Someone sits out there tonight, watching, waiting, perhaps relishing the carnage he has wrought. Someone out there wants something. What does he want? Who planted the seed of this thought in his head? Was there a coach, a master puppeteer in some cave in Afghanistan pulling strings? Or did someone hear voices in their head that told him to kill and maim?
Speculation continues. Is it a terrorist cell seeking to avenge the death of Osama bin Laden or Is it a domestic terrorist, someone who hates the government, the president, hates paying taxes, hates having gone to war, hates calls for gun control, hates Roe vs Wade, hates being unemployed for the past four years or even the past four weeks and spends his time looking up recipes online for cooking up bombs?
Or is it someone with a mental illness - someone who has been off their serotonin re-uptake inhibitor meds, or someone who hears voices, real enough and compelling enough to them, telling them to become a lethal instrument of carnage?
With ten years of expertise in anti-terrorism efforts they will soon know exactly who it was. This waiting, watching creep must know that it is a matter of time, perhaps just a matter of a couple of days. When he is being led away in handcuffs with a lawyer whose job will be to ensure he gets the fairest trial possible, will he believe he's going down for some cause or will he be on another plane of sentience while his lawyer tries to convince a judge that he isn't mentally competent to stand trial?
Where do we send prayers now and for what? Three people are dead and 140 are injured, some were running just a second before they became amputees. We pray for peace every day, we pray for the safety of living relatives. What prayers can we say for the dead? What can we say to console grieving relatives? Who is the entity taking receipt of these prayers and can this entity ever ensure peace on earth and peace to an insane mind?
Anger tonight seeks a target but the target isn't forthcoming. It lurks in the shadows waiting, watching, perhaps calculating its next move while tears are shed and little ones are tucked in with a calming bedtime story that could preserve their innocence and their faith in humanity just a little bit longer.
Monday, April 15, 2013
Sunday, April 14, 2013
Hungarian Woman (If on a winter's night a traveler...)
We sought each other out
In those commuting days
Of yore. I liked saving her
The seat beside me because
There is nothing more
Comforting in a cold bus,
On a wintry day, than a
Substantial woman clad
In full length mink.
We conversed about the boots
And the bags she designed,
The intricacies of her trade,
The nuances of a designer bag
Or a thigh length boot and
Ways of instant identification of
Fraudulent handbag DNA.
She was as surprised
to learn that I did not
celebrate a Name Day
As I was to learn that she did.
A fixed name,
For a fixed day
of the year,
And the finite nature of
The pool of all
Hungarian names
For every Hungarian newborn,
Is still cause for
My complete conceptual
Befuddlement.
She told me she spent
A day of the week, every week,
In her apartment in the city,
And when I stopped seeing her
I imagined she had
Moved there for good.
I stopped commuting
To the city myself,
Unless there was cause
For a special appearance.
One such occasion arose
Just last week.
I saw her seated, on the
Seat where we usually
Sat in the old days.
She looked at me
As she would look
At a stranger, no signs
Of recognition in her eyes.
If she could have read
My mind then or heard
My thoughts, she would have
Wondered why a stranger
Knew she was from Hungary,
That she designed
Boots and handbags
And that she celebrated
A day of the year with
So many others who
Shared her name;
A name I had never learnt
Despite our commuting
And commuted conversations.
In those commuting days
Of yore. I liked saving her
The seat beside me because
There is nothing more
Comforting in a cold bus,
On a wintry day, than a
Substantial woman clad
In full length mink.
We conversed about the boots
And the bags she designed,
The intricacies of her trade,
The nuances of a designer bag
Or a thigh length boot and
Ways of instant identification of
Fraudulent handbag DNA.
She was as surprised
to learn that I did not
celebrate a Name Day
As I was to learn that she did.
A fixed name,
For a fixed day
of the year,
And the finite nature of
The pool of all
Hungarian names
For every Hungarian newborn,
Is still cause for
My complete conceptual
Befuddlement.
She told me she spent
A day of the week, every week,
In her apartment in the city,
And when I stopped seeing her
I imagined she had
Moved there for good.
I stopped commuting
To the city myself,
Unless there was cause
For a special appearance.
One such occasion arose
Just last week.
I saw her seated, on the
Seat where we usually
Sat in the old days.
She looked at me
As she would look
At a stranger, no signs
Of recognition in her eyes.
If she could have read
My mind then or heard
My thoughts, she would have
Wondered why a stranger
Knew she was from Hungary,
That she designed
Boots and handbags
And that she celebrated
A day of the year with
So many others who
Shared her name;
A name I had never learnt
Despite our commuting
And commuted conversations.
Quintessential American - IV
There was that time when waiting in line to go up the Washington Monument, just a few short weeks after my arrival in the country, I was spellbound by the couples standing in line ahead of me. It was a hot summer day, one of those days when everything gleams, the grass appears greener, the sky at its bluest and there's color everywhere with people picnicking on the grass, kids turning cartwheels, cotton candy sellers walking around - in short, the kind of day where a solitary soul feels that much lonelier or unloved, unwanted and foreign.
The young men ahead of me had their arms wrapped around the waists of their girlfriends or wives. One was caressing the small of his girl's back at the place where the fingers could imperceptibly (unless someone in line, behind him, was intent on watching) breach the waistband of the shorts or skirts and reach in, just slightly, for a quick, barely noticeable brush of the place where the dimples in the back gently curve into the backside. The girls stood on tip toes, every now and then, to lightly kiss the cheek of the boys or men they were with or they would gently rest their heads in the bend of the necks of their guys. The touching was casual and intimate all at once.
It was entrancing and distressing for me and it filled me with unbearable longing, underscoring my loneliness and otherness. Even after all these years I remember the sharp pang of those moments so much more than the view of the Smithsonian mall from the top of the Washington Monument.
I had never approached boys in a way that signaled attraction. Even in a Bugs Bunny cartoon, attractive female bunnies often approach good old Bugs, fluttering tiny balloon hearts out of long eyelashes, leaning forward, breathing desire. But I possessed no apparent internal switch that told me to turn my girl on when approaching an attractive member of the opposite sex, neither was I ever approached in that manner, or so I believed. My receptors were blocked and I was truly oblivious. If I realize this state of oblivion now, it is only in hindsight. Sure there was a boy in college who met me at the college library at the same time every morning for months, whose company I cherished, but nothing indicated to me that perhaps a signal to move things on to a different level, whatever that level might be, was intended by either one of us. Whether this was a cultural manifestation or a personality trait was unclear to me. Going after a man, sending pheromones his way, what a concept! It was a rather alien one.
But the move to America was all about embracing change, among other things. The situation demanded further observation and an in-depth study of the art of signalling intent in subtle or not-so-subtle ways.
The "rep room", mentioned earlier, was as good a lab as any. The words "political correctness" had not yet entered the American consciousness in the late 1980s. Women in the workplace could still be called, "sweetheart" or "doll". Catcalls and whistles at a woman's attire or general comportment were still commonplace and were even welcomed, or so it seemed to my foreigner's eyes. If a woman was promoted and advanced in her career at a faster clip than a male colleague, men, and women, issued snide remarks about her morals. "He's done her" and "it figures, she puts out" or, "oh yeah, I saw them making out in the supply closet". By the time I figured out what putting out or making out meant I was well into wondering whether this was an acceptable, essential and altogether indispensable career move for a woman or whether it was malicious gossip targeting successful women.
