Monday, September 21, 2009
Sunday, August 30, 2009
A long trip
Seen in a recent Facebook status message: "Going to a 90's themed party this weekend! Trying to remember what I wore back then".
Excuse me?! A 90's themed party? Boy, I feel old. Maybe Facebook should have age appropriateness filters for its news feeds. Something like "Trust me, reading this will only make you reach for a tub of ice cream". To me the 90's feel like just the other day, I am always caught by surprise when I do the math and realise how many years it has been. Or when I indulge in nostalgia and realise how far back my memories go...
Far back indeed, to times and people that are nearly forgotten unless I go searching for them. Things I expected to remember always, like the time I spent in Bangalore. Right after college and before I went to grad school in New York, I spent some time working in Bangalore. It was my first time living away from home. I was looking forward to the experience and the freedom. The experience was interesting, although the freedom was a little wanting.
As a young, single woman, you see, living alone was quite out of the question. And since I didn't have any friends to share a house with, my best option was a PG (paying guest) accommodation. In theory, this meant living with a family in their house - occupying a bedroom, sharing the family meals - you know, sort of like a guest, except paying for it. In practice, this picture turned out to be somewhat optimistic. Paying guest accommodations were a lucrative business in Bangalore, since a large number of single people migrated there for work and college. And so people tried to maximise their opportunity. Most of the places I saw accommodated several girls in a single room. Beds were lined up along all the walls, 5 or 6 to a room, with some more in the hallway shielded by a thin curtain for privacy.
I saw such appalling places that Mrs C's house seemed like a veritable luxury. She lived in a very quiet, pleasant and upscale neighbourhood. A simple 2 story bungalow in a cul de sac. "Aunty-ji" was a cultured, well spoken, military widow about 75 years old. She was clearly a cut above all the other landladies I had encountered. The living quarters consisted of three bedrooms and two bathrooms upstairs, that were shared by 7 women. By now I had realised that this was about as good as it would get, and signed on immediately. I moved in the next day and Aunty-ji became my landlady.
Aunty-ji was a very interesting person, and I always respected her. If I felt no warmer emotion, the fault was not mine. She had lived a full life and in her benevolent moments she would tell us stories. The time she been brought out to sing in front of Mahatma Gandhi, an eight year old girl with an angelic voice. The picture of her as a school girl giving something to (or was it receiving something from) then Prime Minister Nehru. How she and her family were living in Lahore before independence, and had to flee when the partition happened. And her brother, an airforce pilot, commandeered a military plane and flew them out to India with 'nothing but the clothes on their backs'.
We respected her for her forceful personality and her fierce independence. She was determined to earn her own keep, although she had two wealthy children who could look after her very well. So she opened her house up to paying guests, and taught music lessons in her garage. She took no nonsense from anyone, stood strong on her principles and usually got what she wanted.
But while admiring her in the abstract, we objected to many of the particulars. She had an overbearing personality and a fickle temper. She was snobbish and looked down on many of her "girls" as not being her social equals. To hear her, you'd think she was doing charity work - giving home and shelter to young women out of the kindness of her heart, and the rent was a purely nominal business. Worst of all was her inexcusable prejudice against South Indians, ridiculous considering she had spent most of her life living in - South India. She would often pass snide remarks about their collective character, hygiene and courage. And how it was the North Indians who fought for independence and all the subsequent wars. On the one hand I was disgusted by her views, on the other a lifetime's ingrained values made it literally impossible for me to remonstrate with someone her age.
It was ironic that the girl who most liked her and always stood up for her was from Kerala. For a time, we had three sophisticated Punjabi girls living with us and Aunty was thrilled to bits about it. She would talk to them in Punjabi, share jokes and discuss food and was downright rude to the Keralite. The Punjabi girls were disgusted by the accommodations and the rules, told us we were silly to put up with it all and left within a couple of months. Aunty was crushed and forced to fall back on her unwilling friendship with the Keralite. I got along fine with her, being neither from the north nor the south and although no socialite, my family background was graciously deemed good enough.
But to truly understand our relationship, you have to hear about the rules. We had to be home by 10pm and we could never have visitors. We weren't allowed to eat any food in our bedrooms, only in the kitchen. Which would be fine if only Aunty didn't hover over us lustily watching us eat all the stuff she wasn't permitted to. We weren't allowed to come in the front door, only through the back door and we had to take our shoes off and walk barefoot up to our rooms. And we weren't supposed to ever run the taps, just fill up a cup of water and use that to brush our teeth. Fill a bucket of water to bathe with, never run the shower.
