Chicago Blues

Pots, Pans and a Kadhai-full of Memories.

2008-05-08T15:26:00.001-07:00

Once the variegated, regional roll of New Years kick in, there is no exit gate out of the barrage of festivals that crash in on us; at least for the average, traditional desi like me. While some prefer to sit back and be a part of the celebrations (not to mention wipe away that wistful, lone tear) over the course of long-distance phone calls with their folks, some retreat into their kitchens to whip up a feast, given that the desi palate is at the core of every festivity.

Since Ugadi, for instance, we have sprouted, overnight as it were, unappeasable sweet teeth. While volumes of fancy desi cookery books stare back at me from atop the kitchen cabinets where they have been stowed away to gather dust until the annual Spring cleaning sessions come about, what I really miss is not tucked in a book of recipes - be it hand-written or printed. No scrap of paper that bears grease stains or indulging aromas or the secret codes of pinches and dabs of special ingredients that go into making the perfect dessert can match up to what I require in order to recreate the taste of festivals past from my childhood - my mother’s pots and pans. Some round, some oval, some dented, some bottom-lined and caked with fragments of over burned sweetness. There is something about mixing, frying and sautéing stuff in my mother’s pots and pans that seems to add a whole new dimension of flavor and tang to family recipes. It almost makes me wonder why my mother bothered to invest in sparkling new cookware to hand me, like all good-thinking mothers do for their daughters. I’d much rather have taken a few of her pots and pans as hand-me-downs, in solid iron or aluminum as opposed to stainless steel or copper-bottomed, shined with morsels of wet earth from the backyard for that new-fangled feel.

Speaking of stainless steel, however, all the fuss over bisphenol-a, a chemical widely used in the manufacture of plastics (be it bottles or food containers or in canned-food linings), has had me thinking about healthier choices to drink a beverage out of, or eat food from. And my faithful old Eddie Bauer steel flask sure seems a better pick over the fancy plastic bottles that fizz and pop and squirt upon snapping a button placed strategically in the cap. However, the copper carafe with its age-old dimpled center and the tall steel tumbler with its serrated-rim back at home are certainly worth considering over this modern-day thermos. And then there’s that earthern-ware that I have eyed for years - a perfectly globular terracotta decanter with a spout the size of a crane’s beak, that keeps water not only chilled, but lined with just the right amount of earthiness to quench anyone’s thirst on a sultry day. It stands pompously beside the china pickle jar in my mother’s South Indian kitchen, which also has room for a ground-level stone hand grinder amid its recent acquisitions of avant-garde appliances.

Without as much as taking a kink, may I add that what could be a trifle more overwhelming than missing your mom’s festive cooking or her pots and pans in which to create your own is the fact that David Smith, author, and dealer of historic cookware (or the modern-day “PanMan,” as I like to refer to him), may have just the right skillet or pan that could help turn a cooking experiment into exquisite, melt-in-your-mouth recipes that could put your grandmother to shame (panman.com). While that suits the Americanized desi yen alright, I live in wonderment and hope that someday, someone will unearth and amass ancient Indian “kadhais” and “tawas” and possibly even “tandoors” that one could bring home to replicate the magic of delectable spreads from bygone feasts.

Living to Tell the Tale from Hell: The H4 Visa Syndrome.

2008-05-08T15:25:00.003-07:00

Recently, I had chance encounters with two acquaintances - both well-educated, competent Indian women, their only shortcoming being that they have been cursed with dependant visas - after they re-surfaced with horror stories of having endured excruciating belligerence from their allegedly intelligent, educated husbands. Their anger, anguish and helplessness are perhaps inveterate by now. Both are emotionally drained out, physically worn out, and while one has managed to live with an aunt to come to terms with her pain, take up a course to hone her skills, and think of brighter future options; the other is still struggling to get a hold of her miserable, financially tottering life as a young mother of a three-year-old toddler, with divorce proceedings taking forever to wrap up. What’s worse, her dependent visa is about to expire; but the fairly relieving part of her story is that she has sought legal help and will hopefully find a way out of her more immediate visa turmoil.