I was twenty-one at the time and only had quarter-baked ideas about things. The fact that women around me appeared accepting of these notions or even encouraged them was confusing to me. I couldn't figure out whether my confusion was a result of an Indian upbringing or whether something was straining at my inherent sense of right and wrong that had nothing to do with my culture or my roots.
I had shed some of my shyness and reticence after being here for a few months. I was still following my moral compass and had convinced myself that putting out or making out would not become my stepping stones to success. I had decided on an informal and friendly approach toward everyone I met, men or women. I would laugh at their inappropriate jokes because humor didn't bear censorship and because the first and only show I could watch on a cheap and unreceptive television set at that time, "Married with Children", had desensitized me to all manners of inappropriate humor. It was vulgar in a former life perhaps, not anymore.
This approach, however, was fraught with danger, as I soon realized. Three instances come to mind:
Several years later, after absorbing these invaluable lessons about avoiding jealous wives, hormonal teenage boys and other people's husbands' smiling countenance, I changed my ways to the best of my abilities. I made sure the men I met were single and in their mid-twenties. But this was when I became aware of expectations that elevated my concerns to an entirely new level.
The young men ahead of me had their arms wrapped around the waists of their girlfriends or wives. One was caressing the small of his girl's back at the place where the fingers could imperceptibly (unless someone in line, behind him, was intent on watching) breach the waistband of the shorts or skirts and reach in, just slightly, for a quick, barely noticeable brush of the place where the dimples in the back gently curve into the backside. The girls stood on tip toes, every now and then, to lightly kiss the cheek of the boys or men they were with or they would gently rest their heads in the bend of the necks of their guys. The touching was casual and intimate all at once. It was entrancing and distressing for me and it filled me with unbearable longing, underscoring my loneliness and otherness. Even after all these years I remember the sharp pang of those moments so much more than the view of the Smithsonian mall from the top of the Washington Monument.
I had never approached boys in a way that signaled attraction. Even in a Bugs Bunny cartoon, attractive female bunnies often approach good old Bugs, fluttering tiny balloon hearts out of long eyelashes, leaning forward, breathing desire. But I possessed no apparent internal switch that told me to turn my girl on when approaching an attractive member of the opposite sex, neither was I ever approached in that manner, or so I believed. My receptors were blocked and I was truly oblivious. If I realize this state of oblivion now, it is only in hindsight. Sure there was a boy in college who met me at the college library at the same time every morning for months, whose company I cherished, but nothing indicated to me that perhaps a signal to move things on to a different level, whatever that level might be, was intended by either one of us. Whether this was a cultural manifestation or a personality trait was unclear to me. Going after a man, sending pheromones his way, what a concept! It was a rather alien one.
But the move to America was all about embracing change, among other things. The situation demanded further observation and an in-depth study of the art of signalling intent in subtle or not-so-subtle ways.
The "rep room", mentioned earlier, was as good a lab as any. The words "political correctness" had not yet entered the American consciousness in the late 1980s. Women in the workplace could still be called, "sweetheart" or "doll". Catcalls and whistles at a woman's attire or general comportment were still commonplace and were even welcomed, or so it seemed to my foreigner's eyes. If a woman was promoted and advanced in her career at a faster clip than a male colleague, men, and women, issued snide remarks about her morals. "He's done her" and "it figures, she puts out" or, "oh yeah, I saw them making out in the supply closet". By the time I figured out what putting out or making out meant I was well into wondering whether this was an acceptable, essential and altogether indispensable career move for a woman or whether it was malicious gossip targeting successful women.
I was twenty-one at the time and only had quarter-baked ideas about things. The fact that women around me appeared accepting of these notions or even encouraged them was confusing to me. I couldn't figure out whether my confusion was a result of an Indian upbringing or whether something was straining at my inherent sense of right and wrong that had nothing to do with my culture or my roots.
I had shed some of my shyness and reticence after being here for a few months. I was still following my moral compass and had convinced myself that putting out or making out would not become my stepping stones to success. I had decided on an informal and friendly approach toward everyone I met, men or women. I would laugh at their inappropriate jokes because humor didn't bear censorship and because the first and only show I could watch on a cheap and unreceptive television set at that time, "Married with Children", had desensitized me to all manners of inappropriate humor. It was vulgar in a former life perhaps, not anymore.
This approach, however, was fraught with danger, as I soon realized. Three instances come to mind:
- My boss, Dan, spent a lot of time helping me assemble my first few pieces of furniture, a roll top desk, an entertainment center and a bookshelf. He even took me car shopping for my first car. He was always around, offering advice, checking up on my well-being. Sometimes his wife accompanied me and I had got to know her well too. He often took me out to lunch during our work day and after one of these lunches one day he decided to go to his bank where his wife was a teller. He chose the drive thru window option for depositing a check and withdrawing some cash. On this day his wife was the teller who was working the drive thru window. I looked up at her from the passenger side, waved and said, "Hi Tracy!". She didn't wave back, nor did she smile. She looked upset and angry and I felt extremely awkward with that unreciprocated greeting lying between us. Dan looked a bit tense as well. As we were driving back to work I asked him why Tracy looked upset and I was stunned to hear him say that she was jealous of me! I stared at him in disbelief and asked, "Jealous of me? Why?" He just snickered and decided not to further enlighten me on the subject.
- On another occasion a very helpful female colleague offered to help me move. She said her husband would drive his pick up truck over and that they would be happy to help. I was thankful. The three of us worked well together, lifting, moving, hoisting and getting me settled in. Her husband was handsome, his whole face lit up when he smiled. I thought nothing of sharing this innocent observation and told my co-worker what a gorgeous smile her hubby had. I thought she would be flattered but I saw the smile disappear from her face as I finished uttering my pronouncement. Within seconds all I was left with was an angry glare, followed by an abrupt goodbye. I was too young to realize my mistake back then, I just stood there, rooted in confusion, wondering what I did wrong. Now that I am older and wiser I know not to publicly share an innocent appreciation of other people's husbands!
- Then there was this co-worker who often brought her fourteen year old son to work after his school was over. He used to sit in the rep room doing his work and a lot of times she asked me to help him with his Math or Science homework. He was a good kid. We used to kid around, talk about comic books or movies when I wasn't helping him study. One day our big bosses were in and I wasn't able to spend time with him because we were tied up in meetings. When I got out of the meeting some of the other ladies appeared to be in considerable distress because Sean, the kid, had had a temper tantrum of sorts and had yelled and screamed at his mom about something. They had had a full blown, file folder and print-out throwing fight. I asked what happened and was told that I was the reason for the tantrum. I wasn't around and he got very upset. Someone remarked, "you turn him on". I had no idea how to react to that extremely embarrassing remark that was uttered without a hint of embarrassment by the person who said it. It was a moment that ranks rather high in my list of awkward moments.
Several years later, after absorbing these invaluable lessons about avoiding jealous wives, hormonal teenage boys and other people's husbands' smiling countenance, I changed my ways to the best of my abilities. I made sure the men I met were single and in their mid-twenties. But this was when I became aware of expectations that elevated my concerns to an entirely new level.