It is fair to say that we regularly broke every one of those rules. But they did make life exciting, an evening snack of samosas felt so much tastier when I had smuggled them in under a sweater, while another girl distracted Aunty with conversation. And I was going to use as much water as I needed for my daily ablutions, rules be damned! Alright at this point I have to admit - through gritted teeth - that Aunty had a point. Her rules were conceived for the silliest, slyest girls and she must have seen lots of those through the years. It's very annoying to see prejudices come true, but I have to admit that my fellow-PGs occasionally justified her stupidest rules with their actions. There was the girl who constantly ate in bed, leaving crumbs scattered all over and under the bed. And then there was the girl who couldn't turn off the bathroom tap, and so simply left it running and walked out of the house! In a short while water was pouring down the stairs.
Oh but the antics of the other girls are a whole new story, and I'll leave them for another day.
It was a pity about Aunty though, she was good and she was lonely. She was surrounded by people, yet she put up a wall between herself and us - a wall of arbitrary rules, pride and prejudice.
I saw such appalling places that Mrs C's house seemed like a veritable luxury. She lived in a very quiet, pleasant and upscale neighbourhood. A simple 2 story bungalow in a cul de sac. "Aunty-ji" was a cultured, well spoken, military widow about 75 years old. She was clearly a cut above all the other landladies I had encountered. The living quarters consisted of three bedrooms and two bathrooms upstairs, that were shared by 7 women. By now I had realised that this was about as good as it would get, and signed on immediately. I moved in the next day and Aunty-ji became my landlady.
Aunty-ji was a very interesting person, and I always respected her. If I felt no warmer emotion, the fault was not mine. She had lived a full life and in her benevolent moments she would tell us stories. The time she been brought out to sing in front of Mahatma Gandhi, an eight year old girl with an angelic voice. The picture of her as a school girl giving something to (or was it receiving something from) then Prime Minister Nehru. How she and her family were living in Lahore before independence, and had to flee when the partition happened. And her brother, an airforce pilot, commandeered a military plane and flew them out to India with 'nothing but the clothes on their backs'.
We respected her for her forceful personality and her fierce independence. She was determined to earn her own keep, although she had two wealthy children who could look after her very well. So she opened her house up to paying guests, and taught music lessons in her garage. She took no nonsense from anyone, stood strong on her principles and usually got what she wanted.
But while admiring her in the abstract, we objected to many of the particulars. She had an overbearing personality and a fickle temper. She was snobbish and looked down on many of her "girls" as not being her social equals. To hear her, you'd think she was doing charity work - giving home and shelter to young women out of the kindness of her heart, and the rent was a purely nominal business. Worst of all was her inexcusable prejudice against South Indians, ridiculous considering she had spent most of her life living in - South India. She would often pass snide remarks about their collective character, hygiene and courage. And how it was the North Indians who fought for independence and all the subsequent wars. On the one hand I was disgusted by her views, on the other a lifetime's ingrained values made it literally impossible for me to remonstrate with someone her age.
It was ironic that the girl who most liked her and always stood up for her was from Kerala. For a time, we had three sophisticated Punjabi girls living with us and Aunty was thrilled to bits about it. She would talk to them in Punjabi, share jokes and discuss food and was downright rude to the Keralite. The Punjabi girls were disgusted by the accommodations and the rules, told us we were silly to put up with it all and left within a couple of months. Aunty was crushed and forced to fall back on her unwilling friendship with the Keralite. I got along fine with her, being neither from the north nor the south and although no socialite, my family background was graciously deemed good enough.
But to truly understand our relationship, you have to hear about the rules. We had to be home by 10pm and we could never have visitors. We weren't allowed to eat any food in our bedrooms, only in the kitchen. Which would be fine if only Aunty didn't hover over us lustily watching us eat all the stuff she wasn't permitted to. We weren't allowed to come in the front door, only through the back door and we had to take our shoes off and walk barefoot up to our rooms. And we weren't supposed to ever run the taps, just fill up a cup of water and use that to brush our teeth. Fill a bucket of water to bathe with, never run the shower.
