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Thursday, 31 March 2011

2011 Annual NetIP North America Conference JW Marriott Hotel, Washington, DC Labor Day Weekend, September 2-5, 2011


A Drop that Created Ripples

This is the story of a boy of eighteen, who had fled from a small village of West Bengal in India and immigrated to the United States to save himself from police persecution and later became the first Asian to receive the prestigious Newbery Medal for Children’s Literature, awarded by the Association for Library Service to Children, a division of the American Library Association.

Dhan Gopal Mukerji was born on 6 July 1890 to Kissori and Bhuban (Goswami) Mukerji in a village near Calcutta. When he was about ten years old, Mukerji went to study at Scottish Church Collegiate School and thereafter at the University of Calcutta. It was at this university, that he began associating with his elder brother Jadu Gopal Mukerji's friends. Jadu Gopal at that time was actively participating in Nationalist activities and Mukerji came in contact with the ideas of the Bengal resistance. In 1923 tragedy befell the Mukerji family when Jadu Gopal was jailed without trial. Fearing Dhan Gopal’s arrest, his father sent him to Japan, to study. As a boy of 18, amidst foreign people and exposed to an alien language, Mukerji suffered an immense identity crisis; and although initially captivated by the Industrial progress in Japan, he quickly became disillusioned by the atrocities committed by factory owners on the assembly line workers. He fled again, and this time he sailed from Japan to the US, the land of opportunities, or so he had heard.

America at this time was not as welcoming to immigrants as it is today. Mukerji enrolled at the University of California, Berkeley but his anxieties started to enhance when he saw how the white society bitterly disapproved of the Hispanic Latin immigrants, but at the same time thrived economically on illegal Mexican workers. Thus Mukerji was utterly disillusioned by “the West”. He saw in this world of the moderns, absolute hollowness. In Caste and Outcast Mukerji describes the first few painful months in his newly adopted home:

“I sought out a Hindu student, who told me to go and get a job…Dish-washing, taking care of the house- anything. Go and ring the bell of every house until you find a job.” So I went on ringing door bell after door bell. From each opening door came a “No thank you,” in tones running the whole scale from the snarl of a tiger to the smile of a lady.”

It is a wonder then, how this unfortunate exile became the author of several books like Caste and Outcast, My Brother’s Face and The Face of Silence, which was chosen by the League of Nations as one of the best forty books of 1926 and was also selected for the International Library of Geneva. In 1927 Mukerji published his most famous book, Gay-Neck: The Story of a Pigeon, which won the 1928 Newbery Medal. It must have taken Mukerji a lot of perseverance, love for his homeland and a strong desire of staying true to his identity as a South Asian American, to succeed recurrently in bringing his homeland alive in front of the Western audiences, in his numerous writings and speeches. And when he died at the young age of forty six, this is what Elizabeth Seeger wrote about him for The Horn Book in 1937, the year following Mukerji’s death:

“He brought with him the lore and the religion of India…Whatever attraction or affinity brought him to America and kept him here, where his spirit often suffered, the West gained immeasurably by his coming, and India cannot have lost by having so eloquent an interpreter among us.”

            During his lifetime, Mukerji’s influence on American artists and literary circles was substantial. He maintained close associations with writers and prominent figures from around the world; including the American philosophers Will and Ariel Durant, the French Nobel winner Rolland and the influential Indian politician and statesman Jawaharlal Nehru. Mukerji’s frequent peripatetic speaking tours around the United States introduced South Asian philosophical and religious views to America and also to other western countries. Eastern ideas had already appeared on Western shores via Emerson, Thoreau, Whitman, and other transcendentalists, and more so with Swami Vivekananda’s Chicago visit in 1893. Yet it is through Mukerji that renowned writers of the West like Romain Rolland and Henry Miller got acquainted and became fascinated with Sri Ramakrishna and Swami Vivekananda; and today there are prominent devotees who, had it not been for their study of Henry Miller, would never have discovered Sri Ramakrishna.
           
            Mukerji wanted the West to find redemption and release from what he believed was a brutal, materialistic existence by discovering the spiritual wisdom of the East. He encouraged the activities of the small circles of Hindu adherents in America, while encouraging support for the welfare of his homeland, like an aid that he had tried to raise for the mission of education taken up by Tagore at Shantiniketan.
Leading American figures including writers such as Witter Bynner at Harvard, Arthur Upham Pope, a scholar of Persian art at the University of California and other eminent personalities were regular associates of the Mukerji couple. Amongst Mukerji’s closest friends was also Roger Baldwin, the founder of the American Civil Liberties Union. A political radical, Mukerji in America socialized with leftists, anarchists, free thinkers and fellow exiles, like M.N.Roy, whom he met in Palo Alto and introduced to New York society; it is also said that it was Mukerji who suggested the pseudonym “Manabendra” to Roy.
           
Mukerji was the first successful South Asian writer in the United States, who gradually gained recognition throughout the West. Yet he has for long been neglected and deprived of his due importance and people know very little about this prolific writer. I became interested in Mukerji not only because his works initiated the writing of prose and poetry by South Asian exiles in America but also because his works are an excellent source of social history of the South Asian immigrants of the time. And as the South Asian community keeps progressing in professional and academic settings in America, it only becomes increasingly pertinent for us to search for those drops in times past, that have created today’s ripples of robust cross cultural intellectual wealth. With this article, I also pay my tribute to all those South Asian brothers and sisters who over the past fifty years have helped us form our roots in our adopted homes abroad, in other significant ways.
   


***I sincerely thank Neetha Mahadevan, Reporter, Dow Jones and Co. Germany and my dear friend, for reviewing this article, which won the first position in the 2011 NetIP North America Conference contest: Drops. Ripples. Waves.