Thursday, April 11, 2013
Quintessential American - III
"Where are you from?"
That question still comes my way, even after twenty-five years of being in the US. Saying India, without hesitation, used to be easy. The question was a welcome ice-breaker as far as I was concerned. Having pegged me securely and having assigned me a slot in their brains my interlocutors could now branch into several areas of conversation.
"How long have you been here? What brought you here, so far away from home? This is what I've heard about India, is it true? Does this still happen? My doctor is an Indian, love him to death!"
These were the expected branches of conversation once they ascertained my origins. I rather enjoyed the interaction.
But I soon learned that these questions were not always welcomed by other Indians or Indians who had lived here longer than I had. I met my husband in 1991. He had been in this country since he was eight. He grew up
in a very small town in upstate New York, the town of Dansville, population 5,000, where his family was the only one adding a tinge of diversity to the white demographic.
His childhood experiences were so different from mine with things like camping, fishing, inner-tubing, Little League, football and an adolescence replete with all experiences that are verboten for most Indian teens of the era in which I was a teen. Roasting s'mores by a campfire or going down streams or creeks in the inner tubes of a tire or knowing when it was trout season were alien concepts for me, things I hadn't even come across in books. And this was a list of things boys did, I haven't a clue what girls did. He does tell me that his older sister's friends used to surround him in his pre-teen years as they tried to practice their kissing skills on him!
We've driven through his hometown sometimes. He points out all the white picket fence homes of his childhood, the elementary school, the middle school, the high school, an old boarded up building that used to be the Blum Shoe Factory; that family now a part of ours. As I try to see things through his eyes I realize things haven't changed much here. This is one of the places in real America where time more or less stands still, the kind of town that coming of age movies made in America use as a backdrop as they portray the angst of people who yearn to leave it all behind and chase big cities and bright lights. When I see places like this I imagine Billy Joel talking about Linda and Eddy in this:
Or John Cougar talking about Jack and Diane here:
Or, finally Paul Simon, using an upbeat melody to point out line dried clothes getting dirty in the wind and the colors of the rainbow looking black in this:
Could one stake a claim at American quintessence while lacking all the experiences that make up an American personality?
I got the first chance to witness how annoying the origins question could be to someone who has been through these experiences when after we got married, on our first trip to NYC together, the driver of the horse carriage we had boarded for a trot around Central Park, asked with great innocence, "Where are you from?" I was still only four years into the country and was about to blurt out India when A stopped me with a gentle pressure on my hand and said, "Buffalo, now let's go!"
I was surprised at how unnerved the question had made him. Back in 1992 I couldn't wrap my head around this short, dismissive answer to the innocent question from the carriage driver. The tone of A's voice had stopped the poor guy from asking the follow up question that I saw him dying to voice, "But where are you originally from?"
These days India is not what I say when I am asked where I am from. I say I am from New Jersey because I suppose I am more interested in steering the conversation toward topics of immediate interest, indebtedness, home values, unemployment, traffic on Interstate 80, movies, TV shows, late night talk shows etc.
I am ill-equipped when it comes to answering questions about India now. Where before I was amused at comments like, "Oh, your mom's coming! What does she look like, does she wear a turban?" or the people who asked, "Oh you're from India, which tribe?" now I would stare at them as though their IQ points were about the same as that of a tomato.
Perhaps now I have gained a better understanding for why my sister-in-law to be shooed away some curious, prying strangers who wanted a side seat at our big Indian wedding at a hotel in West Henrietta, NY.
At some point the need to get taken for granted superseded the amusement derived from strangers' extrapolations based on ingrained, false images of snake charmers and swamis.
That question still comes my way, even after twenty-five years of being in the US. Saying India, without hesitation, used to be easy. The question was a welcome ice-breaker as far as I was concerned. Having pegged me securely and having assigned me a slot in their brains my interlocutors could now branch into several areas of conversation. "How long have you been here? What brought you here, so far away from home? This is what I've heard about India, is it true? Does this still happen? My doctor is an Indian, love him to death!"
These were the expected branches of conversation once they ascertained my origins. I rather enjoyed the interaction.
But I soon learned that these questions were not always welcomed by other Indians or Indians who had lived here longer than I had. I met my husband in 1991. He had been in this country since he was eight. He grew up
in a very small town in upstate New York, the town of Dansville, population 5,000, where his family was the only one adding a tinge of diversity to the white demographic.
His childhood experiences were so different from mine with things like camping, fishing, inner-tubing, Little League, football and an adolescence replete with all experiences that are verboten for most Indian teens of the era in which I was a teen. Roasting s'mores by a campfire or going down streams or creeks in the inner tubes of a tire or knowing when it was trout season were alien concepts for me, things I hadn't even come across in books. And this was a list of things boys did, I haven't a clue what girls did. He does tell me that his older sister's friends used to surround him in his pre-teen years as they tried to practice their kissing skills on him!
We've driven through his hometown sometimes. He points out all the white picket fence homes of his childhood, the elementary school, the middle school, the high school, an old boarded up building that used to be the Blum Shoe Factory; that family now a part of ours. As I try to see things through his eyes I realize things haven't changed much here. This is one of the places in real America where time more or less stands still, the kind of town that coming of age movies made in America use as a backdrop as they portray the angst of people who yearn to leave it all behind and chase big cities and bright lights. When I see places like this I imagine Billy Joel talking about Linda and Eddy in this:
Or John Cougar talking about Jack and Diane here:
Or, finally Paul Simon, using an upbeat melody to point out line dried clothes getting dirty in the wind and the colors of the rainbow looking black in this:
Could one stake a claim at American quintessence while lacking all the experiences that make up an American personality?
I got the first chance to witness how annoying the origins question could be to someone who has been through these experiences when after we got married, on our first trip to NYC together, the driver of the horse carriage we had boarded for a trot around Central Park, asked with great innocence, "Where are you from?" I was still only four years into the country and was about to blurt out India when A stopped me with a gentle pressure on my hand and said, "Buffalo, now let's go!"
I was surprised at how unnerved the question had made him. Back in 1992 I couldn't wrap my head around this short, dismissive answer to the innocent question from the carriage driver. The tone of A's voice had stopped the poor guy from asking the follow up question that I saw him dying to voice, "But where are you originally from?"
These days India is not what I say when I am asked where I am from. I say I am from New Jersey because I suppose I am more interested in steering the conversation toward topics of immediate interest, indebtedness, home values, unemployment, traffic on Interstate 80, movies, TV shows, late night talk shows etc.
I am ill-equipped when it comes to answering questions about India now. Where before I was amused at comments like, "Oh, your mom's coming! What does she look like, does she wear a turban?" or the people who asked, "Oh you're from India, which tribe?" now I would stare at them as though their IQ points were about the same as that of a tomato.
Perhaps now I have gained a better understanding for why my sister-in-law to be shooed away some curious, prying strangers who wanted a side seat at our big Indian wedding at a hotel in West Henrietta, NY.
At some point the need to get taken for granted superseded the amusement derived from strangers' extrapolations based on ingrained, false images of snake charmers and swamis.
