana of My Parent's Youth -2 of Many - How papa became an engineer and The Prem Maha Vidyalaya of Brindavan

2010-06-05T22:26:00.028+05:30

After finishing high school, papa returned to Haldwani. Tauji had already started making a living for himself as a farmer. While papa enjoyed watching things grow, he could not be bothered with supervising the farm hands. Instead of supervising and directing the farm workers, papa would often be found curled up somewhere in the field reading a copy of Popular Mechanics or Natural Geographic - if you recall his interest in photography had already been kindled by the court photographer in Tehri. He kept telling the family they needed to buy a tractor. He could farm the entire property if they just got a tractor. However, an investment in a tractor was difficult to justify in the face of incredibly cheap labor that was available in those days.

But how does a young man living on a farm in Haldwani get a hold of Popular Mechanics or Nat Geo in the late 1930s ? Now that is another story.

The Kilachands, a prominent industrial family of Patan (yes, the same Patan that mom is from) and Mumbai, had established a sugar factory in Baheri - about 50 Kms south of Haldwani. The factory was managed by Chhotalal Kilachand's son, Jivanlal Chhotalal.

Jivanlal consulted Dad's father - Ghanshyam Das on a legal issue with the local contractors that had built the factory. As a result of this Ghanshyam Das spent several days a week in Baheri. Frequently, young Satish, popular with the Kilachands, went along with him.

The Kilachands home was a large mansion along the lines of a home in Patan - but most importantly it had a large collection of magazines - Popular Mechanics and National Geographic - which young Satish often borrowed and brought back to Haldwani.

Through all of this reading, emerged the determination to become an engineer.

Unfortunately, the engineering schools of England, a popular place for young men to go study, was out of Papa's reach. It was a time of turmoil as the struggle for independence was underway. Schools of advanced study were being shut down as they were being suspected of harboring freedom fighters.

One day, Tauji - papa's older brother - came home and reported that he had seen an advertisement for an engineering college in Brindavan. Brindavan, closer to Agra, was one of the towns on the banks of the Jamuna river. Education at the Prem Maha Vidyalaya was free and included room and board for students from out of town. This was the perfect place for papa to fulfill his aspiration of becoming an engineer.

The story of the Prem Maha Vidyalaya and its founder, is equally fascinating. Papa mentioned a few things, and I found the rest on the net. A true prince - Raja Mahendra Pratap had donated his family estate to the cause of technical education, because he strongly believed that that was the key to India's development and freedom. This institution was shut down from 1932 to 1938 as it was seen as a threat to the British government. Read all about it at http://www.rajamahendrapratap.net/pmv.htm (also reproduced below)

There were only 2 teachers at the Brindavan College of Engineering, and they were not particularly good. So young Satish taught himself from the books that were available at the school, some text books and the guidance of the principal Narender Dev, whom papa found particularly inspiring. I remember seeing some of those college textbooks on the L-Shaped black bookshelf in the Anand Vihar house. And I also remember seeing Popular Mechanics and National Geographic copies forever.

Raja Mahendra pratap singh
"No religion is greater than love"

Prem Maha Vidhyalaya :

Founded on May 24th 1909 byRaja Mahendra Pratap Singh.PMV was one of its own kind and one of the first polytechnic institution in India. This institution provided all the technical courses which wasmuch needed at that time. After travelling all over the world and seeing the progress in other countries Raja saheb had decided that this kindof institution would give benifit to people nation wide.The institution offered courses like carpentary,metal works,weaving textiles and carpets,pottery,etc.It also had its own hostel so that students coming from faroff places could reside.The main objective was that students could learn the skill and use it to earn their living.

Estate gifted-Prem Mahavidyalaya inspired by foreign technological advance. We may briefly recall his thoughts at the gift of his estate and property for the technical college; for he took the technical education to be the foundation for all round development of India, In his own words, "I returned home and began to prepare for the great event - giving away of my property ! I sent out invitations that in August, during the famous Jhulan festival of Brindaban, the ceremony to give name to my first child would performed. On a large scale plans were laid out for a religious ceremony as well as merry making festivities. Our relatives brought gold ornaments and clothes for my son! Friends brought presents. Pandit Madan Mohan Malviya ji kindly arrived at my special request. After yagya meeting was held. But here I announced that my son was a technical college wchich i mean to found...Finally the name 'Prem Mahavidyala the college of Love was unanimously adopted." Rani Balbir Kaur Sahiba had not much of objection to the gifting of propery for the technical college,the other mothers of Rajaji, Rani Swarup Kaur and Hanuwant Kaur, had, however, objections to the gifting of the property.It was due to their objections and the advice given by Pandit Madan Mohan Malviya ji only half of the Raja's ancestral estate was gifted for the purpose. institution became the symbol of not only the need to train the youth in all round technical education, but the center of the nationalistic aspirations.

Its importance can easily be assessed by looking at the persons who headed as its Acharyas, Shivsaran Fatakwala, Bhai Kotwal,Puranik,Ayodhya Prasad Fatakwala, Sampurnanand, Paripurnanand, Anand Bhikshu,Nand Kumar Dev Vashista, Acharya Gidwani, Acharya Jugal Kishoreand others. Acharya Narendra Dev headed its management committee during 1938-40. Mahatma Gandhi took personal interest in the institutiolin the absence of Raja Mahendra Pratap, and many of the principals were choosen and sent by him. The British became so much obsessed and and afraid of it that it was banned and closed in 1932, and this restriction could only be liftedwhen the first Congress ministry was formed in UP. under pandit Govind Ballabh Pant in 1938.

Trust : Prem Maha Vidhalaya Association formed under the Societies Registration ACT of 1860.on the 29th July 1910 which was created by Rajajii.It has 100 trustees as members.Five villages namely

Sukhea - Entire village
Bural- Entire village
Ukhtearpoor- Entire village
Dhumera- Entire village
Jasnaolee- Entire village

had been donated to support the institution which fetched thirty thousand anually.In thosedays it was considered a big amount.

Present Situation: Today is a sorry sight of the PMV.Unfortunately the trustees have not fulfilled their duties.As a result PMV does not function like how it functioned under Rajaji.The building needs renovation which would require huge expense.The trustees are unable to understand the importance of rajaji's dream.Some organisation has to come forward and save this dream from the clutches of these selfish beings and revive the golden era of specialised education.

The Zamana of My Parent's Youth - 1 of Many in the series

2010-05-23T11:17:00.001+05:30

A bonus of the Saturday lunch ritual is that I get to hear tales from my parent's youth, from the time they were growing up or were newly married. I often wish I could be writing them down as they speak, because I sometimes forget an important event or detail by the time I actually get down to writing it. The stories are fascinating because they paint a picture of the that particular time in India. I shall jot these down as I hear and remember them. And perhaps one day I will have the opportunity to record them in some order.

Mummy finished her daily fruit inspection and declared that there would be no mangoes today. The Kesar mangoes were too juicy. She had tried to cut them into cubes yesterday (because to cut them into wedges with the skin on would be completely unacceptable in our household) and they were too pulpy. And the Hapus is not quite ready for eating. They need to sit wrapped in newspaper for one more day before they are ready.

So I innocently asked if we could ask Radhika to make aam ras today - cos its Sunday and I have the time to have a leisurely meal. From there we digressed into the jamanvars of Kishore Bhuvan.

Every year, during the mango season or "Ras no Galo" the l in Galo to be pronounced with a bit of a roll. All of Bhai's sisters and their children would come over - Aam Ras from 3 kinds of mangoes would be extracted - Mankhulas for Hira Foi's family, Paa-eerie for Moti Fai's family - and whatever else for the rest.

There were no refrigerators back then for chilling the ras.. not that one could find a household refrigerator large enough to chill the quantity of ras required. So mom's brothers would be dispatched to bring home ice from the ice factory. Mota mama, Bhagwan mama, Vallabh mama would bring home large slabs of ice wrapped in kantaan (jute fabric) . They would load it up into a Ghoda-Gadi (the horse drawn Victorias of that time). The ice would be washed at home and then used to chill the ras.

The Kishore Bhuvan jamanvars used to be major events. There were 4 of them each year. And everyone (meaning mom) looked forward to each of them. There was one during the Ras no Galo, another during Diwali, one on her grandfather's death anniversary which was on Kali Chaudas which is the day before Diwali - man that must have been a lot of feasting around Diwali.

The fourth was when Kanta foi (who lived in Patan) came to town. It was always a major celebration when she came. For Kanta foi was bhai's youngest sister. She had a great zest and enthusiasm for the good things in life, and ba and bhai always wanted to make her time in Bombay special. So there would be things like Thandai and other special treats that were made up Kanta foi was around. Her visits provided a good break from the ordinary routine and was looked forward to with great anticipation and always included many trips to the ice factory.

Speaking of ice factories, Papa, who spent much of his middle-school years tagging along with his grandfather - the Judge, had a very different kind of experience. He recalls summers in Sahranpur, a town that lies somewhere between Haridwar and Rishikesh. The Judge was advising or associated with a wealthy land owner who owned many mango orchards, gardens, elephants and ice factories! They would ride out on elephant back into the mango orchards and do a "pick-your-own" mangoes - kinda like what we do with strawberries and apples in New York, though its not so grand without the elephants - they would eat whatever they wanted right inside the orchard. Baskets of mangoes would be collected and sent to the ice factory and the chilled mangoes were eaten later in the evening or transported to Agra for the rest of the family.

Today, we send my driver Suresh out in a car to fetch the mangoes from either the Star Bazaar or the fruit vendor who plies his trade on a cart in the Sixth Block in Koramangala. We stick them in the refrigerator once they are ripe and then mummy peels and cubes them for us, and we eat it with a fork. These stories may span 70 years, but they still have the same constants - chilled mangoes and good times.

City Life – Kandivali Style

2010-04-29T22:29:00.000+05:30

Bombay – the Gateway to India and the riches of the East India Company is a city that sits on India’s west coast. In the late 1800s and early 1900s the British invested a lot of money in the city’s infrastructure turning it into a magnet for the young and the ambitious.

Several young men came to Bombay to find their fortunes. Many of them came from little villages and towns from the State of Gujarat. And most of them found their way to a little part of town called Bhuleshwar. My maternal great grandfather was one of these young men. So also was my paternal grandmother's father. My mother grew up there, and my father spent a few years of his youth sleeping in the balcoy of one of Bhuleshwar's crammed tenements.

Over the years, Bhuleshwar transformed itself into one of India’s largest wholesale markets. And less than 150 years after it was formed, Bhuleshwar had burst at its seams, incapable of supporting the very large community of traders and commerce that it had given birth to.

It has been said, and not entirely in jest, that if you were to simply stand still in Bhuleshwar – you would soon find yourself in a different part of town, propelled there by the sea of humanity that inhabits it. In 1970, it had a density of 1500 people per acre (contrast that with .5 per acre in little known Stormville).

Several of the markets have been moved to other parts of town. And new generations of Gujaratis are moving out to the distant suburbs where they can have a little more room to raise their families.
Kandivali is one such suburb in Western Mumbai. Instead of the crammed 150 sq ft tenements, they now live in 1000 sq ft skyscrapers, most with little lawns and gardens. In the evening the men and women congregate in the compound in groups, recreating that lost sense of community they had in the old neighborhood.

I’ve been spending a lot of time in an area called Mahavir Nagar as I shuttle between my parents home and that of my sister-in-law. Actually, its probably even just a subset of Mahavir Nagar, because it is just one big block of buildings.

And I am fascinated by the mom-and-pop stores that line the streets. You can find everything one could possibly want in Mahavir Nagar. There is the grocery store that carries normal Guju vegetables as well as exotic things like mushrooms, asparagus and yellow peppers. There is the fruit store with its fruit juice vending area – hand squeezed in front of you mosambi juice for ten rupees or 25cents. Fresh jalebis, mithai, pau bhaji, the Bombay sandwich walla, vada pau, furniture, farsan, a dairy store, an optician, printing and copying shop, photographer, wedding supplies, supplies for a religious ceremony, dry goods, clothes, a liquor store that carries champagne, supplies for funerals – the list is only as short as my imagination.

I don’t feel like I’m in some big alien city – no the sounds, the smells it is all familiar, and strangely, despite my alien looks and clothes I feel a part of this community. My mom does too... perhaps it is just a more spacious, modern version of Bhuleshwar.

No More Books ?

2010-04-06T22:10:00.000+05:30

Read an article today about how the iPad and the Kindle are changing the book publishing indusry completely. I must confess to feeling rather sad by the news.

For despite all my talk about a paperless office and how we must embrace technology, I like having my stories delivered to me in a good sized book. There is a sense of comfort, a sense of taking me back to a favorite place, that a book delivers, that I've just not been able to get with a digital book. Perhaps because the book is there even after the power fails, the book is not as fragile as the digital version, and it takes effort to destroy. Perhaps that is why it conveys a sense of permanence and authoritythat I have not been able to get from a digital book.

And yet, have I really tried ? Do I really know what the digital book has to offer, and how it could change my reading experience ?

I saw a Kindle once and loved it. I had no use for it, because the Amazon network has not extended to India, so it would be a pretty static library out here.

Perhaps it is the return to India that has allowed me to get a grip on the mad dash to digitality and appreciate the more traditonal or legacy stuff.

Whatever it is, I do know, that when I dreamed of writing a book - I intended for it to be a paper book, one that I could hold in my hand and display, not a digital version. And then again - I'm having so much fun blogging!

The Yoga Lesson

2010-04-02T13:04:00.000+05:30

Dhruti, the intrepid niece that got me blogging, sent me a link to Home Yoga instructors in Bangalore. People who would come to your house and teach you yoga. "Its the only way," she said , "that you will excercise. So go and do it. " I read her email, felt good and moved on to the next email.

She called me up the day after mom and dad arrived and reminded me - "Did you call those people... ?" Since the right arm, shoulder and neck was suffering from a severe case of mouse-itis an affliction resulting from overworking the mouse (on a computer keyboard), I thought I should do something. What have I to lose ? I'll hate them anyway and that will be the end of it.

The instructors arrived the next morning to introduce themselves, discuss and negotiate. The yoga lessons started a day later. I got suddenly very interested when I heard that one of Supriya's skills is Yoga Nidra - the aspect of Yoga that helps you get into a state of deep and relaxed sleep.

So she arrived yesterday, and we had a reasonably good session. Papa had his lesson, and came out feeling very energized and refreshed . She showed him excercises that started to get his blood circulating. But mummy was a whole different matter.

Mummmy showed Supriya all the excercises she had done that morning (since no one has actually witnessed her doing them, we don't know for sure - but then we have no reason to doubt her). Supriya said she thought that that was just enough for one day. She suggested a few improvement in techniques and then proceeded to discuss recipes, life and other more interesting things.

Mummy told me that she would prefer to have her Yoga lesson in the afternoon, cos the mornings seemed so packed!!! I told her that would be tough, cos i needed to have my lesson in the morning. She said she understood.

Supriya told me at the end of the yoga lesson, that mummy was going to give her cooking classes in the afternoon, and she would try to stop by 2-3 times a week, and no I did not need to pay extras, she was doing it cos she needed to learn how to cook!.

The Aundh Connection

2010-04-02T12:49:00.000+05:30

This is a long but fascinating story... I urge you to tolerate the meanderings of my mind.

So while mom was having her yoga lesson this morning, papa and I were sitting in the living room and chatting. He was telling me about how he first learnt about Surya Namaskar when he was about 12 years old. He learnt it from an instructor who had come to teach Yoga to the Maharaja of Tehri-Garhwal.

Now if you've been following these stories carefully, you might have picked up that my Great Grandfather Ghanshyam Das was a Judge in Agra. In the early 1930s my grandfather, Brijbhushan Das - a lawyer, gave up his practice in Agra and moved to Haldwani to become a farmer. Dad stayed with Ghanshyam Das in Agra to continue his studies. A few years into this, Ghanshyam Das started to travel to Tehri to advise the Maharajah. Dad spent a couple of years in Tehri as the guest of the Maharajah.

A delegation from Aundh had arrived at the palace in the Garhwal mountains, leaving behind the Marathi speaking Yoga instructor. The Raja of Aundh - Appasaheb Pant - had a passion for the Surya Namaskar and the Maharajah of Garhwal ensured that not only did he and his family learn how to perform it, but so did all the visitors and guests at his court, including papa who at that point knew nothing about Yoga, Marathi or Aundh.

Hmm.... I said.. wasn't there a movie or something, I said ?

"Ahh yes", he said. "You know I first learned about photography when I was in Tehri. I had never seen photographs before. But all these royals were constantly being photographed, and that is where I developed an interest in still photography and motion picture".

So all those pictures we have chronicling our lives -that is all thanks to the Maharajah of Tehri...

"But Aundh....?"

"Oh yes, years later when I came to Mumbai, I decided to acquire a motion picture projector to display his 16mm movies. He had traded his Rolliflex still camera for Raval kaka's (a neighbor in Nutan Nagar) 1600mm motion picture camera. Raval kaka was a professional photographer, and it is hard to understand what he was doing with the 1600mm camera in the first place, especially if he did not have a projector to display his movies.

Anyway, papa had been looking at the shops in Opera House. Nothing was fitting the budget that he and mom had carved out for this.

One day a shopkeeper told him about a used projector that his neighbor was disposing off. Address in hand, Papa tracked down the Nepali watchman who had been given the task of disposing off the equipment. The Nepali watchman had just sold it to a shopkeeper in Chor Bazaar. Papa followed the trail to Chor Bazaar and found the next shopkeeper. This fellow had bought it just to show his kids movies.

Papa bought the projector and all the movies the guy had for Rs 400, a princely sum that was almost equal to a month's salary. He loaded into the car and brought him - and that is how come every one of my birthdays from the time I is captured in Ektachrome color.

"But Aundh..?" "Oh yes, in the stack of movies I brought back from Chor Bazaar there were 3 or 4 in which I recognized the Maharajah of Aundh, whom I had met briefly at the palace in Garhwal. There was even one which showed Pandit Nehru arriving at the Aundh railway station and being greeted by a group of lejim players and then reviewing a group of people performing the Surya Namaskar. Appa Pant's passion for Surya Namaskars was very well known by then, and he himself was a public figure." This was in the late 1950s.

These movies sat in our home in Bandra alongside my birthday movies, and movies recording our trips to Haldwani and Nainital and movies of weddings of my uncles and aunts. Cos dad was quite the avid photographer back them, and our home was equipped with all kinds of audio-visual equipment.

Years went by the 16mm projector was traded in for 8mm and then Super 8 before succumbing to the Analog Video Camera and most recently the Digital Video camera. Meanwhile this set of movies sat there being dusted occasionally and people saying "What is that ?" And mom going "Do not ask, it is your fathers and he won't let me throw it out.".

In the late 80s, papa was spending a lot of time in Pune - his company did a lot of business in rural Maharashtra. One day, the cab driver asked him if he would like to go to Pimpri via Aundh. "Aundh ? As in the Maharaja of Aundh ?" "No no sir, that Maharajah lives in another place. Yes, I know that place. In fact I know the Maharajah. " "Oh ?" "Yes, I park my cab opposite his house. The Maharajah is an avid gardener, and he likes to work in the garden. So I've even talked to him sometimes."

So papa asked the cab driver to bring the Maharajah of Aundh aka Appasaheb Pant a letter describing the movies he had in his position and where he could be reached. Appasaheb called him almost immediately upon receiving the letter. Told him he wasn't aware of any such movies. They agreed that papa would bring them the next time he came to Pune.

Appasaheb was delighted with the movies. He called up papa and thanked him for restoring what he could only describe as a family treasure. Those old movies were so precious and irreplaceable. He was convinced that he and papa must have a connection from another lifetime. Papa and mommy got invited to several events featuring Appasaheb in Bombay. And Appasaheb gifted papa with a copy of every book that he had ever had published. And everyone felt very good.

And then everyone went back to the way things were, until this morning when we started talking about Surya Namaskars!!! So if you've ever been irritated with having to pose for a photo and wait for Uttam bhai to compose the right shot, or for papa to get the light just right - we know we have the Maharajah of Aundh to thank for that. Just as much as we do for all the beautiful photos and movies that have chronicled the lives of the Chokseys and the Shahs. That dear people is the Aundh connection.

Speech for Sr Maria Rosa

2010-01-08T01:27:00.004+05:30

Rough text of the Welcome Address at the ACHS Reunion in Bandra Jan 2nd, 2009

When I first told my classmates that I was to come and speak here this evening, they told me no one would understand my accent. Then they asked if they could all come join me on stage !!

Over the past 12 months I have had the opportunity to reconnect with several of my classmates from around the world, several of whom I had not seen in 35 years. The thing that struck me is that each and every one of them is an absolutely incredible woman. They are daughters, sisters, mothers, homemakers and career women. There are lawyers, teachers, doctors, mathematicians, IT people, I don’t think there are any politicians or nuns. This school and the teachers have equipped us to handle the challenges and opportunities of our times.

Those of us who went to school here in the late 60s and 70s are especially fortuntate, for we had Sr Maria Rosa as our principal.

Sr Maria Rosa came with her own special brand of energy and enthusiasm for everything she did – be it playing the violin at assembly or cultivating her roses – everytime I see a multi-colored rose, I am transported back in time to when I was in the 7th standard being introduced to Sr. Maria Rosa’s roses.

But there was a lot more that Sr Maria Rosa did for us. She got us our first library. And that library has instilled a lifelong love of reading amongst several of us.

She had us compete in the Paranjyothi choir contest – and we won.

On the technology front, she was well ahead of her times. Businesses are only recently getting comfortable with concepts like Audio calls and Voice calls. Back in 1968, Sr Maria Rosa had intercoms installed and started conducting Morning Assembly remotely.

My class mate Sita reminded me that you had introduced us to the Speed Reading - SRE system in our school. And to particularly thank you for that.

For me personally, it is the memory of the Valentine Day’s Fete – a 3 day event. I later heard you describe it as “Fools rush in where angels fear to tread”. Your conduct of the entire event was a lesson to me personally, a lesson in courage and execution.

In preparing for this evenings address, I polled my classmates from around the world – and yes there are many who could not be with us today, though they are wishing they could have been – I asked them if they had any special messages for you Sr. Maria Rosa.

From around the world, the answer was unanimous :”Tell sister we love her.Tell her we remember her in our prayers and in the way we live our lives.

Thank you sister for leaving such a strong and indelible mark on all of us.

2010-01-06T21:33:00.001+05:30

Darek vacha ma vedna nathi hoti
Pun
Darek vedna mathi vachna tapakti hoi che

Darek aanso dard na nathi hota
Pun
Darek dard ma aansoo chupayela hoi che

Darek bhootkal itihas nathi hoto
Pun
Darek itihasne bhootkal banvu pade che

Darek ekant moun nathi hotu
Pun
Darek moun ma ekant samayelu hoi che

Darek soundarya ma sugandh nathi hoti
Pun
Darek sugandhne potanu aagvu soundarya hoi che

Darek mandirma pavitrata nathi hoti
Pun
Darek pavitra sthan mandir bani jaye che

Darek premi paagal nathi hoto
Pun
Pagalpan e premni parakashta che

Darek vacha ma vedna nathi hoti
Pun
Darek vedna mathi vachna tapakti hoi che

Every message does not contain sorrow, but there is a message hidden in every sorrow
Every tear is not a tear of sorrow, but, every sorrow has tears hidden somewhere in it
Every past is not history, but every history is required to become the past
Every loneliness is not silence, but every silence has loneliness inherent in it
Every beauty does not contain perfume, but every perfume has an intrinsic beauty
Every temple is not pure, but a pure place can become a temple
Every lover is not insane, but insanity is the ultimate expression of love
Every message does not contain sorrow, but there is a message hidden in every sorrow

Jo Je Ishwar Ne Bharose Rehto - Dr Chaaya Shah

2010-01-06T21:19:00.003+05:30

Jo Je Ishwar Ne Bharose Rehto
Ishwar che ke nahi te shraddha no vishay che. Paranto manave manav tarike saphal thavu hoi to tene pota na ma shraddha hovi joie. Matra ishvarechanu bahanu lai, pramadi jeevan jeevnar manushya pashuthi pan badatar jeevan jeeve che.

Whether God exists or not is simply a matter of faith. But if man wants to live and prosper as a human being then he must have faith in himself. A man who uses God as an excuse to live a lazy life is living a life worse that that of an animal.

Jo je ishwar ne bharose rehto Watch out, don’t live your life relying on God
Aahi ishwar jevi koi cheej aj nathi There is no such thing like God here.

Taraj pag par chalva mand Start walking on your own feet,
Baki tane pakdi ne chalave For there is no one here who will
evi aahi koi vyaktij nathi hold you and lead you to walk.

Sahas ne himmat no saath lai ne Lean on your courage and your conviction
Dhagas ne mehnat ne haath ma lai ne and on your industriousness and hard work

Hruday ma adag vishwas lai ne With a strong and unshaken faith
Je melavvu hoi te melvi le Go take whatever you want

Baki Cos
Tu maange ne tane aapi de You ask and they give it to you
Evi aahi koi shaktij nathi - there is no such force around

Sukh joiye che ? brashtachar thodvo padshe
You want happiness, you will have to leave corruption
Shanti joiye che ? Yudh ne tyajvu padshe
You want peace, then you will have to abandon war
Prem joiye che ? Koie ne dil thi chahvu padshe
You want love ? You will need to love someone with your heart

Baki Cos
Tu bhoole karya kare ane tane maaph karya kare,
You make a mistake and they forgive you
Evi aahin koie hastij nathi (hasti – human being)
There is no such creation at all

Ma baap ni seva kar, ej taro ishwar che
Serve your mother and your father, they are your God
Koi na dukhne tara kar, ej taru kartavya che (kartavya = duty)
Make someone’s grief your own, that is your duty

Tara aatmane karma thi mukta kar
Ej taro dharma che
Free your soul from bad karma – that is your religion

Baki Cos
Jene tu jindagi par shodhya kare ne
He who whom you seek your entire life
To-e ej santatoj phare, evi koi bhrantij nathi
And still he insists on hiding, there is no such person at all

Jo ishwar che to tari ne mari vache kem nathi ?
If God exists why isnt he here among us ?
Jo ishwar che to sav no thai ne rehto kem nathi ?
If God exists then why does he not come live with us ?
Are khap hoi jeno dharti par ne aakash ma jai ne bese
When he is needed on earth, why does he go off and sit in the sky ?
Aava ishwarma hun to mantij nathi
I do not believe in a God like this
Jo je ishwar ne bharose rehto
Watch out do not depend on God
Ahin ishwar jevi koi cheejaj nathi
Over here, there is no such thing as God

Vishwaas - Dr Chaaya Shah

2010-01-06T21:19:00.001+05:30

Vishwaas - Dr Chaaya Shah
Ajani dharti ne pacchu chichru petal
Namno ek chod
Ema lai rahyo che svas
Namna aa chod ni saav aniyali ek daal
Daal ni aa toch par
Ek hasi rahyu che gulab
Aano nam vishwas

Faith
In the bowels of this unknown shallow earth
breathes a delicate little plant
On this delicate little plant sits one sharp little branch
At the very tip of this little branch, blooms a beautiful rose
This is faith

AAkrosh - Intense Rage

2010-01-06T21:12:00.002+05:30

Collection of Poems Entitled “Aavu Kem ?” AAkrosh – Dr. Chayya Shah

Draupadi ne jyare muki daav par
tyarej ane Pandavo ne tyaje didha hot
Nari na ghor apman thi
aam itihas kalankit na thayo hot
Agni pariksha mangi Rame jyare
tyarej sita e inkaar karyo hot
Bejeevati nari ne jungle ma haki mukvane S
Sri rame himmat na kari hot
Patini pachal Gandhari e
Aam aankhe pati na bandhi hot
Nij aankhna amrut thi
neej putra ne bheenjavi shaki hot
Mahabharata nu yudhha atkavi shaki hot

Sati nu birudh pamnari
Aa nari oe matra ek stree thavani koshish jo kari hot
aam varamvar balidaan mangvani purushone
adat na padi hot

Had Draupadi abandoned the Pandavas when they put her up as collateral
Then history would not have been shamed by this deep insult of womankind

Had Sita refused, when Ram subjected her to the fire test as a sign of her purity
Then Sri Ram would not have had the courage to banish a pregnant woman to the jungle

Had Gandhari not put a blindfold over her eyes to provide companionship to her husband,
Then she could have showered her child with the sweet love from her own eyes and stopped the Mahabharata wars.

