Decision Day

When we think about important moments in history, the mind attempts to find our presence in them; we reflect on what we were doing what it happened and our role in the grand scheme of it all. November 4th 2008 was one of those days. Social historians in the future will record the global fascination of this American election, broadcast on countless news channels, with an audience ranging from Budapest to Samoa who enjoyed it vicariously, handicapped by the ambivalence of American foreign policy.

As for me, I was in the state of Virginia, arriving there a day before, for an interview in Richmond. Upon completion I went downtown to help my friend Genevieve at the campaign office on the west side of the city. Fate needs accomplices and on this day it was the volunteers. The office on the second floor of a large building had a large setup filled with posters, signs, and people working at all levels attempting to get the locals to vote. When I arrived there, I expected nothing, but to help, make some people smile and inspire people to vote. My role was to phone and ask if they had voted and arrange transportation for them.

In my conversations over the phone, there was always subtle humour intertwined with funny rejoinders and personalized touching remarks of wistful thoughts. It is this very communication that helped discover a woman absent from the voting lists, who I was able to convince to vote. My help however will be scarce compared to the thousands that especially flew from one part of the country to another, walked in rains to knock on doors, and worked for weeks on end with each approaching day having longer working hours than the previous.

After the polling closed the volunteers from around the city congregated at a pub/lounge with a large room reserved for the campaign. Flat screen televisions covered all the walls with a large one placed at the centre top, and a stage set with mike and speakers for various city officials that later joined. The broadcast was interjected by updates on stage about the counting underway in Virginia. An earlier (and requisite) appearance to take a picture at the podium resulted in a full blown announcement of Genevieve and I being present from Canada. As we watched the results pour in and the night stretched on taking with it the political balance of the country, I stood with strangers united by this hope of change.

Tired from standing I sat down with Genevieve who had especially flown from Vancouver to Virginia to volunteer. With my legs tired, I sat in reflection when I had an epiphany. With the Ohio results announced I was convinced that the election was over due to a quick calculation in my mind as California, Washington and Oregon would vote blue and thus secure the presidential victory. Filled with vim I walked to the acquaintances I had made and attempted to show them my logic. The networks announced the same a few minutes after I had said this, but were careful of any overarching statement as polling was still open.

When the moment did arrive as the West Coast polls closed the room is filled with an electric hush, as exhilarated supporters wait with bated breath to hear their next leader. Screams fill the air as the Obama’s name appears onscreen. People scream, dance, cry, laugh, celebrate, reflect and pray all at once. As the victory settled in, Senator John McCain came to deliver a sombre speech full of sentiments and promise to work together.

Next was the moment that we had all waited for. When Senator Obama did speak on television, hearing his speech and talk about America, at that moment it was possible to believe that everyone, from the recent immigrant to the person ground down, had the chance to share in the building of the nation. His words reminded me of something I learnt long ago, that the most important lesson of life is that there are no losers. Everyone is a winner as long as he/she does what they love best.

After leaving and driving on the streets of Richmond, it felt like that we had conquered the world. As supporters came out in droves, with their yelps of achievement ringing loudly, the stoic police stood guard to keep order. There was a level of chaos, energy and a sense that anything is possible now. It was an awake-ness of sorts. If there was a job satisfaction rating done I doubt anyone would be happier than the people who volunteered. Every face I saw is a memory. Soon the night is over and we all sink back into anonymity.

With a passion for cinema programmed into my genes I thought about a 1957 experimental film called Ab Dilli Door Nahin by the illustrious Raj Kapoor about a young boy from a far-off village journeying to Delhi to meet the Prime Minister Jawaharlal Nehru.

North American Debates

There is great euphoria in both Canada and America over the upcoming elections where the right to choose the next leader will showcase democracy in action. The public's most direct access to this process other than the television ads are the televised debates. Though both countries have campaigns, the focus invariably shifts to the larger election in America. In the anticipated and oft analyzed television debates, Senator John McCain's red tie both aligning to his party and juxtaposing Barak Obama’s blue tie illustrates the detail of this exercise with both candidates appearing with full preparation and composure.

Watching them striding and interacting with a clean-cut audience anxiously waiting in a well lit setting would be more in place for a west-end London play than the choice of the common person. Missing in this high debate is interaction with the person on the street who will be ultimately governed. Perhaps it is fitting that the debate is as long as it is for hearing the two men talk about issues ranging from the economy and international relations, something that they are far removed from would seem almost empty.

The craft of their speeches is superb, but, in an odd way, for they replicate the dilemma that it shows the nation is confronting. Structurally, the debates revolves around showcasing knowledge again and again, the topics move from deserts of Iraq and Afghanistan, to dodging future enemy states who are trying to reel in a nation that has gone places guns blazing. However at the end of the day both are at the stage convincing a incessantly television viewing populace that has a plethora of problems from especially economic stability. The looming financial crisis forms the rim of how far they can make promises in these unsavory times.

There was no boisterous promises that have now become a joke in India with a line that starts usually with "Hum waada karta houn" (I promise you) with implications of the changes that will come with the new regime. What was missing was the personal connection (something that apparently the both of the candidates had agreed that they would not be allowed to engage in conversation with the audience). There is no varied crowd from all strata of the country, and even if they were, it would be hard to tell from the almost studio audience like dress code and composure. The very neatness of the affair makes it far removed for the common person who needs inspiration to follow their leaders.

After it is over television analysts take the whole speech apart from the set details to the tone of responses with the issues become amalgamated into sound bytes instead of complex situations that should be given proper discussion and dissemination. Lets see what change the election brings.

A new beginning

I read somewhere that flashbacks are common to ex-prisoners, police officers, hospital workers, soldiers and others that see and experience trauma. Sometimes it is so sudden that one loses focus of where they are. In the last month I have found myself reflecting on the children and people I have met in India. I think of the million of dreams that are born in that country and at the same time the millions of dreams that die as well. The country is a streaming and sweltering place for the creation of dreams.

Sometimes India has fulfilled my dreams to bring change, and sometimes she has turned it to dust. There are some good, some bad and some very sad memories. But in the dying embers glimmers hope, like shimmering gold after it has gone through fire. It’s the hope India offers that makes me love the country. Spending my time working amongst the hopeful in this country and basking in the warmth of their hearths and hearts, I couldn't imagine a better fate than being here yet it has also left me wanting to continue the work after my return.

A part of me has wanted to turn back, with another part reminding me of the work that has to be finished here. And therein lays the dilemma. Slowly over the last month I have adjusted to my new denizen and plan for the future. People constantly seek solace in gods. But I have found my saints, angels and gods in the people around me who help me fit in again.

Random Check

There are very few things as enjoyable as making someone laugh or smile. This merriment or happiness has an infectious quality as it not only places the person at ease but also gives a inward feeling of joy. A marvelous feeling indeed. When I remember happy times there is always someone in them that had a laugh or smile on their face. That I can sometimes make others laugh makes me happy as well.

"How does the hair look from the back", I whispered slowly, careful not to make a scene. A lady walking past, heard this and desperately attempted to control her laughter as I smirked at her and the situation. The officer paused but continued to examine my hair. I was standing at the security line of Vancouver International Airport (YVR) where I was told that I was "randomly" selected for a more rigorous checking. I of course had no problem with this and adhered to the instructions. The search may be considered intrusive by western standards with each centimeter of ones clothes, especially folds and buttons being carefully examined. When the officer started examining my head and hair from the back, I could not hold the comment, for the search had now become an exercise in achieving Pyrrhic victory. I could not help but think what could he find there other than a combination of coconut oil and gel, and if that was considered now to be a "dangerous mixture" capable of inflicting damage.

Soon it was over and my bags were also properly searched. As one can imagine, nothing of interest was found in them. Making my way to the gate, I was greeted by two security personnel who with great interest asked my name. After I told them they nodded and went on their way. As they walked away I thought about my name. What does it signify. It was given by my grandmother and I have always kept it in its entirety with no short forms. Living in India especially Mumbai and Delhi I know that a person finds religion in a name; in Punjab they find caste. Whatever they were looking for, I will not know, but by now everyone else was looking at me and no one is smiling or laughing.

Cast Away

Often in India I see a single parent walking with their child. The sight reminds me of my grandmother who raised me as a child. Filled with energy I used to hold her hand with my eyes attempting to understand my surroundings. Her presence made my childhood beautiful and like any other child, I used to love listening to her stories. My constant dream was for a story that was long and never ended. As I grew up she used to always save for some book that I wanted to buy and read. Her day began at 4:30am to prepare food and waking me up in the cold of 5:30am. This cycle was followed for the first 14 years of my life. Nothing would make me more happy than going home in the afternoon. Since she has passed, I have been through so many places but never once that felt like home, and even if it did it was very temporary. From time to time tears well up in my eyes and I feel overwhelmed. Than I thank her for everything and smile. If nothing else this smile that hides it all, is now my trademark.