Wednesday, April 10, 2013
Quintessential American - II
There were the people I met - Anne, Tracy, Barbara, Joe, Ben. They were all doing the same job for different publishing companies. Our paymasters were different but we worked together in the same place called a "rep room". The lines between competition and collaboration were blurred in this place and as a young foreigner in the rep room I found myself amidst a very protective circle of friends.
In those early days, before I learned how to drive, I used to walk a couple of miles to a bus stop to wait for one of the two buses that took me home. The walk was on a lonely and industrial stretch of road and I was always dressed to the tee as I walked. One day my wait for the bus was exceptionally long and distressing. Hours went by and the bus was nowhere to be seen. Then a stranger came along in a red convertible. He asked if he could give me a ride. I hesitated for just a second or two before I accepted his offer. We had a nice conversation along the way and then he dropped me off at home.
The next day my co-worker Anne said she had come looking for me at the bus stop intending to ask if she could give me a ride home but I had already left. I told her that my bus never came and I had accepted a ride from a stranger. She stared at me, speechless and silent for a few seconds before she lost her temper with me. I got a good yelling from her and then from all the rest of them as they collectively wondered how I could have done something so dumb, so stupid. They kept saying anything could have happened, I could have met a serial killer, a rapist. I just mumbled something about the guy appearing trustworthy and telling them I was safe after all. But they were having none of it. I was thoroughly chastised but somewhere inside there was a warm glow. It was heartwarming to see that all these strangers really cared about me. There were no special ties, no real relationships with them, we weren't even employed by the same people but they felt responsible, really responsible for my safety. They were all upset at Dan, my boss, for not being gentlemanly enough and dropping me off every night since we lived in the same area. Dan got the rough end of it from them.
After this incident, and until I bought my own car and learned how to drive, someone was always driving me home. Even when I learned how to drive but the idea of taking on the maze like streets of Washington DC for business purposes filled me with cold dread, Anne always drove me to my own assignments. I can never forget all her kindnesses to me, for as long as I live.
I got invited to Thanksgiving Dinners and other parties. There were people who helped me move when I changed apartments and people who offered to teach me how to cook (little did they know what a losing proposition that was). Someone was always around to help me out of a tricky situation or to offer advice.
This too was Americanism at its best, selflessness and kindness. Perhaps I would have witnessed something similar even if I had lived an adult life in India but that's an experience I will never have, it will forever live in the land of conjecture. What I have registered is that when I was ten thousand miles away from home, often alone, often unsure, I met so many people who were willing to hold my hand through every situation, who were always looking out for me when I needed this care and concern the most.
This stands out in my memory, again as a contrast to the time when I had solicited help from my father's Indian friends. As someone who straddles two continents and two cultures I always find myself returning to the same points of comparison. It was important for me to take a test of English as a foreign language (TOEFL) in order to secure admission to the university. I still didn't have a car and I had asked my dad's friend if on the morning of the test, since he worked at the same place where the test was being held, he could pick me up from my apartment, on his way to work and take me to the test center. He had agreed and had said that it would be no trouble.
However, on the morning of the test, the clock kept ticking and no one showed up to pick me up. I kept waiting and finally walked to a payphone to call and ask if he was still planning to pick me up. He never came to the phone, his wife did. I was on the verge of tears, but she didn't hear it in my voice as she went on and on about how I needed to become self-reliant and self-sufficient, how I couldn't continue to expect "uncle" to help me out even though I had outgrown all help this uncle could have given me after the first few weeks of my arrival. She said it was of no concern to her if I missed this test taking date, that there would be other dates when I was more capable of taking care of my own transportation needs. I kept stuttering and trying to say that uncle had said it would not be a problem for him to swing by and pick me up on his way to work but to no avail. I finally hung up on her and walked back to my apartment with heavy steps and teary eyes wondering if there was any way to get myself to the university, twenty minutes away from where I lived, to a test that was going to start in twenty minutes.
By the time I got back to my apartment I realized that I had somehow locked myself out of my own apartment as well. I just sat down on a bench near the steps and started wiping silent tears. That's when the building superintendent tapped me on my heaving shoulders and asked if he could be of assistance. I told him how I had a test to take and no means of getting myself to the venue in twenty minutes. He offered me his hand and said, "Come with me". He led me to the parking lot and his battered pick-up truck. He said, "hop on!" I did and then we rattled our way through the gates of University of Maryland. I was able to take my test as scheduled and when I got home I didn't have enough words to thank the super.
More selflessness on display. A trait that signaled, 'if it doesn't cost me a dime and if it means the world to you, then I am there for you".
Over the years I found so many Americans who were so nonchalant about offering a helping hand and about as many Indians, now settled in the US of A, who, with every gesture, every word spoken or unspoken, implied a marking of territory of sorts as though someone new from back home threatened their peace and security, their sinecure. They could have achieved all means of success and acclaim but they appeared insecure on their perch, as though the effort of a kind gesture toward someone from the old country would topple them over in ways that would make immediate recovery impossible. They looked at one as though they were saying they made it and they weren't allowing moochers on board.
Kindness and charity didn't come as easily to them.
Even as I write everything I have written so far, I feel as though there is an element of self-fulfilling prophecy in all of this. I expected the best, I approached my new world as though I expected from it an exalted outcome, I put my best self forward and I got it back in spades, at least in those early years.
My accent, my ignorance, my demeanor were all as novel and as strange to my new friends as my friends were all culturally different and strange to me and perhaps we were all on our best behavior. No one was being taken for granted in our mutual interaction. The first impressions on either side were favorable.
After taking this long walk down memory lane and as I typed the passage above, I realized I have stumbled upon a major clue toward answering this question about the quintessence of Americanism: taking things for granted.
In the beginning I took nothing for granted, everything was either a pleasant or a nasty surprise and I dealt with it as the moment dictated. But one lives and one learns and one of the lessons learned is that as the years go by, in a particular place, with ones friends, with ones family, in fact with all aspects of life, we take an increasing number of things for granted.
When that happens we lose something essential, we lose an incremental note of grace each time we take one more thing for granted, perhaps. The more familiar we are with something the more graceless things get and the more graceless they get the more at home we feel. No one epitomizes grace in a state of extreme comfort and such comfort is always a cherished goal despite the price one pays.
In those early days, before I learned how to drive, I used to walk a couple of miles to a bus stop to wait for one of the two buses that took me home. The walk was on a lonely and industrial stretch of road and I was always dressed to the tee as I walked. One day my wait for the bus was exceptionally long and distressing. Hours went by and the bus was nowhere to be seen. Then a stranger came along in a red convertible. He asked if he could give me a ride. I hesitated for just a second or two before I accepted his offer. We had a nice conversation along the way and then he dropped me off at home.
The next day my co-worker Anne said she had come looking for me at the bus stop intending to ask if she could give me a ride home but I had already left. I told her that my bus never came and I had accepted a ride from a stranger. She stared at me, speechless and silent for a few seconds before she lost her temper with me. I got a good yelling from her and then from all the rest of them as they collectively wondered how I could have done something so dumb, so stupid. They kept saying anything could have happened, I could have met a serial killer, a rapist. I just mumbled something about the guy appearing trustworthy and telling them I was safe after all. But they were having none of it. I was thoroughly chastised but somewhere inside there was a warm glow. It was heartwarming to see that all these strangers really cared about me. There were no special ties, no real relationships with them, we weren't even employed by the same people but they felt responsible, really responsible for my safety. They were all upset at Dan, my boss, for not being gentlemanly enough and dropping me off every night since we lived in the same area. Dan got the rough end of it from them.