If all these women whom we hail as satis, had tried to be real “women”
Then men would not be in the habit of repeatedly asking women to make supreme sacrifices.

Feminist Gujarati Poetry

2010-01-06T21:00:00.004+05:30

Avid followers of this blog will recall the beautiful poetry reading session at the first Choksey reunion. Sudhin and Anjali had brought us this book of Gujarati poems written by Dr Chaaya Shah. And they were absolutely beautiful.

I promised myself that one day I would translate them into English -I can read Gujarati, but I tend to confuse the "k" and the "f" and a few other key consonants. I suppose I could overcome it if I read enough.

So the general plan was, that I would go visit my Anila masi, who is a teacher by profession and work on the translation with her. Nearly 3 years, 3 homes and 3 cities after the Alibag trip, I finally sat down with Anila masi at the Phoenix Mills mall on the first floor of the Costa coffee shop - did you know that the waiters in the coffee shop are deaf and dumb ? But I digress.

I've put in the poems as stand alone posts right after this.

What Matters Most!

2010-01-01T14:58:00.002+05:30

I like to read a book or two during the holidays. And during this time, I like to read just a chapter at a time, savoring the words, understanding what is being said. This year, I am reading Franklin Covey's Seven Habits. Yes, I've read them before - but I probably could not have named a single habit before.

It has been a year of big decisions. And as I read this book, I realize that I have instinctively identified "What Matters Most" to me and I've used it to help me make my decisions. That is what has made some incredibly difficult and contrarian decisions seem like no-brainers and their consequences easy to accept.

And I also realize, that there are some deliberate choices I've made - though it seemed at the time that I had no choice in making them. Now that I've re-read the book, I am thinking I will write that mission statement. I will evaluate my progress to the mission from time to time and I will update my mission statement.

These last few days, I've spent reacquainting myself with life in suburban Mumbai - and its intricacies and simplicity. I've caught up with people I had not met in a long time, and I've learnt more about the experiences that have made me who I am. I don't think I'd have been able to appreciate the nuances had I not stepped back to think about What Matters Most to me.

So thank you Mr. Covey!!

Bah Humbug!!!

2010-01-01T14:37:00.002+05:30

All year long, I look forward to the period between Christmas and New Year. In general, this is a time when things slow down at work, and I can count on being able to relax and address some special project that requires extra attention. Some years this has been an extremely busy time as we try and catch up with the targets for the quarter or finish writing new business that is to be included in the year that is ending.

However, when I was young, I looked forward to it for a host of other reasons. Christmas was always a very festive season in Bandra where I grew up. And apart from the one year when I took off in a fit of fright upon seeing a real live Santa Claus, I have looked forward to the decorated Christmas trees, the exchange of traditional sweets, the hustle and bustle on Hill Rd, midnight mass - and yes, I still havent actually been to one - and then the inevitable New Years Eve parties. These were undertaken with much energy and excitement and I often returned home in the wee hours of the morning, exhilirated and exhausted. And that was in the pre-alcohol days. I remember walking down Hill Rd, late at night, somewhere near Rebello House and Somnath Lane - there were several of us and we were walking along arm-in-arm all across the street singing at the top of our voices.

Things changed as I grew older. Somewhere along the way I picked up the occasional martini. And the parties got funnier. And then I grew a little older. And now I fell asleep after the first martini. Or if I managed to stay up all night, i realized that I was a zombie the next day. And I did not like being a zombie.

The parties got even more painful as I lived in Stormville, cos it involved a trip out into the snow laden deer ridden countryside, to a party filled with people who were drinking just a little bit more than was attractive. And i recall one historic moment when I decided that i really did not need to go to a party on New Years Eve. That I was happier sitting at home in my flannel pajamas wearing 2 pairs of warm socks, snuggled under a blanket, falling asleep in front of the TV. My self esteem would not allow me to accept that I had become an old bore. Instead I called it being smarter and wiser. Though I must confess to feeling a tiny twinge of envy at the energy displayed by the other party goers. Next morning, feeling refreshed and awake, reading about all the drunk drivers that got arrested, or into accidents I invariably felt smarter and wiser.

So when asked about my plans for New Years Eve this year, I said, Bah Humbug! I intend to go to sleep at 10pm. And it is a great New Year's Day today, isn't it ?

Kandivali

2009-12-30T13:01:00.000+05:30

Bombay – the Gateway to India and the riches of the East India Company is a city that sits on India’s west coast. In the late 1800s and early 1900s the British invested a lot of money in the city’s infrastructure turning it into a magnet for the young and the ambitious.

Several young men came to Bombay to find their fortunes. Many of them came from little villages and towns from the State of Gujarat. And most of them found their way to a little part of town called Bhuleshwar.

Over the years, Bhuleshwar transformed itself into one of India’s largest wholesale markets. And less than 150 years after it was formed, Bhuleshwar had burst at its seams, incapable of supporting the very large community of traders and commerce that it had given birth to.

It has been said, and not entirely in jest, that if you were to simply stand still in Bhuleshwar – you would soon find yourself in a different part of town, propelled there by the sea of humanity that inhabits it. In 1970, it had a density of 1500 people per acre (contrast that with .5 per acre in little known Stormville).

Several of the markets have been moved to other parts of town. And new generations of Gujaratis are moving out to the distant suburbs where they can have a little more room to raise their families.

Kandivali is one such suburb in Western Mumbai. Instead of the crammed 150 sq ft tenements, they now live in 1000 sq ft skyscrapers, most with little lawns and gardens. In the evening the men and women congregate in the compound in groups, recreating that lost sense of community they had in the old neighborhood.

I’ve been spending a lot of time in an area called Mahavir Nagar as I shuttle between my parents home and that of my sister-in-law. Actually, its probably even just a subset of Mahavir Nagar, because it is just one big block of buildings.

Last night I did a leisurely walk through of the shops in this block – all tiny mom and pop stores of the good old Bhuleshwar tradition. The owners run the businesses and typically know their clients by name. In fact, my parents discuss the owners of different stores with their neighbors.

And what a set of businesses! You will find all kinds of food – Gujarati, South Indian, North Indian, Punjabi, Chinese, Mexican, Pizza, Sandwiches – Jain and Hindu varieties and all strictly vegetarian. Realtors, insurance agents, pathology labs, doctors offices can all be found on this block. Wait – is that a nursing home ? There is a gym, a slimming center and a diabetes treatment center.

Last night, waiting for my ride, on the opposite side of the street – I spotted the large liquor store – that carries champagne – all 3 varieties sold in India. Guptaji delivers fresh vegetables and fruits to your home. There are raw fruits and farsan, bhel puri, pani puri, sev puri. Fresh squeezed juice is Rs 10 for a large glass, the man apologizes thinking I will complain about how expensive it is – I’ve paid as much as 50 in other parts of the city.

Other stores sell jewelry – precious or fake – clothing and fabric, items of home décor, dry goods, electronics, consumer durables. There is even a photo studio and a store that sells items needed for religious ceremonies. There was a shop selling automotive accessories – guess you’d have to leave the block to buy a car – but there’s the car rental place on the corner. There’s the travel agent where you can book your tickets to visit your daughter in London or your son in Sydney.

Hmm I did not find a shop selling funeral supplies – but come to think of it I’ve never seen one of those anywhere.

One block – everything that you could possibly need for your home or to live…….. and they all deliver inside Mahavir Nagar…….Fascinating – the Gujarati spirit of free enterprise is alive and well, even if the road is filled with potholes and construction debris.

Bombay - it is no more!

2009-12-30T12:17:00.001+05:30

September 13th, 2009. That was the day on which I finally accepted that it would never be the same. The time was about 7:30 in the morning. The rickshaw was crossing the nallah on Link Road in Andheri or perhaps it is Jogeshwari. As the sun peeked out from behind the smog laden sky, and my nose was assaulted by the full force of a Mumbai morning, I finally accepted that my romance with Bombay was over and that Bombay existed only in my imagination.

I had marveled through the floods of 2005 at the resilience of the people of Bombay. On 7/11/2006, I had waited anxiously by the phone to hear that my niece and her mom had reached home safely, and I tried not to think of the trauma my sister-in-law went through as she saw the victims of the bomb blast at Bandra railway station.

I proudly cheered on the integrity and unquenchable spirit of the young heroes of Slumdog Millionaire, turning a blind eye to the criminals who tested that spirit.

On 26/11 I wept as I watched the carnage in South Bombay, and I wept again when I heard that a dear friend had been one of the hostages. And I took comfort in knowing how he had held onto the indomitable Bombay spirit to the very end, believing he could charm the terrorists into letting him live. I read every single story about the attack, and while my heart bled over the senseless carnage, it also swelled with pride at the bravery and the determination of the people in the attack. Along with every other Bombayite, I applauded the determination of the hoteliers to re-open their doors, to restore their establishments to their full glory and deny the terrorists any semblance of a victory.

Through twenty three years of living in the United States, I had firmly held onto my image of Bombay – a slightly chaotic, but generally efficient city, united in the honest and determined pursuit of wealth and self-improvement, a city in which people minded their own business, and respected your desire to make an honest living. And while its streets were not exactly paved with gold, you did not need much to get started. You could count on the infrastructure to work, most days anyway.

You could count on being safe, even at 2am in the morning, and you could count on public transport. Yeah, you could get yourself into trouble – but you really had to go looking for it, it generally did not go out of its way to confront you.

The city teemed with energy. No city quite matched Churchgate station at rush hour – though New York city tried occasionally (and I haven’t been to Tokyo – but I suspect it is far more orderly).

And then just like that, that Sunday morning, I realized the Bombay I was thinking about was a figment of my imagination. Today’s Mumbai is larger, more crowded, more chaotic and the will to make an honest living has turned into a miserable drudge to just survive.

Oh yes, the spirit lingers. It even thrives in some pockets. But I am starting to think that that is the exception rather than the rule. Yes, the slum dwellers find things to be joyous about their condition. And yes, that is all part of the indomitable spirit. But seriously, is the choice to live in a slum, an actual choice they make?

People of all communities and religions live alongside peaceably each focused on earning their living. But isn’t this also where we have seen some of the worst communal riots ? Isn’t this the same city where a mob attacked a TV station because it had had the nerve to criticize their leader ?

Today, I think the various terrorist attacks, the various “acts of nature” that have inflicted harm on Mumbai were all avoidable. Or at the very least their impact could have been blunted through better management and infrastructure.

Instead of holding on firmly and with pride to the image of my college mate who is now one of Mumbai’s most respected policemen, I pray for his safety. I pray that he may just be allowed to live his life as he chooses, and I wish he would not choose to live it so dangerously.

I had never reconciled myself to the black cages that adorn every window, or the mosaic of cement lined cracks on building built in the late 50s and 60s, and I am sure that that was somewhere in my consciousness that Sunday morning.

I had been to a high school reunion the previous night, there I had met classmates from primary school from a zillion, ok 30+, years ago. It had been a wonderful evening of reminiscing and reliving of old experiences. We had talked till I fell asleep.

At 6:45 on Sunday morning, I left to take a ride to Kandivali where my parents now lived. I had expected to experience the serenity and peace of early Sunday mornings as I remembered them – People strolling along the promenade on Carter Road, others walking to the temple or church dressed in their Sunday best. Mostly just peace and quiet as most of the population slept in after a late Saturday night.

Instead, I encountered a few maids walking large Alsatians. I gingerly avoided the little mounds of dog poop and flagged down a rickshaw. The air was still and very stale. No fresh dew, no soft gentle morning breeze. The smell kept getting worse and by the time I reached the nallah in Andheri, I realized that there was very little about Mumbai that was pretty or orderly. It was just dirty, unkempt and run down, and that ideal city that I carried in my heart – that was just a figment of my imagination.

I think I still love that imaginary city. And I think I shall keep looking for it in Mumbai and every other place I go to.

But BOMBAY- Aas! It is no more.

Where is my stuff ?

2009-07-27T06:42:00.006+05:30

This morning we were talking about the stuff we had left behind. As immigrants my uncle and several other members of my family have all left home with just a suitcase seeking our fortunes in lands far away from home. In doing so, we have often been separated from our stuff.

Stuff that we had painstakingly collected in our youth - stuff that we remembered with fondness and nostalgia -stuff that we could no longer lay our hands on. This stuff was the topic of our conversation. We were sitting in my "staged for sale" family room - I was getting ready to move once again. We were sipping Brooke Bond tea, a few strands of sunshine peeking out from behind a thick curtain of clouds, as a damp and gentle breeze wafted through the open windows. And suddenly I missed the stuff I used to have.

I missed my signature collection of cotton saris, gathered over a period of time - beautiful handloom saris from every part of India, the kind that made people stop and stare and ask me where I'd bought them . I had left them neatly stacked (ok my mom did the stacking) , occupying a full shelf in Mom's Godrej cupboard. When I returned 13 years later, I found just the one sari - my father used it to line the ironing table after it had turned soft after years of washing - it had done duty as my mothers favorite sari to wear in the house. There was no sign of the others.

It seems that shortly after my departure from the US, my mother and sisters-in-law had decided that I wasn't going to want these any more, and there really was no point in letting them rot away in the cupboard. The greatest honor they could think of for these saris was for them to keep them in circulation by wearing them. They would have consulted me had they thought for a second that I might have a different opinion on how they should be used.

And I missed my books that had probably made their way to a raddi pile or were donated to some library.

But this reminded my uncle about his stamp collection which he last saw in 1960. When he returned to the family home in Bombay several years later , he asked his young nephew Sudhin what he had done with the stamps. By then, Sudhin had taken over possession of the drawer in which my uncle, Nitin, had left the stamps. Sudhin told him he was just starting a collection himself and that he loved stamps. Too chicken to confront his older siblings over the loss of the stamps, Nitin simply wrote off his stamp collection. But it did not stop him from wondering about it this morning.

In any case it was the "randho" that my dad had given him that he had been really attached to. A "randho" is the Hindi name for a manual tool used to shape a block of wood - a predecessor to a router perhaps. Nitin often hung out at our house watching my dad work on his various carpentry projects. So my dad bought him a miniature randho that was very similar to the one he used. He loved that little randho, imagining all the things he could fashion with it. Suddenly, almost 50 years after he had last seen it, he had this strong need to find out what happened to it.

It was only 7 o'clock in the morning, we knew Mom would be awake, but we weren't sure she would pick up the phone. So we decided to call up Sudhin to see if he remembered the stamp collection any better than he had some 40 years ago...

So we called up Sudhin.. we talked to his son Ajay - who I think must have silently questioned our sanity - and quickly handed us off to Sudhin. "Hmmm.......you know I must call up Apurva and find out what he did to my coin collection.. I had all these rare and precious coins.. I haven't seen them since I left for Bahrain..... Stamps ? Kaka I've lost my whole coin collection, it was HUGE..........I bet Apurva knows something about it....." Clearly we were not going to find my uncle's stuff by talking to Sudhin.

So we hung up on Sudhin and called my mom, who hasn't forgotten anything - "Mom, do you remember the small randho papa bought Nitin - he left it behind when he came to America and he hasn't seen it since." Oh that's what happens to stuff.. I remember all the stuff I left behind in Kishore Bhuvan that they threw away as soon as I left the house. I had the most beautiful collection of music and songs - I got married, I left the house - when I came back from Haldwani 6 weeks later - everything was gone, and someone had taken over my drawer. I tell you the minute you leave, people throw away your stuff and take over your space. I am told someone decided that there wasn't enough space in the house for being sentimental. "

Then my dad got on the phone. "Oh yes, I remember the randho I gave you. What did you do with it Nitin ?"

This reminded me of my brother Uttam, bemoaning the loss of his "first day covers". First day covers were envelopes bearing stamps that were "postmarked" on the date they were first issued. First day covers were a big deal. My brother would make the trip by train from Bandra to Churchgate. From there he would walk to the GPO (Grand ? Post Office) by Victoria Terminus (now Chattrapati Shivaji Terminal). Here he would stand on line to receive the strictly 1 per person envelope that bore a special seal, and had on it a the newly released stamp. An instant collectors item was created when the post office datestamped this envelope. I know, because I once accompanied my brother on such a trip. I remember mostly just being fatigued by the hot sun and bored with standing on line.

But the first day covers - those are gone - vanished into thin air. Most likely I asked my mom to move them out to make room for some of my stuff. Probably best if I don't say anything - perhaps my brother has consoled himself with some other collection. Perhaps the coins... oh I think he bequeathed his coin collection to Sudhin.. Oh dear...

My sister-in-law Joyce wanted to know what all the to-do was over stuff. We told her she should be greatful she had no siblings waiting to take over her space and lose her stuff. And she reminded me that while she had no siblings...... she did have two daughters whom I had trained to throw stuff away. And they seemed to have learnt rather well.

For earlier this year, the one cleaned out the pantry throwing away the historic collection of spices that had been in the family since 1982, and the other had cleaned out Joyce's closet and from it perfectly good clothes that were a just a few sizes too large.. I kicked myself as I remembered lecturing the young ones - "You see all this stuff in my house. You have a choice, you can help me get rid of it now -while I can help you, or you can discard it when I am gone."

And with that I moved up the family tradition of losing stuff to a whole new level.. now we don't even wait for someone to leave - we now throw stuff out at periodic "weedings". Stuff that hasn't been used in a while, stuff that doesn't fit or look right, sometimes stuff that we paid lots of money for, sometimes stuff we really should keep - all this gets thrown away in the name of SHEDding or rationalization - Lets face it, there isn't much reverse migration happening from the US of A.

Chances are we will never find the stamps, the coins, the randho, the books, the clothes or the spices. On the other hand, thanks to the internet we did find this delightful piece on Stuff by George Carlin. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MvgN5gCuLac .

At the Gym

2009-07-05T06:40:00.002+05:30

For about 2 months now, I've been going to the gym religiously in an effort to build up my strength and endurance. Why ? you ask... Because I could....Things were a little slow at work, and this was a good way to keep my sanity.

This is actually my second foray into the gym - the first one having been a rather unsuccessful stint some 10 years ago - when I also worked out with a personal trainer. She was nine months pregnant, I felt confident that she would not push me into doing really difficult stuff.

This time was different - I was committed to make the most of the time available to me, and I was going to work out and give it my very best. My selection of trainer was based on who was in the gym at the time I wanted to work out. I ended up with a Young man who participates in body building shows - ok his name is Young and perhaps his attitude - he just placed first in a contest of body builders over 55! His military like demeanor is a far cry from my 9 months pregnant teacher from 10 years ago.

Going to the gym 6 days a week plus cardio, even someone as non-observant as me starts to notice people.

Like the 3 stooges - Larry, Curly and Moe or is it Darryl, Darryl and Darryl that come in every morning. Darryl has a hearing aid, Darryl is hard of hearing and the third Darryl is practicing to be in a show, and training his other two buddies. So their conversation is generally loud. Most of the time it is amusing - but I swear, one of these days if it interferes with my concentration, I will be having a talk with them. I suspect part of the problem is that they want me to talk to them, but gimme a break - they are very out of shape and very senior. So the only talking to they will be getting from me, is "Could you keep it down, please".

Then there is this extremely fit chiropractor - he is a cage fighter for sport - I am sure I never want to go to a chiropractor, and definitely not him.

There are the various couples that come in and train together - always the guy giving the girl instructions on what to do and how to train. Funny thing is they are right, only about half the time.

Then there are the young, enthusiastic guys. There is this one guy - I think if I would get a full cardio workout just by being his weight caddy - taking off and putting back the weights he uses on the leg press and the other machines. The other night he was excercising his back - he had 8 50lb wheels on each side. I usually moan and groan and struggle though with 1 20 lb wheel.

Then there are the twins.. well actually lots of twins. This is because I cannot distinguish one bald guy from the other. And generally speaking body builders prefer to shave their heads bald - at best they will sport a crew cut.. So this morning I saw this guy in a pair of tight plaid shorts and a tank top. His muscles were literally bursting out of his arms. Then I saw him again - this time in long dark pants and a full sleeved t-shirt. I figured he must have put on clothes to keep his muscles warm (yeah there's a whole ritual to this).. then I turned around and there was plaid shorts - so maybe there were two of them or three or four. Trouble is body builders prefer to shave their heads bald. So in the gym, to my untrained eye, they all look the same! So much for making any friends or acquaintances there - Darryl Darryl and Darryl seem like my best prospects so far. Atleast I can tell them apart when they are standing together.

Every gym has its share of gossip and intrigure as well. Like the body builder that got his picture in the paper but really did not deserve to and so on.

All in all, there is enough excitement to keep me amused every single day and keep me going back to the gym - at the end of the day, that is all that matters.

The City of Poughkeepsie

2009-05-22T06:39:00.002+05:30

I first heard the name Poughkeepsie in January of 1985 as I travelled on the Amtrak train from Rochester to New York City. I had come, reluctantly, to visit the United States - for how could anything ever compare to my wonderful city of Bombay. And yet, despite the cold, I had fallen in love with New York city - after all it was just as cosmopolitan and energetic as my beloved Bombay, just cleaner and more organized. But I digress. The train travelled through a snow laden landscape unlike anything I had ever seen before. And then as it headed due south at Albany the tracks ran along the mighty Hudson - covered with a large sheet of ice. The river's presence evident only by the large cracks in the ice that warned you of the freezing water flowing under the ice. I recalled fondly the books I'd read of frozen rivers and sheets of snow. A couple of hours from Albany, the train stopped in what seemed to be the middle of nowhere, and an oil tanker came upto the side of the train to refuel it. On the barren, windswept platform on the other side of the train, I saw a sign "Poughkeepsie".

10 months later, when I heard that name again, I was already familiar with it, and not even remotely intimidated by the prospect of moving there. I moved to the Town of Poughkeepsie in 1986 and studied Computer Science first at the Dutchess Community College, and subsequently at Marist College. I traveled through the City of Poughkeepsie - a more concentrated urban center with a Main Street and a Market Street and an Academy Street etc... but always gingerly, always worried about the crimes that I had known were committed there. I never ventured there after dark.

And yet, as I travelled through the streets, always with the car doors locked, I marvelled at the beautiful Victorian mansions that lined its streets, marvelled at the exuberance of the trees and flowers that flourished in the city gardens and felt a pang of nostalgia for what this city must have been. But back in the early days, I was always in a hurry, and never had the time to stop and think too much about the names of the streets and on some of the historic mansions in the area - Vanderbilt, Roosevelt, Morse, Clinton, Vassar, names that I had heard back in India. For I was way too pre-occupied with the one really big name I had invested my entire future in - IBM.

IBM had come to the Poughkeepsie area only during the late 1930s/early 1940s - rumor has it that Tom Watson, the founder of IBM was looking for a safe place to house a gun factory - like all patriotic corporations, during World War II, IBM had turned its significant manufacturing capabilities to producing guns for the War. Tom Watson was flying through the Hudson Valley looking for a suitable location. When he passed over a patch of land along the Hudson, just a little south of the City of Poughkeepsie - he pointed down and told his realtor that that was where he wanted to build his factory - "Why there ? It is so God forsaken.." the surprised realtor is supposed to have stammered - "Because it looks like it has been bombed already.." Mr Watson is supposed to have replied.

But the City of Poughkeepsie had been a thriving center for commerce long before the arrival of IBM - it was a center of manufacturing, performing arts, shopping, and education. Several of the buildings and streets that served as major thoroughfares back then, still stand - some painstakingly preserved and others showing signs of urban decay.

For the manufacturing plants and the famous stores have all moved away, and in the late '80s - the City of Poughkeepsie became notorious as a high crime district. Over the years, I had less and less reason to go to the City of Poughkeepsie - I am guessing I hadn't been there at all in the last 15 years.

And then out of nowhere, I found myself being summoned to the City to perform my civic responsibilities - all residents are called upon to do this at some point of time or the other - mine happened to be this year. And I now find myself travelling into the City (as we affectionately refer to the City of Poughkeepsie) about 2 or 3 times a week.

You can see that there has been an effort to revitalize parts of the city - the Poughkeepsie Journal building and the Post Office stand as proud examples of the Grey Stone work this area was proud of - the Court House and the Dutchess County District Attorney's office, which is actually a painstakingly restored bank building, stand tall on the corner of Main and Market. The railroad station with its high ceilings and enormous stained glass windows is one of my favorite buildings. Lush green foliage and gorgeous flowers are everywhere confirming Poughkeepsie's reputation as Arbor City USA.

And yet, there are also the abandoned buildings, crumbling structures with windows that are boarded up, or sometimes the even sadder alternative - signs of people living in them. I am told that incidents related to drugs and gangs are relatively common. And unlike the farmlands, just 10 or 15 miles away which are being hastily bought up and parceled out into homesites - there are very few buyers for city properties - several of which are already constructed and quite beautiful.

This morning I ended up driving through one of the prettier boulevards in the city - Academy Street home to large old Victorian mansions, several beautifully restored, and several especially as you got closer to the city center in a state of decay. I was overcome by a feeling of sadness and helplessness - oh that i could do something to restore this city to its original glory - what a waste of absolutely beautiful homes - what a loss of history !!!

And then I think about the young people living lives of quiet desperation, resorting to whatever they must to survive in this city, fighting their demons, often spending all of their painfully brief lives in the confines of the city center - and I feel even more despondent - they don't even know what they are missing........

and then I am pull myself back to the inspiration for this blog - the Poisonwood Bible - the one that taught me - "Never presume you know what is best for someone - until you've walked in their shoes, lived their lives, dreamt their dreams and experienced their pains and their joys - you really cannot know what is good for them." And I find myself asking "Really ? Not even here ? I knew that to be the case in India, which I had been away from too long to really know or understand.. but isn't this my home - America ?

And then I gripped by a cold reality - who am I to judge ? .... I am but an immigrant, with a suitcase packed and ready for the next opportunity, the next adventure - with temporary roots and transferable ties, an unquenchable thirst for new experiences for pushing myself into places and experiences I've not yet begun to imagine - what do I know about people who have mastered the art of stillness, who revel in continuity - aren't I the one envious of all the people I know who go to the same church all their lives, and where there is continuity of lifestyle across generations, a permanence that I who move to a different home on an average of 3.5 years have never experienced ?

Is Spring on the Way ?

2009-03-20T19:13:00.006+05:30

The arrival of spring is heralded all over the world with celebrations of various kinds. And while everyone thinks spring in their part of the world is the most special, I must confess, I must agree.

Spring in upstate New York is perhaps the most anticipated season of all. When the landscape transforms from the cold, barren grey to sunny, less cold, and the promise of life - held forth by yellow daffodils dancing in the breeze and multi-colored flowers springing to life in gardens everywhere. The road salt is washed away by gentle spring showers and everything is suddenly fresh and new. Windows that have long been shut tight to keep out the cold air are opened to let the springtime in.. It is a glorious season - energizing, uplifting, with the promise of good things to come.

I remember my first spring in New York - it had been a cold long winter of removing snow off the car, scraping ice off the windshield, that perilous feeling in the bottom of your stomach as your car spins out of control because you dared go 15 miles an hour in the snow, constantly feeling cold, hands, feet and nose never ever getting warm enough - what had I been thinking - snow was not fun, and pretty only when it fell in the distant woodlands. The best snow was the kind that had melted already.