There is a telling early scene in the film "Guide". The protaganist Raju, who once a successful tourist guide loved by all, hesitates to return to his hometown of Udaipur after his release from jail as he is unsure about the crowd he will face in his hometown and decides to search for his fortunes elsewhere. After many tears shed he ends up helping another community that needs him, but is unable to return home as death takes him away.

It seems that all of life at some level is about coming home. From the transient consultant and diplomats, to workers, students, and animals. everyone goes back to their home. I remember the airport filled with the restless hearts waiting to go home. It is hard to describe what I feel like now. Standing in Canada, I feel like I am standing in a empty open desert with no idea where I am walking towards. There is heaviness of my legs as the figurative sand envelops them with every step and my shouts disappear into the wind. I feel very small as I wonder how far away my home can be.

Among its many definitions the dictionary also defines home as a place of origin, and a goal or destination. Perhaps the distance is only in my mind. As Dante put it "Midway in human life's allotted span, I found myself in a dark wood, where the straight path I sought in vain". I am sure that eventually I will find the right path, for that is the journey. Having survived countless trysts with danger in India, I have returned to Canada. However the feeling is as if I have floated in a life raft to a deserted island. Am I being too pessimistic? I doubt it, as the season that started when I left has now ended, the university year is over and everything seems different. Accustomed after eight months to certain ideals I found myself in India in a world without the schedules of Canada. This is all the more depressing since before leaving here it almost beginning to feel like home.

I find myself sitting by my computer looking at my friends pictures from the summer. I ask myself when they were taken and realize it was from events that I could not attend because of my work in India. I sigh and reflect that there are so many missed moments because of my work, and my mind oscillates between all the children I have been able to help and the things I have missed out in Canada.

I had come to Canada eight months before leaving to India to make a life and a home. In this time some opportunities seems to have passed me by, while I have gained so much from another. How they will hold up only time will tell. My journey was also of an idealist person who believed that if he stays on his path, happiness will come to both him and the things he strives for. Like Raju I too look at the road ahead and keep walking with a smile.

Plane

There is something likable about a mystery. A good one replete with twists, turns, and suspects, is simply mind blowing. Sometimes in life even the people you meet are like a mystery, with their tales of survival, fighting for justice and an uncertain future. I met many people on the plane on the way to Canada and when they left their future like mine was a mystery. I could bask in the hope that there was something good that awaited them. There were so many travellers each with a half completed story to tell with the rest left never to be completed.

As I talked to a man from England who asked me where I had come from. Though I had lived in Canada and US for a while, exploiting the question’s ambiguity I opted for my favourite answer "India". "I love India", he said and began to tell me a story of his co-worker who was also from there. There was something else about that question; it was asked to be after a long time. Most of the time I am assumed to be an Indian without any apprehensions of past, present, and future. Though many would find this a generalization, I do not mind claiming my roots. As I stood near back door of the plane looking at the snow capped mountains and icebergs with my small binoculars I was joined by a young man who was also interested in the view. A small conversation transpired and he asked me what I did. Upon hearing that I was a student at UBC and looking at me, he began to tell me about how the future was certain in Canada and it had many opportunities. He said that he ran a consulting company and they could help me get permanent residency in Canada. I did not have the heart to tell him that I was a citizen as he regaled about all the things Canada had to offer.

After a conversation he walked away pleased to have met me but never quite finishing the mystery that I was already a Canadian.

Departure

In less than a day I will leave for Canada. But honestly, throughout my journey eerily enough, I’ve never felt far away. There were always instances of the familiar helping me maintain a grasp even on those things alien. The departure will end an extraordinary era spanning three months of this amazing country.

Both India and its cities may be crowded, filled with pollution but there is a sense of vibrancy that keeps it going. It is the sheer energy that cannot be described and is the very thing that led to me being out all day in spite of a 18 hour flight and 12 hour time difference on the day I had arrived here. On that very day I had met a friend after three years and it seemed that the trip would never end. In this country I could make myself understood in Hindi, Punjabi, Urdu and a bit of Marathi. I could sit with gangsters, slum-dwellers, or academics claiming their goodwill and sometimes respect. All this in some way made me feel accepted in the larger community though I belonged to none.

As I prepare to leave I remind myself that at the end of the day we keep searching for the truth and add our consequence to the larger tides social change. Along with this is the hope for a better tomorrow and taking ourselves into the new day. I keep searching for hope and humanity in everything I see from a small child to a house of worship. For as long fate allows it I will go on. At the end, I pray that God help us and forgive us. I live on.

Back to Delhi

India does not need a Disneyland proclaimed Pallavi as our bodies were thrown out of the seat again. Landing back down on the seat of the car I looked at the road ahead scared with holes, as if small explosives had been dispersed over a period of time with water filling the gaps slowly evaporating in the heat. The ride was filled with such bumps as we would move at average speeds only to be stopped in long bouts of traffic that refused to move.

I was back in Delhi and doing some shopping. In colourful Punjab I gave retirement to the floral attire that helped me blend in the country, thus prompting a need for more shirts. Travelling in Delhi has exposed me to the various changes that both the city and country are undergoing. I am able to converse flawlessly speaking in with the typical Hindi dialect as spoken by the locals. For entertainment I enjoy Tata Sky service at my friend Shruthi's place where I am staying. And it is a welcome change with every second channel is playing an Amitabh Bachchan movie from his long and illustrious career.

Another bump and my mind is back on the road and away from thoughts of the Bachchan movie I would watch later in the night. Since the early nineties, the ascendancy of global capitalism has made the market the new orthodoxy for many people. Entering the mall I pass by the recently created nouveau rich it amazes me by the way in which they flaunt their baubles: driving up in flashy red sports car, wiping themselves with branded Kleenex, wearing huge rings on their chunky fingers, and most depressing of all, dropping big names like dandruff. Sure they may have arrived but they can’t stop jingling their moneybags and getting the world to take notice.

Like anyone in my place I get worried. It’s okay though, for it is the way the country is changing. Earlier I used to get disturbed about these things, and now I try to do something about it. Like me there are many others who work for NGOs and attempt to bring change from the grassroots. These are the young people who give up cushy corporate jobs to start NGOs, the few who question corruption, the handful of genuine politicians, college students who visit old age homes on Sundays and treat injured animals on roads, fearless journalists and the list goes on.

Flooding

I have traveled in motorcycles and scooters in various part of India but traveling in Punjab gives it a different feel all together. As the fresh air hits your face and the green fields pass by, the images take you into a peaceful mindset when compared to Delhi and Mumbai where everyone seems to be in hurry, and has an errand to run. One will not find more colour in India than in Punjab with men and women in bright attire placed among the green and yellow fields.



The camaraderie exhibited by the interaction of these individuals is something to behold with the rustic Punjabi that loudly booms with a slap on the back; and this is just hello! As for me I looked young and natty. My body is slim and trim with my hair callow and boyish. Well it does not take long to figure out that I had lost weight and looked a bit different. There are always invitations to dinner and proclamations that I should eat more for by Punjabi standards I need to be bigger. This of course was said in the most polite and happiest way even making me smile as I explained that I am of a slim built.

I talked to farmers about the flood that had just hit Punjab and what happened to their crops. All throughout the state 38,000 have been affected with 26 lives lost and one lakh acres of standing crop damaged. Mine was one of the 306 villages in 9 districts that were damaged by flash floods following the heavy rains. As I listened to the farmers I saw that there was pride in their faces, but they were also tired, sad, and worried. I realized from my own history of growing up in a farm that all farmers everywhere are just as tired, worried, proud, and sad for all they have is the soil they turn and the crops that they harvest with the earth as the only resource. Many times there is nothing more than this earth that provides heartbreak and joy.

As I looked at the food in front of me later that night I remembered an old line from somewhere, that the grain of rice on your table does not tell the grim tale of the toil that grew it.

In Unity

Sitting at the back of my cousin’s bike I made my way back to my galli. As he stopped to turn the corner he saw some friends, who called him out prompting a stop for conversation. As they began to talk one recognized me and uttered disbelief that I was in the village for he was not aware. He informed me of how close he was with my extended family and he found this shocking that he did not know of my arrival. He invited me to his house (almost everyone a visitor meets in the village invited them for tea) and said it would be sad if I did not visit.