After this incident, and until I bought my own car and learned how to drive, someone was always driving me home. Even when I learned how to drive but the idea of taking on the maze like streets of Washington DC for business purposes filled me with cold dread, Anne always drove me to my own assignments. I can never forget all her kindnesses to me, for as long as I live.
I got invited to Thanksgiving Dinners and other parties. There were people who helped me move when I changed apartments and people who offered to teach me how to cook (little did they know what a losing proposition that was). Someone was always around to help me out of a tricky situation or to offer advice.
This too was Americanism at its best, selflessness and kindness. Perhaps I would have witnessed something similar even if I had lived an adult life in India but that's an experience I will never have, it will forever live in the land of conjecture. What I have registered is that when I was ten thousand miles away from home, often alone, often unsure, I met so many people who were willing to hold my hand through every situation, who were always looking out for me when I needed this care and concern the most.
This stands out in my memory, again as a contrast to the time when I had solicited help from my father's Indian friends. As someone who straddles two continents and two cultures I always find myself returning to the same points of comparison. It was important for me to take a test of English as a foreign language (TOEFL) in order to secure admission to the university. I still didn't have a car and I had asked my dad's friend if on the morning of the test, since he worked at the same place where the test was being held, he could pick me up from my apartment, on his way to work and take me to the test center. He had agreed and had said that it would be no trouble.
However, on the morning of the test, the clock kept ticking and no one showed up to pick me up. I kept waiting and finally walked to a payphone to call and ask if he was still planning to pick me up. He never came to the phone, his wife did. I was on the verge of tears, but she didn't hear it in my voice as she went on and on about how I needed to become self-reliant and self-sufficient, how I couldn't continue to expect "uncle" to help me out even though I had outgrown all help this uncle could have given me after the first few weeks of my arrival. She said it was of no concern to her if I missed this test taking date, that there would be other dates when I was more capable of taking care of my own transportation needs. I kept stuttering and trying to say that uncle had said it would not be a problem for him to swing by and pick me up on his way to work but to no avail. I finally hung up on her and walked back to my apartment with heavy steps and teary eyes wondering if there was any way to get myself to the university, twenty minutes away from where I lived, to a test that was going to start in twenty minutes.
By the time I got back to my apartment I realized that I had somehow locked myself out of my own apartment as well. I just sat down on a bench near the steps and started wiping silent tears. That's when the building superintendent tapped me on my heaving shoulders and asked if he could be of assistance. I told him how I had a test to take and no means of getting myself to the venue in twenty minutes. He offered me his hand and said, "Come with me". He led me to the parking lot and his battered pick-up truck. He said, "hop on!" I did and then we rattled our way through the gates of University of Maryland. I was able to take my test as scheduled and when I got home I didn't have enough words to thank the super.
More selflessness on display. A trait that signaled, 'if it doesn't cost me a dime and if it means the world to you, then I am there for you".
Over the years I found so many Americans who were so nonchalant about offering a helping hand and about as many Indians, now settled in the US of A, who, with every gesture, every word spoken or unspoken, implied a marking of territory of sorts as though someone new from back home threatened their peace and security, their sinecure. They could have achieved all means of success and acclaim but they appeared insecure on their perch, as though the effort of a kind gesture toward someone from the old country would topple them over in ways that would make immediate recovery impossible. They looked at one as though they were saying they made it and they weren't allowing moochers on board.
Kindness and charity didn't come as easily to them.
Even as I write everything I have written so far, I feel as though there is an element of self-fulfilling prophecy in all of this. I expected the best, I approached my new world as though I expected from it an exalted outcome, I put my best self forward and I got it back in spades, at least in those early years.
My accent, my ignorance, my demeanor were all as novel and as strange to my new friends as my friends were all culturally different and strange to me and perhaps we were all on our best behavior. No one was being taken for granted in our mutual interaction. The first impressions on either side were favorable.
After taking this long walk down memory lane and as I typed the passage above, I realized I have stumbled upon a major clue toward answering this question about the quintessence of Americanism: taking things for granted.
In the beginning I took nothing for granted, everything was either a pleasant or a nasty surprise and I dealt with it as the moment dictated. But one lives and one learns and one of the lessons learned is that as the years go by, in a particular place, with ones friends, with ones family, in fact with all aspects of life, we take an increasing number of things for granted.
When that happens we lose something essential, we lose an incremental note of grace each time we take one more thing for granted, perhaps. The more familiar we are with something the more graceless things get and the more graceless they get the more at home we feel. No one epitomizes grace in a state of extreme comfort and such comfort is always a cherished goal despite the price one pays.
The Quintessential American - I
"Do you feel like a quintessential American?" I asked A.
"These days I do, at the nadir", he said.
"Hmm...that's not quite what I am getting at", I said.
To which I said, "almost everything is a point of comparison for you, between India and America. When we see a brilliant movie or TV show, with flawless direction and lines of dialogue that never miss their mark, you ask me if I can imagine an Indian movie or show with the same attributes. When we see an intelligently designed product you ask if I can imagine it coming out of India. When we see people trying out adventurous things like bungee jumping or diving off a cliff you once again ask if an Indian can be imagined in such a situation. Even when you wolf down habaneros by the dozen you question the ability of Indians to stand heat in their food to the extent that Americans can. This one is really strange because Indians are famous for eating hot food! So tell me what it is that sets America apart in your mind? What trait, what characteristic? And how American do you feel? You've been here longer than I have!"
"It's hard to explain. I see it through sports. Football, baseball...how it's played, how it works as an instant ice-breaker when you are around people who follow the same team or even when they follow other teams, people bond over sports, something active, something energetic. I don't see Indians radiating energy. Every time I go to India I see people sitting around discussing politics or Hindi cinema. I was always stunned on my trips back to India when I heard people get into serious discussions about how many people Amitabh Bachchan single-handedly fought or how many storeys he jumped and survived! It's as though Indian cinema is more real to them than reality. And every movie buff talks about heroes! How are these actors heroes? What have they done that's so heroic? Do you ever see Tom Hanks or Harrison Ford being called a hero? I don't think this way, Americans cannot possibly think this way."
We have been through similar discussions on several occasions during our twenty-one years of marriage. His view of India doesn't necessarily mesh well with mine, even though I can't deny the fact that actors and actresses, for some mysterious reason, reach an exalted status and that politics does get discussed with directionless passion, just for the sake of discussion.
We both think of the time in the nineties when we were visiting India and we were talking to some of A's young cousins, little kids, who said they couldn't do well in school and that it wasn't worth doing anything with their lives because Laloo was in charge. I haven't heard little American kids say that their grades don't matter because Bush or Obama are in charge.
But none of this gets us closer to the question: what makes one American?
There's the sports immersion that appealed to A because he came to the US at the age of eight. A world viewed through the lens of American sports is certainly uniquely American. He still carries around an entire century of baseball stats in his head and remembers his Little League or high school football days with fond nostalgia.