Friday, 18 March 2011

Nilu at Sundown: A short story

Nilu had just got off the elliptical trainer and was still panting heavily and sweating profusely when he overheard a conversation. "I was blown over by it", Claude was telling Steffi. "At what time did you reach?" Nilu heard Steffi inquire. "Around three in the afternoon", Claude replied."Hey Steffi, hi Claude", Nilu chimed in, "when did you return from Vegas and how was your trip?" Claude smiled and shaking Nilu's hand replied, "I returned on Thursday. It was a wonderful trip. I have been to so many places but never before did I see the sun setting in such beauty and grandeur as in Arizona, at the Grand Canyon. And how magnificent that Canyon is! It is so huge and so picturesque that all my senses were overwhelmed. We saw the sun set from Hopi Point. No visit to the Grand Canyon is complete unless you stayed for the sunset. The whole canyon was refulgent in a reddish tinge and as the colors of the sun, the shadows of the canyon and the light of the day danced about the canyon, myriad hues were created;  it was just amazing", said Claude with a long-drawn sigh.
 
                  For the last six years that Nilanjan Karmakar has been in Toronto, he had never visited any place other than Gerard street for a taste of Indian food and groceries, the nearby islands for summer recreation, the local library to quench his thirst for knowledge and occasionally to the Harbourfront center and the Rogers Stadium. He however never felt lonely, as he had a very close group of friends- two to be precise and both bachelors. Everyday after office the three would assemble at Nilu's house for a game of cards or for a movie. And most of the time dinner would come from a local Gujarati restaurant very close to Nilu's apartment. His bachelorhood was very precious to Nilu and he intended to preserve it with utmost diligence.
 
                  It was almost ten past eleven and Nilu should have reached his friend's apartment by now, as was customary for him on Sunday mornings. But today Nilu would not leave home. He would do something unprecedented; something that had probably never crossed anyone's mind. As Nilu sat down on the rich burgundy futon rubbing the last trickles of sweat off his sideburns and forehead, he pulled the table close to him. He would journey to search for the truth.  He began browsing for the most famous sunset points in the world. Nilu remembered an incident from long ago. On his eighth birthday, his parents had taken him to Darjeeling, a small hill station in the province of West Bengal in India. He remembered how on a bitterly damp and cold morning, his parents pulled him out of bed and asked him to get dressed up. They would visit the Tiger Hill, the summit of Ghoom. It was the highest railway station on the Darjeeling Himalayan Railway, which was famous for spectacular sunrise view over the Himalayas. The rest of the story seemed muffled now. He  only remembered being stubborn and reluctant, how he had wanted to stay home and sleep and how the entire  time of the sunrise he had kept sulking and pouting. There was nothing extraordinary about the sunrise at Tiger Hill; Nilu, now a man of forty seven thought to himself. Neither was the sunset at Puri as enthralling as people had promised it would be. Had his lack of maturity inhibited his inner eye of appreciation? Google was repeatedly suggesting a few destinations over and over again. Nilu copied them onto an excel sheet, worked out some figures and after almost three hours of weighing and meditating he finally came to a decision. He would travel to five different destinations: The Grand Canyon, Ipanema beach, Serengeti forest, the Egyptian pyramids and finally to the Taj Mahal, from where he would return to Canada. Nilu punched in ten digits and a travel agent answered the call.
Nilu: Hello Mr. Chang, this is Nilanjan Karmakar. We had spoken once regarding a Canada- India return trip.
Chang: Yes yes, I remember you Mr. Karmakar. Tell me, is it the same one again?
Nilu: This time it is a bigger trip. When is the best time to drop in at your office?
Chang: I am free this evening.
Nilu: See you around five then.

Nilu was besides himself with joy. For the first time in forty seven years of his life, he was going on a vacation by himself. Till his parents were alive, they had always accompanied him on his journeys and with them gone, he had lost all interest in traveling. The last time he had visited India was when his parents died in a tragic car accident and he was left alone forever.  His uncle's insistence too had failed to move Nilu from his resolve of not returning to his  homeland. "We are finally going to meet after a long time" Nilu thought aloud, as he stared at the name Taj Mahal written in bold on the excel sheet.

                    The next few months went by as fast as water snakes in stagnant ponds. Visas, documents, tickets, calculating the expenses, arranging for the money, applying for leaves; he had never been so busy. And as Nilu kept ticking off items on the checklist, he became more and more impatient to set out on his expedition.

                    The days of waiting ended. Everything was in place. All necessary documents and his passport were in the travel pouch, the bags were ready and by the door, his anxious and excited friends were embracing him and wishing him luck and everything was playing at a  tremendously slow motion inside Nilu's head.

                   Finally at the airport, alone and brooding, Nilu felt slight tremors down his knees. His throat kept drying up as he kept thinking about the entire journey and slight clouds of sweat gathered around his eyebrows. He checked his watch. It was almost time for the announcements; and no sooner had he thought about it, than the microphone crackled and came to life: "Good afternoon passengers. This is the pre-boarding announcement for WestJet flight 1116 to Las Vegas. We are now inviting passengers with small children..." Nilu's heart skipped a beat. Now there was no going back. Flinging his satchel across his shoulder, Nilu began his Herculean jaunt.

                By quarter past eleven Nilu had landed in the Sin City. He could see the Vegas skyline across the runway and hear his heart beating in his throat. Over the years he had heard so much about this temptress and had so many times fancied himself on the CSI team, cracking cases with the lash of his sharp intellect. He was really in that Vegas, thought Nilu as he joined the flow to the baggage claim.
In Vegas, Nilu spent two entire days and nights. Hopping from Mandalaya Bay to Fremont Street and stopping here and there in between, Nilu won a lot gambling and lost it all and more. Gorgeous girls, pretty lads, sound and light,  smell and sight, Nilu breathed all in and captured everything on his Fuji HS10. The next day he would be heading towards the first destination in search of truth. He would be going to the calm and colossal canyon.