It is fair to say that we regularly broke every one of those rules. But they did make life exciting, an evening snack of samosas felt so much tastier when I had smuggled them in under a sweater, while another girl distracted Aunty with conversation. And I was going to use as much water as I needed for my daily ablutions, rules be damned! Alright at this point I have to admit - through gritted teeth - that Aunty had a point. Her rules were conceived for the silliest, slyest girls and she must have seen lots of those through the years. It's very annoying to see prejudices come true, but I have to admit that my fellow-PGs occasionally justified her stupidest rules with their actions. There was the girl who constantly ate in bed, leaving crumbs scattered all over and under the bed. And then there was the girl who couldn't turn off the bathroom tap, and so simply left it running and walked out of the house! In a short while water was pouring down the stairs.
Oh but the antics of the other girls are a whole new story, and I'll leave them for another day.
It was a pity about Aunty though, she was good and she was lonely. She was surrounded by people, yet she put up a wall between herself and us - a wall of arbitrary rules, pride and prejudice.
Sunday, August 16, 2009
Of futile gestures
Isn't it funny the memories that pop into one's mind when one is sitting around on a lazy weekend afternoon! Today I suddenly remembered an incident from when I was in college in Pune, living with my parents.
One weekend morning, our cleaning lady brought her daughter along when she came to clean our house. The girl was about 10 or 11 years old. She did some minor tasks for her mother, but mostly she just wandered around the house, drinking in the novelty of it all. I was in my room brushing my hair when I noticed her in the doorway. She was trying to be unobtrusive but was clearly immensely interested in me and my room. She stood there watching me with a mixture of curiosity, admiration and envy. I invited her in and chatted with her a little. I can't remember what we talked about, only that she was very pleased and excited at the attention. So I gave her a bottle of nail polish from my dressing table. She was thrilled to bits by the gift and ran off excitedly. Which of course made me feel quite good about myself, all generous and kindly.
A few days later, I noticed a red stain on the steps outside our house and pointed it out to my mother. She told me it was the nail polish. The girl was showing it off to her mother as they left, and dropped it on the stairs. Someone had cleaned off the mess but the stain remained. I remembered the girl, so pleased and excited and proud of her gift, and I imagined how she must have felt when she dropped that bottle right as she left. Too late for me to see it happen and too soon for her to have got even a minute's use out of it.
She never came to our house again, at least not while I was around. So I couldn't give her a new one. Perhaps I should have sent one through her mother but that seemed strangely inappropriate - like placing too high a value on my own trivial gift. Or maybe I was just too shy to make a deliberate present like that and talked myself out of it. But I would wince every time I passed that stain on the stair, imagining a little girl's bitter - if fleeting - disappointment.
The girl - I knew her name at the time - was married off when she was 15 or 16 years old. Today she probably cleans houses like her mother did, probably has a litter of kids to feed, and very probably a husband who comes home drunk and beats her up. It is safe to say that she has long forgotten that incident - likely drowned out in her memory by other, more weighty disappointments. Why then does it still come back to me occasionally? And each time I feel her disappointment (as imagined by me) in the pit of my stomach and my heart turns to lead. In vast disproportion to the actual incident - I wonder why. Perhaps it is my own disappointment, at my failure to make even the smallest improvement to her life. Or maybe it's the reminder of just how cruel the gods of fate can be - not content with robbing us of the great happinesses of life, sometimes they take particularly malicious pleasure in depriving us of the small trivial joys.
One weekend morning, our cleaning lady brought her daughter along when she came to clean our house. The girl was about 10 or 11 years old. She did some minor tasks for her mother, but mostly she just wandered around the house, drinking in the novelty of it all. I was in my room brushing my hair when I noticed her in the doorway. She was trying to be unobtrusive but was clearly immensely interested in me and my room. She stood there watching me with a mixture of curiosity, admiration and envy. I invited her in and chatted with her a little. I can't remember what we talked about, only that she was very pleased and excited at the attention. So I gave her a bottle of nail polish from my dressing table. She was thrilled to bits by the gift and ran off excitedly. Which of course made me feel quite good about myself, all generous and kindly.
A few days later, I noticed a red stain on the steps outside our house and pointed it out to my mother. She told me it was the nail polish. The girl was showing it off to her mother as they left, and dropped it on the stairs. Someone had cleaned off the mess but the stain remained. I remembered the girl, so pleased and excited and proud of her gift, and I imagined how she must have felt when she dropped that bottle right as she left. Too late for me to see it happen and too soon for her to have got even a minute's use out of it.