Upon reaching home I inquired as to what could have transpired. It seems that there had been a misunderstanding between the two families based on a secret that the other had kept. While the secret was known to my family, the fact that the other did not share it directly, became contentious. As I walked into my grandfathers room I realized that I had limited time in the village and though I have often been hurt in uniting, why not do a good deed. After pondering I walked out and convinced my family to visit the house as we were asked; after all they were family friends.

With persuasion we were soon on the way. Entering the house there was warmth for me as the visitor, but refrain from any real conversation as a result of the misunderstanding. During this uncomfortable meeting I took on a mirth-evoking turn attempting to strike a balance between fostering understanding and bring entertainment. The goal was to be unpretentious about my outside upbringing but being sincere enough not to pretend to understand the complexities of the village. Slowly but surely the conversation changed and there was an ease. With more conversation the misunderstanding was sorted out as the secrecy was due to a betrayal the family suffered at the hands of their neighbors, this resulting in secrecy. The secret concerned a child who was to go abroad but due to jealousy, a neighbour complained at the embassy that once abroad the boy would not come back but seek refuge there. As the foreign governments frown upon study visas that can be a cover for migration the visa was not allocated. This placed the family in a difficult situation and they did not inform many of the second attempt and did not directly tell my family of this attempt. Perhaps they saw something in my conversation and trust was gained again.

With tensions eased we spend time talking about various topics ranging from farming to living abroad. Overall it was a good evening and left me with a happy feeling as the families were united once again. Sadly I would not get to see their daily interactions for I would be gone soon, but their happiness I will carry in my heart.

The Search for God

My eyes awoke before the rays of the sun touched the dewed leaves of the fields of Punjab. The sound of religious hymns filled the air with its beautiful sounds of god and mellifluous verses that talked about the relationship with a higher being and morality. My mind immediately acquired a calm state as I thought about my visits to the temples as growing up. So pure was this feeling when listening to the Sikh holy book of the Guru Granth Sahib that I was entranced and my heart swelled with happiness.

After a minute the loudspeaker found another companion that was slightly off, resembling the reverberation of an echo. As I struggled to keep the two voices apart and encapsulate the purity of the sound another two other voices joined in and the sound now became a cantankerous jumble. The mingled words reminded me of the chaos of screeching cars and the chatter of impatient rickshaw-wallahs in Delhi. Unable to sleep I woke up and decided to investigate. I soon found that the reason for this was the social evil of caste politics.

While the village of Navi Daroli (New Daroli) as a whole is representative of a certain religion and caste, diversity has increased in the residents. While one Sikh temple enough to serve the village, the caretakers of this shrine took exception to castes separate from the Rajputs. This apparently lower caste (classified by the state as Scheduled Caste or SC) undertake professions whereby they skin dead carcasses and eat meat, and are thus considered impure by the upper caste priests. As a result the denied group built their own temple. Soon among the SC members there was a division; for though classified as one caste on paper and official records, there was some internal permutation in lifestyles that set one group higher than the other based on keeping a turban and eating lifestyle. The result was dissension and building of another temple.

Geographically the village is like a small city in the sense that it is divided by small streets or gallis. Originally meant to be 6 to 8 feet wide a lack of regulation on buildings have resulted in the gallis becoming delimited and small. With people having lived by each other in the same street for generations there is a certain subculture of togetherness that has come about over time. Thus instead of traveling (hardly another 300 meters to the next gali) there was decisions to make an organization of their own. The results were but of course more temples.

Thus in a village with a few thousand people there are now a total of seven Sikh temples. From my conversations this is apparently not a unique case for it is an occurrence taking place in many villages all over Punjab as economic freedom and remittances are now allowing for an excess of cash that are being used for various purposes. As all the voices reach heaven in the mornings, I am sure even God would have difficulty thinking exactly where does the devotion belong.

Jai Hind

It literally translates to "Victory to India" or "Long live India". As a salutation, Jai Hind is most commonly used in speeches and communications pertaining patriotism or love towards Inida (Hind). In the last few years television channels have used this for Independence Day themed shows and movies that are advertised with the words. The air was filled with jubilation as Independence Day arrived in Punjab in 2008.

On this day of celebration I found myself celebrating another kind of union; a Sikh wedding. Held in Jatindra Palace in the city of Adampur the marriage was between a sikh girl from Canada and a boy from Punjab. If weddings are known to be merry events, than the epitome of this merriness has to be a Punjabi wedding. The event was an ostentatious celebration, full of various Punjabi dances, a jubilant crowd, countless cases of liquor, chicken and soft drinks that flowed like water during rains. It was amazing how everyone still had space for the main course meal afterwards.

The pace was relentless, the performances memorable (even kids had their groove), the tenor dramatic, and the celebration hit hard and proper. The crowd was generally merry and there was no set dressing attire. A friend of mine from Canada would have laughed her heart out at the colourful dressing style of men, with designs so loud that it even offset the women in the crowd. Overall it was inclusive in the sense that just about anyone could walk in, like I did for I was invited by an invitee who came on behalf of another invitee. There were no questions, but celebrations.

The Arrival

After changing buses in Jalandhar, I arrived in the small city of Adampur where I met my cousin. The exact lineage of our relationship is best left unexplained for it invokes complex visualizations that bring together my mother’s uncle from her fathers side’s brother; I lose the connection after this point. Traveling to the village at dusk, my senses attempted to absorb all that it could. The last time I was in Punjab was three years back and needless to say there were some changes.

“Another visitor” I remarked after seeing a young man wearing a track suit, with short and heavily gelled hair. As I wondered where he was visiting from, and his attempts to showcase his foreign experience, my cousin informed me that the man was but another local. Taking a double take at the man I was shocked for he seemed to have emerged from another country and did not fit with the surroundings of the farming village. My cousin explained that a dearth of time and lack of work has meant that the youth emulate abroad for it is considered cosmopolitan. We both laughed for now I seemed more Indian than a local.

As I reached the village and drove through the galis, (small walking space that separates houses) the first thing I noticed was the keen eyes thrust upon me. These were the eyes of expectations, curiosity, and hope that the denizens shared. Soon they would go home and among friends and there would be talk and discussions about the new person that had arrived in the village. I waved to some of them that I remembered from my previous trip. As for the houses in the village, they oscillate between one of complete neglect to modern houses that have undergone facelifts and being turned into a display of wealth.

There are certain things that are unique to the area; large antique wooden doors, the red bricks, the sandstone floors, the courtyard walls take you back to the era when the older generations lived. I meet my family and walk into my room that once belonged to my grandfather. Displayed on the ledge beside his bed where his personal belongings; the medal he received for service to the country, his pictures, and the small book of verses that he used to pray from. As I walked in the room heavy with nostalgia and sat on his bed, I wondered about the life he lived and the hardships he endured. The moment was fleeting as afternoon tea was ready and there was a lot to catch up on. He remains in my thoughts.

Trip to Punjab

Entering Punjab during the torrential rains, the vast green landscape greeted my eyes. I had departed on a bus from the Deli bus terminus and it was quite the journey. The Punjab bus would make its way from Delhi to Amritsar via Jalandhar which was to be my stop. Nearing Panipat the driver applied sudden brakes to compensate for the truck ahead but it was too late. Hitting the truck in the rear the front window cracked, barely hanging in. The unexpected bump left many passengers uneasy and some bruised. In the seat behind an elderly gentleman who was taking a nap on the handlebar had the skin above his eyebrow torn open and was bleeding. The person beside me had hit his jaw and was clenching his teeth in pain.

The show of help in these situations is extraordinary as strangers come to help. The old man was given a small towel which he used on his wound. The oddest was that due to a lack of medication he was handed over a bottle of red nail polish. Even my attention sparked at this as I wondered what would be done. The person beside the old man opened the nail polish and held the dipped polish millimeters from his wound. My neighbor explained that the spirits from the mixture would help neutralize the germs. No word can describe the surprise I felt at this point.

Soon after this incident the bus stopped and some passengers got on the bus. One of them was a man approximately 5 feet 10 who was much disoriented and could not sit at one spot. He changed his seat three times before repeating the same cycle again. This unusual behavior first annoyed the fellow passengers and than resulted in yelling and abuse. The man still in his own world went to the back and began to drink hard liquor straight for the bottle. After this he took a nap and started his activity again but looking more determined and upset. This time he approached me.

The latch opened quickly, my wrist flicked quickly and the bite handle jumped forward soon followed by the blade. I swung my hand around before the handle could hit my hand, the blade turned and made a clean arch in the air before the whole contraption came together and rested in my fist. With the edge of the knife I touched my eyebrow to show I was not afraid. My friend Pallavi had given me a unique gift before departing, a butterfly knife. It is banned in most western countries as it only has use in conflicts but forms a stylish ornament for those who can handle it well. I had kept it for my safety and hardly a day into getting it I already had it in my hand.