It was different for me. I grew up with stories of America. My parents always referred to it as my country. I never imagined an Indian future for myself. In Indian crowds, in uniquely Indian dirt and poverty, amidst the rudeness of bank tellers or in the face of bureaucratic red tape I used to hear about how smooth the process would have been in the US. I also heard that Americans were friendly and lively and always wished and greeted strangers or offered help if someone's car was broken down at the side of the road. To me it sounded like heaven on earth and my heart was set on America.
I thought I could learn about America from Archie comics! (I wasn't too far off in this estimation). I devoured these. I never missed a single episode of Star Trek or Diff'rent Strokes or I Love Lucy; these were the only shows that made it to India during the years when I was watching them. I needed to absorb the diction, the culture, the sights and sounds through the pages of comic books and novels and through the black and white television images. Sidney Sheldon, Ayn Rand, Tootsie and my parents' fond recollections of a carefree time here all helped construct a particular image of America in my mind.
I started spelling things the American way, dropping the unnecessary "u" from words like color or labor and spelling words like organize and mesmerize with a "z" (pronounced zee).
Earlier on my dad had acquired an encyclopedic series of books for us called "Learning by Doing". These books had been authored in America and were basic science books that taught science through illustrations and experimentation. I devoured those books. I especially loved the illustrations, the most poignant ones showing a father or a son or a father and daughter standing in the fenced in yard of a typical American suburban home as the father pointed up at the night sky to planets and constellations. It was an image that got etched in my mind.
Since my dad had obtained a doctorate in the Sciences in this country and since I thought of him as a scientist who made sure my first few words were, "DNA is the building block of life", in my ideal sense of America, dads were scientists and they held their kids' hands through observing and through doing things together, helping them think for themselves.
When I was older and it was time to start thinking about my westward journey I read some of the literature the embassy put out. These books and pamphlets said Americans were friendly, talkative, engaging, that they respected personal space and breaching this 3' distance between yourself and others was frowned upon in informal social settings. I absorbed these facts as well.
I thought I saw some of this in action when I went to the American Embassy in New Delhi to get my first US Passport. An American girl behind the passport counter was demonstrating something to her colleague by breaking into an impromptu dance. I was entranced. Never in my life had my own personal interactions been so buoyant, so energetic.
Was this what it meant to be American?
There came a time when I didn't have to wonder anymore. I held my father's hand for the very last time as he led me here and indicated more confidence in my ability to make it here than I could muster up for myself. But no inner thoughts were daunting enough for me to decide against this move. I was here, out of the air-brushed world of my imagination and breathing the air, feeling it on my skin. I landed here in the fiery brilliance of fall. I saw colors I had never seen before and endless highways. I saw more cars than people and then I started meeting the people.
There was Mr Christian Dunyoh, at the employment office, who rolled his eyes and shook his head in despair when he learned that I could neither type nor drive and that all I possessed was a legless BA Honors in Economics. He found me a job nevertheless and will remain memorable for his chagrin at my lack of life skills and an optimism that remained unaffected by it.
The next stop was the workplace where my boss was only a year older than I was. I was all set to call him sir or Mr Sierra but the former wasn't done and the latter, he said, was his dad. He was simply Dan and I was to call him that. He told me that first names were to be used all the way up the chain of command. Informality in addressing people was my first lesson.
The second workplace lesson was that there was no concept of putting in some time or deserving before desiring. There was no break from desire, here in the new world, relentless desire drove this engine.
My boss was new in his role when he hired me and he was campaigning for his next promotion from day one of his current job. He took me in his confidence and often pulled me aside to help him plot his next moves because even at twenty-one, like all Asians, I was perceived to be in possession of some ancient wisdom and insight. Or perhaps it was just my ability to spell correctly. Whenever I asked him what made him think he could be promoted just a couple months into this job, he told me that this was the way things worked, that all it took was enhancing ones visibility to upper management, to not miss a single opportunity to be in their faces and to even pretend one was Italian when one really was Puerto Rican.
This was a novel idea for me. I came from a place and a time where almost everyone I knew worked in the public sector and there were no fast tracks to the pinnacle. One had to put in the time, earn seniority and take a step up when the time came. I grew up hearing how honest people were inevitably on the slow track. The ones who hopped, skipped or jumped ahead used political connections and the Hindi word, pairvi, was often heard in this context. I suppose it meant using inside connections to get ahead. So this world where one thought one could simply reach out and pluck a promotion out of thin air, was new to me. This was 1988 of course, and this country still had jobs and things like career tracks.
What stood out from my initial American experiences was evidence of an unquenchable, infinite thirst riding the perfect wave of hope. Even if one's microcosm showed tinges of despair, the macro picture erased it all with finesse. On a larger, grander scale an American was always soaring above the earth and looking down at a glittering blue, luminous perfection.
In those early years a quick adoption of this attitude was indispensable for me. See, I, have never felt lucky and I have never felt as though I could attract wealth or success. But coming here did bestow upon me a sense that with tenacity and determination I could possibly turn things in my favor, just a little bit. Just that hint of a feeling, often just something that whispers in your ear and brushes against your fingers that says it is all possible here more than anywhere else in the world, is a quintessential American feeling for me.
"These days I do, at the nadir", he said.
"Hmm...that's not quite what I am getting at", I said.
To which I said, "almost everything is a point of comparison for you, between India and America. When we see a brilliant movie or TV show, with flawless direction and lines of dialogue that never miss their mark, you ask me if I can imagine an Indian movie or show with the same attributes. When we see an intelligently designed product you ask if I can imagine it coming out of India. When we see people trying out adventurous things like bungee jumping or diving off a cliff you once again ask if an Indian can be imagined in such a situation. Even when you wolf down habaneros by the dozen you question the ability of Indians to stand heat in their food to the extent that Americans can. This one is really strange because Indians are famous for eating hot food! So tell me what it is that sets America apart in your mind? What trait, what characteristic? And how American do you feel? You've been here longer than I have!"
"It's hard to explain. I see it through sports. Football, baseball...how it's played, how it works as an instant ice-breaker when you are around people who follow the same team or even when they follow other teams, people bond over sports, something active, something energetic. I don't see Indians radiating energy. Every time I go to India I see people sitting around discussing politics or Hindi cinema. I was always stunned on my trips back to India when I heard people get into serious discussions about how many people Amitabh Bachchan single-handedly fought or how many storeys he jumped and survived! It's as though Indian cinema is more real to them than reality. And every movie buff talks about heroes! How are these actors heroes? What have they done that's so heroic? Do you ever see Tom Hanks or Harrison Ford being called a hero? I don't think this way, Americans cannot possibly think this way."
We have been through similar discussions on several occasions during our twenty-one years of marriage. His view of India doesn't necessarily mesh well with mine, even though I can't deny the fact that actors and actresses, for some mysterious reason, reach an exalted status and that politics does get discussed with directionless passion, just for the sake of discussion.
We both think of the time in the nineties when we were visiting India and we were talking to some of A's young cousins, little kids, who said they couldn't do well in school and that it wasn't worth doing anything with their lives because Laloo was in charge. I haven't heard little American kids say that their grades don't matter because Bush or Obama are in charge.
But none of this gets us closer to the question: what makes one American?