It had also been a very difficult winter - adjusting to the realities of the new country I had moved to, getting used to the people I had been living with. Everything was so different from Bombay and its warmth and friendship. There were no people on the street, not even one. My successful advertising career in Bombay seemed so distant and irrelevant in this town that recognized just computer scientists and lawyers and doctors. I think that was the winter in which I put on my first 20 pounds. Was it the depression, low energy gloominess ? Was it the fact that you never walked anywhere ? Never got to see yourself in the mirror without 3 layers of clothing ? Or was it that everyday seemed dark and grey ?

And then early one morning I was making myself a cup of tea - indian style - and I looked out the kitchen window to this glorious sight - a tall tulip/magnolia tree covered in buds that were about to open. 23 years later, I can still feel the sense of joy and euphoria that shot through me upon seeing it. Yes, winter is finally over. Yes!! There is hope. Yes!! There will be renewal. Yes!! The good times will return..........

Of course everyone who has lived here for a few years is familiar with this phenomenon and so no one was impressed by my discovery - especially my brother whom I must have called at 6:15 his time on a Saturday morning to tell him I had seen the light.

Twenty three springs have come and gone. And yet I continue to be delighted by this renewal of life and energy. Five years ago, when I moved into this house, I planted (or got the landscapers to plant) a beautiful garden that would bloom with flowers from spring to fall. Carefully placed, in my line of sight outside my home office window, where I spend most of my day, is a beautiful magnolia tree. It stands there looking like an ordinary tree all summer long. In the fall it sheds its leaves and stands barren through the long, cold winter. But at the end of March it sprouts the most promising buds that in April turn into the most incredible blooms that covered a tree.

Five years - and I have never once seen this tree in bloom - because invariably I have been away from my home office, only to return to see the spent blooms on the grass around it. The first year the weather was bad. The second year it was a 3-week trip to Australia. The third, fourth and fifth years I was in Delhi while the tree did its thing.

The tree is covered in tight little buds and I have no long trips planned away from home this year. So will this be the year I finally see my magnolia bloom ?

Ponzi Schemes

2009-03-18T22:54:00.002+05:30

Ponzi schemes have been in the news a lot lately - thanks to one Richard Madoff who bilked a large number of people out of their hard earned money. Richard Madoff, at 70, has had to move out of his posh luxury penthouse in Manhattan and move into a 7x10 jail cell after pleading guilty to a multitude of charges of "Ponzi scheming" brought against him.

So what exactly is a Ponzi scheme ? Its easy to guess from the context in which the phrase is used that it involves the taking of money from one group of individuals with a promise of incredible returns - often numbers that seem too good to be true.

The label was coined after a fellow named Charles Ponzi who spun his web around 1920 when he scammed about $15 million - Richard Madoff is estimated to have scammed upwards of $50billion 90 years later.

Charles Ponzi's scheme used International Reply Coupons or IRCs - the very same things I remember using as a kid to get pen pals. These coupons were used in the receiving country to buy postage stamps equal to the value of the IRC Coupons. Ponzi claimed that the difference between the amount paid to acquire these in one country, and the amount of postage stamps they could buy in the country where they were being redeemed, represented profit. The difference was enough to yield a 50% return in 45 days and 100% return in 90 days. There are many articles that chronicle Charles Ponzi's scam - http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ponzi_scheme .

Apart from the fact that the real cost of purchase, redemption and distribution would have wiped out the huge margins, because the per unit cost of these coupons was very small, Ponzi did not actually buy the IRCs , he merely said he would. He used new money that was flowing in to pay off the older creditors. With no real value being created, or real profit being generated, he quickly ran out of new investors to pay off the rabidly growing group of older investors.

20 years ago, I had the opportunity to witness the evolution of a Ponzi scheme as my employer tried one "cash flow" based scheme after another to run a business while maintaining a flamboyat lifestyle.

The first venture was recruitment that received "Retainer Deposits" from corporate clients with the promise to find them people to fill jobs in their company. In theory the deposit was fully refundable. The deposits put cash in the bank to allow the comany to pay the salaries and incur the expenses of running a recruitment or placement firm.

The second big phase was "leasing" of office space and furniture. A private investor purchased the fine furnishings for our fancy Nariman Point office, and charged the business a monthly rental fee. This allowed the company to have a very nice office, without the cash outlay. However, it did drive up monthly expenses, and with it the need to pump more cash through the system. The recruiting business never did generate the cash flow required to sustain the fancy office digs.

This saw the introduction of a "Auto Card", where private individuals placed a deposit with the company, who issued them a "card" that they could swipe at gas stations around the city. Funds would be deducted from their deposits and settled with the gas stations on a daily basis. Gas stations and individuals could get out of the business of handling cash.

Funds for the daily settlements with the gas stations ran out almost within the first two weeks. And thus was invented Cash Card - a similar deposit based debit card scheme - which got you a card that you could use at subsequent retailers.

The lights went out on this business, figuratively and literally, about 3 years after the first recruitment retainer was collected. The schemes originated from the rich, US educated imagination of the Gujarati business man who founded the company. There was an indictment, there was a trial or the start of one. And then the scheming business man died - leaving thousands of unpaid bills in his wake.

The sad part in that particularly Ponzi scheme was that no wealth was actually accumulated. Mr. Shah, the founder of the company went back to living in his mother's apartment, as penniless as the day he was born. While the fact that he had frittered away the precious savings of hundreds of middle class families, it was sadder still that he had nothing left to show for it.

Maddox's $70M penthouse atleast gives people something to figuratively hold onto.

What a Day!

2009-03-03T10:21:00.003+05:30

It is almost midnight as I start to write this blog. But it has been too special a day to go unblogged. There are two parallel dramas that unfolded today

The first is the ongoing drama on Wall Street. Despite the mayhem and bloodshed -there are significant opportunities in Wall Street for an IT company - and we are out there seeking them. Even as we spent the weekend putting the finishing touches on a presentation for a client, word was leaking out that they were going to announce their quarterly results and were expected to post the biggest loss ever in corporate history. They called to postpone their meeting by a half hour so that the people could listen into the Chairman as he shared the results with the employees.

In the skies - another drama was unfolding. An unusual pattern of cold air formed somewhere over Tennessee and made its way East and North through Atlanta, Raleigh, Washington DC, Philadelphia, New Jersey, New York all the way up to Boston and Maine blanketing the east coast of the United States in a thick white cover. Most of our team had assembled in New York on Sunday night - those that planned to travel on Monday morning never made it in.

We caught the subway from Times Square to Fulton Street and then walked over to our office on Maiden Ln. The snow was coming down in big fat flakes and I realized that this was the first time I'd ever walked in falling snow. It was a special, magical experience - but I am still not anxious to repeat it anytime soon. It was COLD. Upstairs from the office window we watched the snow come down and cover the roof tops and the street, while we started taking bets re whether this meeting would happen.

They called to say that they were going to postpone it until tomorrow because most of their team had not made it in. And just as the winners started collecting their bets they called to say that the meeting was back on.

The Dow Jones Industrial Average dropped below 7000 and closed around 6700 - territory it had not been in for 12 years - since I moved from living in a rented apartment to my own house.

The carts and food stalls that line Maiden Lane were all closed today because of the weather. But it will be interesting to see how many come back with the good weather. In fact it will be interesting to see how many of the Wall Street firms are still in business a year from today. I pray along with every other person affected by current financial debacle for a speedy end to our winter of sorrows.

Chicken!!!

2009-03-02T03:40:00.003+05:30

There are many advantages to living in Stormville. Convenient access to New York city is not one of them. My choices are -

I take a limo to the city which is very convenient and outrageously expensive, unaffordable if the company isnt paying for it,
Take a train - There are 2 flavors to the train Either I drive myself to the station, pray that I will find a spot to park and be able to sprint up and down the stairs in time so that I do not have to wait for an hour on a freezing cold windswept platform, OR I pay Luis a handsome sum of money to drive me over. The latter also requires planning ahead. Once I get into Grand Central I have to catch a subway to get me to Wall Street. 3 hours door to door each way.
Drive myself - 90 minutes to get from the garage attached to my house to a garage in mid-town Manhattan.

I've made atleast 20 trips to New York City this past year, and it wasn't until the end of January, that I decided that enough was enough. It was time to conquer my timidity and fear of driving into the city and give myself a little more time and flexibility.

The 90 minute ride means I hop on to the Taconic Parkway and then onto the Sawmill River Parkway and onto the Henry Hudson Highway. Parkways in the Hudson Valley region (my area) refer to highways that have been cut through forests. These are typically narrow, winding roads open to non-commercial passenger traffic only - no trucks allowed yeah!!

Someone once told me that the Taconic Parkway was built along the old horse-buggy path that went from New York to Albany. I have not found any evidence to corroborate this theory, though it is definitely a plausible theory. Forests, State Parks and farms line either side of the Taconic -and spectacular pastoral scenes with deep blue mountains as you come into Dutchess County. There is a particular bend in the road where I am always swept away by the beauty of the scene - even 20 years after I first laid eyes on it.

But I digress. There is a reason why I avoided driving into the city. For this beautiful scenic road that takes me into the city is also a major challenge. Even under normal circumstances, I am a timid driver. I have this absolute fear of brushing against or scratching my car on something.. be it a bush on the side of the road, a gaurdrail, a rock, another car or a deer. That doesn't mean these things have not happened - I've even rubbed the car against the side of the garage door and I once almost had my car wrecked by a deer who decided to cross the road at the wrong time. Neither experience has decreased my fear of these things.

Before, when I was content to drive in the right lane following any old slow poke on the road, it wasn't a huge problem. Just meant that I had to watch out when you were going over a bridge or narrow part of the road if someone was trying to pass (overtake) you. I would usually encourage them to pass me where the road was wider by slowing down.

But then I lived in Delhi for 3 years, and learnt to become impatient. And decided that I too should stake my claim on the road. And so now everytime there is a slow poke ahead of me, I prefer to pass them. Legally and in the left lane.

Atleast half the slow pokes decide that they must speed up when I try to pass them. Its almost as if I've woken them from their trance or re-acquainted them with their competitive spirit. And so we'll go side by side - or me just a notch behind them until I can psyche myself into passing them. Sometimes, I find I have to give up and hang back into my position a few feet behind the slow poke until I see a nice wide path opening up and then I swing into the left lane with a heavy foot on the gas and zip past them. This happened to me 3 times this afternoon on my way over.

And I kept telling myself I was a big chicken. And then I remembered... If I was a real chicken I'd be on the train with my feet up reading a book or taking a nap. No I am just a "used to be chicken" aspiring to something else.

No Consequences

2009-03-01T08:34:00.003+05:30

I was visiting my niece (yet another one) in college - about 4 or 5 weeks into her first semester. She had traded in a very close knit, highly supervised environment for life on a college campus in the United States.

"So how's it going ?" I asked her - "Good, I am starting to make friends, figure things out.. some classes are easy, others not so much... but you know what is weird.... you have all this freedom... there are rules, but there are no consequences for breaking them.. of all the changes, that is the one I've been most surprised by".

"No consequences ?" the logic student inside me bristled. "You mean there are no immediate, direct, visible consequences ?" She gave me the look that the very young and intelligent reserve for crazy people to whom they are being polite only cos the crazy person is picking up the dinner check and says "Yeah no consequences".

The logic student noticed that she hadn't acknowledged her point - "Let me tell you my dear, there are consequences - they are just waiting for the right moment to catch up with you!" What do you mean ? she says.

"I too was young and skinny and beautiful like you" said the maiden aunt, "and I was certain that nothing could take it away from me. I loved batawadas - oh never mind, you don't know what a batatawada is - I loved batatawadas the way you love ice-cream. Oh come to think of it - I loved ice cream as well and french fries and anything that had potatoes in it and was deep fried. And I was young and skinny and beautiful.. and I could eat as much of these things as I wanted to, and I did. To the point that I could make a meal out of batatawadas.... You ask me dear, why I have to shop at the plus size store ? Its cos the damn batatawadas and poor food and poor lifestyle choices finally caught up with me!!"

By now the young woman was starting to think that the aunt might be going crazy - was this free dinner worth listening to her rant about batawadas ? Then she got it - this was the consequence of accepting a free dinner, even if it was your favorite restaurant, you had to sit and listen to the aunt - cos she was paying for the dinner, and she was going to drive you back to the dorm. If she was extra polite, the aunt's generosity might stretch to ordering an entree that they could takeout for tomorrow night. A good consequence.

"Interesting" she said, "but you must have continued your poor food choices - this could not be the consequence of a batatawada you ate 30 years ago" "Well, if we had enough time, I could probably show you the connection - but let me help you with one that is a little easier to follow. 20 years ago, I decided I did not want children. That career and financial stability were more important. There were no consequences back then - or if there were I did not notice. But here we are 20 years later. And I cannot undo that action from 20 years ago. Thank God my brother and his wife followed a different path. Whom would I be visiting today if they too had decided they did not want to have children ?"

Is Marriage Necessary ?

2009-03-01T07:05:00.003+05:30

Over the last 20 years well wishers have tried to persuade me to tie the knot - the arguments are often along similar lines "You need to have someone who cares for you", "You cannot live alone", "Man (and woman) is a social animal" - the last one being my favorite, a direct transplant from the Civics syllabus in the 4th standard. Those arguments failed to make me give any significant thought to the topic.

All that changed yesterday, when my young niece asked if marriage was necessary ?

Clearly, if one was to look at my life as an example, probably not. But as some good friends remind me - I am hardly the appropriate role model. And so I thought about it as I sat in conference calls, and as I cooked, did laundry, and as I went about my business in the peaceful, solitary confines of my home. Is marriage necessary ?

And so I asked myself why do people get married ? In a hair-raising moment, I was transported back to my Moral Science class at Carmel Convent - the Moral Science text book published by the McMillan press that have left such an indelible imprint on my mind. "Because it is the only way a man and a woman can be together" came back the answer. In 2009, that moral science text seems rather naive,

Why does society want people to get married ? Generically, without considering local customs and mores, it would be to provide a stable, orderly environment in which people procreated, and so that children were raised in a nurturing environment.

And that got me thinking of a young woman I had met in Paris - about 20 years ago. She had decided to have a child out of wedlock, because she really wanted to have a child but was not ready to commit to marriage. When I saw her living in her own apartment, raising her child by herself, I realized that I could atleast take care of myself. That is what had given me the strength to go out and get my own apartment. Marie's children were raised in a nurturing environment - grandparents, uncles, aunts, even a father - except he did not live in the same house. They are grewing up to be great kids. So clearly marriage was not necessary to raise children in a nurturing environment.

In modern day United States and many other western countries, where society does not require people to get married to either live together or have children, people are still getting married. In the United States - it is expected that once a daughter grows up, she gets a job, and establishes her own home - with or without a husband.

And yet people continue to get married.. In fact the gay community is pushing to legalize same sex marriage, so even more people can participate in the institution of marriage. Why ?

Because for the most part, people here get married because they want to, because they love someone so much, that they want to spend the rest of their lives with the other person. And many of them stay married for a very long time. Others live together for the same reason, and avoid getting married to deny Uncle Sam the opportunity to take more of their money.

Aha - says the young niece - but I am neither in the United States, nor am I in love. Is marriage necessary for me ?

When my parents got married 60 years ago, women did not have much of a choice in the matter. Girls were married very young - 11, 13 - my mother was married just before her 21st birthday. After independence the government set a minimum age requirement - girls had to be at least 18 before they could be married.

Perhaps it is the only reason so many women of my generation got to go to college.. they were just too young to be married, and you couldn't have them sitting at home all day. Most got married within a year or two of graduating from college. Very few of them found their own partners. The rest all had arranged marriages.

In recent years, Indian urban society has become more accepting of career women. More and more single women are opting for higher education and working. Several are doing very well for themselves. I remember reading an article in an Indian newspaper that talked about how these women had to "dumb down" so that they would not scare away a marriage prospect.... It also mentioned that more and more women were opting to remain single because they found it easier to pursue their career that way.

As an employer of women in North India, I acquired new insights into how life for a traditional Indian career woman was very different from that of one in the United States. And how different her life was compared to that of her husbands. While the husband worked late at the office, and sometimes weekends and workdays, the woman was also required to keep the household running and the kids taken care of. Sure they had help, and often there were in-laws around to share the load. But it was as one of my colleagues advised a group of women - "If you want to have a successful career, you need to first go and enroll your mother in law in your cause". Because if she supports your career - then the house will run well, and the kids will be fed and she will be proud of you. But if she doesn't like what you do - your life will be hell. You know better than to expect your husband to help you around the house (it was a male colleague delivering this advice) or with calming his mother down. It is upto you and you alone.

And yet, as a rule, women in India also tend to get married. Singlehood is the exception rather than the rule - and the majority of society still struggles with understanding how to deal with a single woman.

Choosing to remain single in this environment, is like trying to stop the tide. Many think about it,but very few have actually done it. Why ?

First of all - that is what you are raised to believe - everybody gets married. Being single is "strange" and like being an outcast.

Second - that is what your mother and her entire peer group expect of you. They truly believe that that is the only way in which you can be happy. Indeed getting a daughter married is considered a sacred duty, the execution of kanya daan being a special privilege. This is a very powerful force to reckon with.

Third - Indian joint families will look after a grown up spinster. But unless it is a very special family , before she knows it, she goes from being the revered aunt to the one that is consuming more than her rightful share of space, food and air. The amount of tolerance meted out to her will frequently be in line with her financial contribution to the joint family within which she lives. In this respect, spinster aunts are no different from anyone else in the family that does not contribute, for power has a funny way of sticking with the money. And oh by the way, joint families will rarely tolerate disrespect of social customs such as having a child out of wedlock - so forget about having a child if you decide you don't want to get married.

So why does an educated, well employed woman get married ? After all isn't she just committing herself to a harder life ? Because in Indian society, that is still the only socially acceptable way of having children. Because they actually do fall in love with someone enough to want to formally commit to live with them for the rest of their lives, in a manner that their parents would find acceptable. Because it is far more fun to live with someone than to live alone. Because even these smart women are "social animals" and marriage is the fastest way in which you magically double the size of your family. Because once you take the plunge and start swimming, you want all your other friends in the water with you, so you tell them its a good thing. Because they studied Moral Science for 10 years and at an impressionable age. Because an Indian wedding is one of the most spectacular pageants you could ever be part of. Because they want to have someone to grow old with. Because their mother says they HAVE to.

Story Telling Vs Writing

2009-02-20T04:07:00.003+05:30

Thanks to the internet and Google, I had the opportunity to listen to the full length interview that my idol Jeffrey Archer gave in New York several years ago. And I followed that up by listening to my other favorite authors - Khaled Hosseini and Jhumpa Lahiri.

There were many things I took away from the Archer interview. The one that I am turning over in my head over and over is that he says - there is a difference between being a great writer and a great story teller.

A great writer, I guess, is someone who communicates information about a topic in a clear succint manner e.g someone who writes a textbook. But a story teller entertains. So do I aspire to be a writer - I guess I already am... I now aspire to be an entertainer............aiiiii

To Blog or Not To Blog - That is the Question

2009-02-11T04:28:00.003+05:30

It has been a while since my last blog. Readjusting to life in America has been a little difficult. Not only do I miss the creature comforts of my life there, I also miss the warm friendships I had developed there.

Of course there are many things I enjoy about being back here -uninterrupted power, a reliable thermostat that maintains a comfortable temperature - being able to drive, better TV programs - yeah I know , it sounds a little lame.

This morning, after persuading several of my schoolmates to read my blog, I decided I too should go back and read. Some are pretty bad - but a few brought a smile to my face, and others took me back to that moment in time when I had experienced whatever it was I was writing about. And I actually enjoyed it.

It also reminded me of why I had started blogging in the first place - you've got to write a 1000 words a day on any topic if you really entertain the prospects of being a writer. I saw a little video of my favorite author Jeffrey Archer describing how he creates a book - he wakes up at 5:30 in the mornng and writes for 2 hours. He takes a 2 hour break and then writes again from 9:30-11:30. A 2 hour break and back to writing for 2 hours - 1:30-3:30 (no nap Jeffrey ?) and then another 2 hour break write for 2 more hours and etc. He writes for 8 hours every day. At the end of 1 year - he is ready to share the first draft with his editors.. Over 4000 hours to create the first draft. And he goes through a dozen drafts (though they don't all take that long). We're talking about 10,000 hours to write a book.

Even assuming I could strike up a plot that is generally in the same neighborhood as Jeffrey's (which may well be the larger problem), do I have the ability, discipline and resolve, to write for 8 hours a day ? Well, as long as I am gainfully employed, I won't have the opportunity to find out - no I don't want to hear any arguments of "there are 24 hours in a day" and you can work through the night - because I cannot. So maybe I should work on plot development. Or maybe I should just write a blog. Perhaps meaningless ones initially, until I can figure out how to capture the readers interest.

Yes while the question may well be "To blog or not to blog" the answer clearly is Blog Away......!!

Only in New York !

2008-07-10T06:35:00.002+05:30

So I've been spending a lot of time in the Big Apple lately - and I must say I truly enjoy it.

From being able to travel the length and breadth of the city in a matter of minutes, being able to walk to Times Square and its associated attractions. hail a cab and get anyplace you want - all of these are very liberating. But there is also the huge variety of food - beautifully presented and always fresh.

So here are a few things that I thought were peculiar.

One Sunday afternoon - I took a cab to Brewster station and rode into the city. I arrived in NY with my work clothes and briefcase to pouring rain. There was a fellow selling umbrellas outside the station- but the umbrella did not have a prayer of protecting my luggage. And so, I stood under an awning watching the taxi line grow longer - cos I could not risk getting my work clothes wet. Finally, when it stopped raining - I joined the end of the line.... It was heartening to note that the policeman made sure that no one got a cab out of turn. Only in NY.........

I have seen rickshaws in many countries in the world. Certainly, in India, we are used to thinking of the rickshaw wallah as an exploited, aging man, who struggles through his day. So imagine my surprise when I was approached by a rickshaw wallah on the corner of 57th street and 5th Ave. He was young, white, very fit and very handsome. He looked like he was driving the rickshaw for sport. Only in NY.........

Leafing thru the book in the hotel - I realized that I was within walking distance of a Deepak Chopra center. And that they offered free Guided Meditation. So I thought I'd go and check it out.

It was in Times Square, adjacent to a large Social Club. I walked into that first - and was politely shown the way out.

The Deepak Chopra center is set up like any other New Age spa - though its basement meditation room is truly beautiful. At 6 in the evening , a few others arrived after work. The usual Yoga crowd - some pale, some soft and chubby and me.

The Guided meditation was led by a young white skinned woman who sounded like she had been raised in America. She could not have been more than 24 years old. She started the practice.
She asked us to think about who we were, and what we wanted.. and then without warning asked us to close our eyes and meditate. Fifteen minutes later she tinked a little bell - asked us to say Om and open our eyes.

I've been ripped off many times in the guise of yoga and meditation - but this really took the cake. Fortunately, this was also a free guided meditation, so all I lost was my time.. which in NY can be pretty darned expensive

The Energy of Youth

2008-07-10T05:36:00.002+05:30

This past weekend, I attended a wedding in Missisauga, Canada - a Toronto suburb favored heavily by new immigrants.

There were many things to be joyful about -the wedding, my first North American Family reunion after returning from India, seeing my niece Lily after 4 years, seeing my friend Christine and her family in their new home in Canada, celebrating my mother's 80th birthday.. the list goes on and on. ..

But what struck me most was the energy, vitality and power exuded by the young people of Canada... surely the world is theirs to conquer.

Take for example the wedding that I was at.

While I am sure my cousin contributed to the preparations and the design , and I am certain that his wife watched over the preparations very carefully - there was an indelible signature to the whole event, and surely it was that of the bride and her sister.

Gorgeous in appearance, capable of putting any Bollywood star to shame - the young girls costumes were very carefully designed, their jewellry dazzling.

The celebrations had all the yearning and nostalgia for the old and familiar, but the execution was very here and now. The first event was the Mehndi - the bride and her immediate family - had had theirs done a day earlier - so they could mingle with their guests. An efficient mehndi-walli decorated palms in under 90 seconds - gorgeous and beautiful designs. There was dancing - to current Bollywood tunes.

Similarly the wedding was meticulously choreographed, as was the first dance. The evening drew from Gujrati weddings, Western practices as well as North Indian culture - so there was the formal Gujrati Kanya daan and Phera and Vidaai; then the Bridal March, followed by the bridal dance - a solo performance by one of the bride's cousins and many many toasts. This was followed by a good measure of balle balle. All the menus were carefully picked out - and we tasted a range of foods in the 3 days.

Young Anurag, our 8 year old nephew who was visiting from London, went to the grocery store with Shruti and my uncle to pick out a birthday cake for mom. Man- I had forgotten how good chocolate cake tastes. And the sheer joy of having the candle play a silly tune at the oddest of times.

Christine's older son - all of 16 years old - was doing errands around the house helping his parents with home improvement projects. Her younger son - showed incredible focus on the Nintendo screen - followed by an amazing ability to spin around in circles forever.

Sunali's kids grew up fast while I was gone - they read big books and participate in grown-up conversations when they get in the mood. And I thought they were playing on their little hand held device all the time.

Shruti took the spotlight in all the political debates with her strong position on Barak Obama. Lily delighted her grandmother by wearing all the jewellry and the sarees that grandma wanted to dress her in. She then went and got her other hand and both feet hennaed. Both girls wore saris - and energetically ran around, fetching and carrying and ferrying their grandparents around.

And it occurred to me that all of a sudden, there were a lot of young people that were directing the course of events around us - participating in and changing the world we live on, and the traditions we mauled only a decade or so ago.. ..

And for just one tiny moment, I wished I could exchange places with them...... be as young, as energetic, as beautiful, have my whole life ahead of me.

Of course when I thought about it a little longer - I am happy not to have any more choruses or encores or refrains....... These extra pounds, this fading youth - they have all given me the ability to appreciate youth - I remember how I thought it was a tiresome thing and could not wait to be all grown up.... and so I dedicate this blog to the energy of youth.

Back in the USA !!!

2008-07-10T05:19:00.002+05:30

June 13th, 2008 - I formally returned to the USA... I left most of the desi clothes, the image and the lifestyle behind - soon to become a memory as we all move onto new things and heal our bleeding hearts.

When the packers were in the house all 12 of them, and my 2 colleagues, and the 2 maids, Preeti's husband and 2 of his own helpers , and the 2 cousin's with their chauffeur and my chauffeur - and the packing was in full swing - my intrepid niece called.

She asked if I could talk - I told her about the packers - "its kind of important" she said...... "What's up ? " I asked - "Prashant" whom she has known for more than a year, "proposed last night - I wanted to talk it over with you ..." The protective aunt emerged from behind the packing cases and stuff - and we had a long chat - other people supervised the packers - now I can't tell which box has my saris.. It matters not - She can organize the sari for me along with all the other stuff she has to organize.

But back to the USA.

It is difficult to describe how I felt, returning to an empty house on the side of Stormville Mountain. The car battery had died. There was no edible food in the house. No one to fetch me food, and no one to talk to. No long distance service on the phone. Fortunately the cable tv and the wireless modem were still functional. It was quiet and peaceful, and the deer were running around in the distance.

I forced myself to call a garage and get the car started. I made an appointment to have the car serviced. I bought some long distance calling cards over the internet. Exhausted with the effort, I went to sleep.

Early next morning, cos the jet lag was still there, I drove to my favorite grocery store and picked out fresh fruit, like I had not had a chance to do in the past 3 years. I savored every minute of driving around the countryside.

My brother and sister-in-law who were in NY for a visit came upto visit. My niece Shruti carried the suitcases up, and her mother unpacked and helped me put all the stuff away. The suitcase now remains exactly where Shruti left it 3 Saturdays ago - in the hall waiting to be taken down to the basement.

I moped around the house for 2 weeks, getting various things set up and getting back into the mode of living by myself - I miss most my maid Salyani, who would put my stuff away.