              On the afternoon of 5th April, Nilu reached Grand Canyon. Standing at Hopi point, Nilu breathed in a new kind of fragrance; the fragrance of freedom, the fragrance of limitless expanse. A tear or two of exhilaration trickled down or may be it was a doing of the wind, but Nilu decided that he had had enough for the time being and would return before sunset. A little after five in the evening Nilu started walking towards the Rim trail from Maswick lodge, where he had rented a room. Walking westwards for about a mile, he returned to Hopi point. The sun started going down around half past six and Nilu watched in breathless silence as the shadows and colors leapt up and jumped down in unpremeditated art. In the following half hour, the camera had captured more than a dozen photographs and Nilu returned to his lodge, smiling the most contented smile that he had ever smiled.
 
                  Reaching Rio from Vegas was quite an ordeal. After flying for almost twenty one hours, and taking two stops, Nilu finally landed at the Rio de Janeiro Santos Dumont Airport at around three in the afternoon, on the 9th of April. He had lost an entire day as a result of traveling east. But that did not worry Nilu; he was drinking life to the lees. The airport was in the heart of the Rio de Janeiro city, so reaching his downtown hotel was not difficult. The following five days passed between jet lag and sightseeing and Nilu did all that his frail body, long unaccustomed to rigorous traveling, could endure. He tried the Feijoada,  washed it down with Caipirinha and then floated about on the streets, teeming with hundreds of pedestrians. Centro cultural do Banco do Brasil, Casa Brasil França, Centro cultural dos correiros, Museu nacional de belas artes, everything around him was alive with fun, melody and laughter. Nilu took a city tour which included a visit to the statue of Christ the Redeemer and a  cable car ride to Morro da Urca. Later, he spent some quiet time by himself, pondering over  the last few days, at the Rodrigo de Freitas lagoon. "What was I doing all these years!" Nilu cried out in delightful amazement.
Extending for about two kilometers, the Ipanema was a beach of silvery white sand. "Tall and tanned and young and lovely...When she moves it's like a samba that swings so cool and sways so gently..." Nilu smiled to himself as he looked around in amusement. And after navigating his way through bars, restaurants, cafes and gorging himself on Globo cookies,  corn on the cob and grilled shrimps, Nilu plopped down on the sand, filled to the top like a pitcher. The blazing orange orb gradually dipped itself into the depths of the cool blue sea and his camera filled with memories, Nilu returned to his hotel to start packing for the African escapade.


             From Brazil to Tanzania, Nilu slept as much as he could. He ate very little, left his seat only the two times that he was required to change flights and reached Serengeti on a hot wet afternoon. Serengeti could well have been named serenity, thought Nilu, as his plane from Arusha alighted on the Seronera Airstrip in the heart of the national park. The high expenditures involved in staying in this wild garden of Eden had forced Nilu to sojourn at Serengeti for merely three exclusive nights, which he would spend in a safari camp. Once off his airplane, Nilu was escorted by Odongo, his tour operator, to the first camping site. Here a thatched tent furnished with a classic interior awaited him in hermetic cordiality. Camping at Klein's, Nilu encountered two august members of the cat family: a strong and beautiful lioness glistening under the fiery sun and an elusive leopard crouched upon a thick bough of a huge tree. Distant calls of hyenas, chirping of birds, rhythmic beats of hooves and occasional trumpets of elephants rang through the vast barren plains of Serengeti. The land here seemed to move forever. Proceeding from the Grumeti River Camp to Serengeti Under Canvas, Nilu saw beasts both great and small; massed herds stirring the dust, hippos grunting, gazelles sprinting, elephants immersed in their mud bath, zebras rubbing their heads against each other and unperturbed  crocodiles in waterholes . Trees too, there were many. The lean tall Acacia standing lonely, deep green Doum palms shiny and succulent under the blazing sun and proud baobab trees whose branches looked like gnarled roots ,were among the few that Odongo pointed out along their journey. A couple from  New York,  another from Texas and a photographer from Australia had been accompanying Nilu on his wild African safari and every evening they would sit huddled together near the bonfires, sipping steaming hot coffee and watching the sun go down in majestic splendor. The vast open skies of Serengeti was a kaleidoscope of ever changing colors and the sun would very tardily melt down this sublime canvas streaking shades of pastel hues till a sudden curtain of darkness would engulf the entire plain. And as he sat photographing this expansive beauty of fire, Nilu would often get goosebumps watching animal silhouettes against the setting sun, reminiscing scenes from The Lion King.
                    
              Leaving the land of the wild cats, Nilu began traveling eastwards towards the land of the Pharaohs, on the 16th of April. From JRO to Mombasa, to Addis Ababa to Cairo, it took Nilu  eleven and half hours to reach his destination. However tired he was, nothing could dampen his spirits as Nilu collected his bags, some local currency and then hop-skipping his way through the chaos stricken Cairo roads, reached his hotel in Giza early in the evening of 17th April. The constant swerving of time zones had tossed Nilu's hibernation cycle into a perpetual uncertainty. So after a disruptive sopor Nilu rose early and greeted the rising sun from the window of his room. The following few days were spent hotfooting across Cairo. The Babylon Fortress, Hanging Church, museums, tombs, mosques and towers, Egypt abounded in historical monuments standing in quiet dignity in the drifting sand. The lofty relics deluged his mind and Nilu felt cloistered, introspective and tranquil. A similar feeling prevailed as Nilu headed towards the south of the Pyramids at Giza and sat down on the dunes, to wait for the sun to go down. The eye of heaven started closing down on Cairo around six in the evening. And as Nilu kept searching for new angles to shoot from, the Olympian disc turned golden from yellow, then orange and finally sank behind the great pyramids, enshrouded in blood red clouds. As soon as the city was plunged into darkness, and the numerous incandescent lamps brightened up, Nilu headed towards the Khan Al-Khaili bazar. Here he hunted for the cheapest buffet, consumed a hearty dinner of taa'miya and fetyeer, caught up with a Belly dancing show, and then returned to his hotel a little after half past ten. Lying in his soft white bed, Nilu could see his old beloved Delhi increasingly lustrous across the ceiling.  It flickered and floated and then vanished as he gradually drifted off to sleep.