There's the sports immersion that appealed to A because he came to the US at the age of eight. A world viewed through the lens of American sports is certainly uniquely American. He still carries around an entire century of baseball stats in his head and remembers his Little League or high school football days with fond nostalgia.
It was different for me. I grew up with stories of America. My parents always referred to it as my country. I never imagined an Indian future for myself. In Indian crowds, in uniquely Indian dirt and poverty, amidst the rudeness of bank tellers or in the face of bureaucratic red tape I used to hear about how smooth the process would have been in the US. I also heard that Americans were friendly and lively and always wished and greeted strangers or offered help if someone's car was broken down at the side of the road. To me it sounded like heaven on earth and my heart was set on America.
I thought I could learn about America from Archie comics! (I wasn't too far off in this estimation). I devoured these. I never missed a single episode of Star Trek or Diff'rent Strokes or I Love Lucy; these were the only shows that made it to India during the years when I was watching them. I needed to absorb the diction, the culture, the sights and sounds through the pages of comic books and novels and through the black and white television images. Sidney Sheldon, Ayn Rand, Tootsie and my parents' fond recollections of a carefree time here all helped construct a particular image of America in my mind.
I started spelling things the American way, dropping the unnecessary "u" from words like color or labor and spelling words like organize and mesmerize with a "z" (pronounced zee).
Earlier on my dad had acquired an encyclopedic series of books for us called "Learning by Doing". These books had been authored in America and were basic science books that taught science through illustrations and experimentation. I devoured those books. I especially loved the illustrations, the most poignant ones showing a father or a son or a father and daughter standing in the fenced in yard of a typical American suburban home as the father pointed up at the night sky to planets and constellations. It was an image that got etched in my mind.
Since my dad had obtained a doctorate in the Sciences in this country and since I thought of him as a scientist who made sure my first few words were, "DNA is the building block of life", in my ideal sense of America, dads were scientists and they held their kids' hands through observing and through doing things together, helping them think for themselves.
When I was older and it was time to start thinking about my westward journey I read some of the literature the embassy put out. These books and pamphlets said Americans were friendly, talkative, engaging, that they respected personal space and breaching this 3' distance between yourself and others was frowned upon in informal social settings. I absorbed these facts as well.
I thought I saw some of this in action when I went to the American Embassy in New Delhi to get my first US Passport. An American girl behind the passport counter was demonstrating something to her colleague by breaking into an impromptu dance. I was entranced. Never in my life had my own personal interactions been so buoyant, so energetic.
Was this what it meant to be American?
There came a time when I didn't have to wonder anymore. I held my father's hand for the very last time as he led me here and indicated more confidence in my ability to make it here than I could muster up for myself. But no inner thoughts were daunting enough for me to decide against this move. I was here, out of the air-brushed world of my imagination and breathing the air, feeling it on my skin. I landed here in the fiery brilliance of fall. I saw colors I had never seen before and endless highways. I saw more cars than people and then I started meeting the people.
There was Mr Christian Dunyoh, at the employment office, who rolled his eyes and shook his head in despair when he learned that I could neither type nor drive and that all I possessed was a legless BA Honors in Economics. He found me a job nevertheless and will remain memorable for his chagrin at my lack of life skills and an optimism that remained unaffected by it.
The next stop was the workplace where my boss was only a year older than I was. I was all set to call him sir or Mr Sierra but the former wasn't done and the latter, he said, was his dad. He was simply Dan and I was to call him that. He told me that first names were to be used all the way up the chain of command. Informality in addressing people was my first lesson.
The second workplace lesson was that there was no concept of putting in some time or deserving before desiring. There was no break from desire, here in the new world, relentless desire drove this engine.
My boss was new in his role when he hired me and he was campaigning for his next promotion from day one of his current job. He took me in his confidence and often pulled me aside to help him plot his next moves because even at twenty-one, like all Asians, I was perceived to be in possession of some ancient wisdom and insight. Or perhaps it was just my ability to spell correctly. Whenever I asked him what made him think he could be promoted just a couple months into this job, he told me that this was the way things worked, that all it took was enhancing ones visibility to upper management, to not miss a single opportunity to be in their faces and to even pretend one was Italian when one really was Puerto Rican.
This was a novel idea for me. I came from a place and a time where almost everyone I knew worked in the public sector and there were no fast tracks to the pinnacle. One had to put in the time, earn seniority and take a step up when the time came. I grew up hearing how honest people were inevitably on the slow track. The ones who hopped, skipped or jumped ahead used political connections and the Hindi word, pairvi, was often heard in this context. I suppose it meant using inside connections to get ahead. So this world where one thought one could simply reach out and pluck a promotion out of thin air, was new to me. This was 1988 of course, and this country still had jobs and things like career tracks.
What stood out from my initial American experiences was evidence of an unquenchable, infinite thirst riding the perfect wave of hope. Even if one's microcosm showed tinges of despair, the macro picture erased it all with finesse. On a larger, grander scale an American was always soaring above the earth and looking down at a glittering blue, luminous perfection.
In those early years a quick adoption of this attitude was indispensable for me. See, I, have never felt lucky and I have never felt as though I could attract wealth or success. But coming here did bestow upon me a sense that with tenacity and determination I could possibly turn things in my favor, just a little bit. Just that hint of a feeling, often just something that whispers in your ear and brushes against your fingers that says it is all possible here more than anywhere else in the world, is a quintessential American feeling for me.
Friday, April 5, 2013
The Company Men
I didn't see the entire movie, just tuned in at the part of The Company Men where Ben Affleck's character was calling himself a loser at 37. It was easy enough to piece together the facts after half the movie was over. They couldn't pay their mortgage, their son gave up his Xbox, the wife worked double shifts and the American dream hadn't crashed and burned but was close to it.
The movie became one of great interest to me after I filled in the blanks. They could have been telling my story since I bear the scars of two layoffs.
The first time I became an unbearable cost at a progressively impoverished corporation I left them my jar of pennies and a note saying it was a donation to help stall their imminent financial demise.
The second time around I wasn't quite as cocky. I was older and nervous. At that time plan B hadn't yet made an appearance. The fog was dense. There was no occupation or income to state on any forms, there was a massive student loan that would once again start burgeoning out of control by feeding on capitalized interest while the payments got deferred. All degrees of freedom were gone, obliterated. I was alone, losing oxygen.
There were those moments of self-loathing that can only come to a firm believer in choices and consequences. Was my past littered with bad choices and bad decisions? Had I willingly drained my career of all its lifeblood, was I incompetent and ill-equipped for life.
And then there were the moments lit by the sickening light of the thing called hope that said none of this was my fault, that there was no longer any stigma attached to the loss of one's job, that we were all together in this sinking, stinking ship.
Neither realization allowed for the tearing of a check from that meaningless checkbook, tied to a bank account that was in the red and getting redder by the minute because of the fees banks liked to charge accounts that didn't have sufficient funds on deposit, and to write a check to the mortgage company.
They said money can't buy happiness. In that state of impoverishment one hoped that the originator of that saying had faced a firing squad in some dictatorial regime for having uttered those inane words.
Happiness. What is happiness if it isn't being in a state that provides infinite degrees of freedom? And degrees of freedom are always bought or sold to the highest bidder.