He looked at me again, contemplating what to do next. As I looked in his eyes I realized that though he looked angry, he was not a violent man, just pushed around and challenged in some way or another. My show of force would not do anything to bring peace to the situation. I swung the knife back and asked him firmly to sit down, he complied. Drugs and alcohol had made him disoriented and I doubt even he knew what he was doing. The conductor realized this as well and though others protested he did not let the man down for what would he do and where would he go in the rains. Even in a dire situation some humanity came through and he was given water and people watched that he did not jump off the bus.

The Common Person

They travel and work on a daily basis, making the economy of India what it is. Even if they mobilize one million strong to take on an issue, they are a minority for the country has a population of a billion. The common man or aam aadmi of India is truly a wonder. First visualized as a group by the great cartoonist R.K Laxman who in his sardonic cartoons illustrated a obedient peon who would be a bystander witnessing everyday happenings in the country but unable to do anything. With this cartoon Mr Laxman was able to both show the country and quantify the feelings of ambivalence and hope for the citizen.


For me the common man is a hard worker who may not be economically stable but struggles with honesty with a glow in the eyes. The smile that suddenly comes up on the face for reasons that one may not understand. The change in their activity that they are engrossed in to have a conversation, they do not plead for anything but acknowledge you. At the end they get so happy and content with a chat and a handshake.

I have always found myself more in tandem with the common man on the street ranging from auto drivers, vendors, bus conductors, restaurant workers, hotel staff and others than the upper elite. I admit I have lived abroad for many years but my upbringing in a developing country and economic standing have always kept me close and connected to the voice of the populace. While I am able to talk to both the elite and the common person there is something inherently courageous about the struggle a person makes to improve their economic standing. My clothes and speaking styles gets me accepted in as another commoner without any apprehensions.

There are too many stories of their mistreatment in the hands of their bosses and superiors. While living in Bangalore I remember a case of this. There was a restaurant near our home that we visited sometimes. Upon entering there was the manager who never moved from his chair and position and would whimsically order his staff. Once day I walked and saw the manager sitting idly looking at his phone. In Hindi I remarked, “uncle you seen quite busy”. He looked at me and back at the phone. As I sat down, the look on the faces of the staff was priceless as they struggled to control their laughter for they too knew the way of the elite who just sat. They all walked near me and smiled as my comment had provided them with both joy and a topic of conversation.

The most emotional account of the common person is my journey to work in Bangalore every morning that took me on a sidewalk with a wall that separated a school compound from the road. On the side of the wall was an old woman who would sit and sell small bags of popcorn everyday. Her eyes withered and skin both fragile and wrinkled could tell stories of the hard life she has had.

I stopped one day and started talking to her though she did not understand or speak but just smiled. Taking a picture of her I showed her the screen with zoom so her eyes could make out all the rich details. Her eyes filled with tears as she pointed to herself on the small screen of my camera. My eyes also filled up as I looked at her in this moment of happiness that we both shared. I would go away and she would stay here but I knew I had work to do and make a difference. Till today, I have not forgotten that expression of gratitude in her eyes. In a society where the poor are at times treated like dirt, she had perhaps found in me somebody who reminded her that she was also born a human being. With my prayers for her and all…

Back to Delhi

With research concluding, the time had come to make my way to Delhi on Sunday. My eyes opened at 5am I was on my way to the bus station at 6am. The airport, located on the very outskirts of the burgeoning city, is the newest addition and attraction to the international India. A modern airport in every way it boasts of international brands and systems designed to make travel easier. The Jet airways flight was quite good and gave us options of either South or North Indian vegetarian food. Accustomed to the staple food of south India (Idli, dosa, sambar and rice) it was a welcome change.

After two hours and some odd minutes I was in the capital city of Delhi. Geographically north, it is the second largest city of India (after Mumbai) the city has a population of about 17 million and is a strange mix of modernity and mughal and British architecture that all comes together to form an identity and image of a city that can be seen as both ancient and modern. This brings in many tourists that often begin their journey from here. Allying apprehensions I made a quiet entry into Delhi on Sunday, a contrast to the hoopla that surrounded every other foreign traveler who had a bombardment of messages and travel deals that were proposed to them.

In the 19th century a gunfighter by then name of John Henry "Doc" Holliday moved to the warmer and drier climate of Arizona to help with his deteriorating condition of tuberculosis. I do not know if the climate really helped in his case but the scorching heat of Delhi has always been good for my sinuses for I am able to breathe more clearly; an irony considering how the city is known for its pollution. The effort to make the city green with both trees and Compressed Natural Gas (CNG) for transportation has helped matters with pollution. As for me I am looking forward to clear breathing.

Page 3

The liberalization of the Indian economy has resulted in a permeation of various foreign brands that have made their way into the country. Getting a call from a newly discovered journalist friend, I was brimming with excitement while contemplating my attendance at a product launch in Bangalore. As the event did not call for formal dress, I wore presentable attire with sandals and made my way near MG road where I was to meet him.

A short drive later at the old airport road we arrived at the venue that was secluded from the main street by a long stretch of road with signs every 100 meters, placed to announce that the destination was not far. Upon arrival to a large hotel the my door was suddenly opened by a large man with feudal regalia and a handlebar moustache reminiscent of Veerappan. His style was of an attendant from the halcyon days of the British Raj complete with salute. He was the manager for the cars and valets and welcomed us in. Named the Royal Orchid, the hotel was a representation of the post 1991 boom in India.

After finding our way, the first realization was that we were clearly under dressed in this formal attire and cocktail party setting. The product launch was for BBQ grills into India from the US. We were both introduced to the architect of the program who was very excited about this launch and talked with great anticipation for the product. His was the excitement often seen in late night TV infomercials selling a 'revolutionary item', with saccharine vim attempting to convince the insomniac viewer. We understood the concept and to keep our host happy I asked some questions and seemed quite interested (my friend later called it masterful method acting).

The event complete with American style BBQ chicken and lamb, had blues music for the sophisticated crowd. At best it was a ‘Page 3’ party with businessmen and well known personalities from the city. Coming from a social work background our interactions were limited and my friend and I had a good laugh looking at the self proclaimed importance of the event. At best it was a media event for a few people who may wish to emulate the BBQ culture of the US in their backyard. It is hard to say if it will succeed in India or not, but one thing was for sure, the vegetarian options at the party were quite good. As the story was covered we both bid adieu to the event and music and found ourselves sitting outside a small tea stall by the road talking with some friends. The interactions here seemed to be more fruitful as it reflected the reality of the city.

The last week

There is awkwardness as I make my way to work. This is the last week in Bangalore for I will be leaving for Delhi on Sunday. Astounding and conflicting images from the city occupied my mind like I was walking through the by lanes again and reliving the experience. My being was thrilled with so much hope and possibility that I let out a smirk that became a smile. When I had come here no one knew where I was. No one in this new city even knew who I was! It was this very feeling that instead of loneliness made me feel free.

This freedom gave way to conversations, new interactions and a presence in the area I lived. Soon it all became familiar with waves and smiles as pleasantries were exchanged and conversations were borne. Friendly relations were created and maintained and nothing seemed new or odd anymore. For a while it was like if I was home. When I used to walk home back to Lalbagh, thinking of the day past it felt like we had conquered the world. However all good things must come to an end and another experience will await.

Black Friday

The day started off with the usual trip to work and cup of tea followed by email and work. At the stroke of 1:15pm on this bustling afternoon under the drizzly Bangalore sky, it was business as usual, prayers at mosques, techies at their lunch break, serpentine traffic and anticipation of the weekend. After what seemed to be an eerie calm before a storm, a series of 8 bomb blasts took place in the city within a span of 30 minutes. It brought the sophisticated IT city to its knees. The ingeniously assembled crude bombs with timer were placed in small steel tiffin-boxes.

The media started pouring out images and analysis while the denizens thought of what to do. Offices were closed early, phone lines were overwhelmed with the plethora of calls that were being attempted by the concerned and the monstrous traffic became worse (if that is even possible). Panic stricken people seeking shelter, office workers wanting to reach home to assure their loved ones of their safety combined with the fear of imminent danger made the roads and buses very crowded. I was again at my usual spot in the bus precariously holding on with one hand and foot but reached home safely.

The crime scene was over at 2:30 with the residents and police literally pocking up the pieces but the affect to the city would still take some time. The city did not fall under the spell of communalism but survived this ordeal. It made for a somber weekend with many people not venturing, out. The next day carried news of another series of blasts in Ahmedabad, Gujarat. We can only pray for the people that are with us no more.