She never came to our house again, at least not while I was around. So I couldn't give her a new one. Perhaps I should have sent one through her mother but that seemed strangely inappropriate - like placing too high a value on my own trivial gift. Or maybe I was just too shy to make a deliberate present like that and talked myself out of it. But I would wince every time I passed that stain on the stair, imagining a little girl's bitter - if fleeting - disappointment.
The girl - I knew her name at the time - was married off when she was 15 or 16 years old. Today she probably cleans houses like her mother did, probably has a litter of kids to feed, and very probably a husband who comes home drunk and beats her up. It is safe to say that she has long forgotten that incident - likely drowned out in her memory by other, more weighty disappointments. Why then does it still come back to me occasionally? And each time I feel her disappointment (as imagined by me) in the pit of my stomach and my heart turns to lead. In vast disproportion to the actual incident - I wonder why. Perhaps it is my own disappointment, at my failure to make even the smallest improvement to her life. Or maybe it's the reminder of just how cruel the gods of fate can be - not content with robbing us of the great happinesses of life, sometimes they take particularly malicious pleasure in depriving us of the small trivial joys.
Thursday, July 02, 2009
Welcome to the 20th century!
In what newspapers invariably refer to as a "landmark judgment", the Delhi High Court legalized homosexuality. Now the ball is in the government's court (so to speak). The law criminalizing homosexuality was written 150 yrs ago during the British Raj. In the last few weeks the newly elected Indian government has been making noises about this law. First they said that it was clearly absurd in this day and age. Then they backtracked and talked of commissions, and parliamentary discussions. This decision has clearly forced their hands, and it will be interesting to see whether the government has the balls to rewrite the law.
Hurray for the judiciary!
Hurray for the judiciary!
Sunday, June 28, 2009
A Woman Scorned
Pet peeve #316
We all know how this plays out. A (American) politician cheats on his wife, gets caught and is splashed across the front pages of newspapers across the country. Then he gets up in front of a mike, talks about what an idiot he was and how great his family is and how lucky he is that his wife has forgiven him. And there standing right behind him is the forgiving wife. They are going to emerge from this tough time stronger than ever. And every time I want to throw my shoes at the TV (or I would, if I ever watched the news on TV instead of reading it on Google News).
I hate to be judgmental... actually I love to be judgmental, so I shall - grow a backbone, lady! He completely disregards your feelings, cheats on you, and then uses you as a prop to salvage his career. Why would you put up with that! Surely, surely, in the 21st century it is acceptable for a woman to put her foot down and stand up for her own dignity?!
And so, it was a pleasant surprise to see Jenny Sanford, the South Carolina governor's wife, break from the script. True, she hasn't left him yet and she suggests that it is still possible for them to work things out. But at least she doesn't pretend to take adultery in her stride. She isn't standing by her man promising to pray her way out. She is at a vacation home with her children., having kicked her husband out. When the press asked her about him, she said "His career is not my concern". You go girl!
Oh, and how bizarre was this whole story!
We all know how this plays out. A (American) politician cheats on his wife, gets caught and is splashed across the front pages of newspapers across the country. Then he gets up in front of a mike, talks about what an idiot he was and how great his family is and how lucky he is that his wife has forgiven him. And there standing right behind him is the forgiving wife. They are going to emerge from this tough time stronger than ever. And every time I want to throw my shoes at the TV (or I would, if I ever watched the news on TV instead of reading it on Google News).
I hate to be judgmental... actually I love to be judgmental, so I shall - grow a backbone, lady! He completely disregards your feelings, cheats on you, and then uses you as a prop to salvage his career. Why would you put up with that! Surely, surely, in the 21st century it is acceptable for a woman to put her foot down and stand up for her own dignity?!
And so, it was a pleasant surprise to see Jenny Sanford, the South Carolina governor's wife, break from the script. True, she hasn't left him yet and she suggests that it is still possible for them to work things out. But at least she doesn't pretend to take adultery in her stride. She isn't standing by her man promising to pray her way out. She is at a vacation home with her children., having kicked her husband out. When the press asked her about him, she said "His career is not my concern". You go girl!
Oh, and how bizarre was this whole story!
Sunday, May 17, 2009
Bay to Breakers
Yay! I did the Bay to Breakers this year.
Actually, I feel a little guilty claiming that. We were part of what Wikipedia calls "Large numbers of participants walk the route behind the runners". Sree and Farhan, our fitter friends, ran the race. While David & I (because of me) walked, alongside all the fancy dressed people. So it was more like a long tiring hike/halloween street party.