Since last week I have been travelling into NY city, rediscovering the joy and independence that NYC offers. And there are people here - lots of people. I think I could get used to living here.

NY Blitz

2008-05-11T20:25:00.001+05:30

I was still in India. I had accepted a position in NY, and was winding down my operations in Delhi, when I got the call.

"We need you to come to NY for a meeting. " "How many days should I plan on ?" "Just 1". And just like that I joined the ranks of the people that spend 20 hours travelling to a place to spend just 20 hours in another place, and travel another 20 to return home.

Fortunately for me - flight schedules beign what they are , I was scheduled to spend 2 nights in NY.

I took the non-stop from Delhi to Chicago - hoping to be in NY by 9am. The flight was late - very late - I reached NY at 1:30pm. Quick shower, and I rushed to the office to be briefed on the morning's meeting.

Delhi had been burning - about 120 degrees. New York was a perfect 72.

I had a leisurely dinner at a peaceful little Italian restaurant - no crowds, no hustle - a stark contrast to Gurgaon.

Next morning it was raining hard - now who would have expected rain...I bought an umbrella on the street and continued on to the client meeting - at 1 NY Plaza. A gorgeous building that had views of the Statue of Liberty, the Brooklyn Bridge, the Staten Island Ferry and NJ all from the 1 room.

Meeting went well. We finished our post mortem.

And I returned to the hotel around 3pm - I had to buy a wallet for my niece. That was the only remaining errand before I caught the flight out the next morning.

In my room, I sat on the bed - just for a minute - when I woke up it was 2am and everything around was closed.

I was also starving.

I waited till 6am and walked over to Ellen's Stardust diner - opens at 8 for breakfast !!!! so I walked around - I saw people lining up to get into the studios of the various morning shows - the city was slowly coming awake.

Finally found a diner that would serve me breakfast - was done by 7am. 2 hours to go before i had to leave... I walked, I shopped. it started to rain. None of the hawkers were going to show up today. So I returned to my room at 8am and napped for an hour.

Back to the airport and to Delhi. 44 hours after I had arrived in the city on my NY Blitz - refreshed, energized and ready to return.

Just When You Thought it Was Getting Better ....!

2008-05-11T19:19:00.002+05:30

Can't resist this one guys. I had an absolutely harrowing time at Indira Gandhi International this time.. Maybe I should rename this blog IGI Log - might get more hits that way..........

But just when I thought the Delhi airport was showing signs of getting better - it slipped way back into the 18th century. I was headed for a 2 day trip to NY (sounds good doesn't it ? actually it is kinda insane). And I had my ticket all booked on American Airlines - so what if it only took 2 days to get it right ......

I got to the airport around 9:15 - minor congestion around the terminal... got in easy enough.. .in and out of the baggage screening and was #2 in line at the AA First Class Check-In Counter. I did not have a first class ticket but hope abounds.

10 mins later the pretty woman told us that it would take a little more time to check us in. The computers were down... Computers are down! Who the hell runs your computers - but I only muttered that to myself.. we have a long relationship with American Airlines, and it is possible one of my colleagues in another country runs them.. So I stood there patiently watching the line grow longer and longer - shifting my weight from one foot to the other.

90 mins later I was handed a scrap of handwritten boarding pass (which even the immigration officer laughed at)... and manually checked in. Forget about upgrade, I did not even have a seat assignment. There were another 300 people needing to be manually checked in after me.

So I quietly walked into immigration and told the guy to stop laughing it really was a boarding pass. I went through security no lines. And I was looking for my gate .

I was in no mood to talk to strangers, forget about friends - dressed as I was in my worst shabby plane clothes when I hear someone call out my name.. Turn around a colleague who had separated from the company a year ago. We sit down we talk, his flight is called he goes.

I continue to the AA gate where it is freezing cold - thank god I have my handy red shawl. I cover myself up in it and go to sleep. 3 hours later they board the flight - and yes I got upgraded.

What was amazing was that no one complained. The only time there were some protests was when they invited the kids to board and as soon as they got to the front of the line, they told them to stay there while the fat cats in first class boarded). That was when people started to yell at the crew... Amazing - was this Delhi ? or as the AA commercial says we were already home.

You are invited to a meeting ... .in Hanoi !

2008-04-27T05:07:00.010+05:30

Hanoi ? Vietnam ? Places I have heard of for my whole entire life - but where exactly is it ? In the 3 years that I've been in India, I haven't given it a second thought, and now that the meeting is being held in Hanoi

I am at a loss as to exactly where it is.

The only Hanoi I can think of is the infuriating Tower of Hanoi problem from the Algorithms class at Marist College. And that brings with it the memory of Prof Ten Eyck and the "page fault".. A computer is said to have experienced a page fault - and therefore a slight delay in processing - when the data required for a transaction cannot be found in local memory and must be fetched from external storage , in my case that would be from Google.

So in the map above - you can clearly see the eastern part of India, Bangladesh and the Bay of Bengal on the left. The big country adjacent to Assam is Myanmar (which most of us know as Burma) Ad next to it stretching down to the coast is Thailand. Cambodia is the country sitting below and to the east of Thailand and Laos is the long thin sliver nestled between Thailand and Vietnam - Vietnam being the country colored in red. Burma, Assam, Laos and Vietnam all share a border with China. To the East of Vietnam, is the South China Sea and the set of islands directly east are the Philippine Islands. Cannot see Malaysia on this map, it is to the south of Thailand. Singapore, which is at the southern end of Malaysia, is seperated from Malaysia by the Singapore straits . Indonesia is to the south of the Philippines and east and south of Malaysia and Singapore. So there you have it the countries of the ASEAN region !!

So now that we all know where Vietnam is lets see how a US citizen gets there from New Delhi (note we still do not know where Hanoi is). Apparently everyone needs a visa to go to Vietnam. If you are a US citizen you pay a $100 for the privilege that the rest of the world pays $25 for. The visa must be applied for on the web and collected on arrival.

There are no direct flights from New Delhi (or most places for that matter). You must either connect through Hongkong, Singapore or Bangkok. All international flights arrive around 9:30am and depart around 11:00am. Those are the choices. So its like catching a red eye (Delhi-Bankok) and then making a connection. I arrive BKK at 4:15am (who wants to arrive anywhere at that hour) and catch my connection at 8:30am. Fortunately Bangkok airport has the best foot massage parlor. Spending time there should not be hard.

I shall spare you the Delhi airport travails this time - you are starting to get the drill by now. I've arrived very early for my flight, so it is less of a battle all around and before long I settle into an empty chair with my generous supply of mail.

I had tried to look up the weather report before leaving, and instead of hitting weather I hit news - The headlines screamed - Diarrhea epidemic continues unabated in Hanoi ! and Foot and mouth disease cases mount (again in Hanoi).. and I am reminded that high rate of GDP aside, this is still a developing tropical country. Don't drink the water !!!

The flight from Delhi to Bangkok is jam packed. Lekhni tells me I have the last seat. I have now dubbed this flight the Smuggler's special. Hundreds of people that can only be characterized as the business community are on board. The stewardess tells them about 4 times to go back to their seats - they are all running all over the place hugging, kissing like long lost brothers, trading notes on the friendliest customs agents and duty free prices. As soon as the plane is in the air - they are back - I ask the fellow leaning right over me to talk to his pal if he would like to sit in my seat. Sadly the irony is lost on him - as he moves his garlic laden breath a few inches away.. I am about to call the stewardess.. when better counsel prevails and he moves onto another buddy. I wonder if this Vietnam trip is really worth it. Fortunately it is an outbound flight so I am not ladenwith oddshaped packages poking into my sides.

Hanoi, I realize from the flight map on the plane, is in the northern part of the country. Hard to tell just how far it is from the coast. The chauffeur with the hotel car later tellls me it is 90 miles to the ocean. What about Saigon you say ? Saigon is on the southern tip - its been renamed Ho Chi Minh City after the revolutionary leader. It is the commercial capital of the country - not as pretty I am guessing as Hanoi.

The airport at Hanoi is a scene I am now increasingly used to - complete bedlam, chaos and confusion and long lines. The desks are manned by young kids - barely 22 years old. They seem to look at the passports with fear and bewilderment - so perhaps I exaggerate , perhaps that is my projection but man they were painfully slow with their processing. The one kid looked at my passport photo then my face then back at the photo - he was struggling with believing it was the same person.... Hey kid.. me too...! I actually think I am way skinnier than that photograph. .but trust me it was a bad camera..can we get a move on please.

I make it outside eventually - find the driver of the BMW 325 that is to transport me to the Hotel - the Sofitel.

I have to confess I approached this trip with less enthusiasm than many other trips to foreign lands. The only thing going for it were a couple of websites that talked of Dreaming of Hanoi and the strong French influence on the city. It is a beautifully appointed hotel. And I realize as I see the Burberry, Louis Vitton and other luxury labels on the stores in the neighborhood that I must be in a very elite neighborhood. It is a very old hotel that boasts Charlie Chaplin and a zilion other celebrities stayed at.

The first day there I was consumed by jet lag (from my trip to the US the previous week) and could barely wake myself up for the 5pm meeting. Dinner was a 30 course Vietnamese feast including a large fish wrapped in banana leaf. 2 men had to carry the fish into the room on a stretcher. Exotic sea and land food - spotted snails, crabs and what not were on the menu. All very fishy. I was relieved when I saw my picky Indian colleague say he was not going to eat eggplant - he wanted pasta !!! The big boss joined us and being picky Indian eaters became legitimate.

Business meeting was interesting - and we had pasta for lunch again while our colleagues ate more Vietnamese delicacies.

Dinner was at Club 51 a gorgeous setting - a French Vietnamese restaurant. The decor was absolutely stunning. The reds and the golds the lanterns, the details... exquisite. And a vegetarian meal !!!

The next afternoon after the business meeting and the calls, I decided I really needed to make an effort to overcome my ennui - after all when would I return to Vietnam ?

So I hauled myself downstairs. All the tours had departed and some had returned. I was able to hire a tour guide to accompany around town. Lots of bicycles - French style - heavy French influence on the architecture.. Saw the Hanoi Hilton- not a luxury hotel - but the prison in which American prisoners were held !

Drove around town, visited the markets - overwhelming smell of fish again - no seriously I've seen as much pork and chicken breast as I want to see in a lifetime - no exotic seafood does nothing to whet my appetitie - i've seen enough - yes fascinating shoe market.... but no not toda. I did pick up some souvenirs - the lacquered plates are stunning yet simple - learnt the legend of the temple in the lake with disappearing magic sword. I saw the Water Puppet theatre - where the puppets are manipulated from rice sticks under the water rather than dangled on a string (top picture) ...... picked up a couple of fish puppets... they look interesting just strewn around - nice , But seriously, no I'm not in a hurry to rush back even if it is the only place in the world with a favorable exchange rate to the dollar. I still was left with half of the million dong I had withdrawn from the ATM ($65 the AP CFO had told me). Finally spent it at the airport the next day on Vietnamese chikki - wonder what mom will say when I bring it home....... why does it smell like fish ?

Annonymous Woman in Bangalore

2008-04-11T03:32:00.001+05:30

The other day I went to a meeting in one of our new buildings in Bangalore. It was a large, sparsely populated building and they were just completing the finishing touches – like putting up signs that tell you how to get out of the building.

I was sarting to think I’d have to call someone to show me how to get out of the building and find my way to where the Hertz driver had dropped me off - when a young woman came clattering down the stairs.

She looked very much like my Salyani. Except she was wearing a short sleeved shirt and pants. And she was carrying a lightly filled backpack. She said she would show me how to get out of the building and find the AXIS bank where my driver would be waiting. She had a slightly harried look on her face.

She asked me where I was going – and I told her the name of my hotel. She did not know where it was. And we kept talking and walking. And she asked me again where I was going and I told her again – and I asked where she was going She told me her house was very far and she would be catching a bus to get there. I asked her again if she would like a ride. She accepted.

We chatted between my emails and phone calls – 6 kms feels like 46 in rush hour Bangalore.

It started with her asking me how the market for SAP-HR was. Given that that was the first time I had heard about SAP-HR, I was operating on very thin ground. She proceeded to tell me that her husband was very passionate about SAP-HR – he had taken out a loan for 4 lakhs ($10,000) and gone to school to become certified in SAP-HR. However, he was struggling with getting a job in that field because he did not have any relevant experience. He had been doing other jobs and helping out at the institute for the last 6 months. “I am really worried that we will never be able to pay off this loan”.

The story got sadder – She worked at my company in our prestigious research division. She was an engineering graduate and worked as a programmer.

She had been married to her college sweetheart. He was living in Chennai with his parents so he could go to the institute. His parents were old and could not look after little kids. Her mother had a debilitating illness and her father looks after her mother.

So this brave young woman, happily married and having all 4 grandparents is living like a single mom of the West in the middle of family smothered India. She lives in an apartment at the other end of time. She has a young woman come in to watch over her 2 year old baby. She leaves early in the morning – driving her scooter to Domulur. She parks her scooter in a public space near the bus station, and takes the bus to Whitefield. It takes about 2 and half hours to get each way to work. I had helped shrink her commute by about 30 mins today.

Twice a week she works from another office closer to Domulur – so her commute is shorter. She really cannot work from home – broadband too expensive , and the baby cannot understand why she won’t play with her.

Why don’t you move to Chennai – oh he really likes Bangalore – he wants to live here. Of course we may need to do something different if he does not get a job soon. All of 25 years old, the weight of the world sat on her shoulders.

My heart went out to this young woman, whose name I will never know – but whose courage and dedication impressed me deeply. .

A Brush with the Arts

2008-04-11T03:24:00.003+05:30

I was waiting to board my flight. I had a good seat right in front of the gate, so I could board when my turn came.

A slightly older gentleman – probably in his late 50s came and sat down in the seat next to mine. Grey hair,glasses, wearing a suit and carrying a spring coat. Now I was in a better mood than I generally am at Delhi airport, but I still wasn’t feeling friendly enough to talk to strangers.

I was a little surprised when he struck up a conversation. He was waiting for the Swissair flight of which there was no sign (we were sitting by the AA gate). So he wanted to know if this was a business trip – he’d seen me talking to them and mistaken me for a friendly soul. I told him yes. I told him about the conference etc. And when it got to qsn #3 and I was tired of answering – I asked him where he was headed. He said Zurich.

So I asked him why he was going to Zurich. He was just starting a world wide lecture tour. First stop Zurich followed by Bern, Berlin, Amsterdam, London, New York, Washington DC, San Francisco, Tokyo, Beijing, and Singapore (I may have missed a coupled of cities and added 1 or 2.)

Ooh – the good life I thought !! What do you lecture on ? I am not sure what I was expecting but he told me he is an expert in Ancient Indian History. “I am the custodian of the ancient Indian arts and culture,” And then he moved into a passionate discourse on how people are only aware of the history that the British have chosen to publish. But the published history of India is largely inaccurate. for example there was never a single religion called Hindu – Hindu was the name of the people that lived south of the river Hind or Indus.

“I heard you talk about Shanghai with your colleague – do you go there often ?” “Actually I’ve never been, though I’d love to go. Really loved Beijing though – best foot massages anywhere in the world “ – happy to move to a topic where I was on slightly firmer ground . “Foot massages ! I have never had one – I am not into massages…” he sounded very uncomfortable. “But – I’ve traveled all over China” he said.

“China is a place where art and culture still thrives . And it is such an energizing, vital place. I’ve traveled all over it – been on a train all the way to Lhasa. I do not speak the language but the Chinese are some of the most friendly and warm people anywhere in the world.”

Despite my virtually non-existent knowledge of Indian history I foolishly attempted a feeble argument – “well but haven’t we been colonized civilization after civilization” “Give me an example” he says with the confidence of one who has demolished every argument there is – “well Alexander – Alexander was here for barely a few years hardly long enough to have an impact. And what about the Mughals ? “ I stammer – wondering why I had gone there in the first place. “The Mughals did not impose their religion on India – they assimilated with Indians “ - I wanted to argue that he was still a colonist but let it pass as he was pressing on with his argument – “11 of the 16 artists in his court were Hindu – there is a strong similarity between the art of ancient India and the Mughals …….. and etc…”

I cannot recall how we got to it but then he was telling me about how National Geographic had done a 16-spread on him. “It his the stands last month. And they still have it on their website. Wow! Yes and it is the first positive article I have seen on this country. I am very proud of the article and my country. Nat Geo sent a photographer and writer to work with me and visit the places I wanted to show them. The photographer was initially caught up with the very obvious color India has to offer and he took some photos of people begging – but the writer soon saw what I had to show and he made sure we got the right story”.

The Nat Geo article http://ngm.nationalgeographic.com/2008/01/

india-ancient-art/map-interactive

And then a gate official walked up to us and asked if we were traveling on American – the lines had thinned out and it was time for me to board my flight. I turned to the gentleman and asked him his name – Binoy Behl – read all about him.

Delhi Airport Circa April 2008 – Maybe, just maybe, there is a world class airport waiting to emerge.

2008-04-11T03:09:00.002+05:30

Things are starting to get a little better at Delhi Airport. Or it could be that the weather is improving. Last night getting into the airport – I did not have to wrestle my way in – nice orderly lines and no mob. The temperature was also a balmy 70 degrees…entering the airport had never been this easy. Frame of mind you say ? Possible Rama says, “Anything is possible in Delhi”.

Of course there were the same makeshift counters, the same long lines, but just a litte bit less confused.

There were the 4 of us traveling this time… we are on our way to the Technical Leadership Exchange in Orlando, Fl. 3500 leaders from IBM will gather there to share ideas on things that matter to our business. We’re sending a large contingent from India – about 30 people.

We make it through immigration and customs and we head to the gate. – we’ve come in early – its less crowded as usual – but it still takes a while to find 4 seats together. The 4 of us flip open our laptops and get to work!!!!!!! You can spot a group of IBMers anywhere.

AA calls our flight – so I head to the gate – and I am told that they are only pre-screening the people way in the back of the plane. They won’t be allowed to board till the crew actually arrives. The crew arrived 60 mins later!!!! My colleagues spent 45 mins on the jet bridge waiting to be allowed to board.

For once – I was the very last person to board the aircraft. And when I got in I found someone optimistically occupying my aisle seat. I watched him pick up his stuff and move !! And only a tiny part of me felt sorry for him having to pack his long legs in the window seat.

Ringtone Maloo !!

2008-04-03T23:14:00.005+05:30

So you might want to read "Building Up to the XIC reunion" if you haven't done so yet. Because it started when we went looking for classmates from oh so long ago.

In the last 3 weeks we've "found" Hema, Christine, Malcolm, Rohinton, Denzil, Pushkar, Billi, Karl, Sanjiv, Sanjeev, Bisham, Uneza, Jairam, Yogi, Peyton and Chitra.

12 of the 16 have connected in and been party to the inane , often silly and occasionally comic genius banter. 2 have maintained a steadfast silence - and the jury is still out on the other 2.

We have found that atleast 1 of the 16 is agile enough to make it up a coconut tree. Whether he makes it back down or not we do not know - cos he uses his blackberry to respond to mails. 2 can write email when under severe peer pressure. 1 has invented a very interesting language called bhangrezi - angrezi when written under the influence of bhang, of course. There have been phone calls and a couple of "sightings". The word is out - everyone has turned 40 (a few times atleast), got grey hair - which some remember to color, and are starting to act, show or look their age.

But appearances and accomplishments apart - the old characteristics are still very much in evidence. Take for example Christine - the social ambassador - smoothing out the rough edges making people welcome.

Or Malcolm who has hoarded every photograph and autograph book he ever took in his entire life, has then indexed and filed everyone of them, now he trots them out as evidence should someone make one false move.

He also teaches meditation in his spare time. If he is this wired with meditation, I wonder what he'd be like without it. No more caffeine for you Malcolm.

No one has seen Sanjiv - but we've talked to him, and we've seen his website - impressive - and he has set up a website we can post photos and share info about ourselves. Denzil still has the wry sense of humor. Yogi is still acting like the playboy - I did not know then whether it was real or an act and i still don't know. Sanjeev was his old self - easy to talk to. If Pushkar did not say a word - you'd think we were still in XIC -he looks just as he did.

And Rohinton Maloo - if you didn't actually see him face to face and just heard him on the phone - same thing - the sense of humor, if anything has sharpened over time. The stories have become richer with the varied experience he's had.

Some examples: "In a few years, people will need to get a visa to visit the United States of Delhi - its like a country in itself - like no other part of India. " Rohinton left our reunion early so he could stop by at his hotel and change into a suit - he was to go to a party at which the host had called him and asked him to come formally dressed. When he showed up there sweating profusely in his 3 piece suit - he saw all the men wearing 'flowing kurtas and embroidered bras" over their pajamas. For this, our dear Rohinton, spent an extra 2 hours riding around Delhi to grab his jacket !!!!

Rohinton's best playmates are the security guards in the various offices he visits. He insists on drawing a picture or scrawl instead of signing his name. He then tells them he is writing his name in Ancient Egyptian - the only language he writes (no no - the guards never question - cos they cannot read anyway). Some of them want him to have his photo taken for an electronic ID Badge. Rohinton loves making faces into the webcam much to the chagrin of the security guards. So then Rohinton engages in a philosophical discussion - its still me isn't it... this is how i look most of the time anyway - it will help people recognize me . .. why do you need a photo if my face is already there.... " and the poor guards can only offer a weak 'Sir that is not how it should be".

The other day he went to the Reliance Mobile office - they had been expecting him . The guard called up the host and informed him that Ringtone Maloo had arrived !!

Ringtone Maloo - funy how it just works. Can you imagine - Ringtone Sequeira, Ringtone Mehta, Ringtone Sharma, Ringtone Basu, Ringtone Shah, Ringtone Fernandes, Kashyap !!!! Maybe Ringtone Bisham and Ringtone Yogi or Ringtone Bamroo might work......... but Ringtone Maloo sounds just right.

If this post seems disjointed its cos i fell asleep writing it. Either its very boring or I am up very late !

Images of Pondicherry

2008-03-30T17:39:00.016+05:30

So the 4 of us went to Pondicherry - because I wanted to go to a tranquil and peaceful place instead of spending Holi in Delhi.

Hema, Charu, Anjali and Dhruti......March 21, 2008 - Fisherman's Cove Chennai

The archway belongs to the hotel we stayed at the Hotel De Pondicherry in the French Quarter.

This elephant does the aarti each night at the Vinayak temple in Pondicherry.

I am just dying to get a pedicure.

Beautiful champa flowers everywhere. Perfect for my birthday.

Metal buckets are everywhere -i haven't seen a brass bucket in forever. This one in the bathroom just brought a smile to my face. Unlike most places I've been - the bathroom was bigger than the bedroom. Of course the bedroom just had room for the twin sized bed and a night stand .

And oh that complicated thing in my ear is an Ayurvedic procedure called Kanaphoosi to help clear the wax buildup in your ears. And if you really must know - no it did not work. It might have if we did not let all these people in to take a photograph !!!!

Breakfast at a local joint - the sambar is served out of a steel bucket. Charu and Anjali thought it was the best.

And just who had the insane idea of going to Mahabalipuram at noon ?

Building up to the XIC Reunion

2008-03-30T13:36:00.009+05:30

This blog is dedicated to the people that were in the Advertising Class of XIC oh so many many years ago.

The 1st photo is of Rohinton , Hema and Sanjeev on March 28th, 2008 at the Radisson in New Delhi. The 1nd photo is of us taking a class or a test in our classroom - where we spent only 10 months together. You see Christine in the picture. The photo below is near Rohinton's ancestral wadi in Udwada. In the 3rd picture you see Christine (now in Canada) , Rohinton (runs Cutting Edge Media in Mumbai) , Malcom (trying to be retired but not, in Canada) and Hema (Stormville, San Diego, LA, New Delhi, Mumbai, Pune - who knows, who bothers to track, and does it really matter ?)

It all started with IBM piloting Beehive - a social networking program inside IBM. One of the SVPs has taken it upon himself to test it out as a tool for collaboration. Hema got invited into the hive and show what she could do with it. Social networking sites - especially if they are closed to a specific group of people - can be really fun. And Hema had a great time sharing photographs, participating in events and writing Hive 5s - not to mention looking up old colleagues and friends and catching up with what they are doing today. It was also a great place to meet and communicate with absolute strangers.

Hema thought she liked social networking a lot. So she decided to go see what was happening on Facebook - another site that was frequently referred to by the people on Beehive.

And lo and behold - who did she find there - but her good old friend Christine from XIC. Now, Hema and Christine have been in touch with each other over the last few years, but here Hema found photographs and parepharnalia that allowed her to get a view of what Christine had been upto in the last couple of years. It was awesome.

And so Hema said - Why not create a Facebook group for all my old friends. People she grew up with, went to college with, hung out with in Bandra..... she set up a group on Facebook and sent a message to everyone in her address book.

Some were quick to respond - Facebook - is for teeny boppers! I have no time for Facebook. Facebook - get real!!! There were a couple of Facebook - ok let me try it out. In general the Facebook thing fizzled out very quickly.

However, in the middle of it all - Christine connected with Malcolm Gomes. Who was in touch with Rohinton Maloo and Denzil Sequeira. Who knew where to find Karl Fernandes and Pushkar Sinha and Sanjiv Sharma. Puskhar knew where to find Billy Kashyap or Billikash as he now likes to be called. Sanjiv knew where to find Sanjeev Mehta.

There have been reunions in Mumbai , Delhi and online this past week. And it has been energizing and uplifting. Amazing - we only spent 10 months together and yet there is this intense connection . We seem to be picking up where we left off..... Yeah we all seem to have put on some weight... some of us have put on quite a lot of weight. And what is that streak of silver peeking out from under our hair ? We all seemed so invincible back them.. and compared to what we now know - so very naive!!

Well - more people have to be found. Rohinton says he knows where to find Yogesh Shetty and Chitra Bamroo. Who might know what happened to Noshir and to Leila. Last we heard Peyton was in Australia and Manoj Mathew in Dubai or Bahrain. And Rohinton and Sanjiv both know the make and model of Bishu's car - I think Bisham is again taking us for a ride (like he did when we rode to Lonavala - we all thought we would stay at his family's Biji's Inn. We ended up in the gardener's cottage instead !) Rohinton also knows where to find Uneza . Uneza ??

The question is will we ever find the whole class ? Most likely not - as you mention a name - the image seems to emerge from some long hidden recess of the brain....... and many times it does not. Will we ever even get a list of all the names - I doubt it. Will the ones that find each other - emerge better off from this reunion ? Or should we have let bygones be bygones ? Will we regret having opened this Pandora's box ? Who knows ? Only time will tell. But I do know that having started down the path we could not NOT keep looking, finding, searching for whatever it is that lies ahead.

Meanwhile there are all these poor guys out on Facebook - wondering what happened to the party Hema promised. Sigh!!! So much buzzing so little time!!!

Kadugarh Ke Maharaja

2008-03-30T09:16:00.006+05:30

So perhaps you have read the other blog entitled "My First Trip to Kadugarh".. which describes our ancestral home on my paternal side and the way it was when my grandparents ran it. This one is about Kadugarh aka the land of pumpkins aka the land of bupkus - the same property when it was run by my uncles .

The photo above shows the 1952 Renault tractor that my uncle and dad purchased from the Agriculture College of Pantanagar in the late 50s or early 60s. The one on the extreme left above is my cousin Munnu who was the primary care taker and restorer of the tractor since the late 60s. Next to him is my Calcutta-walli bua's daughter - Bharti bhen, her younger brother Pappu(Vijay Dani), Mumbai-bua's son Babli (Mukesh Parikh now a famous wedding photographer), Calcutta-walli bua's youngest child Parul - a renowned Kathak dancer, Munnu's younger brother Raju - who still lives in Kadugarh in the ancestral home, his sister Mamta and another chacha's daughter - Babli (Rupa Das) . This photo was taken about 18 years after the one in my earlier blog where you see munnu as the 2nd cutest baby sitting on my grandmother's lap.