Vaastu

Walking to the second floor to get the keys I see a visibly tired auntie sitting with her daughter. Auntie had been going up and down the stairs supervising construction to the balcony. Going upstairs I see the red railings on the right side taken out, and replaced with a concrete wall that is under construction. As this change was not warranted, I inquire as to the reason.

I am told that a year back a Vaastu Shastra priest had been called to inspect the house. After careful observation he had made two diktats. First that the underground water tank located at the front of the house had to be shifted to the back of the house as it should face North. Secondly that any open space on the west side of the building be covered as luck and financial gain would escape if left open.

Vaastu Shastra is a concept that deals with ensuring that the design and building of a living space is in harmony with both the physical and metaphysical forces. It is not an exact task but interpretations that are given by priests that also bless the house. In some ways it is similar to Feng Shui (both harmonize the flow of energy/ life-force, Prana in Sanskrit) but differ in the details, such as the exact directions in which various objects, rooms, materials are to be placed.

While auntie could not completely change the placement of the underground tank, another smaller water tank was constructed at the back of the house with both in use. And now a year after, a bare concrete wall was being built to cover the balcony. Even for a staunch believer of fate, Vaastu is able to interact for it suggests that while no one can change destiny, surroundings can be improved by both correcting and leveraging ‘bad Vaastu’ for positive results. As I was living on the third floor I thanked auntie her for the good luck would also permeate to me as I was living there. She smiled and agreed.

Vaastu

Walking to the second floor to get the keys I see a visibly tired auntie sitting with her daughter. Auntie had been going up and down the stairs supervising construction to the balcony. Going upstairs I see the red railings on the right side taken out and small concrete wall being constructed. As this construction was not warranted, I inquire as to the reason.

I am told that a year back a Vaastu Shastra priest had been called to inspect the house. After careful observation he had made two diktats. First that the underground water tank located at the front of the house had to be shifted to the back of the house as it should face North. Secondly that any open space on the west side of the building be covered as luck and financial gain would escape if left open.

Vaastu Shastra is a concept that deals with ensuring that the design and building of a living space is in harmony with both the physical and metaphysical forces. It is not an exact task but interpretations that are given by priests that also bless the house. In some ways it is similar to Feng Shui (both harmonize the flow of energy/ life-force, Prana in Sanskrit) but differ in the details, such as the exact directions in which various objects, rooms, materials are to be placed.

While auntie could not completely change the placement of the underground tank, another smaller water tank was constructed at the back of the house with both in use. And now a year after, a bare concrete wall was being built to cover the balcony. Even for a staunch believer of fate, Vaastu is able to interact for it suggests that while no one can change destiny, surroundings can be improved by both correcting and leveraging ‘bad Vaastu’ for positive results. As I was living on the third floor I thanked auntie her for the good luck would also permeate to me as I was living there. She smiled and agreed.

Accident

The splendours of a vibrant evening as people return home after work; a cool breeze blows as the heat of the day gives way to a shady sky. People and cars pass by, each with possible anticipation in their mind that makes for an ambiance different from the rush of the morning. Walking down the sidewalk I looked ahead at the junction to Jayanagar 4th block bus station. Still not feeling completely well I ponder if I should get corn for a snack or not. I smile and think of a similar walk to the bus station in the halcyon days of my youth with similar traffic and feel. A lot is similar but the burden of work and responsibility has increased and the young face has given way to shoulders that carry responsibility. I hear a loud thud and a white Tata Innova suddenly swerves and charges towards me. My mind calm, having relived this scenario many times and my feet steadily waiting for all that is to come. If life is a long corridor and death merely a door, than I have touched this door many times without opening it.

One of the beauties and sad things about travel is that the more harrowing and painful an experience, the better are the stories with which come out of it. These occurrences become both narratives and memories that can terrify, impress, and dazzle friends back home but leave scars both physically and psychologically.

A red Honda Centra hitting a white Tata Innova on the side at a 90 degree led to the white vehicle hitting the sidewalk and touching my clothes as it stopped. Clearly not how I had anticipated the corn purchasing debate in my mind to be resolved but was happy that I was not hit. Both the drivers came out with their cell phones already dialing some unknown number contacting higher powers that could help them resolve this. I am quickly forgotten while close I am not hit and the attention shifts to the passengers who come out and observe. The red car has its left front light and side damaged while the white car has the area above its left tire pushed in. From afar the damage looks minimal but the internal mechanisms of both these light weight cars have been damaged. The white car is a private taxi carrying youths while the red car has a family and a small child.

There is no overly heightened plight for a muscle that may have been slightly pulled resulting in a multi million lawsuit, but instead the focus is the accident and resolving the matter as cars and people attempted to make their way around it. The cars are moved to the side of the road and soon there was a small crowd recreating the accident in conversation and giving their viewpoints that stretched from the construction of roads to the increase in traffic in the city. I am involved in this diatribe as people also inform and ask for my viewpoints to which I nod before walking away unscathed.

My only compensation is that, this will become a memory and my sense of reality of how most people live across the planet is once again usefully expanded. I am freed, for a moment, from an illusionary sense of safety and control. At the end travel brings us into closer contact with reality and liberates us from the ideas we impose on the rest of the world. Still, it’s not what I would recommend for every traveler. Let's see what tomorrow brings.

Confidence

With the vote of confidence looming that would change the political setup of the country and place India’s foreign policy on the back burner it made for a unique day. The coalition government headed by the Congress party faced a crisis as the left parties withdrew their support, resulting in Prime Minister Dr. Manmohan Singh calling for a trust vote, or vote of confidence on July 22nd. A negative outcome could precipitate early elections with the end of the current regime. In addition I was also not feeling well, with the possible attribution to the corn-manchurian and hot chips I had the day before. Than again it could be all the cold showers from the lack of electricity. Sitting at breakfast, I could not eat and auntie insisted that I take the day off, an act that I could not bring myself to do. Following the old adage of converting a negative situation into one that is positive, I spoke some Hindi movie lines about the burden of duty and pushed myself out of the couch and headed straight for the door as auntie smirked.

At work I fought the headaches and lethargy of a burgeoning fever as I watched live internet streaming of the debate in the Lok Sabha or lower house in the Parliament on NDTV. The quality of the stream combined with the frequent power cuts did not make the situation easier. The day was full of great discussion as we all pondered what would happen. This like every crisis invariably produced an onrush of sound bytes that ranged from being studious to ultimately banal as the day dragged on. Thus as the power would go out I would go into interview mode with my fist forming a mike and asking everyone from the driver to the administrator. Overall it brought joy and various theories for discussion, with concern that there may be demonstrations that could become riots if tensions were too high.

As for the debate, the Lok Sabha members speech would spiral into an obsessive duel in which each person would try to show their point of view with constant interruptions. With various speakers that came and went the attention was on the railway minister, a colourful man named Laloo Prasad Yadav known for his rustic speaking style of both Bhojpuri and Hindi replete with bucolic examples. He was in his elements and had the house in splits throughout his 35-minute speech. One of his most enduring quotes was a few lines from a song "Char saal pehle humey tumsey pyaar tha, aaj bhi hai aur kal bhi rahega" (we were in love four years ago, and so we will be today and tomorrow) bringing back memories of popular Dev Anand-Asha Parekh starrer Jab Pyar Kisi Se Hota Hai. Mr Yadav modified the years in the song to signal that relations with the Left will remain cordial.

Coming home a little early to nurse myself, I took a combination of western medicine (tablets) and Indian faith (aarthi for nazar) followed by a nap that was quite uncomfortable as my body ached. Like the burgeoning tensions as the vote neared, my fever rose and went down in the evening. As I got up and attempted to straighten myself the news came in that the government had indeed survived the vote and would stay. It almost felt like my illness and the vote were linked. Probably a coincidence but my body and mind recovered as the day came to a conclusion.

Paying Guest

The Indian renting scenario includes an option known as PG or Paying Guest. In this arrangement a tenant or group of people live with a family in an extra room and share meals and space with them. In our denizen all five of us live in the third floor of a house owned by a couple in their 50s who live on the second floor. Affectionately called aunt and uncle, they have one daughter who is living with them as she is pregnant; in many places the daughter stays with the mother in many areas so that she is able to learn the complexities of childbirth and be at home with her family.

As for our flat it has two bedrooms, a large hallway, kitchen and bathroom. Anindya and I are in the last bedroom that has a balcony with the girls (Silvia, Christy and Abhinayan) in the adjourning room followed by the hall. The mattresses on the bed are Indian which by definition means harder and thinner mattresses that will not suit the western oriented sleeper.