             The lukewarm city witnessed a long awaited reunion on a cumbrous humid evening. "Mama!"cried an emotional Nilu as he embraced his maternal uncle affectionately. Six years ago his uncle had seemed so much more stout and young; something seemed to have stripped him of his verve. And Nilu resolved to restore his uncle to his old vitality. Time flew fast at uncle's Kalkaji flat. Familiar anecdotes, aunt's toothsome home cooked food and lots of stories of Nilu's recent adventures had begun returning the ruddiness on his uncle's cheeks. Together the three toured entire Delhi and Nilu visited the house where he had been born and brought up, his old school and college, friends, neighbors and a host of other places where bits of him still lay scattered about. He cried a lot, he laughed a lot, ate, slept and breathed in life through all his senses; and by the end of the week he felt free from all fatigue and weariness.

Nilu had visited the Taj Mahal more than a dozen times during the forty years of growing up in Delhi. Yet every time he returned, the magnificent marble mausoleum always took his breath away. The exuberant dome, the delicate calligraphy and the shear beauty and proportions of the edifice stupefied him and filled him with exultation. Here he first caught the sun halfway between the pale purple sky and the effulgent orange Yamuna, then many more times, till it slumped into the river and was gone for the night.


The parting day arrived rather quickly. And after exchanging embraces and promising to return soon, Nilu departed for Canada.

              It had been more than three weeks since he had returned, and sitting down on his old futon, Nilu started going through the photographs of his month long incredible trip, that he had just received. The quest for truth that Nilu had undertaken had proved to be staggeringly expensive and had absolutely wrenched him of his energy; yet it had left him wanting for more. Nilu was about to earn himself a reputation for his expertise on sunsets. Now he would be able to show Claude and the like that he too had an eye for beauty; soon they would know what an adventurer he was! His egotism enlarged by this envisioned success, Nilu attempted to pick out the best place from where one should see the setting sun. Was it from the deserts? Maybe the sea...or river probably...then again, over the plains it looked equally enrapturing, thought Nilu. Suddenly, he came upon some pictures that he could not place with any of the five destinations that he had recently been to. This amber sun amidst  the sapphire sheet looked surreal; it appeared like an oil painting freshly done on a lazuline canvas with meticulous strokes of color. Nilu soon realized that it was a photograph of the sun setting right across his apartment. He had taken a few shots to practice the art  before leaving for his vacation and had forgotten to delete them.

                  A crooked smile conjured up on Nilu's mouth as he kept staring at the photograph. Gazing up at the window, he saw his reflection  mocking  at his mortified vanity; outside  the distant sun kept glaring down on mankind.
              

Tuesday, 15 March 2011

In dedication to the Master Crafter of stories

During the World Economic Forum at Davos, the winner of the Nobel Prize for Peace, Shimon Peres told the following story:


A Rabbi gathered together his students & asked them: "How do we know the exact moment when night ends & day begins?"


The boys came up with different answers:


One said : "when it's light enough to tell a sheep from a dog";
another quipped: "No, when it's light enough to tell an olive tree from a fig tree."


However, none of the answers seemed to satisfy the Rabbi.


"Well, what's the right answer then?" asked the boys.


"When a stranger approaches, & we think he is our brother, & all conflicts disappear, that is the moment when night ends & day begins" said the Rabbi.


                                                 From  "Like the Flowing River" by Paulo Coelho

Saturday, 12 March 2011

A pinch of salt

Shailaja was gently running the comb through her long dark well-oiled hair as Nalini sat on the chair, intently gazing at herself in the mirror. "Am I pretty Ammu?” she suddenly asked.  Her mother, who had been accustomed to this question, answered as always, "You are sweetheart!" This had become a mother-daughter ritual between Shailaja and Nalini ever since Mayuri had joined Nalini's class in the tenth grade; three years ago, to be precise. Mayuri's heart-shaped glowing face with its disarming dimpled smile and demure eyes was dancing like a flame on the mirror in which her dark corpulent body was gradually fading away. She peered close into the mirror and dilated her round brown eyes bordered by thick dark brows. It was time to remove the lenses. Back in India, she was used to wearing thick glasses in the range of -12. She had worn them since she was five, which had earned her names like chashmish or chaar ankh from her classmates. With her lenses out of the way, Nalini bared her teeth and the gold-plated stainless steel braces stared back at her. She was allergic to nickel, a common component of the traditional braces. And while clear braces were considered too fancy and brittle by her mother, the titanium ones were too costly. Left with no choice, she had to stick to the vicious gold ones. "Do all bad things have to happen to me?" she cried aloud, "spectacles, nickel allergy and even a mole on the chin? why God why?"