But a really fun hike! Bay to Breakers is known for its quirky participants, and we got a great view of all the cool stuff. The guys dressed up as Spongebob Squarepants, the several dozen swine flu costumes, the salmon runners who start from the finish line and "swim upwards" through the race. Have to admire all these people, it was a very hot day (first one I've seen in San Francisco!) and walking 7.5 miles in those elaborate costumes is a real test of endurance.
And of course, there were the brave "Bare to Breakers". I hope they took sfgate.com's advice and slathered on the sunscreen! Why is it that nudists are so often the people who most need to cover up? For a long stretch, my main view was a man's floppy naked butt. Hmm, considering the alternative maybe I shouldn't complain.
My digital camera's seized up, so I had to settle for iPhone pictures. And very soon after the start, I was too tired to care about taking pictures. So these are quite lame and have no fun costumes.. but they stand as proof of my participation. The only way you could take such lousy pictures is if you were in the thick of things!
At the start line
Sea of humanity racing up the steepest part (and bonus shot of David striding up the road)
I will probably be limping all week, but it was totally worth it!
Actually, I feel a little guilty claiming that. We were part of what Wikipedia calls "Large numbers of participants walk the route behind the runners". Sree and Farhan, our fitter friends, ran the race. While David & I (because of me) walked, alongside all the fancy dressed people. So it was more like a long tiring hike/halloween street party.
But a really fun hike! Bay to Breakers is known for its quirky participants, and we got a great view of all the cool stuff. The guys dressed up as Spongebob Squarepants, the several dozen swine flu costumes, the salmon runners who start from the finish line and "swim upwards" through the race. Have to admire all these people, it was a very hot day (first one I've seen in San Francisco!) and walking 7.5 miles in those elaborate costumes is a real test of endurance.
And of course, there were the brave "Bare to Breakers". I hope they took sfgate.com's advice and slathered on the sunscreen! Why is it that nudists are so often the people who most need to cover up? For a long stretch, my main view was a man's floppy naked butt. Hmm, considering the alternative maybe I shouldn't complain.
My digital camera's seized up, so I had to settle for iPhone pictures. And very soon after the start, I was too tired to care about taking pictures. So these are quite lame and have no fun costumes.. but they stand as proof of my participation. The only way you could take such lousy pictures is if you were in the thick of things!
At the start line
Sea of humanity racing up the steepest part (and bonus shot of David striding up the road)
I will probably be limping all week, but it was totally worth it!
Saturday, May 16, 2009
One finger salute
Congress won the Indian elections! They showed a surprisingly good performance with almost an absolute majority. I'm not exactly jumping up and down cheering (like Vanity Fair, Indian politics is a story without heroes). But this is still good news.
For one thing, it almost doesn't matter who is in charge in Delhi if we could just get some stability! The last several administrations have been coalition governments - precarious, unlikely alliances between the strangest bed-mates politics ever made. And with so many different parties to please it is incredibly hard to get anything done. It was galling to think that the Prime Minister had to run his policies by a bunch of marxist communists (unfortunately, this is not an epithet, simply the name of their party). The Congress will still need allies but it has far more seats in Parliament than it did 5 years ago, so it doesn't need them as badly as it did in the previous government. And while I'm not a fan of Manmohan Singh, he feels like a boon from the gods compared to some other names being thrown around recently.
Also it's good to see the BJP put in their place. Oh, sooo good! The way they went around talking about national security and terrorism, bemoaning the Congress on being "soft on terror". It is nice being the party in Opposition, isn't it - you can thunder on about what you would have done, while secretly thanking your stars you weren't in charge. Let's just say the BJP's record on terrorism is... less than stellar. Even if you discount the domestic terrorism they themselves instigated.
Overall, I think the election results showed amazing maturity and wisdom on the part of the electorate. Ah, it is awesome to see any large mass of humanity behave rationally!
And now, on a lighter note
Usually, when you vote in India, they put an indelible ink stain on your forefinger so you can't vote again. Displaying that ink stained finger makes a great photo-op for politicians and celebrities on election day
For some reason the election officials in Mumbai decided to stain the middle finger instead. Here's the Bachchan family, clearly enjoying themselves :)
Other, more image conscious movie stars resisted the temptation
And then there were the ones who clearly had no idea that gesture meant anything special
Coming from a politician on election day... sometimes an image truly says a thousand words.