I make my way downstairs every morning to get breakfast at 8:30am and dinner at 8:30 pm with a small packed lunch that I take to work. Hovering inside with a hum and greetings which never fails to amuse, time is always well spent as my inspired actions result auntie to proclaim that I am acting out what she sees on television soaps everyday. Our conversations have evolved with me asking about their day and auntie chiding uncle for all the hard work she does. In this serious yet light discussion I usually am the impartial viewer who manages to infuse humor to the situation and give them both due for their hard work. Overall it makes me feel like a member of this small Indian family. They still are under the impression that I am from India and I do not have the heart to break their heart about the simple Indian who lives with them, temporarily a member of their family.

Contract

The Indian movie going experience is truly a highlight, for as the world’s largest film making nation there is a variety of films projected everyday. With 12 million people going to the cinema on a daily basis entertainment is big business. Furthermore it is one of the only places where time is kept as the medium is one of reverence.

The main multiplex company is known as PVR or Priya Village Roadshow Cinema. By introducing the multiplex concept in India in the late 1990s, PVR Cinemas brought in a whole new paradigm shift to the cinema viewing experience: high class seating, state-of-the-art screens and audio-visual systems. The theatre is in a mall called Forum with 11 screens that sits grandly on top of a 5 storey shopping area. The pre-film advertisements in India are the same as anywhere else, product placements that ultimately get annoying with their repetitious and oft heard jingles, complete with scratches on screen showing its age and insignificance. Everyone knows the words but no one will repeat or sing it along out of embarrassment and displeasure. Purchasing food is made easy with an attendant ready with a menu coming through every isle asking if anything is needed.

I ventured into the movie hall to watch ‘The Dark Knight’ but due to availability watched ‘Contract’ instead. Directed by the maverick director Ram Gopal Varma (or RGV or Ramu as he is know by) the film dealt with his oft made topic of the underworld. Once considered the beacon of originality who made pseudo realist films on multi layered topics usually with the subject of the underworld, his star has faded with ill conceived concepts and a blotched remake of India’s most famous and successful film named Sholay (Flames).

As for ‘Contract’, the film was promoted as an attempt to show the nexus between terrorism and the underworld with the kitsch of usual elements thrown in. The opening scenes showed promise with an army commander confronting a Jehadi terrorist (played by Zakir Hussain, but not the tabla player), leading to a well scripted conversation centered on how a solider fighting for an imagined community called a nation, ultimately does not see or interact the very public he serves to protect and is just taking orders without thought. Thus how is he different from the militant or kills in the name of love for his faith. Though hardly a deep conversation, it placed a hope of things to come; especially the thinking of the misguided followers of militant movements.

However the film descended from explaining the nexus between the underworld and terrorism to a story of rivalry between the two gangs that controlled Bombay. The extreme close-ups and silence as the character reflects, which have been seen in most of RGV's recent movies, gave way to a loud noise behind me. Looking back I saw a viewer fast asleep and snoring. The public around him also aware, left him to his sleep while the movie picked up pace/sound thus drowning his snores.

As this was a Hindi movie there is a requisite 10 minute interval where we watch more ads. The concept of an interval is a requirement in India; even English movies are given a forced interval with the sentences and scenes half completed. The sleeping man continued to snore as the interval finished only to wake up when we were leaving. In India as the exits are at the back with the patron exiting a floor higher than he entered and goes down steps. Leaving the hall, I thought of the narrative with questions left unanswered and global terrorism being tackled by one man. Than again, it was a Hindi movie so plausibility should not be expected. I wish Mr Varma would call/email me so I could discuss a film concept with him.

Time

At a young age, we have difficulty adhering to it, in our youth and prime years we race against it struggling to meet deadlines and commitments, and when old we find it very difficult to pass by. ‘Time’ has always been an elusive concept for it shapes and controls much of what we do. We hold people who have mastered it and those who have withdrawn from its everyday constraints with great respect. Much has been written about it by great writers but like the concept of ‘love’ it is never fully understood with every generation giving its own interpretations. There is even a condition where the patient fears 'time' itself known as chronophobia.

Like everyone else I too attempt to follow time and balance the thin line between adhering to schedules and following it religiously. While we can avoid it at some spheres, in the working world our schedules are dictated by the concept of time. I remember in a young age my father telling me a story about my grandfather. Working in colonial India my grandfather reported to work a little earlier than his starting time on a daily basis. A believer in punctuality and any unexpected occurrences on the way, he accounted for the unexpected in order to reach work on time. Aware of this ideal, when on a particular day when a higher ranking person did not show up on time, the supervisor who needed the work started, promoted my grandfather and asked him to take on this new role.

My father told me this story with pride as he too was a ardent follower of time especially when it came to work. We know now that when it comes to working, with the advent of technology and work ethics, tasks can be completed based on style and speed. However there is still respect allocated for timeliness.

In India today, the concept of time is hard to follow for many. Try making any appointment or going to an office on time and you will find yourself waiting endlessly due to a plethora of reasons ranging from late meetings to traffic woes. Regardless of this I have made a habit to come to work on time and leave when the office closes. I never thought of this as any sort of achievement but just adhering to a schedule. As I have work related to both UNICEF and my university I also have not taken any days off or trips though it is allowed. With my teammates in Delhi and Kerala I sat in the office researching in the afternoon.

Imagine my surprise and shock when I was called to the head office and suddenly introduced to guests both from the NGO sector and UNICEF. After introductions the director of the NGO (who I have only have had limited conversation with) and other staff lauded for my ability to come on time and maintaining discipline in schedule. Not used to receiving compliments it was a truly humbling experience that I could be held in high regard for following time and being there. It was awkward yet rewarding as I thought about how happy my mother would have been.

Bhutta

The onlooker’s eyes were one of curiosity. As I stood relaxed, the man visibly ambivalent of what he should do took another step forward. Realizing his predicament I thought why not take on this role as well. Reveling in precision I lifted the corn and flicked it up in the air.

Standing at the bus station after the end of the work, I awaited my bus to Lalbagh only to be drawn away by the roasting smell of corn. My eyes found the stall located towards the end of the bus stop and I made my way to the vendor. With the green leafs pealed, the vendor roasted bright yellow sweet corn in a large metal bowl with ember coals. The husked corn cob was roasted until about half the kernels were blackened. When a customer came he would warm it by placing it on the coals, frantically fanning the cart-top coal fire, and finishing with a dressing of squeezed lime and chilly powder which were rubbed on the kernels.

With gleam I purchased the corn on the cob or ‘bhutta’ giving the vendor a 20 rupee note. As he did not have the right change, he asked the coconut vendor beside him with no avail. Still determined he crossed the busy street leaving me standing at the stall. It was a busy time of day and crossing the road, would take time. Left at the stall I placed my hot bhutta on the husked leaves and rested with ease. With my frame and dressing style it could be confusing if I was the vendor or another customer. When the aforementioned person in the beginning of the narrative made his way towards me I thought why not.

In a jocose manner I took my corn sitting on the stall with style, flicked it in the air and caught it and chomped down on some kernels before placing it back on the stall. Taking charge I told the customer in Hindi that the smaller corns were 7 rupees and the larger ones were 8. Than I proceeded to show him the difference and told him that the quality was quite good. The man still confused by my visage and role thought about what to do while I nonchalantly ate again. As the customer made his choice the vendor returned to see my in my new role. Both impressed and happy by my proprietorship gave a smile and my change. I said goodbye and headed to my bus while the customer even more confused now attempted to understand who exactly I was.

Darkness

As I stepped to climb the coconut tree the office administrator came out and smiled. He was as perturbed as I was but I seemed to be making the best of the situation. Powerless days are becoming the order of the day. With power shortages taking place, different parts of the city have been affected by intermittent power supply. The worst part for many is that it is unscheduled, and goes out about four times a day.

With an increased consumption around 30 percent since last year combined with maintenance at the thermal power station, electricity has become a scarce resource. If this was not enough re-alignment of pipelines means no water pumping from today till Saturday making 60 areas of the city rely on self sufficiency and conservation from their roof tanks.

Any work on the computer now has to be saved at short intervals as electricity could go at any time. As for me I keep trying to make the best of the situation by talking to people in the office about topics ranging from politics to development. It is a hassle not to have power but we make the best of it and carry on.