With heart as heavy as lead, she dragged her body to the bed, put her night cap on and crashed into the cold comforter. Sleep was far from the eyes and she kept staring at the ceiling. Nalini had immigrated to Canada from Hyderabad six years ago with her family. Once in Canada, the family took up residence in a small Telugu neighborhood and her parents started working at a large warehouse store in the vicinity. Nalini had quickly become popular in class. Obedient and modest by nature, hardworking and studious, she had won many friends as well as the affection of her teachers. Everything was going very well for her; good grades, annual awards, life was rewarding if not perfect. However, all good things come with expiry dates, so did her happiness, which expired in 2009. Mayuri was a tall fair athletic Tamil speaking Canadian. She was the daughter of a bank consultant and had taken a transfer to Nalini's school after her father had to relocate. With her angelic face, charming smile and perfect curves she quickly became the subject of discussion for the small community of South Asian students attending the school. While many of the girls befriended her to bask in her reflected glory, the boys fought over who she would date next. And then there were the rest who were jealous and therefore, indifferent. Nalini differed from everyone in her opinion of Mayuri. She knew that behind those coy eyes and captivating smile, was a girl who was as insecure as she. However, Nalini always felt painfully self-conscious around Mayuri because her homeliness magnified manifolds whenever Mayuri was around. So Nalini strived to maintain her distance from Mayuri, even as she kept watching her friends disappear one after the other from her side, until she was left with two- Ashley and Yung, who had absolutely no knowledge of this community's dynamics. But life never forgives those who hide behind their melancholia. Amongst Mayuri's latest victories was Arvind, Nalini's most cherished neighbor and long-hidden crush. In short, Mayuri was the reason for her heart-break and Nalini felt absolutely defeated. Since then, three years passed like three great Canadian winters. She has acquired new friends, grieved the loss of old ones and safeguarded the friendship of Ashley and Yung with all her care and attention. She studied hard and prayed harder so her miseries could expire just like her happiness once did. Someone above had heard her prayers; it was all going to be over. By the end of the week she will be free, or so she thought.
It was the morning of her second semester chemistry examination. These were the final set of examinations that would qualify her for the university, where she had decided to pursue a degree in architecture. Every thing was going fine. Her art works were in place, English paper had gone better than she expected. Physics, Calculus and advanced functions to go, she thought, as she quaffed down the last few ounces of milk from the cornflakes bowl. This was the only way by which Nalini could prove her superiority. She would prove to the world that beauty was just skin deep. She would obtain those things in life that were beyond the reach of Mayuri. And when Mayuri would be dusting files, she would be making the strongest bridges and the grandest buildings of Canada. Nalini could smell the fragrance of victory as she lifted the salt shaker to sprinkle some grains onto her tongue, as her mother had over sweetened the milk. Unfortunately, in her exuberance she accidentally sprinkled the salt right into her throat. The salt made her so nauseous that she had to rush to the washroom and vomit her breakfast out.
Utterly disgusted with herself, Nalini left for school early. The day however turned out better than she had anticipated and chemistry surprisingly proved to be better than English. To add to her joy, while leaving she found Mayuri sitting at her desk and staring at her paper as though she were seeing a ghost!

This morning, it was a no to cornflakes given yesterday's debacle. Her mother had cooked Nimmakaya pulihora for an evening get together and she sat down for a hearty brunch. No sooner had she started to eat than she bit a fiercely hot green chilly. Stung by the burning sensation Nalini felt as though she was choking.  She began to sweat profusely, her legs grew wobbly and her vision started to blur. Soon her eyes started watering and her face went red. She gulped down two glasses of water and ended up vomiting again. Disquieted by the untoward beginning of the day, Nalini initiated a heated debate over the usage of chilies in the preparation of food with her mother; "antha mana manchike", was mother’s optimistic conclusion. The examination went as Nalini had expected making her forget all her complaints. She went back home, apologized to her mother and after brushing up for her Calculus exam for a while, Nalini went off to bed.  
           
Wednesday morning sailed smoothly. Nalini stuck to bread, butter and a banana and nothing went wrong. At school, she sat down contentedly at her desk and began waiting for the question paper.  But as she started writing the test, she realized that this paper would not go as well. In fact, by the end of the exam her face looked exactly the same as Mayuri's had.
                
Friday saw an anxious awakening. Far from being confident, she sat at the breakfast table, reviewing her notebooks and making a mental note of all the things that could prove useful for the examination.

Nalini could hear her heart beating louder and louder, as she sat at the desk reading the question paper. And suddenly, it stopped with a thud. She panicked realizing that she would run out of choices. Terrified, Nalini sprang up from her seat, managed to excuse herself and dashed to the toilet where she emptied herself out into the washstand. Splashing some water on her face, she steadied herself to face the ordeal. Strangely enough, the paper seemed to reveal another question. She had been magically awarded her last selection and restored in her comfort zone. Her face beamed as she completed her test and returned home, immensely satisfied with her performance. It seemed as though the disgorgement God presiding over her abdomen was presently presiding over her performance in the examinations as well.
                
The days of torment were over. University was now awaiting Nalini, where she would not allow any Mayuri to break her spirit. There remained just one obstacle- the interview. In order to be accepted at the university for the course of Architecture, Nalini will have to face an interview and a written examination in English. And she would begin preparing for the same, wasting no time.
                
The fateful day finally arrived. She had asked her mother to prepare Nimmakaya pulihora with lots of chilies. Nalini woke up early and after the morning chores were done with, she treated herself to a bowl of cornflakes. An hour later, she helped herself to two servings of the rice. She wanted, she intended, she had arranged to vomit. To that end, Nalini deliberately bit a chilly, stuck her finger in her throat and finally poured a generous pinch of salt down her epiglottis. Yet nothing happened; she could not make herself disgorge so much as a speck or a grain. Feeling absolutely incapacitated, she gathered her folders and headed to the venue of her interview. Throughout the day, she kept feeling uneasy and often her stomach would emit strange sounds. Every now and then she felt nauseous, yet she was unable to relieve herself from the agony. The interview and the written exam were equally abominable as Nalini kept striving to deal with her discomfort. Utterly ashamed of her own conduct, Nalini returned home feeling sick and exhausted. Shailaja detected Nalini's discomposure and advised her to take a bath and join the family for dinner. As soon as she entered the bathroom, her stomach twitched, her mouth bloated, and she immediately hurled. Running some water in the washbowl and splashing it on her face Nalini looked up at the mirror in utter disbelief. Irony of life?



