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.
Friday, August 29, 2008
Sunday, August 24, 2008
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.
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.
Saturday, August 23, 2008
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.
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.
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
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.
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.
Monday, August 18, 2008
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.
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.
Sunday, August 17, 2008
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.
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.
Saturday, August 16, 2008
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.
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.
Friday, August 15, 2008
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.
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.
Sunday, August 10, 2008
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.
“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.
Saturday, August 9, 2008
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 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.
Thursday, August 7, 2008
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…
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…
Sunday, August 3, 2008
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.
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.
Friday, August 1, 2008
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.
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.
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