For one thing, it almost doesn't matter who is in charge in Delhi if we could just get some stability! The last several administrations have been coalition governments - precarious, unlikely alliances between the strangest bed-mates politics ever made. And with so many different parties to please it is incredibly hard to get anything done. It was galling to think that the Prime Minister had to run his policies by a bunch of marxist communists (unfortunately, this is not an epithet, simply the name of their party). The Congress will still need allies but it has far more seats in Parliament than it did 5 years ago, so it doesn't need them as badly as it did in the previous government. And while I'm not a fan of Manmohan Singh, he feels like a boon from the gods compared to some other names being thrown around recently.
Also it's good to see the BJP put in their place. Oh, sooo good! The way they went around talking about national security and terrorism, bemoaning the Congress on being "soft on terror". It is nice being the party in Opposition, isn't it - you can thunder on about what you would have done, while secretly thanking your stars you weren't in charge. Let's just say the BJP's record on terrorism is... less than stellar. Even if you discount the domestic terrorism they themselves instigated.
Overall, I think the election results showed amazing maturity and wisdom on the part of the electorate. Ah, it is awesome to see any large mass of humanity behave rationally!
And now, on a lighter note
Usually, when you vote in India, they put an indelible ink stain on your forefinger so you can't vote again. Displaying that ink stained finger makes a great photo-op for politicians and celebrities on election day
For some reason the election officials in Mumbai decided to stain the middle finger instead. Here's the Bachchan family, clearly enjoying themselves :)
Other, more image conscious movie stars resisted the temptation
And then there were the ones who clearly had no idea that gesture meant anything special
Coming from a politician on election day... sometimes an image truly says a thousand words.
Saturday, May 02, 2009
So it isn't actually green?
No it isn't, turns out it's white. But it says "Permanent Resident Card" at the top alright.
For several years now, the 'temporary' aspect of the H1-B visa has hung threateningly over my life and my career decisions. And now I am finally accepted as a permanent resident of the country where I have spent almost my whole adult life.
Also, it is one more check mark on the standard NRI success checklist - grad school? check. married? check. green card? check.
So I ought to feel happy. And I did too, for a moment. My first thought was "Wow, I could take a break from work if I wanted". My second thought was "Damn, I can't! I need the health insurance." And so life goes on..
For several years now, the 'temporary' aspect of the H1-B visa has hung threateningly over my life and my career decisions. And now I am finally accepted as a permanent resident of the country where I have spent almost my whole adult life.
Also, it is one more check mark on the standard NRI success checklist - grad school? check. married? check. green card? check.
So I ought to feel happy. And I did too, for a moment. My first thought was "Wow, I could take a break from work if I wanted". My second thought was "Damn, I can't! I need the health insurance." And so life goes on..
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Age is a strange thing
I really looked forward to every birthday until my 21st one. I was growing up, and each new year was a new milestone! Then on my 22nd birthday, I suddenly thought - its all downhill from here. Yes my friends, I have been feeling old ever since I turned 22. Each subsequent birthday was more dreaded than the previous.. I'm no longer in my early 20s, I'm over 25, OMG! I'm 27 and still single!!
Then I turned 28. I was at a low point in my life ... stagnating in a dead end job, at a company rapidly running out of money, in the meantime they wouldn't even apply for a green card and the clock was running out on my H1. Even my boss asked me what I was still doing there! My personal life was even worse, had just worked off some entanglements that left me free but oh so lonely. And as I turned 28, I had an epiphany - "This could be it. There is a real chance that I may die alone." Funny, but I had never considered the possibility before - and it was a strange, intensely deeply lonely feeling. Heart felt like lead, blood turned cold. And I treated myself to a weekend getaway - a nice, romantic getaway, all by myself.
Of course, when you've hit rock bottom, there's nowhere to go but up. I found another job, eventually even stumbled on to a boyfriend somehow.
29 was very different. Somehow 29 didn't seem much older than 28, it actually felt younger. This was the last year in my 20s. A 29 yr old is someone who isn't 30. I must have used the phrase "in my 20s" a thousand times that year!
Eventually of course, I was forced to turn 30. At that point, I enjoyed my birthday, but developed a healthy mental block towards my age. Seriously, sometimes I genuinely forget how old I am, and have to do some quick mental arithmetic! Ah well, I am happy to stay in this blissful state as long as I can. I suppose around 38 or so I will start panicking about turning 40.
I have no idea why I thought this was worth blogging about. But now that I've written it up I will have to post it.