Friday, 11 March 2011

An Indian encounter


Having lived for 25 years of my life in India, I immigrated to Canada in 2009, seeking admission to PhD program in English Literature. And when sitting around for two years had catapulted my weight from 54.5 kgs to 65 kgs, I decided that the time to visit the gym had finally arrived.
So one auspicious morning I dressed myself in gym attires and dragged myself reluctantly to the seventh floor, where my destiny was waiting to be chiseled. Climbing up a short flight of stairs I reached a parlor, which was quite evidently used for stretching and toning before venturing into the main course of exercises. On the far right hand side corner, two elderly ladies were occupying two large exercise mats and talking amongst themselves while stretching out the last fibers of tired muscles before calling it a day. And midway between the ladies and me, a skinny man with high and prominent cheekbones was absorbed in doing ball squats. So I took up a spot on the left near the entrance of the weight room, and had just got seated on a big blue exercise ball to attempt abdominal crunches, when the old man came up behind me. “It’s such a windy and damp day outside, eh?” I turned my neck around to catch a glimpse of the speaker who had a rich baritone voice. From the corner of my eyes I could see the tall bearded man in a brick red cap, flipping through the pile of mats on the rack. “So it has been”, I replied.
Spreading his paraphernalia on the ground, he sat down not far from me. “New to the Condo?” he inquired. “Yes, been here for two months now. I was in Oakville before coming here”. We were sitting adjacent to each other, with a gap of two feet between us at the most and I could see his face in the mirror that covered the wall in front of us. He appeared to be in his seventies, had brown (almost oriental) eyes, was at least five feet and ten inches in height, tawny-brown in complexion, had short, scruffy and thin whitish brown beard and wore a cap on his head. “So are you from Toronto?” I heard him ask. “No, I have come to Canada two years ago. I am an Indian”, I replied. “What a coincidence!  Which part of India are you from?” "Calcutta", I replied, "are you from India too?"
"About fifty three years ago," he said, "hoping to save me from police action, my parents sent me to Japan to study industrial machinery”. “Police action?” I spurted out in amazement. “Yes, I was born in Punjab and like many of my friends, I was hot headed and impulsive. India had just passed a bill making Kashmir a part of the Union. And there were frequent riots in our part of the country. I got involved somehow.” He stopped for a while as he sat on his mat, hanging his head between his knees. “I will not deny”, he continued, “that initially I was fascinated with Japan’s positivist spirit of industrialization; but gradually, I became deeply disillusioned by the assembly line method of production. It was inhuman and insensate. As a young boy I was dismayed at how the assembly line workers who had suffered serious accidents were quickly replaced by other workers, without consideration by the factory owners. They were neither given health benefits nor adequate compensation. So one day, I boarded a ship for San Francisco.  For thirty one nights I sailed on a passenger ship; watching at the deck, cleaning and moping I reached San Francisco, a tired and worn out man. In America, I fell in with a number of dirt-poor taxi drivers, while looking for a way to support myself. Gradually I moved to Canada.”
He had begun to gather his keys and bottle of water and was getting up to put his mat away when I said, “What an adventurous and remarkable story! you are the most interesting Indian I have met so far. My grandfather was a freedom fighter and I have heard many of his pre-independence time stories. However, they were handed down to me second hand, as he had died very young and I had never met him in person”. I was still sitting on the exercise ball and shaking my head in amusement. "Yes," said the stranger, as he was about to go out. "There are three extraordinary facts in my story. One is that it should be possible for the Punjabis, a comparatively small community of India to make such a great presence felt in Canada. Another one is that the physical features of the original narrator of the story should bear so close resemblance with mine; we are both bearded, tawny, have brown eyes and high cheek bones- a gift of old age for him I guess. Isn’t it?"  I turned my head in bewilderment. I thought I had misheard. But there he stood at the door with a wide grin, his eyes twinkling with the success of his antic. “I had chanced upon this gentleman at the Art Gallery sometime ago, while visiting the Maharaja exhibition that had come down from the Albert and Victoria museum of London.  He was talking about his grandfather, and how  his grandfather had escaped from the police by running away to Japan in 1910; and how he had this amazingly adventurous journey from India to Canada and I kept thinking what it would be like to live his experience. Finding you here today, I thought of taking my chances. So take no offense my dear, forgive this old man’s mischief.”
“Oh my God!” I said. I could not help but laugh at what had just happened. I could not believe that I had fallen for this. I should have understood that I was being gulled; what kind of an Indian has such an outlandish accent, no matter how long he has stayed out of India? I thought. Yet, I argued in my mind, did not Columbus make the same mistake?  And it is no travesty of truth that very often it is difficult to predict the ancestry of a person judging by the color of the skin.  Like my light brown skin and facial structure often make people mistake me for a Brazilian, Argentinian or even Caribbean.  “So, the third extraordinary thing about your story is obviously that you are not an Indian” I said, still laughing at my foolishness.  "Oh, the third thing," he said, stepping outside the parlor but still holding the door ajar. "The third extraordinary thing about my story is that although I was not born in India, the Canadian Constitution calls me an Indian; we are Katzie. Goodnight, see you tomorrow"