My grandfather passed away in 1962. By then, my older uncle was running his own farm a few miles away, and living in his own home, separately from the joint family. My father had completed his engineering studies and had taken up a job in Bombay. In fact by 1960 he and my mom had scrimped and saved to buy their own 2 bedroom apartment in Anand Vihar in Bandra where they lived for some 40 years before moving to Kandivali.

So after my grandfather passed away in 1962 - the operation and control of the farm fell to my uncles who must have been in their late 20s or early 30s. My grandfather had run a very tight and well managed ship. Water and irrigation that had been the one variable had been tamed with the big nehar that flowed right outside the farm. Smaller canals - guls - had been cut out to ensure a steady supply of water to all the farms in the area. Between the milk from the cows and the feed for the cattle and the sugarcane crop - the farm was doing reasonably well. Some seasoned share croppers tilled the land and all that had to be done was to manage the milking of the cows.

Food on the table was no longer an issue - living costs were manageable - and my uncles found themselves in a state of relative wealth and well-being with lots of free time on their hands. Both of them were incredibly clever and innovative (hindi word for that is Juggadu) and the one uncle took to managing the mechanisation of the farm. The other built a timber logging factory. This still did not keep them occupied enough and they acquired the lifestyles of the Zamindars. Zamindars of old commanded hundreds of acres of land, and lots of lots of laborers whom they ruled with absolute autocracy. My uncles had maybe 25 acres between them and no more than a dozen laborers - so they just went with the lifestyle - one that involved calling out orders from the porch . This I think resulted in the coinage of the title - "Kadugarh ke Maharajah" - King of the Land of Bupkus.

This photo is from Kadugarh's heyday - when every summer all of us cousins gathered in Haldwani and had a simply fabulous time.

Things went from great to bad to worse. And the Kadugarh empire fell on the shoulders of young Munnu - who realized that he needed to stop the family from selling off bigha after bigha of land for consumption. He stemmed the sale. He also realized that he needed to start a non-agricultural source of income. He set up an auto parts store in downtown Haldwani and built it up into a highly successful business.

In 2002 - Renault discovered the tractor and Munnu - and asked if they could buy it back as an artifact of their remarkable history. Munnu demurred saying that he still used it to plough the fields. Renault gifted him a brand new tractor a cheque for a handsome sum and invited him to a 50th anniversary celebration with the Minister of Agriculture.

The ancestral home still stands . Munnu and Raju have both built mansions next to it in which they live with their families. Most of the land - save a few bighas that the 2 brothers have saved for themselves have been sold. What used to be open green fields, now resembles an unplanned township with over 200 homes on it.

Kadugarh now lives in only in our hearts and memories.

Om Shanti Om!! Updated with Context Link

2008-03-24T14:05:00.009+05:30

While I generally love the pace and excitement of my job, I was starting to miss my Yoga sessions. And I recalled longingly the feeling of peace and total relaxation I had had with my one meditation session in Kerala.
With the long weekend approaching, I told my niece Dhruti, that I’d like to really go away to a place where I could learn to meditate. This was approximately the experience I was going for http://au.youtube.com/watch?v=Fj-DWJE7Y2Y&feature=related .

She said if I went somewhere that was also fun, she’d go too. One thing led to another – and the 4 of us – Dhruti, her mother, Anjali and I landed at Chennai airport on Fri morning en route to Pondicherry.

We were greeted by lightning, thunder and buckets of rain………. the temperature a balmy 23 degrees and a perfect cloud cover. My spiritual advisor Rama informed me that rain on my birthday was a very good sign…

And so I went to Pondicherry convinced I would find serenity there.

It took some work to find a Yoga school that also offered meditation lessons – and this particular school insisted I take 3 lessons as a minimum. So I scheduled one on Sat morning, one in the evening and one on Sunday morning before we were scheduled to depart.

The first session was great – and I liked how I felt. The second was even better – they were practicing carnatic music downstairs and it sounded serene and heavenly. God Bless you Dhruti ! You have done well with organizing this trip.

That evening, roaming the streets of Pondicherry, we happened upon a Café.Com that offered among other things – a beautiful home theatre. A large beautifully appointed room with a giant sized screen and a projection TV / DVD. We decided that while the rain was pleasant enough, watching a movie here would be far more fun. So we looked through the available titles and settled on – by pure coincidence “Om Shanti Om” the new blockbuster starring SRK (ShahRukhKhan - reigning king of Bollywood for you foreigners) . Here's a you-tube clip http://au.youtube.com/watch?v=kOkMIBCuT2M We had a grand time – including some impromptu dancing with our silhouettes being superimposed on the screen.

On Sunday – I rose early and rushed to the Yoganjali Natyalaya for my final lesson before departure. More carnatic music – and an even better ambience. We got to the Om Shanti Shanti Shanti part – and all my mind could think of was “All hot girls put your hands in the air…..Om Shanti Om!!!!!!”

So much for meditation . Will I ever learn ? Will I ever find my Om Shanti Shanti Shanti ?

My First Trip to Kadugarh, I mean, Judges Farm

2008-03-16T19:40:00.008+05:30

This photo was taken on what was really my first trip - it doesn't count, cos i don't remember it. I am the cute one sitting on my uncle's lap. The photo was taken under the great big mango tree (its still there) that sits between the house and the family temple. Seated from your left to right are
Usha Jiji, Dhruv bhai, Uttam Bhai, Mira jiji, Mayank bhai, Kirit bhai, Pop bhai in back, and Gautam bhai is the serious kid in front.
Seated grownups and infants are - Tauji (my dad's older brother), me on his lap, my grandmother (who rode the ghoda gadi to the market), Munnu on her lap, Pappi (standing), and my Grandfather the lawyer.
Standing grownups - Krishna kaka (aka the Maharaja of Kadugarh), his wife Khusman Kaki (aka the Maharani of Kadugarh), my mom, Taiji, Cho-Cho bua, my dad (also the one who took this picture), Devi Kaki - she is carrying Guddi in her arms though you can barely see her) and Vinu Kaka.

Kadu-garh - n. Land of Kadu. Great you say - but what is Kadu ? In shudh (pure) Hindi - it means pumpkin. In our family it refers to "Nothing" or as one might say in American - "bupkus".

One of these days, I must ask my dad which of my theories about why he and his brothers chose to affectionately refer to the ancestral estate as Kadugarh, instead of the more respectable Judges Farm that my grandfather had named it.

The only thing I know for certain is that you just have to say Kadugarh to any of my paternal cousins to see their face light up with a smile - for this is where we spent several happy summer holidays hanging out, learning new stuff, growing up.

Kadugarh - Judges Farm - what's in a name you say ? Judges Farm was when my grandparents ruled the place. It was about being proper and following the rules. In the years that the crop was good, the family feasted. An army of tradespeople sat on the veranda - tailors sewing clothes for the entire family, mattress and quilt makers helping get ready for the arduous winter ahead, a jeweller putting things together for the next family wedding and so on. When it wasn't so good - things were scaled back dramatically.

My grandfather, a practicing lawyer in the Agra High Court, moved there some time in the 30s following an accident in the family . The first house was the best the family could afford to put up. My aunts tell us off how the roof would cave in in a thunderstorm, about how they feared for their lives because of the wild animals that roamed around in the nearby jungles - about missing their lives in Agra.

But I digress - this ancestral home is in a town called Haldwani, which is also known as the entry point into the Kumaon region. Today, this has become a Tier 3 town with lots of factories making their home there, hardly recognizable as the area in which Jim Corbett hunted the man-eating tigers and cheetahs.

I remember my very first visit to Judges Farm - I was eight years old.

It took 2 nights and 2 days to get there by train. We boarded the Frontier Mail at Bombay Central, spread out our bedding and while my parents slept on the upper bunks, my brothers and I pressed our noses to the window to catch the sights and foods of every station we passed - Dahanu Road, Surat, Vadodara, Godhra, Ratlam, Kota, Bharatpur and finally Mathura. There we repaired to the Waiting Room - showered changed and went for a ride into town - gingerly avoiding the Mathura pandas (touts - holy revered touts) .

We returned to the station and the porter guided us to 3 carriages that were sitting apparently abandoned. We settled into one of them, and exhausted with all the excitement I fell asleep. I awoke as I felt a strong jolt. My brothers informed me that the Kathgodam Express had arrived, and our carriage had just been shunted to it. Next morning we travelled on a narrow guage track - passing fields and streams like I had never seen before. I remember Lal Kuan station and the incredible tea served in earthen pots and the best samosas I have ever eaten in my whole life. At Lal Kuan they attached a second engine to the back of the train - this one pushed the train forward, while the one in front valiantly pulled.

Finally at noon and some 40 hours after we had left home we arrive at Haldwani station where a whole lot of people and a converted van await us. The conversion is that the cover in the back has been removed - so you ride with the fresh air and sunshine (heat) in your face.

We arrive at the farm and surprise number 1 - No plumbing or running water and the toilets are away from the house. They do have doors. It takes a good scrubbing to rid ourselves of the grime from the engine (coal engine) and then there are all these cousins to be met. Pappi, Guddi, Munnu, Raju, Mamta, Babu..... and more are on the way. We walk out into the field a long ways - its bhindi (okra) season. We see a little pond in which the farm cattle are cooling themselves off. We return by the stables - where my grandmother's horse and ghoda gadi (horse cart) are parked. My grandma likes to drive herself to the market every once in a while. And while there are lots of daughters-in-law and servants, she likes to visit the horse atleast once each day. Totally alien stuff to this city slicker - but very cool.

It starts to turn dark - and my aunts walk around lighting the lamps - surprise number 2 - no electricity. I also get to see surprise number 3 - they are cooking on stoves fueled by sawdust. Oooh the smoke is getting into my eyes. Next morning its Surprise #4 - the men and the boys all bathe around the water tank - its a cement structure that my grandfather had constructed - its filled with water from the nearby streams and canals - this is the only source of water on the farm. For the women - the water is fetched in buckets and taken to the bathrooms attached to the house.

At night we sleep on the terrace, under the stars. All of us boys and girls on mattresses laid out on mats and covered with a white sheet. We tell stories. My aunts talk about encountering a tiger late one night as they were all returning home in the family car, and how it ran away when my uncle flicked on the head lights. We hear the dogs - or is it jackals - howl in the forest. I lie awake - afraid of the wild animals for a while, then fall asleep out of sheer exhaustion. I awake to hear the low buzzing sound - mosquito attack. And I learn to plaster myself with Odomos each night.

Its great sitting to lunch with my brothers and cousins - its now about 12 of us sitting on the floor eating out of our steel thalis telling stories, making plans, squabbling...... and soon the days turn into weeks. We climb trees, we disturb ant hills, we play cards, we tell stories, i learn to speak some hindi and before we all know it......summer is over and we're back in the converted van heading to the railway station to start the 40 hour journey back.

Such was Judges Farm............. a magnificent memory - one that dreams are made of... Now Kadugarh will be another blog.

The Country That Stopped SARS!

2008-03-09T14:01:00.004+05:30

I fell in love with Singapore the first time I went there. In Feb 2003. It was clean, it was efficient, easy to get around, Asian and everyone spoke English. Yes, it was a little warm - but the airconditioning worked very well.

I was fascinated by the amalgamation of Colonial, Chinese, Arab and Indian influences - and the Komala Vilas in Serangoon Lane with its wobbly wooden chairs reminded me of my grandfathers house in Patan. And the food reminded me of the multitude of ingredients in Indian cooking that I had forgotten about in the last 16 years.

I heard of the SARS outbreak from an anxious VP in my company - who had heard about it in the US and wanted to make sure I was safe. I was safe, and was leaving for the US in a couple of days !

It was an anxious time - as the US was also about to invade Iraq. I remember going into the Admirals Club lounge in Tokyo and seeing all the Americans huddled around the TV seeing the early reports - and thought that this is what it is like to be away from your home in difficult times.

Anyway, I returned to my life in the US even as SARS continued its deathly toll in Asia, including Singapore. 6 months later - in July that year - I was invited back to visit Singapore. It was a whole different country. This was a country that had battled with SARS and won, and emerged more serious and determined from that struggle.

It started with the elaborate card I had to fill out for the Health Authorities telling them whether or not I had had any recent illnesses, the seat I was sitting in , my last address, where I was going to be in SGP, the seat I had occupied on the plane, and where I was planning to go next. Then I had to have my temperature taken and wear a sticker indicating that I was fever free. Then I was allowed into the country - where every one wore gloves and masks despite the heat.

Over the next few days, I found that every building I entered I needed to get a new fever sticker.

When I returned to the Komala Vilas - I saw that they had installed 2 large sinks in the restaurant - not in the bathrooms, but out just where we sat in full public view. What was more, people were actually using them to wash their hands with soap and all. Weird !

I went to a fancy restaurant with live music by the river - beautiful ambience - and then the same sinks again. I asked my host what this was about - "Oh that is for washing hands! Every restaurant is required to have these in public areas. When the SARS epidemic was raging through the city - they published detailed films on how to wash your hands . How to get to the spots that most people miss . You are supposed to wash your hands for a full 2 mins" !!! The front, the backs, the fingers, the finger nails, the mounts on the palms, the sides - I never realized my hand had so many unique part.

Last week I was in the washroom of one of the hotels - and I saw this beautiful Singaporean lady standing at the sink washing her hands. She let some water run over it. Then she squirted a generous amount of soap. And then she proceeded to lather up the soap for a good 2 mins - it was a mechanical routine action - kind of like the Swiss women brushing their teeth - before she rinsed them off.

I had had the opportunity to witness the impact of this deadly disease from afar through reports from my colleagues in Singapore, and then again when I visited during the summer of 2003. But this was the first time that I realized this was a country where they had stopped the onward spread of SARS through sheer will power and determination.

GAAR - A World Class Airport Awaits You !

2008-03-09T13:52:00.003+05:30

Each time I take an international flight out of Delhi I think this is as bad as it can get, and each time I am surprised by just how much worse it can be.

Heading out to SGP this evening , for example, the new NH8 from Gurgaon to the Airport was a breeze – until you actually got to the airport. Then you see the busloads of people coming from Punjab to catch a flight out somewhere.

There are big signs of GAAR – haven’t figured out the actual acronym but its talking about how ‘A World Class Airport Awaits You”. Well, bring it on now – because I am really ready for it.

There are construction walls and debris all over the place. Lots of people wearing the neon green smocks saying GAAR Can I Help You – and if you can actually stop them long enough to ask them a question they might even tell you.

Well I finally negotiate the long trains of carts and people with luggage who are just generally standing around – isn’t the point of an airport to go somewhere ? when I actually find the queue to enter the airport structure, there are only 2 people waiting to get in. The mob surrounding the entry was just aimlessly hanging around ! (At an airport that looks like its been bombed).

Inside it’s a whole other scene. Wall to wall people ! Wistfully I think of the wall-to-wall carpet in my home in Stormville – very very different !

Thank God I’ve brought a carry-on. Long lines snake around the baggage screening machines. 40 minute lines, at least.

I make 2 false starts and then a GAARs person points me to where they have moved the SQ counters AGAIN. I’ve come very early – about 3 hours before my flight is to depart – and yet the lines for both the SQ flight and the CO flight (Viramgam express to Newark ) which leaves 40 mins after the SQ flight have long lines. It must be the busloads from Punjab!

I notice another queue forming alongside me. I am in my mood today – its extremely hot in the airport – and I’ve decided I will not speak Hindi today. The Punjabi woman edging her cart past me in the tiny space between me and the CO queue apologetically explains that she had gone to remove some stuff from her suitcase because it was too heavy. Another heavy gent pushes in behind her grumbling about how he had to empty some stuff cos he was 5 kilos too heavy. SQ is really enforcing the rules today.

Eventually I get my boarding pass and head towards the immigration counters. Lo and behold they have instituted a queue system and once again I cannot see where it starts. There’s a dog wandering through the hall – except he doesn’t look like a stray dog – shiny black coat and a plain clothes guy walking behind him. What is happening to Delhi International Airport ? Oh wait – World Class!

When I finally find the queue there is no one in it and I make it past immigration and customs. Between holding my US passport face up and not wanting to speak (and defacto passing for a ferang - I’ve dropped the ethnic garb these days ) – I get by without too much trouble.

Outside from customs is a brand new world class duty free shop. Finally! My world class airport. My joy is short lived as I walk behind it and there is the same old crummy airport. I walk over to Gate 10 and even though its 90 mins before departure – its hard to find a single vacant seat. Finally they call the EY211 flight to Mumbai (Air India – I was also wondering) and a whole bunch of seats open up. Imagine going through all this to fly to Mumbai.

Anyway I find a spot in the corner and start to write this – trying hard not to miss the flight to Singapore – and then I get it. From Indira Gandhi International Airport you can get to all these places where a World Class Airport Awaits You !

Choksey Family Reunion 2008 - Warning Very Long Post !

2008-02-08T08:51:00.001+05:30

They say you can never go back !

And even if, by some miracle, you do get close – it is impossible to recreate that special feeling you experienced.. or even the same group of people.

And so it was that as we made our way to the 2nd family reunion it was a smaller group that made its way to Modi Farms in Karjat. Several of the people from the first reunion were there. Several others had promised to come for the day on Saturday. A few new ones had promised to join. And the driving force behind the 2006 reunion – Nitin mama and Judith were with us, though only, in spirit.

Modi farms in Karjat is actually a health resort and a spa – from the outside the rooms look similar to the vacation bungalows in Lonavala that we spent summers at – inside they are functional – furnished with twin beds, ACs, shower, geyser, refrigerator etc. Not a luxury resort by any description, but adequate. One of the early comments was - Alibag was much nicer ! Hear hear.

The biggest attraction of the spa is that you can get a massage – and very thoughtfully someone booked up all the slots for the women upon our arrival so we could each have a massage.

I must say though that Sita masi’s “Kapda kadh’ in the massage room, immediately transported me back to that day in Kishore Bhuvan when I had the runs – after eating a whole can of Kraft Cheese - and needed to keep going to the bathroom. I was about 6 years old then !!!

The massage put everyone into a nice relaxed state of mind ready for the evening’s festivities. Minal’s older girl Maia ran around with her hand in Amaya’s happy to have found an older sister. There was a cricket match on TV and so the afternoon slipped into evening.

Mihir has learned to mix a new cocktail – a Vanilla Twist . Hema has learned to make Sangria – and whether you have fruits or not, as long as you have the vodka it is just fine.

The temperature was a balmy 20 degrees Celsius and we sat on the patio feeling the gentle breeze eating the bajri wadas that Charu’s mom had made for us, and the Ahmedabad nu bhussu that Anjali had brought. Wafer king, Suresh mama, had got some fancy wafers. Life is good !

Now you can only eat and drink for so long – we soon switched to Antakshari – that Anjali is an amazing one – she knows lots of songs, and she knows all the wild ones - Yahoooooooo!!! Chahe koi mujhe jungli kahe.. The senior Choksey sisters and Hansa mami sang several old songs and bhajans – several of them sounded like they had made them up on the fly – as Mihir said - just how many can there be ? And Hema introduced us all to Uttam bhai’s favorite childhood chant – “ Jag ne jadva, kem lagyo padva, val ni dal te kem khadi ? “ This all but scandalized the adult Chokseys – not sure whether it was the blasphemy or the fact that she actually said "padva" out loud or both.

14 months after Alibag and a full 26 months after when she first learnt it – Hema’s Kajra Re routine was in dire need of a revamp (no – I did not call her a vamp or a vampire – stop causing trouble) – she just needed to take some new lessons.

But it neither stopped her from dancing, nor did it stop the audience from asking for more. Minal swore she was now inspired to go see the movie. When we told her that it was from Bunty or Babli, she said she had seen the movie, and tried to stop (unsuccessfully) herself from saying she did not recall seeing anything that resembled the dance (True, Hema is very much like Aishwarya Rai, but the hair is different, there is just a tiny bit more of her than Aishwarya, and in the dark, it is very hard to see the resemblance - especially when Hema goes without makeup).

The next morning there was breakfast, swimming and a round of massages.

Sudhin – cowed down by the admonition of his older sister to not turn this event into a path-shalla had dutifully left his book of avant garde feminist poetry in Ahmedabad - yes our Sudhin –cowed down, avant garde, feminist and a poet – imagine !.

The poetry last year was along the lines of “How would the Indian woman have defined herself had Sita refused to take the agni pariksha to prove her purity ? How would she have defined herself had Draupadi refused to be married to a Pandava and be shared between 5 brothers ?..........and so on.

True that that is all I remember from that morning – but isn’t it more than you remember from most mornings ? And isn’t it powerful ? I still remember that sense of sereneness and togetherness that we all experienced reading this wildly provoking poetry – Anila masi read, Hema translated – mostly with accuracy , and every so often with a slight vanilla twist.

And so there was no philosophical discourse ala Alibag style that morning. But Anila masi and Hema had a plan for the afternoon – to welcome Ramesh bhai and the Kotharis.

Around 11 we settled down and did a mock path-shalla run. Then we decided to play Choksey Trivia – the original plan was to see if we could test the family on old skeletons. Given that we put Minal and Hema in charge of this event – the 2 who left the country before they could speak Gujarati – what chance of them recognizing a Choksey skeleton even if it walked upto them and knocked on their forehead –this was proving to be a little difficult .

So they decided to give it a contemporary twist (very smart those 2) . They aksed which Choksey sister was the prettiest in her youth, and had the most suitors – no one wanted to touch that one. They pretended they did not understand the question. And finally Minal and Hema gave up – it was a trick question after all – Sumitra masi was hands down the prettiest if you were to go by the available photos – but bhen or ashru masi could have been – we just don’t have good photographs. Bhadra masi was pretty good looking too – and I am sure we Bachu mama has some really good stories about Anila masi and Sita masi. But no one was willing to comment. And so reluctantly they dropped it.

The next question they wanted to ask was “Who wears the pants in the family ? “ Given the Choksey sisters legendary spirit of taking control, and the Choksey man’s penchant to run the world, but bow to the wishes of the lady of the house – this was becoming a difficult one to answer as well. Minal and Hema decided to drop the question as it had a distinct possibility of dragging them both into the playing arena – them being slightly bossy and all… .

Instead, they asked the assembly the apparently innocuous “How many great grand-children would Lilavati Gordhandas Choksey have today ? “ Can you guess how many times they had to explain the question ? Since they did not know the answer either – it was a difficult one to judge.

The results had to be computed several times with counting on many many fingers. In the end, the results were disputed between the parties with no clear resolution and the matter was temporarily interrupted with the arrivals of Ramesh bhai and the Marfatias – once again all traveling in the 1 sedan – and no Apurva, this time I did not catch a picture.

The Kotharis and Ramesh bhai arrived – and we asked the question again – same result, different answers. Does anybody know ? I mean is Piya – Dhruvbhai’s grand daughter - to be included in that number or not ? What about her father Shashwat ? And what about Aishani’s son ? Next generation you say – then what about Judhith’s grandchildren ? What about the children of partners of people that have been divorced ? Answer: to be re-discussed on the parivar website.

Shaila bhen brought some wonderful Pistachio mithai from Dubai – there was a strict process – take just 1 now, leave 1 for later. Rajesh and Hema both took Nita’s share to give to her, they also tried to take it on behalf of a few other people and got yelled at. Then Shaila bhen went for a walk leaving the box unattended on a chair. Rajesh and Hema wasted no time in emptying the box. Nita never got to taste her mithai forget about more than 1 piece. In fact most people did not get more than 1 piece – except of course Rajesh and Hema.

We started the Path-Shalla. We talked briefly about “Not postponing Joy “ the key message from an email Judith had sent out that morning. Some people were engaged, but quite frankly it just wasn’t the same without Sudhin’s poetry. And path shalla does not work at noon – it has to be in the morning.

So people listened politely but all attention was on the promised game of Housie. When did this crowd turn into a bunch of senior citizens clamoring for bingo evening ?

Weren’t we all climbing into and occupying every inch of Mota Mama’s Landmaster just yesterday ? And at the Hanging Garden with Sita masi and Dr. Vaidya – with onlookers telling Sita masi she looked too young to have so many children ?

Housie was hosted by the young Choksey sisters - Amaya and Maia (Age 8 and 3 or something like that respectively) . Aria (the baby) tried to participate - but because she was the youngest she was told to go take a nap and let the grown ups manage this. (Remember what that was like Nitin mama ? Nita ? Apurva ? )

The grown-ups tried their usual “game the system” stuff – old habits die hard – this could have worked, had Nita not appointed herself as the custodian of the little ones . However, Hema did get away with taking Rs100 from Sudhin and buying tickets for several people with that money. But the Kotharis ended up being the big winners sweeping off all the prizes.

Housie, lunch, trivia and it was time to pop the champagne – Mihir and Sangeeta’s 15th anniversary, Sudhin’s birthday, Shaila and Madhukar’s anniversary. So many other events too but heck who needs an excuse for champagne ? or for the Lemon Twist that Rajesh brought

Papa decided he had had enough of this sitting around asking questions business – was Matheran really that close ? So he and a few others climbed into the car and drove off to see what lay outside the Modi farms. Remember the trip to Prakruti at Alibag ? Amazing how a story like that can take on new dimensions over time.

Hina, Jay and Sania arrived in the evening with their hammock and more alcohol. None of them drink – what the heck are they doing with alcohol then ? but we were too grateful to ask – they brought a Smirnoff Vanilla Vodka, and some great scotch – and there was more drinking and off-key singing until the crowd was ready for a round of dumb charades.

While there was no “Murde mein jaan hain” this time Minal had come armed with several ugly ones like Intermezzo, Samson and Delilah, 20000 Leagues Under the Sea and etc etc.

Dhruti did very well with Intermezzo but she had to yield to Mihir for a couple of ugly ones. The setting made it very hard to cheat – it was dark, and for some of us our hearing and eyesight was not what it used to be….

Every time we play this game, I learn more techniques on how to play this game and win just by watching Mihir and Sangeeta – and I learn a bunch of new stuff about Aviva mami – she is just like one of the kids – just a lot smarter.

Anyway the weekend was coming to a close and Minal just could not stop commenting on how this Choksey family was very different from what she remembered – she could not believe all the alcohol being poured – frankly Minal, neither could the people drinking it –where did it all go ?

Day of Departure

The morning tea thing just wasn’t working out to the satisfaction of the Chokseys so on Sunday morning, Minal packed her children into Mihir’s car and drove upto the restaurant to collect the tray of teas. With all the jerks and coughs – it’s a surprise that the tea did not spill over. I think Mihir was keeping an eye on it. She came back with this large tray covered with some 20 cups – no saucers, most chokseys have stopped drinking out of saucers for a few decades now.. Maia carried a plate of the most incredible freshly made Karjat batatawadas. Mihir followed behind her with the car keys.

I had walked back for a bit, but when I returned – a sensational skeleton had just been outed.

An agitated Sudhin came upto me and said – You will not believe what I just heard. I am shocked, I am astounded – I cannot believe it. You will never guess in a million years.

Minal had the look of the cat that had eaten the canary – Finally the skeletons are coming out !

Sita masi had the look on her face of – Are these people mad ?

Kisan masa was saying – and I thought I have been a part of this family for so long, I knew everything. I am in shock. Anila masi was apologizing. Apologizing – Anila masi !

What the hell ? Charu and I had only been gone 10 mins.

Sudhin said it started with a conversation about Bruno and Sarkozy. And even Ramesh bhai did not know – And he was sure Madhukar did not know. And he would bet Nita and Rajesh…….

Bruno and Sarkozy and the Kotharis and Marfatias ? Can you give me a couple more clues ? Maybe just one.

Its too much – I cannot believe it… more shocked mutterings from Sudhin and Kisan masa.