The travails of H-4 visa holders are never-ending, and appalling. Turn a corner and chances are you’ll run into dependant “wives” of H-1 Bs, who, more often than not, well qualify for a six-figure salary job, but are forced to squander their time and skills away doing nothing. The most they could get up to is volunteer at a local not-for-profit organization, or, in cases where it is financially viable, take up new hobbies. While there are some who up the ante a notch and take up higher education courses, some are left feeling wretched and lonely in their struggle to find independence and financial stability.

For most of these dependants, even as the whim of the good life in this land of golden opportunities begins to wane, the complications and distressing ramifications that arise out of this dreadful situation are multifold. Especially between couples that are hastily married off, thanks to new age Internet-alliances. It takes a toll on the partners’ emotional sides, sapping them out and leaving little of their ability to think and act rationally, wisely and maturely. The result - suicidal tendencies; often brought about by domestic violence; a blight not limited to any one class or creed, rather touching even the finer, educated, intelligent groups.

According to statistics presented by an assortment of volunteers with South Asian help groups, and media persons, as many as two out of five South Asian women are impacted by domestic violence every year. There are many help groups for victims of abuse; also, a Victim's Visa Program that aims to help these victims. But owing to a strange set of reasons, immigrant victims of domestic abuse refrain from seeking help or even trying to find a way out of their horrendous situations. One unfortunate basis that repeats itself with alarming regularity in such situations is a lack of proper understanding of the laws and rules; while fear that stems out of taxing mores follows as a close second.

For the uninformed, the Violence Against Women Act, passed by the Congress in 1994, protects victims of domestic abuse by authorizing spouses and children of US citizens or lawful permanent residents to apply for a petition for their own lawful permanent residencies. Also, some of the abused immigrants are permitted to file for immigration relief without the abuser's knowledge or assistance.

Shivali Shah, co-founder of KIRAN - a Domestic Violence and Crisis Services organization based in North Carolina, has launched an all-encompassing research project on H-1B, H-1C, and H-4 visa holders. The proposed “H Visa Survey” is set to record all information pertaining to the experiences of living the American life, while having been or being on any H visa. All former and current H visa holders are encouraged to participate in this survey, and it might just be the next best thing to actually lending a helping hand to a victim of abuse.

H4Help.org, a community of dependant visa holders, is aiming to raise awareness on the travails of H4 visa holders by, among other endeavors, seeking help and funds to make a documentary film on the topic.

Thus, a little research that was triggered by my unexpected trysts with two women contacts who are struggling to find their voice after a long spell of being abused and muted, has opened up many vistas to finding and helping provide relief and strength to battered young, South Asian women like them with ruinous fates. Perhaps, like the term “Awaz” connotes (a South Asian Network endeavor, aptly tag-lined “Voices against Violence”) it’s time to raise our voices to a decibel so intense that it shakes the putrefying hell out of domestic abuse.

Armchair Philanthropy vs. Authentic Altruism

2008-05-08T15:25:00.001-07:00

For a self-confessed paper tiger like me, it is always heartening to hear about swashbucklers who not only do brave things, but also end up becoming good Samaritans in due course. Which is why I felt a keen sense of admiration and pride well up as I read about Veeramuthu Kalimuthu, a 40-something Columbia University employee-turned-hero, of desi origin to boot, who rescued a stranger from being runover by a train on New York city Subway tracks last week. Kali, as he’s being referred to in the media, is said to have “sprung into action,” by simply jumping on the tracks and hoisting the unconscious man, allegedly a drunk, to onlookers on the platform, before casually walking across the tracks to board his train.

How many of us can boast of “having it in us” to heed the need of the hour, go all out to save a life, or even just help someone in danger or distress?