The sun still came up when it did, time continued its brazenly audacious task of aging you out of any potential open positions meant for unscarred young things who had just tacked up a framed degree somewhere in their 500 sq ft studio apartment above a Manhattan bodega.
So there was a lot of sitting around, walking, flailing, falling and squinting for direction through the thick fog. But fogs are just that, fogs; wispy, temporary, a veil, not a wall. If one staggers through it, collects a few burrs, stumbles over some logs and steps in some ditches eventually a bramble free path does emerge.
I find myself on just such a strange path now. The game has changed and the rules get made along the way. The lesson one learns is to shake any residual belief in permanence, to distance oneself from historical lessons and from the idea that the past has any bearing on the present.
The brilliant nerds around us get rich and richer by designing and programming gaming scenarios where one battles lurking danger, vanquishes, conquers or surmounts and proceeds to the next level.
No game addict quits after level one and no life addict should either. It is all one massive exam; solve a problem move on, solve another move on and continue doing it until your body gives out and the soul stands poised for flight into nothingness or into something incomprehensible or unimaginable.
I am in my sinecure hammock for the moment, taking occasional dips in a time soup; Dali's clock, melted to a point where dawn is unrecognizable from dusk.
I reminisce and recollect my days of enslavement to the clock, the neuroses and the panic it induced, running to catch buses, trains or cabs, screaming at the long procession of red tail lights, praying I won't be sharing an elevator with a boss who would raise his left hand and train his eyes on the wristwatch there to make a silent point about punctuality. I think about the skipped lunches the forecasts, re-forecasts, the reconciliation of actuals to forecasts, the late nights spent at the office and I marvel at the involvement I had shown, the way I had internalized and assimilated every nuance of the business, only to be summoned to an HR office one Friday to be told that costs had to be cut and that my position was being eliminated.
How can one allow oneself to live and breathe a job that gets "eliminated" without a second of thought by the masters one so selflessly served?
These recollections inspire awe and wonder and reinforce the lesson that your interests are of no interest to anyone but you, that you need to solve your singular problem and move on to the next sans emotion and sans attachment, believing that each step you take is a non sequitur; it doesn't follow a logical, linear progression.
One only need review my dad's career and life to verify this: Hawaii isn't predicted for the fatherless son of an Indian freedom fighter, an in depth, doctoral level study of the Pacific Caulerpa does not predict a life in snowy Canada or in an agricultural university on the outskirts of a small town in Bihar. None of this predicts a lifetime in Delhi, some pioneering work in the area of vocational education in India or a life of quiet retirement in Canada where managing every nuance, every measurement and every reading of one's blood pressure or sugar or creatinine is as much of a full time job as the founding and running of an institute of vocational education in Bhopal. Those years have receded so far back in our memories, they offered no hints, no clues in 1996 about what 2013 would have in store for him.
The dense fog only ever allows immediate action on that which stares us in the face, the rest lies in wait, asleep, awaiting our tread.
The movie became one of great interest to me after I filled in the blanks. They could have been telling my story since I bear the scars of two layoffs.
The first time I became an unbearable cost at a progressively impoverished corporation I left them my jar of pennies and a note saying it was a donation to help stall their imminent financial demise.
The second time around I wasn't quite as cocky. I was older and nervous. At that time plan B hadn't yet made an appearance. The fog was dense. There was no occupation or income to state on any forms, there was a massive student loan that would once again start burgeoning out of control by feeding on capitalized interest while the payments got deferred. All degrees of freedom were gone, obliterated. I was alone, losing oxygen.
There were those moments of self-loathing that can only come to a firm believer in choices and consequences. Was my past littered with bad choices and bad decisions? Had I willingly drained my career of all its lifeblood, was I incompetent and ill-equipped for life.
And then there were the moments lit by the sickening light of the thing called hope that said none of this was my fault, that there was no longer any stigma attached to the loss of one's job, that we were all together in this sinking, stinking ship.
Neither realization allowed for the tearing of a check from that meaningless checkbook, tied to a bank account that was in the red and getting redder by the minute because of the fees banks liked to charge accounts that didn't have sufficient funds on deposit, and to write a check to the mortgage company. They said money can't buy happiness. In that state of impoverishment one hoped that the originator of that saying had faced a firing squad in some dictatorial regime for having uttered those inane words.
Happiness. What is happiness if it isn't being in a state that provides infinite degrees of freedom? And degrees of freedom are always bought or sold to the highest bidder.
The sun still came up when it did, time continued its brazenly audacious task of aging you out of any potential open positions meant for unscarred young things who had just tacked up a framed degree somewhere in their 500 sq ft studio apartment above a Manhattan bodega.
So there was a lot of sitting around, walking, flailing, falling and squinting for direction through the thick fog. But fogs are just that, fogs; wispy, temporary, a veil, not a wall. If one staggers through it, collects a few burrs, stumbles over some logs and steps in some ditches eventually a bramble free path does emerge.
I find myself on just such a strange path now. The game has changed and the rules get made along the way. The lesson one learns is to shake any residual belief in permanence, to distance oneself from historical lessons and from the idea that the past has any bearing on the present.
The brilliant nerds around us get rich and richer by designing and programming gaming scenarios where one battles lurking danger, vanquishes, conquers or surmounts and proceeds to the next level.
No game addict quits after level one and no life addict should either. It is all one massive exam; solve a problem move on, solve another move on and continue doing it until your body gives out and the soul stands poised for flight into nothingness or into something incomprehensible or unimaginable.
I am in my sinecure hammock for the moment, taking occasional dips in a time soup; Dali's clock, melted to a point where dawn is unrecognizable from dusk.
I reminisce and recollect my days of enslavement to the clock, the neuroses and the panic it induced, running to catch buses, trains or cabs, screaming at the long procession of red tail lights, praying I won't be sharing an elevator with a boss who would raise his left hand and train his eyes on the wristwatch there to make a silent point about punctuality. I think about the skipped lunches the forecasts, re-forecasts, the reconciliation of actuals to forecasts, the late nights spent at the office and I marvel at the involvement I had shown, the way I had internalized and assimilated every nuance of the business, only to be summoned to an HR office one Friday to be told that costs had to be cut and that my position was being eliminated.
How can one allow oneself to live and breathe a job that gets "eliminated" without a second of thought by the masters one so selflessly served?
These recollections inspire awe and wonder and reinforce the lesson that your interests are of no interest to anyone but you, that you need to solve your singular problem and move on to the next sans emotion and sans attachment, believing that each step you take is a non sequitur; it doesn't follow a logical, linear progression.
One only need review my dad's career and life to verify this: Hawaii isn't predicted for the fatherless son of an Indian freedom fighter, an in depth, doctoral level study of the Pacific Caulerpa does not predict a life in snowy Canada or in an agricultural university on the outskirts of a small town in Bihar. None of this predicts a lifetime in Delhi, some pioneering work in the area of vocational education in India or a life of quiet retirement in Canada where managing every nuance, every measurement and every reading of one's blood pressure or sugar or creatinine is as much of a full time job as the founding and running of an institute of vocational education in Bhopal. Those years have receded so far back in our memories, they offered no hints, no clues in 1996 about what 2013 would have in store for him.
The dense fog only ever allows immediate action on that which stares us in the face, the rest lies in wait, asleep, awaiting our tread.
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