Sunday

A six day work week results in Sunday becoming the crux of relaxation in India. I took the day at home to do both reading and work on my assignments albeit with a few naps in between. As the morning lingered on, to overcome the surge of unneeded sleep, I went downstairs to read the paper and perhaps watch television. Sitting down on the couch my hand found the soft buttons of the remote and my eyes were pulled into the world of Bollywood. The choices on television would all but amaze the novice viewer, serials ranging from mythic stories of gods to the constant zoom in/outs and sound effects of Saas bahu serials (Indian term for familial shows). Furthermore there are films in every language from every era readily available with a special space for Amitabh Bachchan (Indian superstar) of course. As seen from my Facebook posts even the ads are so funny and poignant that one does not feel limited or frustrated. If Hindi or any other language is not preferred there are always English movies as well. My favourites are English movies and cartoons that have been dubbed over in crisp and strong Hindi. Even an action movie will bring you to tears of joy after seeing the vernacular diction and complex language allocated to a Slyvester Stallone movie.

In the evening I ventured out to the adjourning street near Lalbagh west gate to recharge my prepaid Airtel mobile phone. With the street full of Airtel shops, I projected this to be a menial errand. As Anindya and I made a walk with every store, we found that the relaxed mood I had mentioned; the vendor was either unaware of the recharge details or was out for some reason. The zenith was when we were informed that the vendor of an Airtel shop had gone to get a recharge for his phone that was from Reliance (another mobile company). As this was too odd I gesticulated with my hands and asked the store assistant “so the owner uses another phone company yet he sells Airtel..theek hai..theek hai”. As he smiled at my predicament we walked off and finally found a small shop near the temple.

Operated by a husband and wife the shop had all the requisite posters and information for a phone plan. The shop was demarcated with a thin wall that concealed a room that was blaring in action sounds, easily markings of a Kannada movie. Any question we asked about phones was repeated in a higher tone, with an answer coming from the room within a few seconds. Their understanding perhaps constrained by the minute details of every offer readily relegated questions for answers. The voice clearly aggrieved by the requests that was delaying his viewing experience was sparse and direct with a snappy reply. After asking a handful of questions my attention peaked about this elusive figure with a dearth of knowledge.

As my forehead cringed after the last question, the wife informed me with candor that the movie had everyone’s attention. Unable to take the incessant questions the door finally opened and I expected to see a copious figure who had attained knowledge of the business through years of working in the phone business; what I saw instead was a boy around 16 or 17 with a hat pushed back like Himesh Reshammiya (Indian singer/actor known for his nasal singing style). With celerity of hand and sangfroid nature he took the phone and answered the questions with an imperturbable voice.

In a jovial spirit myself I immediately asked Anindya in Hindi to apologize for we had clearly disturbed his movie watching experience with the burden of coming to this store. Enlivened by this gesture of offering my condolences for missing the movie, the wife and husband laughed loudly while the boy multitasked between the movie and opening Anindya’s phone. Happy that I also loved movies the boy and I talked for a minute about the film after which I sought my departure, waving again at the chips store on my way back with Sunday coming to an end.

Auto

My latest adventure in Bangalore bellows with defiance and confusion, visibly the story of a new person in a city attempting to find a way through insane standards, while still attempting to carry respect for the common man.

Feeling celebratory the day after our presentation the previous day, four of us from the group (Christy, Silvia, Anindya and I) decided to visit the splendor of MG road. The mode of transportation was the ever dependable auto rickshaw. Codenamed everything from auto, rickshaw, tempo, and the current hip term "rick", it is prevalent in Asia. With the soft top painted yellow and the metal side black, its three dependable wheels can take it as fast as 50 km an hour. It is a must for any visitor and I have also had the pleasure of driving it. The payment is determined by a attached meter, that starts with a base amount of 14 rupees, and stays stagnant for the first two kilometers, then increasing in increments of 50 paise based on the distance. As any resident will tell you, attempting to make a trip by meter is impossible, instead preferring negotiation, as the driver is quite keen on making extra. For though it gets us where we need to go, the auto leaves a trail of negotiation, grudges, and misunderstandings behind.

We found one such auto after a short walk. As there were four of us we agreed on the one and half meter rate. We were on our way and traveled for 15 minutes hoping to get off at the destination. After a while I realized from my limited knowledge of the city that the directions did not seem to add up as we were not passing any familiar landmarks that greeted us on the way to MG road. Suddenly I saw a sign for Jayanagar (the area we had departed from). The group had also made this startling realization and asked where we were going. The driver citing confusion kept going but it was clear that we had made a large square and driven back to the same spot we had started from. As the meter works on distance traveled drivers are known to elongate the journey to unscrupulously earn more money but this was such a unique case that even in attempting to be fraudulent he had not taken us for a “ride” but brought us back where we started. (I later remarked to Anindya that the driver should go and take lessons on taking people for a ride if that's what his intention is).

The driver's attempt to pacify us was to carry forth on the journey and than get a discount on the fare. We were not amicable to this and immediately asked get off. We refused to pay him and he asked for 20 rupees. After two minutes of intense arguments in Hindi we paid him 10 and got another auto. We decided to let the incident be and focused on this ride and our plans. However when things looked hopeful again the auto stalled in the middle of a flyover (overpass) at a point where nothing could be done. We were all but stranded on a incline with a small stepping divider that gave us but only two meters to walk before the road became a two way mangle of traffic. As it was not his fault we got off and laughed at our luck.

Thankfully a third auto stopped in less than a minute and we attempted to negotiate a ride with him. When we asked for meter and half and he said 40 rupees. We asked again and he remained steadfast, only to be convinced when we explained our disposition and pointing out the other stalled rickshaw. He gave way and meter it was! The driver was a unique man for we had a 30 second conversation where we negotiated and asked about the road. He was able to do it all without uttering a single word and through hand motions and shaking his head. He could easily be crowned a king in the game of charades for he was able to do all without a display of any emotion or facial movements. He was able to get us to our destination and left without uttering a word. All we had to worry about now was the ride home which thankfully went smoothly.

Transient to Tamil Nadu

I felt really happy. Sitting in my usual seat (second from the back) in the evening bus I glanced outside at the fields, rivulets and rivers passing by. I thought of how great the beauty of nature and life was. The ride home was filled with expectation and joy for the weekend lingered ahead. My grandmother sitting in the front also took the bus with me and I thought about the two new movies I would watch over the weekend along with great food.

I felt a hard stop. Opening my eyelids it felt like small needles hitting piercing my eyes. I closed them again and pressed the lids hard, opening them again slowly to accustom to the sudden rush of the morning light. I had been dreaming about my childhood and mother, who is sadly no more. The journey on this bus had brought back memories of that bus that I used to take everyday as a child and my mother who I lived with. My mind left the halcyon days of youth and came to the present; my body sprawled on the long seat of the bus, feet jutting out, and head resting on my bag that had formed an unusual pillow. Still a bit dazed, I slowly sat up. I had been up at 4am and left home after 5 to come to Krishnagiri, Tamil Nadu to present the findings of our research. As the rest of the group was already getting off the bus and I quickly pulled myself together.

The group explained that it has been an eventful trip, for while I was sleeping two other travelers had grown suspicious seeing the intermixed group who lacked any significant amount luggage. As such after discussing with themselves, the conductor was informed that we looked like runaways and could be potential terrorists. They exclaimed that we should be checked for identification immediately, with further police action to follow. The conductor refused to believe their logic and informed them that it was a free country, and he could not check identifications on some erratic whims. Entirely not convinced the passengers kept their attention on us for the entire trip afraid of what maybe unleashed if they did not carry out their civic duty. After the bus stopped and we were off they relented and went their own way. The story was narrated by one of our group-mates who had heard the conversation and drama in Tamil.

Arriving at the District Collector’s office we began our presentation in the presence of the Collector who is the architect of the program, along with other stakeholders and UNICEF representatives. I have been the positivist of the group and though we have disagreements on certain aspects we are all committed to see the change and program succeed. For the presentation there were no dramatic examples, just a well articulated preamble to how the program had succeeded and what changes were required. The Collector, a man of vim and commitment was very pleased and gave us credit for giving him further initiative to make the program a success. He heartily invited us to return in two months to see the program in its full force.


After the presentation we celebrated with a hearty Punjabi meal that we ate at a dhabba or small street shop. It was nice to have north Indian food instead of the staple diet of south Indian food. In the afternoon we left the district for what would be our last time. As the bus passed by the Collectors office which stood apart from anything else with grandeur, I looked back with longing for one last time to catch the building that formed the hope for so many in the district. Like the shimmering reflection of the Golden Temple in the sacred pool, the District Collectors office is also an image I shall always carry with me and in my dreams.