Thursday, 10 March 2011

Hin-dos and Hin-don'ts

The world of today is a global village. With the given statistics of outsourcing, growth of multi-national corporations and immigration, the white and the black and the brown and the yellow at the turn of the century, are becoming used to dwelling in a monochromatic harmony. And as this global economic market is feeling threats of cross-cultural and organizational issues every now and then, subjects like organizational behaviour and corporate communication are emerging as compulsory core courses in International business study programs. My husband happens to be a student at the Schulich school of business in Toronto and I recently came across an assignment that was due for his second semester core course submission. The "Team Case Analysis" describes the situation of Ellen More, an U.S. citizen, who encounters a number of problems while working on a project in Korea. While analyzing her situation, what emerges as the root of the problem, is a cliched yet serious   East vs. West interpersonal relationships issue. It appears that the conflict between the N. American and the Korean team members is a result of the differences in their perspectives on communication.  While Koreans are influenced by Confucianism and place emphasis on social relationships, collectivism and allegiance to a group, Americans are more inclined towards individualism. Although Ellen attended most of the after work parties to familiarize herself with the Korean team members, her lack of orientation with Korean culture hindered her ability to foster interpersonal relationships extending beyond the business transactions. At those gatherings she was always considered as a “foreigner” who adheres to the notion of self-reliant individual.
As Confucian philosophy tends to be more patriarchal, gender biases may also have played a role in Ellen’s lack of success with the team. In fact, many companies refuse to send women managers abroad because they believe that foreigners are so prejudiced against women that the female managers will not succeed (Alder, 1994). For Ellen, the stereotype of women and their abilities as leaders in Asia may have created significant roadblocks in leading and managing the project. 
        Over the few decades India has burgeoned into a global back office. She has been able to effectively meet the growing international demand for call center outsourcing services by providing cost-effective services and customer-oriented call centers. The voice and accent trainers at these centres train hundreds of young men and women to mimic accents and conversational mannerisms of the countries that they serve like America and Australia and give them new names; so Samrat becomes Sam and Nalini becomes Nelly to win the confidence of the Western client. With such new avenues opening up, many non residential Indians (expats) and foreigners are flocking to India to take up positions in the higher tiers. However trite or banal it may seem, it is worth the mention that the work culture in India can strike you like a bolt from the blue if you’re not prepared. Google it and you will find several films like Outsourced and Angrez that will give you the perfect picture. It is always better to stick to the major metropolitan cities like Calcutta, Mumbai, Pune, Bangalore, Hyderabad, Delhi, and Chennai  as working in smaller towns and rural areas may prove to be frustrating not only because of power failures, substandard transportation and communication snags but also because of the cultural barriers that one is bound to experience.
           Having said this let me explain myself better. Given below, is the current distribution of Population by religious groups, as per Census 2001:
Of the total population of India in 2001, 80.5 per cent are Hindus while Muslims account for 13.4 percent and Christians 2.3 percent respectively of the total population. In absolute numbers, approximately 828 million are Hindus while Muslims are around 138 million out of India’s total population of approximately 1,029 million. Sikhs account for 1.9 per cent of the total population. The proportion of Buddhists, Jains and other religions are 0.8 per cent, 0.4 per cent and 0.6 per cent respectively. 
It is clear then that the unique demographics of India make it a cradle of millions if not billions of cultural practices, beliefs and attitudes. Hindus being majority of the population, India is often perceived as Hindu-sthan or the land of the Hindus, despite its multi-religious make. Meera Nanda, an author and a visiting fellow at the Jawaharlal Nehru University remarks that the middle-class Indians are becoming actively religious as they are becoming prosperous. The last decade has seen the proliferation of powerful new god-men, a massive rise in temple rituals, the creation of new gods, and the increased demand for priests. Hinduism has entered public life as well with politicians regularly using pujas and yajnas in their campaigning. She also notes that the state is enabling this Hinduization with the help of the private sector. From actively promoting religious tourism, to handing over higher education to private sector institutions, some of whom use religious trusts to run these institutions and impart ‘value-based’ education, to giving away land at highly subsidized rates to gurus and god-men, many of the privatization measures of the government are linked with the promotion of Hinduism.
I was born in a Hindu family and grew up studying the Old and the New Testaments, while educating myself at a Christian Missionary school, which was once home to Mother Teressa, internationally known as a humanitarian and advocate for the poor and helpless. Many of my Canadian neighbours express their surprise at this and I am often asked why I did not go to a school made for the Hindus, like many Muslims in our country go to the Madrasahs. And I always reply in the words of a great author:
No matter what community you take, if it has lived long enough in India it will bear the marks of that other-worldliness which has been the main feature of our spirit for fifty centuries. (Mukerji, Disillusioned India)
So, despite the occasional maliciousness and chaos of communal riots, we keep partaking in each others festivals, celebrations and cultures; and yes, we all go to missionary schools.
Now, this is not about how much harmony we live in. This is about the harmony that a foreigner would need, to make it in this land of baffling extremities. Having witnessed many cross-cultural queries and misunderstandings, I have taken it upon myself to write this article, to make certain things easier and more predictable. Here below is  an urban, Hindu, Bengali Indian woman's understanding of the traditions and ways of communicating with others in India, that will give a new comer quite a bit of ground to start taking his steps to a greater understanding of this part of South East Asia.
I call these observations, the Hin-dos and the Hin-don'ts!

