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!!
Friday, January 1, 2010
Bah Humbug!!!
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 ?
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 ?
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Kandivali
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.
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!
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.
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.
Monday, July 27, 2009
Where is my stuff ?
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 .
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 .
Sunday, July 5, 2009
At the Gym
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.
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.
Friday, May 22, 2009
The City of Poughkeepsie
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 ?
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 ?
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