Coexistence

It’s truly a sight to behold. Standing midmorning at the side of the road, I keenly observed all the activities taking place around me. Much has been encapsulated in writing, films and pictures about the conflicting elements and structures that invariably co-exist in any geographical setting in India. The result is a plethora of images, colours, sounds and smells all coming together at once and overwhelming the senses. No matter how much one acclimates to this, a new experience awaits on the next day.

The broken sole of my sandal had prompted this trip; a slow walk to the main area of 4th Block in search of a cobbler. After asking around, I found one nestled precariously in a corner of a four way intersection. An odd place it seemed to conduct business, but the small endeavor had all the exposure it needed, from the pedestrian and the cars that passed by. Swarming with characters, the adherence to the oncoming traffic is minimal with the driver from each direction making a dash towards the intersection as if on a crusade of life, attempting to cut the other car that also races to cross the spot. The sound is one of the clutters of calamitous elements strewn into a sense of impending catastrophe. Even with my camera I could not adequately sum up the interesting elements in this simmering cauldron of clichés. The street patrolled in the mornings by a pot-bellied wonder (policeman) who as his role as a ringmaster attempts to control this unorganized patterns of cars intermixed with pedestrians. The public for the most part is aggrieved by his incoherent yells and whistles. The most unexpected structure is the Jain temple that forms the corner of one intersection with its peaceful space forming the opposite to the busiest street on the block. The devotees adorned in simple attire also attempt to cross as well.

There was no other choice for me, as a size 12 shoe is hard to find. After getting across as I sat in the small stall, it amazed me how both the traffic and people seemed to seamlessly flow like water in the river (albeit with very loud horns and some occasional yelling). The severity of the situation was only obvious when a car almost ran over my foot which made me realize that the space of the cobbler was actually in the intersection. In a few minutes he had stitched my shoes for 20 rupees. As I tried my repaired sandal, a new customer unhappy with the price she was quoted started telling me in Kannada how the price for her was not right. My attempts to explain that I did not speak the language and that I was in no way associated with the store were in vain as she had found a caring listener. As she concluded I responded with a sad “kya kare” (what to do) and swirled my hand in surrender. Happy with my role I took leave, crossed and took this picture when the crowd dissipated for those odd seconds, but somehow it was not able to capture the intensity and hurly-burly of the street.

The Third Place

Everyone has a place that they frequent after home or work ranging from a restaurant, coffee shop, and bar among others. From socializing to providing some form of refreshment, or meal this place becomes almost like a denizen for many. Because life is at such hazard, we value these places as they await us in one place, doing one thing. Such continuity is reassuring. There is a certain charm in the notion of a place that stands still waiting for your visit, it does not move, yet is never still. After a while when walking into this place, the recognition sparks an extra layer of service, anticipating needs based on previous experiences. In California my friend Tim (rechristened as Timesh) had an Indian restaurant that we used to visit that we both loved.

In Bangalore, the cankerous noise of the walk home was interrupted by the sizzling sound of oil that simmered as potatoes were placed into it. I looked to the right where small store had an open handi beside the entrance. Overpowered by the smell I approached the store and was amazed the different assortment of chips and other fried nuts that were being sold. I took out whatever change I had and asked the storekeeper to give me whatever 5 rupees could buy. After enjoying the thinly sliced potato chips on the way home, the shop named “Hot Chips” has become my regular stop on the walk home. Run by two people, the owner inside and the cook who stands outside cooking all sorts of delights, the shop contains a dearth of snacks. After my usual wave I approach the counter with ease and address the owner as ‘uncle’ and he gives me the chips that I always purchase. Our conversation has a language barrier as they do not speak Hindi but we are able to converse nonetheless as I get my usual amount along with a free taste of what is being cooked outside. As others from my group also go to this store it becomes a third place for me, along with making me a regular of the neighborhood.

Hope

I have just returned from a meeting with the rest of the group and Dr Jayaranjan, our methodology adviser for the project. Traveling from Chennai this morning Dr. Jayaranjan met us to answer questions and clarify any doubts. In particular he talked to us on methodology and progress of the project. As a researcher he has worked with both academics and development organizations, and thus had concrete suggestions, where he acknowledged ground reality and scope for conducive change. We had met him a few weeks ago before starting our field research. Due to difficulty with his name I coined the sobriquet ‘JR’ which the group finds easier to remember and pronounce.

He has been encapsulated in our mind through one incident which I shall share. When attempting to focus our research during the first meet, we listed the various stakeholders ranging from children, parents, and government officials, that we hoped to talk to in Krishnagiri (place of research) to better understand the issue. His inability to understand why we would want to visit any and every place, prompted a question of why interview them all, when they do not concern the research paradigm? To this one member responded “because they are there”. JR quickly uttered his most famous words “suppose there is a lake there, will you visit that too!”. The laughter from that experience still fills my mind, as I remember his serious face while attempting to ask us about the mundane.

During this meeting with him I slightly placed my hand on his shoulder and said that we actually did visit the lake which prompted him to laugh in the middle of a serious discussion. The overall understanding of the project methodology became clearer after talking to him and he told us about the concept of ‘hope’ in development. It is this very concept that results in positive and hopeful faces in development work and pictures. Programs are not easily discounted and the focus is on repair and bringing forth change that can be realistically implemented on the grassroots level. Being someone who wants to work within the system and who tries to find positive side of various programmes, I was happy with his assessment.

Take a right and than a left

The place I work at is located in Jayanagar 4th Block and 6th Main. Though now I can proclaim to know the place with certainty, getting directions in India is always an adventure. One cannot get to their destination without the kindness of strangers; asking everyone from the person walking beside you to the car that is sharing that uncomfortably close space to you as you wait at the light. With a plethora of buildings and populous, one finds their destination with the help of markers and buildings (near the west gate, or opposite Barista). This search sometimes even results in conflicting directions that leads to finding a third person who fulfills the role of a tie-breaker (this happened on the first day we had to find our office).

As everyone faces this problem getting assistance with directions is never a major problem, with the only obstacle when someone advises that the place is so close that walking would be best. This often results in a walk for a few kilometers for the novice who is not used to Indian walking. As I do not mind walking, traveling to new places is always an adventure like no other.

I have found myself being asked for directions many a times. Even on the day I arrived in the country I was giving directions in Delhi to someone who had to reach Munirka Vihar, which I was able to happily fulfill as I was accustomed to the area. My friend told me that it was due to my unassuming nature and trustworthy face as I always look like I am about to smile. I am not sure if I believe that or not, but we do what we can. Now if I can only figure out shortcuts as well.

Have a great weekend

As I heard the words while leaving work I thought …weekend…really? I was leaving work at 6 in the evening with only Sunday off. India has a 6 day working week making any comprehensive plans impractical.

On Sunday I was to visit my friend Aditi’s parents who live in a suburb called Bannerghatta. Located in the periphery of Bangalore, it has garnered concentrated development in form of multinationals and luxury housing complexes. With only one road leading out, there is a traffic bottleneck when attempting to travel there. As I stood on the doorway of the bus, the scene outside could have been described as a motorized exodus from a disaster epic. Various modes of transportation all traveling one way while the other side of the road remained clear. Any calmness that remained was drowned by incessant horns that refuse to stop along with a non adherence to lanes. The extremes were such that it would be impossible to even open the door more than an inch, never mind getting out. Waiting in the bus, I got so bored that I decided to walk a while. The day was nice and I knew that the bus would stay on the side of the road as the conductor would attempt to pack as much people in the bus he could, with stoppage only if the bus collapsed because of the weight (surprisingly that does not happen). After passing the signal the traffic cleared up for a while and I caught the bus again; with my place of travel, the vicarious hand rail at the back of the bus where my body lingers in the space between being inside and outside the bus readily available.

I was to be there at 12:30 but arrived one hour late thanks to the traffic and attempting to find my way. Once there I could have been easily said to be transported to another country. The building, made as a replica of one in Canada or Hong Kong had about 1000 apartments with spacious setting. There was parking both at the underground level and on the street, with empty and clean roads devoid of any traffic or trash. A tennis court and great view of trees and fauna made it feel like I was really in another place. As I had lunch we talked about a range of topics from infrastructure to politics, I thought of the changes India was going through in terms of development.


Just outside, looking from the balcony, another complex with 2000 apartments was standing ready. With such developments it becomes easy to see India in different lenses, ranging from a country that still is not able to provide adequate resources, to one that boasts of extra-ordinary development. The hope is to incorporate both elements and both acknowledge and provide a balanced view of the country. After a great conversation and lunch, in the evening it was time to go home and face the traffic again. Luckily Aditi’s dad offered me a ride which made the commute back relatively easy. And like that, the weekend was over.