Some Hin-dos at Office-
  • Namaste- When greeting business colleagues it is polite for Indians to hold their hands together below the chin, nod or bow slightly, and say namaste. It is an old Hindu practice which was meant to be translated as the physical show of one's respect for the other, believing that there is a God inside all. So, it is much like a praying posture. With time this practice became secular. And in the 21st century India handshakes are also considered appropriate.                                                                      
  • Love talking in our mother tongue- Well, Who doesn't. If you want to become a Roman quickly in this Rome, try infusing a few words of Hindi or some other local language into your speech. It exudes a semblance of brotherhood and gains you acceptance by your colleagues especially in places like Kolkata and Mumbai. In Kolkata, knowing and utilizing the concept of dada has its own benefits. Greeting an older man as Dada, is equivalent to calling him big brother, and people in Kolkata like it because it acts as a verbal display of respect. Similarly, you would address an older woman didi.
  • Up close & personal- Don’t be too offended if your peer tries to get too personal. He is probably trying to make conversation and break the ice.The typical Indian is quite inquisitive. Most will not shy away from inquiring about your marital status, family, health, dogs, cats or even salary. Some will even offer unsolicited advice on your personal life. Be polite but firm. While you do not need to give away your entire biography, it is important for you to make these connections. Since most people here are family-oriented; so, inquire about your colleagues families would help you score their amiability.
  • Siestas- The invention of time an author once said is a Western phenomenon. Here in the tame tame East, we seldom go wild with work. A Business Meeting beginning half an hour after the scheduled time is not uncommon. Indians appreciate punctuality but may not reciprocate it. It is advisable to make appointments at least one month in advance and confirm them when arriving in India. A flexible schedule will prove useful.And although arriving late is not encouraged, it is not punished either. My advice to a new comer will be to try to be tolerant of distorted time-schedules. Indians don’t believe in speed and can always conjure up a proverb or two to support this ancient practice. A proverb of the like in my mother tongue says: Shobure mewa phawle; meaning, patience brings about good results.
  •  Yes Boss- Traditionally a caste society with roots in Hinduism, Indian culture places a high importance on authority and status. Communication between levels is relatively closed so valuable insight or suggestions from employees in lower positions will rarely be shared with their superiors. In traditional firms employees address their bosses as “Sir” or “Madam”. However, being on a first name basis with your boss is catching up. This trend began with the arrival of the Business Process Outsourcing & IT industries in India. Be observational about the work culture.   Within the system of hierarchy in the Indian work place, senior colleagues and especially elders are obeyed and respected. Discussions are almost always lead by the most senior person.Final decisions rest with the highest-ranking business executives, therefore it is important to maintain strong relationships with senior figures in Indian business. However, despite the distinguished hierarchical system, the relationship between an Indian boss and his employee can be similar to that of close relatives; often reminiscent of a relationship between father and son or older and younger brothers. This is a direct influence of the community life experienced for thousands of years in India and the ancient Hindu practices of Guru and Shishya (teacher and student) and Agraj and Anuj (elder and younger)                                                                
  • Consider feet are unclean- Footsie or the action of touching someone else's feet with one's own (e.g. under a table) translates as flirtation in the West or often also as a surreptitious interaction or cooperation. Indians however consider the feet unclean; therefore you must never point your feet at a person or try communicating something by means of touching someone's feet with your own. If a situation occurs when you need to show a surreptitious interaction or cooperation, you may wink at your partner or silently nod your support. However, it should also be remembered that this pattern of non-verbal communication usually occurs between two men; as winking at a lady will be understood as a disrespectful action.
  • Mr., Ms., Mrs.- Do use titles wherever possible, such as “Professor” or “Doctor”. If your Indian counterpart does not have a title, use “Mr”, “Mrs”, or “Miss”. Indians always consider this as a mark of respect.
  •  Participate- Like in other Asian cultures, community eating and drinking is an important part of establishing relationships in India. Unless you are suffering from a gastrointestinal syndrome (stomach upset, ache, indigestion, acidity, etc) avoid refusing any food or drink offered to you during business meetings as this may cause offense. In addition, it is useful to bear in mind that traditionally, Hindu Indians are vegetarians and do not drink alcohol.
  •  Fasts- That Hindu Indians have many Gods and Goddesses is a well known fact. What is lesser known is that there is a fast day dedicated to many of these Gods and Gddesses.
  •  Monday                                                                                                                                  Monday is dedicated to Lord Shiva. It is said that Lord Shiva is easily pleased. Therefore many people observe Upvaas (fasting)on Monday. Those devotees observing fast only eat food once. People visit Lord Shiva shrines and conduct pujas, especially, Ardhanarishwara puja. The mantra ‘Om Namah Shivaya’ is chanted continuously. Siva devotees also read Shiva Purana. Unmarried women observe the Vrat (votive fasting rites) to get good husbands. Others observe it for a happy and prosperous family life. 
  •  Tuesday                                                                                                                                 Tuesday is dedicated to Lord Ganesha, Durga, Goddess Kali and Lord Hanuman. Most devotees visit Devi and Hanuman shrines. Those people who fast avoid taking food containing salt at night.
  •  Wednesday                                                                                                                       Wednesday is dedicated to planet Mercury and Lord Vithal, an incarnation of Krishna. Green color leaves, especially Tulsi leaves, are used in Pujas. The day is highly auspicious for starting new ventures and it is believed that those who observe the Vrat are bound to get blessed with fortunes. People also give alms on the day 
  • Thursday                                                                                                                              Thursday is dedicated to Lord Vishnu and his incarnations. Pujas are conducted using milk, ghee etc. Food is only eaten once and that too containing milk products. People read Srimad Bhagavad Purana on the day. 
  • Friday                                                                                                                                         Friday is dedicated to Mother Goddess – Mahalakshmi, Santhosi Ma, Annapuraneshwari and Durga. Sweets are distributed on the day. Those devotees observing the Vrat make it a point to eat at night.
  •  Saturday                                                                                                                                   Saturday is dedicated to alleviating the bad influence of Lord Shani. The Vrat on this day is mainly observed by those people who believe in Hindu astrology. Black is the color of the day and people visit Shani shrine or Navagraha shrines. Food is only consumed once on the day                                                                                                               
  •  
    Then again, the days and the deities dedicated to the day vary according to the province, class and  castes of the people observing the rites. You can always ask your colleagues before arranging an office outing or after office gustatory venture, to confirm if they will be able to join.

So much for now, see you soon with more Hin-dos in Joyee Nation!!

Saturday, 5 March 2011

Flood Now???


             Winter is a major event in Canada. Probably bigger than spring break. It is that time of the year
"When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold"; 
and here January is the cruelest month, not April :)
 
On a fine cold morning of winter 2009 (The year of my advent to Canada), when 
I was talking to my mother over the phone, I told her that it was -21 degrees. 
Her reply was: "Minus 21?? Doesn't that happen in Alaska?" 
Well, winter in Toronto this year has been so severe that Alaskans are feeling comforted! Temperatures reached -50 in Ontario and heavy snowfall had become an every day affair. To top it all, windchill ranging from -7 to -21 was making outdoor activities so difficult that I had to waver my favourite winter activity. Yes, ice skating went out of question for even many of my dauntless Canadian neighbours. However, the good news is, spring is on its way and gradually making its entrance into our heath-life. Wait a minute! Did I say good news? Flip the coin and see the ghost... and the ghost here is a flood system. At eight in the morning, this is the first news I get: "lots of spring showers have been forecasted for the following weeks". More rain equals to more rundowns and rainwater causing the ice to melt, causing local floods. No wonder, I see water-proofing advertisements everyday, all day long on the TV. And now that I am sitting by the window,  listening to the incessant pitter-patter of the rain, I am wondering if it was as good an idea leaving one extreme climate for another as I had thought. My journey from India to Canada amongst other things has been a journey from positive 40 degree Celsius to negative 40... now lets search for the one that will be a fine balance...

See you soon in Joyee-nation!

Thursday, 3 March 2011

Travels across the Whites..

Distant Coasts
1/2 feet under
Hibernation


Le arbre noir
Still Waters
Glazed

Against the Wall

Quest
Whitemare