Then I turned 28. I was at a low point in my life ... stagnating in a dead end job, at a company rapidly running out of money, in the meantime they wouldn't even apply for a green card and the clock was running out on my H1. Even my boss asked me what I was still doing there! My personal life was even worse, had just worked off some entanglements that left me free but oh so lonely. And as I turned 28, I had an epiphany - "This could be it. There is a real chance that I may die alone." Funny, but I had never considered the possibility before - and it was a strange, intensely deeply lonely feeling. Heart felt like lead, blood turned cold. And I treated myself to a weekend getaway - a nice, romantic getaway, all by myself.
Of course, when you've hit rock bottom, there's nowhere to go but up. I found another job, eventually even stumbled on to a boyfriend somehow.
29 was very different. Somehow 29 didn't seem much older than 28, it actually felt younger. This was the last year in my 20s. A 29 yr old is someone who isn't 30. I must have used the phrase "in my 20s" a thousand times that year!
Eventually of course, I was forced to turn 30. At that point, I enjoyed my birthday, but developed a healthy mental block towards my age. Seriously, sometimes I genuinely forget how old I am, and have to do some quick mental arithmetic! Ah well, I am happy to stay in this blissful state as long as I can. I suppose around 38 or so I will start panicking about turning 40.
I have no idea why I thought this was worth blogging about. But now that I've written it up I will have to post it.
Sunday, March 22, 2009
Anniversaries...
This has been a month for anniversaries - married for a year... working at Google for three... March is a nice month.
We went to Santa Barbara for our wedding anniversary. A place that has meant very different things to me at different times in life -- strange how events work out...
We went to Santa Barbara for our wedding anniversary. A place that has meant very different things to me at different times in life -- strange how events work out...
It was a very nice weekend, warm and sunny except when the breeze picked up. Santa Barbara has some very attractive houses - not just large and grand, but unique, quirky and imaginative that somehow feel quite authentic. There was a definite "southern California" air to the place, particularly close to the beach.
We also went down to the Santa Barbara Mission, quite a nice building. I have lived in California all these years, without really understanding what these "Missions" were all about. It turns out the Spanish built Christian missions down the coast from San Francisco to Mexico, to bring Christianity to the heathens. Or the heathens to Christianity, if you prefer.
As I stood there in Santa Barbara Mission, reading about its history, the conversion and "education" of local Indians, I couldn't help thinking: thank God the practical British were more into trade than religion. Less of that religious zeal than the Portugese and Spanish. I shudder to think what India would have looked like after two centuries of coerced conversion.
As I stood there in Santa Barbara Mission, reading about its history, the conversion and "education" of local Indians, I couldn't help thinking: thank God the practical British were more into trade than religion. Less of that religious zeal than the Portugese and Spanish. I shudder to think what India would have looked like after two centuries of coerced conversion.
Oh well, back to the present.
The Santa Barbara courthouse is a surprisingly interesting and pretty building, with some very attractive interiors. Far better than the average bureaucratic outpost.
The Santa Barbara courthouse is a surprisingly interesting and pretty building, with some very attractive interiors. Far better than the average bureaucratic outpost.
On our way back, we stopped at Solvang, which is a mildly interesting, touristy, fake Danish town.
And I can finally say that I have been to Santa Barbara.
Tuesday, March 03, 2009
A Wednesday
I finally watched 'A Wednesday'. Interesting movie, awful name, some cringe-worthy moments - for instance the over zealous cops. Overall, it was better made than most Hindi movies.
But of course, what people were talking about was not the quality of the production, but the questions it posed. Particularly poignant is the fact that it came out less than 3 months before the November attacks on Mumbai. I believe it captured the mood of the country perfectly. It clearly raised all the right questions. Now, if only someone would make a movie with all the answers!
Here's a Hemingway-esque short story for you: Wikipedia article for "13 September 2008 Delhi bombings" starts with "Not to be confused with 27 September 2008 Delhi blast".
But of course, what people were talking about was not the quality of the production, but the questions it posed. Particularly poignant is the fact that it came out less than 3 months before the November attacks on Mumbai. I believe it captured the mood of the country perfectly. It clearly raised all the right questions. Now, if only someone would make a movie with all the answers!
Here's a Hemingway-esque short story for you: Wikipedia article for "13 September 2008 Delhi bombings" starts with "Not to be confused with 27 September 2008 Delhi blast".