Finally, after what seemed like forever – someone told me – Bhen was masa’s second wife. And I went – “And the skeleton is … .?” Sudhin looked at me look I was the densest creature he’d met – THAT is it - Neither Kisan fua nor I were aware of it for all these years.

I told him I’d known forever, this wasn’t news. I turned around to Charu – and asked her – she said I knew from before I was married !!!! This isn’t a skeleton.

I asked Hina – Bhadra masi’s daughter who is just getting re-acquainted with us – even she knew.

“I did not know. No one told me. All these years growing up in Kishore Bhuvan – I thought I knew everything. And now I find out. I was missing the basiscs.” The fact that this was a completely irrelevant fact to everyone present was lost on both Kisan masa and Sudhin – particularly Sudhin.

And as he continued muttering he mentioned that he'd know about the one person and then another - and before we knew it, 2 brand new and, equally irrelevant skeleton like things had tumbled out at rapid speed – I knew about neither.

I think Sudhin is back in Ahmedabad still trying to figure this out.

But for that morning we managed to make it past that to a discussion about the Inner Circle, the Outer Circle and the people who were in Orbit in the Choksey parivar.

While the members of the Outer Circle (Sita masi, mummy, Urmila mami) and the Orbit (Hina for Bhadra masi) were very vocal about it, the members of the Inner Circle struggled with acknowledging its existence.

I am thinking we will never know the true story. Perhaps there was an inner circle inside that inner circle. Perhaps the members were motivated by strong protective instincts to preserve social order and the Choksey family………. And perhaps these were the natural forces at play… With the passing of each year this will become even more difficult to get to the bottom of.. and perhaps that is ok. Perhaps a quest for the truth is not as valuable as the lessons we can learn from it. And certainly not as valuable as the heritage of its existence and the influence it has had on each of us.

I will leave that one for the next Path-Shalla. Anila masi – listen up !!!

And so we all left Modi Farms that morning happy and content – especially Suresh mama – who got the 2nd massage of his whole entire adult life – the last one being some 40 years ago at a 5-star hotel for the handsome sum of Rs. 40. And mummy demonstrating that at 80 something she has truly crossed over from Choksey to Shah or is it Margulies ? by tipping her massage lady a handsome 25%. Way to go mom!

Christmas Party 2007

2008-01-19T20:55:00.000+05:30

No one knows when my dad was born. Not for sure anyway. My grandparents lived in a very large joint family in Namak Mandi in Agra. No light fell on the very narrow street on which the house stood - because the houses were placed close together and were 3 stories tall. You walked through a narrow passage to enter a courtyard flooded with light. From the terrace, you could see the Taj Mahal - just a little ways away... Women occupied the upper floors - little lattices covered the balconies - so they could see the courtyard - but not be seen themselves - in keeping with the strict mughal traditions that must have prevailed in the area in earlier generations.

That is where my dad was born. In a house filled with lots of uncles, aunts and cousins. No one kept track of births or deaths. And so it came about that even though my great grandfather was a well known judge, and my grandfather a lawyer - when it came time to fill out his birth date on a form - my father was left to his own devices.

Dad says he thought long and hard about the date to pick. He finally settled on Christmas Day - because that is the day a large number of people celebrate. It was easy to remember. And so it came about that every Christmas we would celebrate my father's birthday. My young niece kept up the tradition while I was away. And the last couple of years we've tried to see if we can outdo ourselves with having a non-Gujrati birthday party - it is Christmas after all - and we all grew up among Catholic friends in Bandra.

One year we all went out to a champagne brunch at one of the hotels in Mumbai - and had a GRAND time. Last year , Dhruti got a caterer to provide a "continental" menu of 3 kinds of pasta , soup, and a host of such things.

This year we decided we would go with our traditional macaroni in white sauce (the kind we had before we heard of beschamel and ragu) with tomato ketchup, crackers and cheese, and etc. And we would have a few Thai items on the menu.

Desert was to be a rum cake from re-Joyce made in the traditional goan style. And since the champagne cooler at Nitin's favorite wine story broke the previous night - we would go with my favorite - Sangria.

The ENT at Sadr Bazaar not withstanding the throat was pretty bad. So on the way to my parent's house I stopped at the chemist and got some cough syrup. I drank a couple of tablespoons full and made my way upstairs.

I helped set the table and was cutting the cake. I tasted a couple of pieces. YumMMMy!!! Then I told my cousins and niece to finish making the fresh rolls cos i really had to take a nap.

I woke up as the sangria was being made... and I just had to have some. It wasn't right - so we worked on it, tasting it... and then it was just delicious. So we all had a glass.

My dad said later that he had a very good time. So did all the other guests. Me - I am still trying to remember. But the macaroni and white sauce were delicious with the ketchup. So was the sangria !

Internet Years , Dog Years, Telecom Years ?

2008-01-19T19:19:00.001+05:30

At the height of the dot.com bubble , they said each quarter was like a year. Given the pace, given the intensity of the experience, you could easily rack up a decades worth of experience in under 3 years. Just like a dog...

Well I've been in India riding the telecom wave for the last 11 quarters. And in the first couple of years each quarter certainly felt like a year. The richness of experiences - the variations, the fluctuations, the changes - before I knew it a full 4 quarters had passed, and the old way of life seemed almost like fiction.

Weekends vanishing in endless errands and chores, days passing by sometimes without seeing another person. Spending the entire day talking to a whole host of people - feeling connected with a large community but just on Sametime - for you non-IBMers that would be Instant Messaging or Yahoo Messenger or AIM . When you actually saw them face to face - you struggled - "uhm - can't we just log on to Sametime - I seem to have forgotten how to look at a person and talk at the same time"..........

Now when I think about it, I wonder if I just had an active imagination - whether the deer grazing around the pond in the backyard were real ? whether planting petunias in the baskets around the deck was real . Did I really paint that deck with my own hands ? Did we really re-seal the driveway that summer ? Did I really ride around my yard on a John Deere tractor cutting grass ? I know I never shoveled snow - well except that one time the blizzard of 96 - do people really move their clocks forward and back with the change of seasons ? Do I really drive a car ? Did I actually drive in the winter from what was that town I lived in NJ to Syracuse and back - all by myself ?

It all sounds like stuff I must have read in the countless books I've read over the course of my life. But that is what I did for 17 years.

And yet it all seems light years away.... The last 10 months in particular have been a blur. And my dream life as the DPE of a single account feels like it was nearly 10 years ago. Contradictory as it may seem - in one moment time seems to stand still - and yet it seems to flash right by.

For example - i was thinking about the latest deal we signed. The first major hurdle is always whether or not the acquired employees got their paychecks on time. And so as I was going through my mental list of things to worry about and I wondered whether or not we had paid everyone (its a difficult job in India - cos we actually want the money to be deposited in their bank accounts - and I must write another item on banks). Then I realized that the deal was only 15 days old. Paychecks aren't due for a whole other 15 days. And yet - so much has been packed into the last 15 that it feels like we've had this account for atleast 6 months !!!

Thank God there haven't been 10 birthdays in the past 10 months !!

Is it good ? is it bad ? I haven't a clue. It just is.

New Year's Day 2008

2008-01-03T21:03:00.000+05:30

Happy New Year !! SMS after SMS trying to say it cuter, better than the previous one. Sometimes you got repeats, some were repeats from last year. The one thing they all had in common was they added to the prosperity of the telecoms.

Last year, I spent New Year's eve with friends, and then New Year's Day and the 2nd of Jan trying to get back home - thanks to the thick fog enveloping Delhi.

I am determined to eliminate fog as a cause of inconvenience this year - so I take flights that are scheduled to land in daylight. So far it has worked.

We were ushering in a new contract in Mumbai over the end of the year, so I decided to park myself there.

Despite the 2nd trip to the ENT at Sadr Bazaar, the throat was doing poorly. So I weighed my options. Go to a party with friends where I am likely to want to talk and laugh - both activities that result in incessant coughing. Drink alcohol which the ENT said was a no-no. Eat fried foods - my favorite - and one that instantly irritates my throat. So eat veggies and no dip, sit quietly and sip warm water and watch others laugh and drink - or crawl under the covers and watch soap operas .

Odd as it may seem - soaps, a comfy bed and room service seemed far more appealing than agitating my throat further . As I was informed by someone - I must be getting old. To prove that this was not true, I decided to have a drink with a good friend at the respectable hour of 7:30pm. The ENT would not begrudge me the one dirnk would he ?

Every restaurant and bar in the hotel was gearing up for the grand party - the bar was open - but they had moved all the chairs out. Old people do not stand and drink - they sit down . So do I !! So we leaned upon the maitre'd at the coffee shop to let us in for a drink. There was a grand buffet and table was set up for the party - with stars sprinkled on the cloth and gorgeous masks for the event later in the evening.

Making conversation with the young server - who wanted to know if we were here for the party - I told her I was Scrooge's granddaughter. To us "old" fogeys this seemed like a very funny and appropriate statement of my state of mind with respect to partying in the New Year. But the young lady seemed very confused. Any doubt I had about whether or not I was from another time and place vanished when the young lady said she had neither heard of Charles Dickens nor of A Christmas Carol.

Had my drink, and went back to my room. The phone was ringing off the hook. One of my not so young colleagues wanting to discuss a work problem. Done by 10:00 and I got into the red pyjamas with the paw prints and climbed into bed . And the phone rang again. Another colleague, another problem. We were joined by yet another colleague around 11:15. And before I knew it - it was 12:30am. Midnight had come and gone. The New Year was upon us, and I hadn't watched a single soap operat yet !!!

And the SMSes kept flowing, the revellers kept dancing downstairs, and the network switched to a telemarketing show. The cough meds kicked in and I fell into a deep sleep !!!! HAPPY New Year !!!

The ENT at Sadr Bazaar

2007-12-04T23:50:00.000+05:30

It is December and winter is upon us. I cannot believe I looked forward to this during the 120 degree days of summer. But here it is. And along with it, as they say in Delhi, "meri to bolti band ho gaye" - roughly translated it means I've lost my voice. Acute uppper respiratory stress. I can neither laugh nor speak without coughing.

This happened to me 2 years ago - what seemed like a benign cough in Nov that did not leave until Feb. Lots of people go around Delhi assuming this is how it is to be. A cold is a natural part of winter. Silly me - I like to laugh, i like to talk and I think I'm entitled to a healthy respiratory system.

So I went along with the usual cockail of meds in my medicine chest - Tylenol, Nyquil, Motrin, Benadryl.......... and when 2 days later things seeemed worse rather than better, I called my cousin Bana to ask her what I should do. Go to the impressive Privat Hospital next door ?

She and Amit were unanimous - go see the ENT Specialist that they consult. They have tried a number of different ENTs over the years, and they have found this one to be the best.

So yesterday morning I went to see the ENT. Bana came along cos she was convinced I would not find the place. After seeing the place, I wonder if it was because she thought that left to myself I would not enter the building / clinic. It certainly was not the kind of place suited to my NRI sensibilities.

Dr. Gera runs his practice in a crowded building on the main street running through Sadr Bazaar the old part of Gurgaon. This is the place that until 5 years ago, was the heart of Gurgaon - a hub for the local villagers to come in for supplies and essentials.

A set of rickety steps leads to his clinic. The waiting room was about 12 feet long by 8 feet. It had 3 rows of benches running the length of the hall, with a reception table in one corner. There were 2 guys huddled over the reception desk.

The waiting hall was jam packed. Bana said not to worry - she would poke her head in first chance she got. The people waiting their turn ranged from laborers to tribal people. The domestic staff at Beverly Park or in DLF Phase 2 for that matter are all more sophisticated than the people in that hallway. Traffic in and out of the doctor's cubicle was fast - the line of some 10 people vanished right in front of us and before Bana had a chance to poke her head in we were being ushered in.

The office itself was about 8 feet wide and no more than 4 feet deep. The doc sat facing a computer and his testing equipment in the corner. The desk with 2 waiting chairs remaining largely unused. He asked me to sit on his examination stool. The exam was finished in 1 minute. He spent the remaining 9 minutes catching up with Bana, telling us about the comparitive merits of the Paras Hospital vs the brand new Alchemist. . About how Paras made a consulting physician waste their time because they opened their OT so late... how is a doctor to make any money if he cannot get to his dispensary on time ? Interspersed with that were questions about my medical history and explanations of my symptoms.

Several times the "compounder" poked his head in, each time with a more agitated look on his face. We finally took our leave.

They would not take my INR 300 professional courtesy - what with Bana being a doctor and all.

I had noticed all the other patients being charged between 200 and 600. At an average of 1 patient every 5 minutes (and there was certainly the traffic to sustain that) and office hours some 5 hours a day, 6 days a week - that would come out to some 72,000 INR a month a little shy of US$2000 . Maybe my math is wrong ? Maybe he has another source of income ?

While we were inside, the line had grown to standing room only, so I am sure the guys at the reception desk were happy to see us leave.

The pharmacy was adjacent to the doctor's office. They had everything but the cough syrup... and surprisingly, there was another pharmacy 2 doors down that had it.

So in one stop and in under 30 mins I had consulted with a specialist got all my meds and was on my way back home. Amazing - sometimes I've waited that long in the GP's examination room, in Poughkeepsie, waiting for the doctor to show up.

And once again I am amazed by the efficiency of resource utilization and private enterprise in India.

And yes, the meds he recommeded are working - I am on the mend. By the end of the week I may even have my bolti back.

Shopping along Gurgaon's Killer Highway

2007-12-01T00:57:00.000+05:30

NH-8 which connects Delhi to Jaipur runs through Gurgaon. The Haldiram factory with its beautiful lawns is a place at which most tourists stop for a breakfast of puri and aloo subzi on their way. In the last 2 years this has gone from being a 4 lane parking lot to a modern 8 lane highway.

On most parts of the highway anyway. In the old city of Gurgaon by the Rajeev Gandhi Chowk and the Hero Honda factory it is still a very densely populated 4 lane parking lot. Humanity teems onto the street in cars, trucks, buses, auto and cycle rickshaws, bicycles and other 2 wheelers, and on foot. Cows, dogs, sheep, goats all join them in the migratory path towards Rajasthan. As a matter of fact, the shepherds and cowherds of Rajasthan used to travel up this road to the Gurgaon region in search of green pastures. You see the herds grazing on the various open spaces outside the city.

Earlier this used to be just a very irritating road to traverse. Now it has turned deadly. The wide luxurious highway has been welcomed by the people of this region with enthusiasm and joy. People zip down this road at 100 or 120 KMPH. The most frequent cause of car fatalities then occurs as the car spins out of control as its tires burst ! The 2nd most frequent cause is when they ram at full speed into a stalled vehicle on the highway. The third is when the pedestrians bravely attempt to cross the highway. In the crowded Hero Honda chowk area it is still the old fashioned speeding truck mowing down the plucky pedestrian, or the little car that gets jammed between 2 larger slow moving vehicles. And hence the term "Killer Highway".

I was travelling along this highway earlier this week - returning from the Manesar Heritage Village - it used to be a resort literally in the middle of nowhere and gained popularity as a venue for corporate training programs. Now Manesar is turning into a full fledged technology park as people relocate there in the quest for some fresh air.

I was returning from our StepUP training program there - and for a change this was in broad daylight. As the traffic slowed in the semi-urban area of the Hero Honda chowk i started to examine the shops lining the highway. This is what in Haldwani we call the Bajaar.

First thing I saw was a Milk Dairy. Now having seen the herds along the way, and recognizing that this was a rural area - I was looking for a Goregaon style tabela replete with cows / buffaloes and fresh milk being sold out the store front. Alas - no cows - just big containers of milk. Perhaps the cows were further away.

Krishna Greens with the picture of a beautiful lawn on the signboard caught my attention next. I tried to figure out what they might be selling. As I looked down towards the counter I saw they were actually selling greens - leafy green bhajis of different kinds, cabbages, cauliflowers...... I thought my mind was playing tricks with me - how could the villagers of Gurgaon be buying greens - and the picture looked like lawns - was it grass seed ? Why would they buy it in a store. It was only when I saw the 3rd one that I realized that Krishna Greens was in the business of installing lawns. The vegetable stall owner probably made more money from the advertising revenue .

Past usual chai, mithai and samosa shops was a sign that had me catch my breath - SAIL shop. Not boat but SAIL. There are frequent sightings of camels - the ship of the desert - in this part of the world - but a SAIL shop. And they weren't stocked with any sailboats as far I could see. Across the street was another, larger SAIL shop - and that is when I realized - SAIL is the Steel Authority of India Ltd - SAIL is a "brand" of Steel - distinct from the one sold by Tata Steel.

Away from Rajeev Chowk and as one approaches the urban, modern Gurgaon you see the tribal people of Rajasthan who have set out their very colorful and beautiful pieces of hand thrown blue pottery. They set their shop up in the dirt by the side of the road. Finally, something I can relate to!!! And then before I know it I am turning into IFFCO Chowk and onto MG Road home of the big glitzy malls. Just as crowded and chaotic as the Bajaar near the Hero Honda plant - but oh so much more expensive !!

Suspended Time

2007-11-25T04:57:00.002+05:30

24 hours after I have left my home in Gurgaon, I arrive tired and rumpled at my home in Stormville. Sure enough the weeds have taken over the garden. The deer have broken down the protective mesh which is now strewn on the walkway. The reeds have grown in nicely in the back - but the bushes by the garage are way overgrown. A few rays of sunlight make it through the clouds. It is a freezing 37 degrees.

There is not a soul around. Nor another car in sight. Just a bunch of quiet houses, with lots of green yards and lots of grey sky.

I feel a sense of quiet and peace that I have not been able to experience at any yoga or meditation session. I am home.

I wrestle my suitcase up the driveway (no Mukesh to carry it) and up the steps, fumble for the keys and unlock the front door. Ahh yes, I'd set the temperature inside at 50 degrees - warmer than the outside - so why are my teeth chattering.

I spot my favorite blue rug, I walk into my office with all the books I have left behind......I move onto the kitchen with the big old table that we've had happy family get togethers around - can someone please tell me why I live in Gurgaon again ?

Later in the afternoon, I drive down to the gas station - a full 3 miles away - to pick up some milk and bread - its great to be home but there is no edible food in this house. Again that sense of complete freedom - when I drive myself to pick up my own stuff to run my errands without having to depend on someone else . Later I will cook my own food, exactly the way I like it, with the utensils I have collected painstakingly over the years. I shall lay in front of the giant TV and while away the evening doing absolutely nothing, answerable to absolutely no one. Yes....... this is the good life !

Well that was about a week ago. 2 days of peace and quiet and I was ready for some shopping action. I spent the day in town cruising through all my favorite stores - completing my various errands. Then I spent another day lazing around.

And suddenly I am done. I am ready to join the land of the living - reconnect with family and friends, even do a PM Cadence call - hmm was I really missing work ? Good timing - had to get to Toledo to see Grandpa and the rest of the family.

3 days in Toledo in the warmth of family. And now once again I am back at the airport waiting to board a flight back to Gurgaon. Rejuvenated and ready to take on the world !!

Homeward Bound!

2007-11-25T04:53:00.001+05:30

“I’m sitting at the railway station, got a ticket for my destination… hmmm
For going I’m a homeward bound…Ho-o-omeward bound ….”

I’ve forgotten the words to the old Simon and Garfunkel hit but the tune and the sentiment resonate – deep – as I sit at the promised to soon be renovated Indira Gandhi International Airport in Delhi. Something about sitting on my suitcase, holding my guitar and other stuff in my hand, and I don’t really care cos I am homeward bound.

So this is probably the 5th or 6th trip I am making from Delhi to Chicago in 30 months. And yet the sentiment holds. I don’t really know why. I am leaving a pleasant sunny climate for a freezing cold place. I will go home to a house that has sat empty with the heat turned off since I was last there in May. The garden I installed with such anticipation will be overrun by weeds. There will be no chauffeur, there will be no maids – I will have to fend for myself. So what is it about going home that fills me with such optimism and anticipation?

Surely, it isn’t the Delhi Airport – On my way over I was talking to my cousin Bana – I was giving her a yard by yard traffic report – telling her about how I was going to have to fight my way into the airport – past the people with the big NRI-sized suitcases and the throngs of weeping relatives. I told her I thought these people came to see their relatives off in buses. Even as I said it I thought I was being a little unreasonable. But then I saw this green bus in front of me. And another one in front of it. And what do you know – there were busloads of villagers climbing out – several were working their way into the airport !!

I managed to find a fast path in – don’t ask how, I will never be able to recall all the steps – but before I knew it – between my suitcase and my feet wide apart stance I was covering a wide area of the entry way and had become difficult to go past – imagine me – blocking all the high octane NRI sized suitcase wallahs out, elbowing and edging with the best of them.

I entered the airport and made a beeline for the baggage screening machine. This time I only waited till the 3rd guy shoved his bags onto the conveyor out of line – before asking the attendant ‘exactly which queuing algorithm was being followed here’ – I’ve been grumpy lately – am tired of people taking advantage of my good will – I suspect the long dormant asli original Indian Hema – the one that got snuffed out by the polite refinement of pardes - is getting ready to emerge. Needless to say – my bag made it in next.

I checked in – and made my way up to the lounge that American Airlines uses – as usual more people there than chairs - some smoking. I decided the lounge invite was not worth the paper it was printed on and made my way through immigration and security instead. Miraculously empty. First time I’ve strolled through both at Delhi – no waiting no fuss.

I try to spend some money in the shops. For some reason I cannot. I am tired of the same old marble plates, ganesh statues and jewelry. I wonder if this is again my basic bania instinct kicking in – or just the asli Hema emerging.

I find a seat in the waiting hall and look around. The mosquitoes are out in force this evening. Is malaria inevitable ? I’ve been bitten more in the last 6 months than I’ve been my whole life.

There are a lot of kids at the airport.. and mothers. Lots of foreigners too. I try to sit there minding my own business – but that is not to be. People walking up to me and asking if the seat is taken – uh the one I am sitting in ?

So I pull out my laptop and start to write this blog. The crowds are getting thicker. There is a very long line for the AA flight. I wonder if I will get upgraded to first. Thank God I was able to get a seat in Business class. I still shudder to think of the Thanksgiving trip 2 years ago – I got the last seat on the airplane – literally. It was in coach - the middle seat in the last row – adjacent to the bathrooms, despite being willing to pay for business class. 15 hours in the middle seat next to the bathroom. Shudder shudder – American Hema very much here and present.

I am sitting on an end seat. There is a flight to SGP leaving from the gate on my left. There is my flight leaving from the gate to my right. People have queued up on both sides. In a strange twist the 2 queues run the length of the hall and cross somewhere in the middle. So you have to cut through the SGP line to get to the AA line. This is just like the crowd at the Sikandarpur intersection in Gurgaon – traffic coming to a standstill in the junction as cars try to traverse an X.

It is midnight now – and I am fighting to stay awake. A tiny part of me wonders how I will ever make it to the plane – there are so many people in front of me and the line looks like it is moving in a circle. Another part says just go to sleep. And the guju says you’re traveling premium class, your bags are checked in – they will come look for you. Who knows ?

So I am back to my question – what is it about going home ? As a matter of fact where is home ? San Diego –the place I want to live in when I am ready to die ? Stormville – the place in the middle of the jungle where I keep most of my worldly belongings ? My parents home in Kandivali? The place I rent in Gurgaon where Salyani keeps all her worldly belongings ? The Grand Hyatt in Mumbai where I spend several nights each week ? Marina del Rey, CA ? Toledo, Oh ? Memphis Tn ? Rochester, NY where I should have made my home ? Bandra where I spent the first 20+ years of my life ? The airport where I spend a good part of my life ? And I stumble upon it. … Home is where I am.

So why am I so excited about going home ? I don’t know. I just know I am willing to put up with whatever it takes – crowded Delhi airport, unruly passengers, an oversold flight, al the work that will pile up – to get home. I haven't a clue. All I know is that I am homeward bound and there's a song in my heart and a lightness in my step that I haven't felt since the last time.

Gap Analysis Delhi-ishtyle

2007-10-29T07:59:00.000+05:30

I first learnt about gap analysis on I-5 on the wide freeway that runs through Southern California. On the long ride from Los Angeles to San Diego - one can keep an eye on the beach or one can watch for all the gaps or variances in traffic patterns in any particular lane. These variances or gaps offer you the opportunity to pull ahead of the crowd.

According to Salim, the master of gap analysis on the CA Freeways, gap analysis makes the otherwise long and stressful drive a game, a challenge that makes the time melt away.

By the way, I disagree. I think gap analysis and its consequences take away from the sheer pleasure of driving along the coast - but then that is only the opinion of a passenger.

As is the following - cos even after having lived in Delhi for 2.5 years I will not drive on the streets of Delhi. Though I must say I am starting to become increasingly familiar with how things work.

But first a word about ishtlye - yes you might find buried in there the word style - but that is just the way the high faluting anglicized minority say it. If you are a true local that went to the is-school, then you have ish-style and ish-attitude and ish-savvy (ok plain attitude and savvy) that helps you survive and thrive in this city. The only thing that I as an outsider have is envy for the people who do.

So back to Gap Analysis. In Southern California - the highway has a median, 10 clearly marked lanes, and a homogenous collection of traffic - hondas, chevys, fords, toyotas, pickup trucks, sedans, buses, SUVs, freight trucks. There is a lot of opportunity for gaps, and it is upto the watchful driver to find and take advantage of the same.

In Delhi - Gap Analysis goes to a whole new level.

It isn't like there is 1 extra dimension , or even 2 . yes, there are 10 lanes - none of them clearly marked.

As a matter of fact only 2 are clearly marked - the rest are created by ingenious drivers. Some of them are not even paved and may include driving over emergency lanes, sidewalks, bike paths, dirt, rocks, stones, garbage and sometimes , regretably, a dog or cow. The rows resemble a brick wall more so than they do a traffic lane as cars wedge themselves into every available spot. The lanes are not discernible from the ground - but I am sure you would see them if you flew high enough up into the air.

The traffic is homogenous - trucks, sedans, SUVs, buses (killer and DTC) and then for a twist - motorcycles, scooters, bicycles (motorized and not), auto rickshaws, cycle rickshaws, hand carts, push carts, jugaads (locomotive engine attached to a container to hold people. animals or material), people.

This is compounded by the fact that some of Delhi's legal and illegal encroachments try to compete for a space on the road with the automobiles. Perhaps some ambitious person hopes to get these to participate in the traffic as well. The government has other plans and is trying to condemn and demolish them.

So in this complex sea of automobiles... pulling ahead, making right turns, exiting and entering a highway - all these would be huge challenges for the uninitiated. But there is a syshtem.. that takes my breath away (literally).

Just as in the jungle every type of animal has a role to play in the overall ecosystem, so it is on the streets of Delhi.

So for example consider how a right turn is made. The big truck or SUV inches towards the intersection offering blockage from people trying to pass on the right. The smaller cars line up to its right forming another barrier that extends a little ahead and behind. To its right the motorcycles, scooters and bicycles pull forward forcing the oncoming traffic to slow down - then the big guys all pull into the intersection and you have flow !!!

Everybody moves at about 5 mph (yes lots of burnt clutch plates in this city) so if there is a little nick here a dent there - no big deal - no real risk to life. Occasionally a limb gets entangled - but that is the price you pay.

Similarly the gaps - the little guys work in tandem with the big guys to create and open up the pathways - blaze new trails - and magically all available (sometimes unavailable) space is consumed forcing the traffic forward.

And they are all very comfortable with this friendly mix operating in chorus. Take one of the pieces away and you have utter chaos.

Like the one day I saw this motorcycle landlocked in a sea of buses. It was astounding... motorcycles and bikes usually manage to get out of everything but the buses were wedged so tight there wasn't anyway the bike could get out short of hoisting it atop a bus.

The problem we realized was that traffic had been very light that morning. In fact there was no traffic on the opposite side of the road. So a few people decided that that just was not right. It was far too big a gap to waste. The road had to be filled. And so they decided to travel north on a south-bound highway. This worked extremely well until some south bound cars entered the south highway. This raised the game to yet another level as now south and north bound cars traversed both sides of the highway and we had grid lock. Then a bunch of civic minded citizens had to get into the intersection and help the traffic cops sort it out.