Sunday, February 22, 2009
My upcoming exam
We are coming up on our first wedding anniversary. We are also coming up on our green card interview. I'm not sure what to expect, but apparently if they suspect that the marriage is fradulent -- they put us in separate rooms and quiz us about our marriage.
Hmm, that sounds uncomfortable.. but what would be really awkward is if I couldn't answer the questions!
Where was he born? Where did you go on your first date? What did he have for breakfast yesterday? What's his favorite music band? What color are the walls in your bedroom? (I swear I looked around the house to double check the answer) What gifts did you give each other for your birthdays? (Uh, nothing...) Who does most of the cooking? (Umm, did you mean who defrosts the pizzas?)
Will the immigration officer pass judgment on the genuiness of my marriage -- or on my fitness as a wife? Are any of us ready to have our marriages examined by total strangers?
Hmm, that sounds uncomfortable.. but what would be really awkward is if I couldn't answer the questions!
Where was he born? Where did you go on your first date? What did he have for breakfast yesterday? What's his favorite music band? What color are the walls in your bedroom? (I swear I looked around the house to double check the answer) What gifts did you give each other for your birthdays? (Uh, nothing...) Who does most of the cooking? (Umm, did you mean who defrosts the pizzas?)
Will the immigration officer pass judgment on the genuiness of my marriage -- or on my fitness as a wife? Are any of us ready to have our marriages examined by total strangers?
Tempests in Teapots
A British director makes a movie based in the slums of Mumbai, and self righteous Mumbaikars accuse him of 'peddling poverty porn'. As if hundreds of Hindi movies haven't dwelt on the exact same storyline. And as if the poverty needs peddling, as if it isn't right there, in your face -- on street corners, waiting at each intersection, squatting along train tracks.
In the movie, several very nasty characters scornfully refer to the hero as a 'slumdog' - and slumdwellers associations are up in arms! The irony of being offended by a term invented precisely to highlight the callousness of the characters using it.. is lost on them.
The New York Post printed a really nasty cartoon. A man with a smoking gun, a bullet ridden monkey corpse -- all this parodying the horrible mauling of a woman! Yes, a seriously disturbing cartoon. But racist? Give me a break! The stimulus bill has been roundly criticized by Republican types, but the bulk of the blame has been on Congress. If anything, the cartoonist was calling Nancy Pelosi a crazy chimpanzee, not Barack Obama. To jump from this image to racism to a call for violence against Obama is just plain ridiculous.
Ah well, the sillier the cause, the louder the protestors.
I am glad A.R.Rahman won at the Oscars today -- he has singlehandedly transformed Hindi film music over the last 15 years. My only complaint is that the quality of the lyrics is inversely proportional to the quality of the music.
In the movie, several very nasty characters scornfully refer to the hero as a 'slumdog' - and slumdwellers associations are up in arms! The irony of being offended by a term invented precisely to highlight the callousness of the characters using it.. is lost on them.
The New York Post printed a really nasty cartoon. A man with a smoking gun, a bullet ridden monkey corpse -- all this parodying the horrible mauling of a woman! Yes, a seriously disturbing cartoon. But racist? Give me a break! The stimulus bill has been roundly criticized by Republican types, but the bulk of the blame has been on Congress. If anything, the cartoonist was calling Nancy Pelosi a crazy chimpanzee, not Barack Obama. To jump from this image to racism to a call for violence against Obama is just plain ridiculous.
Ah well, the sillier the cause, the louder the protestors.
I am glad A.R.Rahman won at the Oscars today -- he has singlehandedly transformed Hindi film music over the last 15 years. My only complaint is that the quality of the lyrics is inversely proportional to the quality of the music.
Monday, January 19, 2009
Epiphany time
Hmm, I've never really known the US under any other president. Tomorrow is going to be a strange day.
I wonder how long the magic will last.
Wait, Wait Don't Tell Me, The Daily Show and Real Time are all going to get a lot less funny.
I was watching a documentary about Dr King yesterday, and was struck by the parallels with Gandhi's struggle. You know something really weird - it doesn't take any more bullets to kill a great man than it does to kill an ordinary one.
I wonder how long the magic will last.
Wait, Wait Don't Tell Me, The Daily Show and Real Time are all going to get a lot less funny.
I was watching a documentary about Dr King yesterday, and was struck by the parallels with Gandhi's struggle. You know something really weird - it doesn't take any more bullets to kill a great man than it does to kill an ordinary one.
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