Fortunately this is not a frequent occurrence - about 4 times in 2.5 years !!! Yes Gap Analysis in Delhi is a far more sophisticated excercise than anything in Southern California. It will be years before the Americans comprehend or catch up with it !!

Computers and the Raj

2007-10-09T22:22:00.000+05:30

Everytime I see someone whip out their cell phone, I am reminded of the role I play in the incredible change sweeping over this country. When I hear talk of a INR 1lakh car, I know that the work I am doing is making a difference.

But I know that I am really really pushing my luck when I hear a government official talk about computerizing every single tax office in every single district, in every single state in the country.

Yes indeed - the government has embarked upon an ambitious plan to electronize (is that a word) the country's tax system. And they have awarded the contract to the best in the business, the only people who can do it.

The taxnet project is sponsored by the Finance Minister. It is executed by the senior most bureaucrat in the Ministry - the Secretary of the Revenue department. Governments come and go. The project outlasts all administrations.

Recently I had the opportunity to interact with the senior bureaucrat that was an integral part of designing and developing this project. He sits in the North Block - the set of offices located right outside the gates of the Presidential Palace - and across from the Lok Sabha. The entire complex was constructed by the British, the Presidential Palace having once served as the official residence of Lord Mountbatten. The external structure is quite impressive. Inside it is dark and cavernous. The furniture, aside from the computer, looks like it has been there since Independence.

After getting past the technical challenges, we started to talk about the challenges ahead. The member (as the Revenue Sec'y is often referred to) talked about the atmosphere when he first joined the administration 40 years ago...... within a few decades of the departure of the colonial masters.

"We had fewer people, and are hand written ledgers were more meticulous. .. The supervisor sat on a raised dais in the middle of the room keeping a watch on all the clerks much like an exam proctor. Clerks could not talk to each other without being noticed by the supervisor. If they needed a new pencil, theyhad to bring the old one in. Things have become much less disciplined them, and the quantity of work has increased."

Transforming this population to use computers with the ease of a pencil and register will be a very big challenge - and a very rewarding one indeed.

Delhi's Killing Machines

2007-10-08T21:40:00.000+05:30

I have had no illusions about what a harsh city Delhi is. And today that truth hit home again.

The weather is brutal - intolerably hot in the summer, bitter cold in the winter. When it rains, there is flooding in the streets bringing traffic to a grinding halt.

Yes there are the beautiful broad tree lined avenues and the majestic buidlings of Lutyen's Delhi. There is also the incredible Red Fort sitting across the very serene Jama Masjid. There is the historic Qutub Minar and the Tughlakabad Fort.

And yet the common, and not so common man must fight with his fellow man, woman, cow, dog car, bus, bicycle for a spot to stand in this city, for a spot to park their car, for a spot in front of the bank cashier.

Aggression and fighting come naturally to the Delhi-ite - it is an essential ingredient for survival. The gentle politeness cultivated in other cities is looked upon with scorn in this city where it has the same chance of survival as an ice cube in the desert on a summer afternoon.

The metro has made a welcome difference to Delhi's appalling public transport system. Clean, shiny and reliable it is fast gaining popularity with Delhi-ites.

However - many still rely on the putrid green buses also known as the Blueline service to ferry them around the city. The drivers of Delhi are lawless and reckless , masters at gap analysis and often a little too optimistic about their ability to fit into a gap, and aggressive to the core. The Blueline bus drivers are all of this and often driving under the influence.

One frequently hears of them driving too fast down a heavily populated street and running over an innocent bystander. The drivers and conductors get paid based upon the amount of money they collect in a day. The faster they make it from point A to point B - the more ground they will cover. So everyday for them it is a desperate dash to get through the city.

For weeks now we've been hearing about the killer buses. Pedestrians run over in a crowded bus by a driver rushing through the city. My driver says that the blue line buses have been running over people for as long as he has been in the city. He thinks the news is being played up in the media because the government wants to get rid of the blue line. It wants to replace it with new buses more appropriate for the Commonwealth Games to be staged here soon.

There is a group of concerned citizens who are petitioning the government to eliminate the blue line from the city. There have been calls to impound these killer machines. There have been calls for the resignation of the transportation minister. And yet there is no talk of restructuring the $4/day salary that these drivers make, no talk of breathalyzers or compliance to traffic law.

Yesterday, a blue line bus ploughed through a crowd waiting at a bus stop. It ran over 16 people, 8 of whom died on the spot. The other 8 are in serious condition in the hospital.

How does a bus plough through 16 people and not stop ? The driver continued on leaving the destruction in his wake. They caught up with him further up the street, the crowd dragged him out and beat him up. He is now in police custody. His accomplices escaped.

There was rioting in the streets. Politicians came out with strong speeches. They shut down the Delhi-Agra highway. There have been new calls to eliminate the Blueline.

24 hours later the city is back to its usual business. Here is what one young person of delhi thinks about all this http://jayant7k.blogspot.com/2007/08/killer-blue-line-buses-in-delhi.html

1 bus ... 16 people..........how is it possible ? In one of the most densely populated cities in the world, a city that has been reduced to ashes 7 times in the course of its documented history, a city that has risen again each time, stronger and more vibrant than before. Human life just seems like another perishable, dispensable commodity.

Indeed this seems a phenomena in the region. Ministers and their entourages are known to zip through the city. Armed with a little red light atop the vehicle and a special horn, these groups rush through the city warning people and cars to get out of their way. One such entourage ran through the city of Aligarh in UP some 150KM from Delhi. They ran over an unfortunate fellow who did not make it out in time. There are numerous stories of drunken celebrities running over people sleeping on the pavements at night in their motor bikes or other killing machines.

And you cannot help but wonder - when will it stop ? What will it take to raise the level of consciousness, to elevate the concern for human life... all human life..

Oh Beijing!!!

2007-10-02T15:04:00.000+05:30

I've been to Beijing twice now. And I loved it both times.

The first time we went there were about 14 of my colleagues from India aboard the same Singapore Airlines plane. For all of us this was our very first trip to China.

There were thunderstorms over Beijing - obviously they hadn't quite perfected the chemicals they were to shoot in the air to prevent showers ; or perhaps our arrival was not deemed to be as important as the opening of the Olympic games - our flight was diverted to a little airport, whose name I shall never know, for 4 hours. It was a mere 30 mins away from Beijing and had no storms. It was a very large airport, but we could not disembark as it did not have an immigration and customs facility there. So 4 hours later we finally landed in Beijing.

As an American citizen, I was very nervous about coming to a communist state. I kept my hands in full view at all times, and tried to follow whatever rules I could. We arrived at the immigration counter - same chaotic mess as in Delhi. More flights than counters, lines snaking around the arrival hall - and stern looking immigration officials...

With a slight twist - they had little boxes on their counters which lit up and allowed you to let the Chinese goverrnment know what you thought of the immigration officer .... not quite ready to believe that they had actually decided to put the customer first - I went with the politically correct 5 out of 5. I was rewarded with a stamped passport and a blank stare.

The cabs were nice big Hyundai Sonatas. Hyundai ? China ? Whatever... The streets were well-maintained, wide - just like the American highways, planted with lots of trees. Traffic moved in an orderly pattern. Beijing is getting ready to put up a fine show for the Olympics. Sigh! How would I ever live in Delhi after this ?

Eventually we arrived at our very nice Starwood Hotel which looked just like any other hotel anywhere in the world - Are we in China yet ?

A couple of vegetarians decided they would take no risks eating the local food - they ventured out on foot looking for a grocery store at which to buy fruits and vegetables that they could peel, cut and eat - and be certain that it was not contaminated by any living creature. On their way back they were accosted by some rather aggressive ladies of the night. They returned to the hotel with their honor and fruits and vegetables intact. But no one protested, nor trotted out the fruits, when I volunteered to find them vegetarian food at the local restaurant. As the only woman in the group, I found my company sought after - not for my legendary charm, but because I would discourage their aggressors from approaching me !!!!!

Work was relatively easy since we had the office address printed in Chinese and the doorman made sure the cab driver knew where to bring us and most people in the office speak English. The folks at work knew where to bring us to lunch and what to order - so we had some of the finest chinese feasts - mostly vegetarian. I did try the famous Peking duck (Beijing duck just isn't the same) - definitely a highly cultivated culture experience if you ask me.

Across from the office was a shopping center.. jam packed with shops selling apparel, sports shoes, toys, traditional chinese gift items, porcelain, tea sets, prayer beads, pearls, silk fabric, electronics and my favorite - Grade 1 and 3 Rolex watches. We had been warned, prices quoted will be about 4x what you should pay. We spent many hours and many more Yuan there.

We bargained with gusto - releasing a spate of emotion from the young sales women. My colleague thought it was peculiar that there were only women working in the stores - after much speculation - we asked a chinese colleague - who came up with my favorite theory (untested for authenticity or feminism) - Women are far more outgoing and friendly - they are better at sales than the men, who tend to do the heavy lifting and carrying from the markets. That is why you don't see any men in the front of the house.

My boss - who is rumored to have a colourful life after hours - insisted on treating me to a foot massage. I was a little suspicious until he promised that this is where his wife went. It was the best foot massage I've ever had... and I'm an expert - having had massages in Singapore, Australia, Thailand, several places in India, California, Phoenix, Scottsdale and Las Vegas. PHENOMENAL!

On Saturday we took a conducted tour that included a visit to Tianmien Square - I stood in awed silence looking upon a square that could stand half a million people and people's republic dining hall that could serve a sit down banquet to over 10,000. From there we traipsed through the Forbidden City - grand despite the feverish activity to renovate it prior to the Games and then onto the Great Wall.

Never have I anticipated something so much, only to be totally let down. I am not big on historical monuments, but living in India, I've started to develop a healthy interest - the Great Wall was just that - a great big wall in the middle of spectacular scenery - an ugly reminder of the battles fought and the pains to which people must go to protect their way of life. Yes it is a wonder of engineering and carto-something-ing. But I am in no hurry to climb it or get to the other side. Like the Taj Mahal, it looks exactly like the picture - just no great love story to tease the imagination.

No trip can be complete without a trip to an Indian restaurant - after 10 days of Chinese vegetables - even the bad Indian food tasted good !

No trip to China is complete without a trip to the theatre. Our tour guide got us tickets to a spectacular show - combination of acrobatics and gymnastics. I have never seen anything like it !!!!!!!! INcredible stuff that defies the imagination.

And in 2007 no trip to China is complete without viewing the spectacular Bird's Nest - the steel structure in which the opening ceremony will be held next year - or the Cube of Water which will host the swimming events.

China in 2007 is a vibrant, exciting place. I met a colleague on assignment from the US who told me that a Fauchon had just opened up in her neighborhood. No the Rolex she was wearing was real, and yes there were plenty of people in China who did that and rode in Mercs and Beemers! You are no longer in Kansas.. nor Poughkeepsie!

Daddy's Little Princess

2007-07-21T22:15:00.000+05:30

So on the way back from Bejing, I stopped in Singapore and visited Dhana's family. I have worked with Dhana for almost 3 years now. Our friendship is based on mutual trust and respect and the fact that we'd both fail in our jobs if we did not get along. Dhana manages new account transitions - all the new accounts are happening in my region. I am his main customer, he is my right hand.

Anyway, given our close association, I've heard all about his family, and his family knows all about me. But this was the first time in 3 years, that I was going to be in Singapore the same time that Dhana was there. To be accurate we both arrived in Singapore at 6am that Saturday - me from Bejing, Dhana from India - where he'd been working on another new account for me.

Dhana has 2 kids - a little boy about 6 months old, and the cutest little almost 3 year old daughter. His wife made CIO in a multi-national and juggles home and work while Dhana goes globetrotting. They picked me up from the airport, and we travelled into the city to take the 3 year old to drama and elocution class. Why ? I asked Dhana - "oh because she speaks Singlish (singapore english) and we need her to speak properly" - reminded me of my childhood where my family spoke to me in English cos they wanted to be sure that I spoke well.

On the way back, she was acting up, and Dhana and his wife tried to get her to settle down. Dhana's favorite line was "You are my little princess aren't you. That is not what Little Princesses do..." It worked a couple of times, until the little one piped up with "I don't want to be a princess". There was a stunned silence. She had not been known to be quite so rebellious.

...I want to be king!!

Of all the things I had expected, that wasn't one of them. We were all thrilled, and marvelled at her being able to grasp the nuance and know exatly what she wanted. Yes little girl - may you grow up to be king! No doubt the kingdom will be better off for that.

No More Shopping Please !!

2007-07-15T09:52:00.000+05:30

They say that "Never is a very long time" and you are only limited by your own imagination. The truth of both of those hit me hard yesterday as I arrived in Singapore on my way back from a memorable trip to Bejing.

There are great sales going on in Singapore, which until recently I had considered to be the haven of shopping and spas. All I wanted to do was sit in a cool spot, drink a tall cold glass of water and have a conversation with Dhana's family. I never thought there would come a day when I was all shopped out and all massaged out. And it was a good feeling!

So what did I get in Bejing one might ask - pearls, rolex (or colex) silk jackets, olympic memorabilia, a teapot, jasmine tea.. and a great eye-opening , propaganda reversing education on modern day China and an organized approach to managing large scale and volume.

Nightlife in Gurgaon

2007-06-30T09:49:00.000+05:30

Friday night, heading back from Pune, flight is late because of torrential rains in Pune. Plane doors finally open at 11:15pm to another hot Delhi evening.
Mukesh has decided to take advantage of my long absences from Delhi to moonlight at Hertz - he did not make it back in time to pick me up from the airport. So there is another Hertz car waiting to pick me up.

We head out onto the still under construction but usable National Highway 8 for the short ride to Gurgaon. We pass an accident - a brand new car - looks like a Honda Accord - does not even have a pukka license plate - the front part wedged under a truck all the way to the wind screen. Parked on the other side of the road is a Qualis with a loose fender, packed with what appear to be call center employees. Hard to tell if this is all part of the same accident or not. We do our share of pointless rubber necking and continue.

Make the left turn off IFFCO chowk. In the little space between the NH8 and MG Road (Meherauli Gurgaon, not Mahatma Gandhi which I mistook it for initially) between the ditch and the road on a small triangle covered with dirt, sit some 30-40 cycle rickshaws. They are crammed in tightly together slightly away from the road. The drivers are all asleep - crouched in various positions on the 24x9 inch seat. I wonder what they would do if it rains. The driver says they would just raise the little shades - but this is Delhi it hardly ever rains. .... Right - just sandstorms and hailstones and buckets and buckets of rain - but that is only 3-4 times a year.. so maybe they can just grin and bear it... worse things can happen here than being caught in a little rain. I think about it for a minute - yeah that is quite true.

As we round the corner - I see the traffic cop making a valiant effort to contain the traffic mess - he has got to be the bravest, most optimistic fellow in the world. Armed with nothing more than a uniform and a whistle he is hoping to control the big truck drivers, unruly cars, bicycles, scooters, motorbikes, pedestrians, cows and dogs. Even the mildest, sweetest people turn into the wildest people when armed with a steering wheel and a form of automation.

We pass the 3 construction sites on MG Road near Privat Hospital. These had been mere pits 8 months ago. At midnight work is in full swing - the facades are going up - in another 3 months these will be opening for business. Another inexplicable contradiction in a state and business known for dragging things out on the slightest pretext.

The road outside MGF Mall - the center of major activity and traffic jams during the day is littered and empty - its energy spent - humanity has retreated for the night. A couple of people asleep on a ledge around a tree, on a pushcart - but mostly just dogs - even they are tired.

At the gates of BPII I ask the driver to slow down so the guard can complete his visual identification test - if I was a bad guy - we could crash through the barrier, I could get out of the car, stomp my feet wield a knife or other weapon and coerce him to open the door - but I am a law abiding resident of the complex - he waves us through.

We pass what must be an NRI (non-resident Indian) or FRI - (foreign returned Indian) cos ou have to have travelled outside the country to acquire so much self confidence - dressed in full gym gear wearing the noise reducing Bose headsets (the big heavy ones)- briskly walking around the complex - I know what Bana would say... "only in BPII.."

We continue over the speed bumps past the now abandoned tennis courts and basketball court to the entrance to my building. After an interminable 10 minutes in which the driver makes up my bill - I open the gate using my electronic access card and ferry myself up.

Salyani is wide awake - "Do you know what happened today ?" What happened ? Some NRI in the other tower he was shooting at the police. Huh ? Why ? Don't know - then the police went in and took all his stuff out and arrested him and the media were all here - Media - how do you know the word media - oh the guard called them the media - they had cameras and all......... I found out the next morning - some landlord got fed up of his tenant refusing to vacate his expensive apartment had finally forcibly evicted him. I had missed all the drama. Thank God !

Kishore Bhuvan

2007-06-12T08:19:00.000+05:30

Kishore Bhuvan - literally Kishore's World.. I don't know who Kishore was - perhaps he was the son of the owner from whom my maternal ancestors rented an apartment in Bhuleshwar since the mid 1920s - Kishore himself is irrelevant to this story .....

For to all of us cousins, Kishore Bhuvan constitutes a world of a large family. A world with lots of uncles and aunts, lots of cousins coming together to celebrate raksha bandhan, chopda poojan and bestu varas and spending the summer holidays together.

A world in which 1 person could surreptitiously consume more chicken in a single afternoon than a family of 4 could consume; summer holidays spent at my paternal grandfather's farm with a horde of cousins from both sides of the family........... a safe cocoon, a special experience that we will treasure for the rest of our lives.

A world in which your business was every one else's business - whether you liked it or not. And where the older people lorded it over the younger ones (atleast that is what we who werent the oldest always maintained).

Yes Kishore Bhuvan is a world of family, familiarity, warmth and safety. It is a world of the family misunderstanding, and many kid fights. A world of tradition, and a word that immediately transports you to a special place where whether you like the rules or not, whether you think they are fair or otherwise, you know for a fact that the rules will always remain the same.

My maternal grandparents raised their 11 children there and lived there for over 50 years. Like Grand Central, it was also the launching pad for most cousins coming to Mumbai to make their fortunes.

We had our own pecking order and power structure - and yet we were all secure in knowing that we belonged, that we had our own place and that we would never want for friendship and camraderie.

But time moved on. We all grew up, several of us left the city and country, today the ancestral home has been sold, we no longer have any family in Kishore Bhuvan, indeed none of the family lives in Bhuleshwar.

It is a memory that is hard to recreate in this world of nuclear 2-children families. It is a concept that is hard to explain to the new generation - the one that never had cousins and aunts and uncles and an extended family, that expanded and contracted at a drop of a hat.

Or so I thought. Until an uncle and cousin had the brilliant idea of putting together this family reunion. Now the people of Kishore Bhuvan are all very clear on what they want and how things should be done. They are great leaders, very good at planning, defining, commanding. Their ability to execute, especially details, takes a long second to these abilities. Thank God for the in-laws. A cousin's wife took charge of the logistics - the brothers-in-law took charge of the menu. And we had a wonderful time - full of happy moments, drama, tension, intrigue and laughter.

Will there be another ? Who knows - I think the cousins in-law are still recovering from the last one.

Planning to Retire

2007-06-12T00:51:00.000+05:30

Ever since I found out what it is I want to be when I grow up, I've switched to thinking about what I want to do wihen I retire. Somewhere along the way I realized, that when I'm grown up, all I want to be is young again... but since I haven't figured out how to get off this train where I am growing old, I keep thinking about what I will do when I retire.

It seems to me the biggest problem with retiring which in my mind equates to discontinuing traditional employment is what am I to do with all my free time.

I have an uncanny knack of spending money like it is going out of style - working actually helps me keep my retail habit in check. So this retirement thing could really work out to be prohibitively expensive. Besides I have this ambition to finish seeing the world, and with all the elite frequent flyer status I've been qualifying for, I am getting used to the good life.. travelling coach will be a major hardship.

Retirement was starting to seem like a nuisance until I met the Sheths. The Sheths had just retired from AT&T after some 30 years of service. They were both in relatively good health, and wanted to experience different cultures.

So here they were on a 1 year contract with my company living and working in New Delhi. They went to new employee orientation with 22 year olds. And then came to work with gusto - Absent of any political affiliations or career ambitions, the Sheths had loyalty only to the integrity of their deliverables. And man, did they have a great time. They turned out some of the best work on the project, they saw every play in the city, attended every musical recital they were interested in and accompanied me to the Ananda spa. They made more friends in 12 months then i think I have in the last 5 years.

Every one of their friends in the US leveraged their presence in Delhi to complete a tour of the Golden Triangle, using the Sheths home as headquarters. 12 months later, after having sampled all that the city had to offer, the Sheths packed their bags and returned to their home in NJ to reconnect with family and friends. 3 months ago they did a stint in Australia, and now they are on their way to Denmark.

I now know what i want to do when I grow up (or retire) - I want to live like the Sheths - picking the country I want to visit - and going there to live and work like a local for a full 6-12 months rather than being a tourist.

Of course there are a few things I still need to learn from the Sheths. Though I've been living in Delhi for a full 2 years and speaking like a local, shopping at the usual malls and local markets - I have yet to see a play or go to a music recital. But I have many years to learn that.

The Dream Degenerates (Read Living the Dream, then The Dream Gone Sour and then this one)

2007-06-10T11:32:00.000+05:30

Living and working in Inda - albeit for 2 years already, and perhaps for several more months is very much like dreaming.. sometimes it is more nightmare than dream..but definitely a transitory break from reality.

Now here's where I cannot tell whether the dream has crossed over into being a nightmare.......... its definitely not the same dream......

The alarm goes off at 4:45am . I step out of bed, hop into the shower, get dressed, pick up my "light briefcase" and head downstairs. Mukesh is waiting with the "commuter car" he uses to ferry himself from his home near the airport to work - which in his case is my home in Gurgaon.

My suitcase, packed the previous night by Salyani, for an overnight trip, is already sitting in the front seat (the trunk is too small for the suitcase). We make it to the airport in about 15-20 mins, and I battle my way in to catch my flight to Mumbai, Pune or Bangalore as the case may be for that particular day.

Thankfully, Lekhni has telechecked me in the previous night.. so I am assured of an aisle seat. You are only allowed one bag in the cabin. However, I had the foresight to acquire a dainty briefcase (yes a dainty briefcase, imagine me with a dainty briefcase) that could pass off for a large, ostentatious purse. So I stick my regular purse into the suitcase, and avoid the baggage check-in process. I wrestle my way through getting a boarding pass, and through security and onto the coach that takes me to the airplane.

I settle into my aisle seat, convert my versatile dupatta into a blanket and go back to sleep. I arrive at my destination, find my driver, and get to wherever I am supposed to work that day. Some places are good, others so-so. Arrive back at the hotel - quake at the ransom the company pays for you to sleep in a good hotel, go to sleep, hit the snooze bar a few times and wish you could sleep several more hours.

You return to work in another, not so strange anymore, city, fondly thinking of Gurgaon as home, and of the days when you actually excercised, rode a bike and pretended to be learning how to swim.. whatever happened to all that ?

When the Dream Goes Sour! (Read after you've read "Living the Dream")

2007-06-10T11:11:00.000+05:30

Living and working in Gurgaon - albeit for 2 years already, and perhaps for several more months is very much like dreaming.. sometimes it is more nightmare than dream..but definitely a transitory break from reality.

Now for the same dream - gone sour!

The alarm goes off at 5:30am every morning. I hit the snooze bar, turn over and sleep some more..several times. Doorbell rings, persistently at 6;30 (Archana's been struggling with waking up too) and a sleepy Salyani opens the door for Archana, as I hastily change into my workout clothes. I moan and groan my way through an increasingly less taxing workout, and tell myself it is better than not working out at all.. When Archana leaves, I lay on the floor in Shava Asana and tell myself this is so I can wake up fully refreshed.

I scare Salyani who comes in with my cup of tea - cos she can't tell whether this is a really shava(corpse) that she is looking at, or me doing an asana. I attempt to revive myself, have some dysfunctional chats with my colleagues overseas, get engrossed in mail and before I know it it is 9am.

I rush through the shower and find that the 1 outfit out of about 30 that I wanted to wear, is in the wash... so I wear something else, scramble thru breakfast and rush downstairs. I have to carry my own briefcase (it wasnt packed when mukesh came for it), and my own lunch box (cos I've developed a contrary streak and want to carry it myself)

Mukesh the chauffeur comes after I call him on his cell phone - guard told him he couldnt idle that long outside the front door, so he had to go back to the car park.

Get to the office - same work, except now my ace resource comes into tell me that he is tired of India and wants to return home. The 2nd guy says that the competitor has offered him 3x the salary I pay him, he loves working for me, but not that much. The next guy comes into tell me that his team lead has called in sick with dengue. Forget about coping with new work, I am struggling to hang onto what I've already committed to do !

At the end of the day, I call my driver Mukesh, who again pulls the car to the door, and we head back home. We arrive at BPII where all I have to do is haul myself out of the car and take the elevator up. Mukesh follows with my briefcase and now empty lunchbox.

Salyani makes me hot rotli and sabji, I watch my favorite soaps while eating dinner, I worry about all the work that did not get done today, try to keep doing it until I fall asleep in the middle of composing an email. I pick myself up, check that the alarm is still set for 5:30 and retire to my bedroom.

At 2pm , I get a message that one of the critical servers has not come back up, and we cannot find a technician to resolve the problem. I wake up, make phone calls, somewhere somehow the server comes back up, I go to sleep.

On weekends, Archana or one of her colleagues, will stop by mid-day and administer what they call an accupressure massage. The rest of the weekend I hurt from the impact of the pressure.

Yes that too can happen!

Living the Dream!!!

2007-06-10T10:33:00.000+05:30

Living and working in Gurgaon - albeit for 2 years already, and perhaps for several more months is very much like dreaming.. sometimes it is more nightmare than dream..but definitely a transitory break from reality.

So here is how the good dream goes.

The alarm goes off at 5:30am every morning. I step out of bed, looking forward to the day. I complete my morning ablutions, change into my workout clothes - the ones that show off my newly emerging muscles - and by 6:15 my trainer Archana arrives. We go through a varied routine every morning - some cardio, some breathing, some crunches, some stretches.. and by the time she leaves an hour later - I am energized and ready to face anything the day will bring forward.

The first thing the day brings forward, is Salyani with my tea. I drink my tea while I scan my mail and chat with colleagues in other countries, perhaps finish up a conference call or 2.

Tea finished, I get ready for the office. I pick out my clothes from the cupboard, where Salyani has hung them after washing, mending and ironing after the last time I wore them. After eating my freshly made wholesome breakfast - roti , sabji and chaash, I go downstairs.

Mukesh the chauffeur is waiting with the car right outside. In the car are my briefcase and lunch box. Lunch box packed with fresh cut fruit in an ice pack, and a water bottle wrapped in another ice pouch.

I go to the office, where my assistant - Tanuja in Okhla, Lekhni in Gurgaon, have my day organized for me - and I work. Work is mostly about figuring out how to cope with the increased business coming our way - staffing, training, streamlining, improving process and so on.

In contrast, my colleagues in other countries are worrying about how to reduce cost, how to protect their staffs from being laid off and find productive work for them, how to do more with less.

At the end of the day, I call my driver Mukesh, who again pulls the car to the door, and we head back home. We arrive at BPII where all I have to do is haul myself out of the car and take the elevator up. Mukesh follows with my briefcase and now empty lunchbox.

Salyani makes me hot rotli and sabji, I watch my favorite soaps while eating dinner and go to sleep.

On weekends, Archana or one of her colleagues, will stop by mid-day and administer what they call an accupressure massage. Occasionally I will visit my cousins, and or take my nephews to the movies.

Such is the stuff that dreams are made of.

The Heat is On On!!

2007-06-10T10:00:00.000+05:30

You may have heard a jubilant singer belt out this song (from the 70s ? 60s ?)... I cannot remember any more of it.. but let me tell you.. these days, in Delhi.. the Heat is definitely On.On.. Oh yes it is!!

And there is nothing to rejoice about it. Unless you are a shredded mango, anxiously awaiting your transformation into chhunda, or cookie dough looking to be saved from certain spoilage by being transformed into a cookie.

Last night I returned to Delhi after a multi-city business trip. As on most business trips - the city was irrelevant - you go from plane to ac car to office to hotel etc. I was really looking forward to returning to my Delhi lifestyle (another blog).

As we prepared for landing they announced that the weather in Delhi was 44 degrees Celsius.....this was at 10pm at night. I have never lived in a place that gets this hot. 44 degrees Celsius - 111F - is the low setting in my oven in Poughkeepsie when I want to toast almonds and poha. !

The hot wind hit me as I stepped off the plane and onto the air stairs to the even more heat exuding coach that was waiting to ferry us into the terminal. Good thing I have a little more substance than poha or an almond, else I would surely be toast.

Fortunately the ac in the car works very well... and Mukesh remembers to spray the car for mosquitoes and cool the car down while he is waiting to pick me up.. so it is a relatively blissful journey home, until I step out of the car to enter the building and ferry myself up to the apartment. All of this takes less than the requisite 10-15 mins - so no cookie.. just irritated cookie dough.

I step into the apartment - had called ahead to ask Salyani to turn on the ac, the living room is like a blazing furnace, especially with the fan going full speed... the loose cable from which the AC switch has been dangling ever since I moved in - by the way this is typical in Delhi - why screw the thing in when you might need to unscrew it again in a few days - had decided to pop out this evening. So living room completely out of commission.

It is late so I decide to just retire to the bedroom with the nice split AC and go to sleep. Amazing - I step out of the bedroom about 30 mins later - what a difference between the cooled room and the rest of the apartment!

Thankfully, I turn in for the night......in my not stifling hot bedroom, then we lose power. Thankfully, even as I scream in frustration, the genset kicks in.. and the AC comes back on. Somewhere in the middle of the night power is restored.

And I wonder - how the folks who have no gensets, no ACs, no fans, no roofs - the ones that live on the kerb - how they must make it through each hot summer in Delhi, when I with my heavily pampered lifestyle am barely making it.

Sudoku

2007-02-18T09:40:00.000+05:30

I first discovered Sudoku when browsing a book store in Gurgaon on a Sunday afternoon - over a year ago. I thought I was discovering something brand new rather than stumbling upon a phenomenon that every newspaper reader in most countries had already been exposed to (yes there are some disadvantages to getting all your news from the web or TV - even if accumulating a big pile of raddi newspapers is not one of them).

I bought my first Sudoku book that evening thinking this was crochet for the mind - a repetitive, low energy activity, that provided a mindless purpose for a short period of time, slightly addictive with a slight element of "intellectual" or geeky superiority... and one that would not do a number on your wrist and elbow as computer games sometimes do.

The big advantage sudoku has over crochet is that it does not require mountains of wool, nor does it result in piles of blankets sitting all around embarassing the beholders to acknowledge and admire them.

Sudoku puzzle books are also more compact and much easier to get rid of than crochet blankets - though I wonder how someone would react if I offered them a used sudoku puzzle book over an almost expert hand knit crotchet blanket. The disposition of used sudoku books does not involve the participation of a 3rd party and thereby satisfies my desire for independence.

So Sudoku has been my mental poison of choice for a little over a year now - I religiously complete a puzzle a day - often more. And I have learnt some important lessons from this game. I summarize them below:

1. It helps you practice total concentration - When you are doing a sudoku puzzle, there is little room for anything else in your mind. I was trying to call it meditation, until someone pointed out that I was confusing it with obsession - Obsession being a state in which your mind is captived by a single thought, idea or activity and meditation being a state in which your mind is devoid of thought, idea or activity - Clearly I have some ways to go before I get this meditation stuff down and approach nirvana.

2. Its a great conversation starter - it helps you connect with other sudoku enthusiasts when you indulge in sudoku in public places like book stores, airplanes etc. Like all conversation starters, sometimes it is good - sometimes not so good.

3. Every puzzle has a solution - irrespective of whether you will ever find it in your lifetime or not (if you dont believe me, just look in the back of the puzzle book)

4. The numbers remaining to be placed matter, but only slightly - it is the numbers that are missing in a given row, column or block that will prevail - making the difference between a solved and an unsolved puzzle.

This last one hit me while I was working on a puzzle this morning as it collided with the other problem I was pondering - the obsession of potential recruits with the "seniority" of the role rather than the deliverables and measurements of the positon.

I realized it does not matter how exciting a job I may have to offer someone, unless it fulfils his or her needs; of their being able to make it sound like a significant career jump amongst their social circle, it just isn't going to fly. That in this world I live in - accomplishments and business results are only significant if they are ratified by the social and peer group. They are relevant only if they translate into the artifacts that this society recognizes. Sigh!You'd think I'd remember after have been a star recruiter for Perfect Placement. Some people just have to keep learning.

Now for some of you stretching lessons from one activity to another may be very commonplace - but for me this is still very new, wondrous and fascinating.

Dev Bhumi

2007-01-21T22:47:00.000+05:30

I was born and raised in a Hindu family. I went to a Catholic school. I have Jewish and Christian relatives, and some of the dearest people in my life are Muslims. I have experienced peace and the presence of a greater being at the Vatican in Rome , the Jama Masjid in Delhi, the Aarti in Haridwar and at the Suvarna Mandir in Amritsar. Religion has never taken center stage in my life. And I'd be hard pressed to tell you whether I am an agnostic or a Hindu.

All I know is that I take pleasure in doing the surya namaskar each morning - greatful for a new dawn, even as the namaskar sends the blood coursing to muscles that are only now making their presence felt. The surya namaskar always makes me feel warm and out of breath as I struggle through the transition from pose 7 to 8.

India - more so than any other country has been witness to religion turning neighbor against neighbor. And yet all these great religions coexist here in harmony. There is a large Hindu temple and a Gurudwara of great significance within walking distance of the great Jama Masjid. Places of worship seem to be clustered together rather than pigeonholed in different neigborhoods. Is this coincidence or part of a diabolical plan to ensure that no one religion stakes its claim on a neighborhood ? I don't know.

The other peculiar thing I noticed is that though India is a secular country, with Hindus being the vast majority..... every rickshaw driver, every truck driver will bow his head to a place of worship irrespective of his faith.

Personally, I have yet to get comfortable saying Jai Srikrishna, Khuda Hafiz, Shalom or Sat Sri Akal - to recognize these as acknowledgements of the other's religion rather than a committment to a specific faith.

Last year, I had the opportunity to visit Haridwar - Hari (God) - dwar (door). It is located at the point at which the holy Ganges - Gangaji or Ganga ma - emerges from the mountains into the plains.

We'd really gone to Ananda in the Himalayas - a spa designed to make you believe in something... I am not sure what - perhaps to make you believe that it is worth working very hard and accumulating a lot of wealth so that you can then afford to vacation at Ananda. Ananda was everything the brochures said and far more. Up on a hill - far away from the dirt, noise and bustle, surrounded by luxury, rose petals, elegance and abundance - it was very easy to believe you were god, or certainly very close to God.

After a full 24 hours of this and other treatments... we descended to Haridwar. We gathered at the Har-ki-Podi (the feet of the Gods) along with other devotees to witness the aarti. To say that I was a non-believer and very skeptical of the goings-on around me would be an understatement. But you've got to witness the aarti once in your life, and this was my turn.

The lamps were lit. The horns were sounded. The images of the Gods were prepared for the night. The chanting began and the aarti blared over the loudspeakers. Money was collected for prayers. Baskets of flowers with lamps were sold. I decided to participate - I bought some prayers and some lights and floated them along with hundreds of other devotees. Believer or non-believer, that was a truly moving and magical experience.

The next morning we took a cable car to the top of one of the surrounding hills, to the temple of Mansa Devi. People say that if there is something you really want, ask Mansa Devi and your wish will come true. I asked for stability at my data center (i had had many sleepless nights as our systems kept going under..and this was truly what I wanted most). The first week upon my return we had an outage, and I thought perhaps it was because I lacked faith.. but in the next few weeks things started to shape up. Some people say it is because of the focus and discipline I brought in. Sometimes I think it was just sheer luck. Other times I think it is because I really wanted the stability. But always I think, that perhaps, just perhaps Mansa Devi had something to do with it.

It suited me to believe it was Mansa Devi - so a few weeks ago I went back to Haridwar and the Temple of Mansa Devi. The idea was to go back and offer thanks, and perhaps ask for something else. All the way there - I kept trying to decide on the one thing I wanted most. There were so many and prioritization was not easy. When I made it to the front of the line, my elevator speech abandoned me - all I could do was acknowledge her presence in my world and ask her to watch over me.

Living in this Dev Bhumi (God's land) perhaps I too have become a believer.

Kajra Re

2007-01-09T23:07:00.000+05:30

"Kajra Re, Kajra Re, Tere kale kale naina...." I first heard this song at Bana's house. Her then 2 year old son reacts well to lively music - this was a guaranteed to distract away the tears kind of tune.

Now I must state up front that I have never been a fan of Bollywood, nor have I been particularly fond of dancing. My parents enrolled me in dance class when I was in the 2nd standard. 3 classes later, I informed them that I was done. I preferred reading and elocution. I was the classic wallflower at every party I ever went to.

So never in a zillion years did I think I'd be writing a blog carrying the same title as a popular Hindi song... then again I did not know what a blog is - so maybe this is also a limit of my imagination.

Now I have this cousin (actually that sounds like the name of another blog I've been thinking of) who is a very accomplished dancer. She trained with the Padma Shree Birju Maharaj and is rated as a Class 1 artist by Doordarshan.

Parul (the cousin) was part of the "Diwali at Hema's Space Station" event in 2005 essentially . I had recently acquired a new music system but I did not have very good music - and I had NO hindi music. So DD - who wanted to go to the mall more than she wanted to listen to music - volunteered to walk to the mall and pick up some music for us. In the stack she brought back was Kajra Re.

Parul danced to all of the music for us, encouraging us wallflowers to participate. She has a graceful flowing style, and there is nothing she enjoys more than sharing her art form with the people around her. The classical moves were well beyond my abilities, but this free form bollywood style - this I could do. Parul took it upon herself to teach me to dance. We danced all weekend long. And when our 1-year old grand-niece - Dhruvbhai's granddaughter Pia came to visit - we danced with her.

Kajra Re has now become my signature song - everytime I hear it I just have to get up and start dancing. On occasion I have also used it as a fairly effective threat - Listening to the song does become a little complicated when I am listening to it while sitting in the back of my car on my way to work... after all it would be very inappropriate to scare the chauffeur.

Seriously though - it is a great song with great visuals, great sound, beat, dance moves.. but I think I like it most because it reminds me of the wonderful time we had that Diwali, and all the wonderful times I continue to have since then.

Today I rode the bike again

2007-01-09T07:12:00.000+05:30

No, no this is not going to turn into a journal of bike riding, though come to think of it, what is wrong with that ?

This morning, Archana, my yoga teacher said we were going to ride my bike.

Okay bike riding is not exactly Yoga, but then Archana is more fitness trainer than yoga teacher. She told me the other day that I could lose weight with breathing excercises, but it was likely to take longer than her and my lifetime put together.

Archana rings my bell at 6:30 every morning (and this is our winter schedule - in the summer it was 6am) . Every morning when I wake up somewhere between 5:45 and 6:15 I have this crazy urge to send her an SMS asking to skip the class, and huddle back under the covers. I have done it once maybe twice under dire circumstances. More often, I drag my feet at the beginning of the class, and Archana is constantly looking for ways to snap me out of it.

We did tubes one morning (loved it.. but hurt like hell for days), gym ball a few times, dumb bells... I am amazed at the repertoire she carries in her gym bag. And we havent even got to basket ball and swimming yet. Swimming wont happen for a long time cos they've drained the BPII pool following the dengue scare. Besides its too cold to swim right now. Who knows what place I will be in in life by the time they fill that pool again. Besides I dont know that I have the physical and moral fortitude to swim.

So anyway, the biggest quandary after acquiring the bike on Saturday and learning how to ride it on Sunday was how would I practice so that it became second nature, and I could lose some of my inhibitions. Besides, the fact is that I can ride a bike, but I need help starting it, I panic like hell when I see another car, bike, human or animal (yes you have to worry about them too in Delhi) alongside me; I struggle with the brakes and until this morning I could not turn. So okay, "I rode a bike" "I can ride a bike" all these would be slight euphemisms. Best case I would have to wait till next Saturday to ride the bike.

So I was thrilled when Archana said we would ride the bike today. But then reality hit me. The forecast had been for a frigid night... so chances were it would be pretty cold in the morning. And it was still dark out. The good news is that most of Delhi is asleep at 6:30 in the morning. I was not likely to make a spectacle of myself at that hour - Archana's biggest dread is that I will run into another of her clients who will comment on the excercise. (She had told one of her other clients she was teaching me to ride a bike, and the comment back was "Why ? Doesn't she have a car ? Why would she want to ride a bicycle at her age ?"- this from an upper middle class resident of BPII who pays a personal trainer to come excercise her every day - Archana who herself had ridden her scootie from her home some 5 kms away, and who is always freezing, said it was not so cold. So I said "in that case to hell with what the neighbors think".

It was dark and cold downstairs. But the chauffeurs - the biggest gossip network in town - and the cars were not up and about. Archana held the bike steady issuing instructions in Hindi.

First thing that passed us was 2 women who looked like they were in their 40s. They were talking about me!!! When I got closer one of them cheered me on, and said "Hey if you learn to ride a bike, maybe we too will be inspired to do the same!" Does anybody in this city know how to ride a bike ??????? Ok so I exaggerate - my cousin Bana from down the street and her 6 almost 7 year old son are avid bikers, and I have an invite to come ride my bike down their street any day. Right Bana... so a precocious 7 year old and a 3 year old on a tricycle can roll on the floor laughing as they watch me wrestle the bike for control.

Anyway - I rode the bike - I panicked when I saw a car coming out of the garage - struggled with the brakes, struggled with the restart.....blah blah blah.. I completed 4 rounds of BPII - 3 of them without Archana . Status - I think I've figured out how to apply the brakes instead of trying to stop the bike with my feet, I can make 90 degree turns - next time I have to try circles - though why would anyone want to go around in circles ? - and I still panic (but I do that even when I drive a car - and I've been driving a car for 20 years so maybe that isnt going anywhere for a while ? ) . It was exhilirating, and I cannot wait to ride again.

Fine Wine Anyone ?

2007-01-08T20:44:00.000+05:30

18 months is a long time. I have many things to write about. I will probably never write all of them, but I will try to capture the highlights. This is something that happened around Independendence Day the previous year (Aug 15th 2005).

I had been in India less than 3 months. I still followed the instructions of the travel doctor in Poughkeepsie to the T. "Every morning after you shower, slather on the mosquito repellent, when that dries slather on the SPF 90 to prevent sunburn." Wear sunglasses and a hat, light colored or white clothes. And if you want to absolutely avoid sunburn and insect bites, try not to leave the hotel room.. -okay that last bit was part of my strategy. I did not eat raw fruits and vegetables, only drank bottled water and clutched my passport with both hands at all times. However, I was still enamored by Indian food, and made it a point to never eat anything else, except perhaps American Chop Suey at the Chinese restaurant.

I was on a business trip to Bangalore. A friend was going to be meeting me there the next day, and we were going to travel on to Ooty where we would stay at the home of someone whom I had perhaps met before, though neither of us could swear to it. We would be staying there courtesy the friend who was meeting me in Bangalore.

I was a captive at the Park hotel, having dismissed the Hertz car for the evening. So I decided to check out the restaurants in the hotel. After much back and forth, it seemed that the Italian restaurant was my best option. Having eaten in some of the finest Italian restaurants on the Atlantic and Pacific seaboard, my expectations of food, quality, service etc were low.

So I was very surprised when they brought me a wine list. I opened it , very patronizingly, thinking the concept of a wine list at a Italian restaurant in Bangalore was nothing short of absurd.

Imagine then, my surprise, when the very first wine on the list was a beautiful Burgundy from Casa d'Estronel in the South of France, with a whopping price tag of some INR 12,000 or about US$270. Now do not for a moment get the impression that I am deeply acquainted with wines or am able to quote memorable wines. I just happened to have had this wine at a very special celebration in Feb of 2005 at the Culinary Institute of America in Hyde Park. The CIA has a very well stocked cellar and they do a very fine job of pairing the right wines with the right food and ambience. We had enjoyed the wine so much that I had gone looking for this wine in various stores and on the internet.

Now I was in a dilemma. I had finally found this wine. If I did my math right, I really could afford the wine - so what if it was more than the salaries of all my household staff put together. If I was brutally honest, I could not afford the wine. After all, wealth, poverty aren't these all states of mind..? And when would I ever be presumptuous enough to think I could buy such an expensive bottle of mind.

It was clear that I lacked the strength to buy the bottle that very evening. It was also clear that I lacked the moral conviction to decide I would not buy the bottle at all. It was time to secure both options.

The helpful staff explained that the restaurant opened at 1pm - well after my scheduled departure. Just as I was starting to breathe a sigh of relief, thinking that perhaps I will not have the option to buy it after all - they informed me that they could leave it with the coffee shop. Aaah but we will not have glasses - " Oh do not worry madame, we will get you glasses. ....And yes we take American Express."

I really did have the option to buy this bottle of wine. I decided to test my conviction by sleeping over the decision.

It was a long night during which I made a phone call to the US, many trips to the Internet and asked myself over and over again if I had the nerve . Morning came, and I was as undecided as I had ever been.

I related the entire story to my friend. "That is just a little more than I would spend on a bottle of wine myself". "Yes, it is a lot of money.. but what the heck... why am I here working so hard if I cannot buy myself this indulgence.. after all this is a bottle of wine I've been looking for for a while..." "Well we don't have glasses... " "Yeah but they will give us some..." "Alright lets do it - but only if they give us the good glasses"

So we sought out the coffee shop waiter, and asked if he could fetch us the bottle of wine. The coffee shop had no instructions from the restaurant, who clearly must have encountered many clients like me. "But wait, let me make some few phone calls". 15 minutes later the whole thing had been sorted out, and the bottle was presented for our inspection. The maitre'd packed a pair of glasses, took my American Express card and handed us the bottle of wine.

While they were packing the glasses we struck up a conversation with the maitre'd. They only had the 1 bottle of this special wine. They sold about 1 every year. This was the first they had sold in as long as he could remember. He was sure we would really enjoy it.

We decided not to share it with the friends in Ooty - after all, I might have met the wife ... but I could not remember what she looked like. She did not remember me either. This turned out to be a very good decision , since the couple turned out to be teetotallers.

We decided to save the bottle for my next trip to Mumbai.

Today I rode a bicycle

2007-01-07T22:33:00.000+05:30

Today I rode a bicycle without falling off !! For the very first time in my life. It was exhilirating and liberating but only after I got over the fear of falling down.

My last attempt to ride a bike was when I was about 7 years old. I recall vividly - my 3 brothers taking me to the compound of a local municipal school. We rented a bike from the bike shop across from New Talkies. It was a little bike - to match my height, emerald green in color. I remember falling down multiple times, despite my brothers efforts. And I remember after the nth fall, my brothers saying it was time to call it a day and that I really did not need to learn how to ride a bike.

I do not remember exactly how I felt - but it could not have been too bad, given that I had not attempted to mount a bike since. Over the years, I've ridden stationary bikes in the gym and cars have been a pretty satisfactory means of transport. But in the last few years I've thought about learning how to ride a bike - especially after I heard about all the biking vacations and how much fun those could be.

Sadly, I was too embarassed to admit that I could not ride a bike. Unfortunately such an admission is the key to getting started with the bikes. I was further embarassed after I mentioned this to Salyani. Salyani is a young woman in her late teens, who cooks and cleans for me. She was born and raised in a remote part of Assam. She had not seen a TV set or a movie prior to coming to Delhi. I gave her her first paying job. There are many things Salyani has not had exposure to, but she too rides a bike.

About 2 months ago, the young niece with the indomitable spirit that persuaded me to start blogging, posted a blog on biking to the waterfronts of Mumbai on Saturday morning. And I recall thinking that that was an incredible way to see the city I love. And I thought it was pretty sad that I could not bike. But when she blogged about biking around Pondicherry, and getting a valet to park her bike.. .I knew I could not put this off much longer.

Teaching me how to ride a bike became the big project in my household. Mukesh - my chauffeur and Archana the Yoga teacher came with me to the bike shop to help pick out a bike - both complained about the price of bikes these days. We brought the bike home and parked it outside the apartment. Last night Salyani watched over me as I rode the bike in the long hallway of my apartment, and tried hard not to laugh.

This afternoon Archana and her colleague took me to an alley behind Beverly Park II where they held the bike steady as I attempted to ride it. Thre were a handful of spectators. I did not notice anyone I knew.. but there are many people I do not know who seem to know me.

I was doing well until I noticed Archana running alongside me - she was not holding the bike. I almost fell off. After I steadied myself and had been riding around for a bit. Archana asked me to go take a break and rest up a bit. Then she started teaching Aarti how to ride..... So much for me thinking I was the only one on the planet that could not ride.

New Years Day 2007

2007-01-07T12:45:00.000+05:30

In 2005, I let the legendary Delhi fog and the associated snafus keep me from venturing out. Consequently New Years Day 2006 was a very cold, lonely and depressing. The hangover from the night spent drinking and celebrating with people much younger than I, underscored the folly of my decision and I only brightened up when I landed in the Ahmedabad sunshine for Utran in the middle of January. But that was 2005.

So this year - I snapped up the first invite I got to go to warm Mumbai, and rushed out of town. I purchased tickets such that I was only travelling in daylight. That way the fog would not stop me.

The plans worked out very well.. and the entire weekend was a whirlwind of activities, new experiences, old friends, good company, and mostly warm not hot, not cold, just warm - sunshine. No hangover, despite the plentiful Sula Brut, just the great warm feeling of a weekend spent among loved ones. Lots of drama and enjoyment - but that is not the topic of this post.

I caught a late afternoon flight, designed to arrive in Delhi right before the fog rolled in. We departed Mumbai on schedule and had an uneventful ride until our descent into Delhi. I started to congratulate myself on my great luck. And then, just like that , right after I could see the traffic on NH8, the airplane ascended and flew away from Delhi. Visibility had just dropped to an unacceptable level, and ours was the first flight to be turned away. The flight 70 seconds ahead of us was allowed to land. Clearly my calculations were in need of a little more calibration if I was to stay on the edge rather than fall over it.....

I braced myself for the nightmare ahead even as I reminded myself it would be more fun if I pretended it was an adventure.

A couple of hours later we alighted at Jaipur airport. We actually landed there an hour later, but they kept us on the plane for an extra hour. There was the usual mad melee of sorting out what was to happen next as 300 Type A passengers tried to find their luggage, the coach that would take them to Delhi or a coach that would take them to their hotel. There was a government official on board who had someone carry his bag for him. There were several folks returning from a New Year's Eve Party in Mumbai.... There was a smart young woman and her colleague who had a car waiting to take them to Gajraula that evening - I never could figure out what business she was in, but it sounded very very intriguing. It seemed that everyone was determined to get to work the next morning. There was much talk of taking the coach to Delhi.

I messaged my various well wishers and minders - some of whom were already aware of the fact that my flight had been diverted and had started making hotel reservations for me. I was advised not to attempt to drive into Delhi as the fog had turned really ugly and we could be stranded on the road.

I was impressed by the Jet Airways staff - they were polite, calm and collected. Not particularly organized - come to think of it I was itching to help them get the logistics together but very polite and unflappable. So I got my name on a list for the hotel and boarded the coach for the hotel, and sat in the seat right by the door so I could be the first one to get off. Silly me, I thought that would help me get the first room when we got to the hotel.

There was yet another unflappable, courteous and equally disorganized gentleman at the hotel counter. The general way of assigning rooms was to allow everyone to stand around and stick their boarding passes at him. Priority was given to people holding multiple boarding passes, as it was assumed that these would be people sharing rooms. Room after room was assigned to families and couples. But after the young lady from Gajraula finished getting her 2 rooms - 1 for the colleague and 1 for herself - "cos I cannot possibly share the room with a man" - I could not stop myself.

I asked the young man behind the counter to explain the system he was using to prioritize the allocation of rooms. The man picked up on my foreign accent, and decided it was too much trouble to explain - he just grabbed my boarding pass and assigned the next room to me. Relieved I went upstairs to my assigned room. Despite the modern lobby and the pretty christmas lights, the room was shabby - I got the distinct impression that the hotel was under renovation. For a while I was persuaded to spread my shawl on the sheets so I did not have to make contact with them. I told myself to get over it. The bathroom had all the appropriate plumbing fixtures, it even had 2 towels and 2 tiny bars of soap.

I went down to the buffet dinner that had been prepared for us. It looked like the stranded passengers were the only guests at this hotel. While we were eating the guy from the front desk came in and aggressively and tactlessly tried to get people to share rooms with some of the folks who had not been assigned a room yet. I left before he spotted me and decided to ask me to share.

At 5:45 am they knocked on our doors, and told us breakfast was ready, and the coach would depart at 6:30. Not having learnt my lesson - I was the first person on the coach at 6:20. I had the prize seat again and when the coach finally arrived at Jaipur airport at 8am - it did not leave till 7:30- I was the first one in line waiting to get my boarding pass for Delhi. When I got to the counter , it was the same lady from the previous night who politely asked me to wait till they closed the flight to Mumbai.

I hovered, and a young man politely asked me to make way for the folks going to Mumbai. Finally the Mumbai flight was closed and once again I joined the line. Meanwhile my co-passengers from the previous night had all lined up at a different counter. When I finally got to the counter they redirected me to the other line. I stood in line for an hour. When a passenger 2 places ahead of me got to the counter, they told him the Delhi flight was full and they did not have a seat left for him .

While the rest of the passengers engaged in a shouting match, I stepped aside and sought the help of one of my well wishers to get me a car to drive me to Delhi. She undiplomatically informed me that had I taken the car at 6:30 instead of now, I'd have been arriving in Delhi around now. After that I had a pleasant uneventful ride arriving home a full 24 hours after I'd left my parents home in Mumbai. New Years Day was almost over. The rest of the year can only get better.

About Poisonwood - Desidiary

2007-01-06T19:54:00.000+05:30

For 2 years now, I've sat on the sidelines envying the bloggers that share, document and sometimes entertain with their uninhibited expression of feelings and opinions. Today, thanks to the unrelenting persuasive efforts of a niece with an indomitable spirit , I join their ranks with my first post.

So lets start with the name of this blog - Poisonwood - Desidiary. Why such a complicated name ? Because - all the cute names I could think of are taken. Seriously though -

I learnt about Poisonwood from Barbara Kingsolver's novel "The Poisonwood Bible" - a very unappealing title - until I needed to read it to impress someone.

The lesson of the poisonwood is one of the most relevant and powerful lessons I took away from the book : It does not matter how successful and smart you think you are. It is presumptous, indeed perilous, to believe that you can affect the lives of people that seem less successful and smart than you, until you have achieved success by the the rules of the environment they live in. And oh by the way - they may actually be far more successful than you first thought, perhaps more so than you.

Desidiary : Perhaps it is my age, or the place I am at in life... or it is just the incredible experience that is India - but every single day here is remarkable - every single day my life is enriched by a experience, nuance, subtlety that takes my breath away.

And so welcome to this - my diary of my experience in my desh -to which I thought I had returned to teach the local people a thing or two.......and 18 months later I find that the balance of trade is still very much in my favor.