There’s the truly stirring story of Vinay and Sameer - both were diagnosed, not long ago, with Acute Myelogenous Leukemia. Their family and friends, with the help of complete strangers, were able to put together a Bone Marrow Registry in the hope of finding matches for the two of them. After months of hard work, perfect matches were found for both from the 400+ bone marrow registration drives that were put forth, registering nearly 24,000 donors to date, with a staggering 20% increase in South Asian representation in the National Bone Marrow registry. Although Vinay has gone back to hospital since the initial signs of recovery were discerned, with unfortunate complications; and Sameer, after a long, painful struggle, has passed on; the good thing is that there has not only been an increase in awareness about the significance of a Bone Marrow registry, but, among other cases, the success story of a 33-year old pharmacologist - Meenu Bedi - who donated her stem cells to a leukemia patient last year, has inspired many more Indians across the US to take the swab.

And then there’s another story, closer home, if you will - not too long ago, these friends of ours shocked us with a sudden, unusual decision they’d made - they were moving lock, stock and barrel to a tiny island in Central America, to help reconstruct the lives of its hapless citizens who weren’t as much as aware of the meaning, let alone import, of terms like “trade” or “riches” or even plain old “drinking water.” It came as a shock to us simply because we couldn’t understand this power of the unknown that had led them to give up their perfectly normal, urban lives, replete with decent, well-paying jobs, to take off to a barren land to help a bunch of aliens where anything could go wrong. But they did go, and even though we haven’t heard from them since, there’s something inside of me that assures me they’re doing well.

Perhaps a reality check is due for some of us, who, like me, not only shrivel and cower at the prospect of having to jump off a train platform, bridge, or high-rise to help someone in need, but tend to ease off our nerves from feeling powerless by simply signing off a check to donate to a charity. Like in the case of Dr. Nilima Sabharwal, a physician at Kaiser Permanente, who made a generous donation to an orphanage in India, about a decade ago, heaved a sigh of contentment, and forgot all about it. Later, around tax time, she recalled her act of generosity, and took the initiative to organize a fundraiser in the Bay Area, where she and her friends raised a few thousand dollars, which, as she later found out, had helped build clean bathrooms for the children in the orphanage, saving them from an appalling epidemic outbreak. She has since done much more, including establishing an organization, Home of Hope (HOH) that helps fund projects for destitute and disadvantaged children, enabling them to become self-sufficient.

Maybe there’s more to a philanthropic deed than the celebrated, high-and-mighty NRI-checkbook charity…

Signal-Dewan - The Resurgence of Simon Legree?

2008-03-17T09:00:00.001-07:00

I was recently traveling back from India via the Middle East, and at an airport there, heaving sighs of discontent over delayed flights and lost baggages alongside other stranded passengers, I noticed a rather indiscernible passenger who had other reasons to feel discontent over. The slender, hungry-faced, hunch-backed woman was being tormented by a tinier person - a child, perceptibly not more than three years of age. He was spritzing out drool, yanking her hair, and generally being unruly in demeanor. I mean, I know some very boisterous three year olds, but this was totally off the wall. From what one could see, the woman was the little boy’s nanny, and the mother of the child, who was also present, was staring into oblivion for the most part, noticeably aloof and travel-weary (the nanny too had traveled across oceans and unending miles, but she had little choice but to put up a resilient front).

And then I return home to this big explosive news about battered guestworkers in Mississippi striking me hard, as a possible parallelism to what I’d witnessed. Well, it may be distending things a bit out of kilter with the point of reference at hand, but really, what is the threshold when it comes to mistreatment? Where are the so-called boundaries when it comes to racial and overall plebeian intolerance, and therein, does the human race really stand upright or feebly totter at the abyss?

In the words of Southern Poverty Law Center (SPLC) Immigrant Justice Project Director Mary Bauer, “Guestworkers are usually poor people who are lured here by the promise of decent jobs. But all too often, their dreams are based on lies, their hopes shattered by the reality of a system that treats them as commodities. They're the disposable workers of the global economy."

Possibly, “disposable” is what it all boils down to. Ever since the one hundred and odd Indian “disposables” with H2-B visas, employed at a shipyard in Pascagoula, Mississippi, staged a walkout earlier this month, not only have they attracted media attention, but also shaken the leaderships in India and the US off their inertia.

While the employer of these guestworkers, Signal, and the Mumbai-based recruiters, Dewan Consultants, who aided the shipping of these workers, face the music; US Congressman George Miller, in an endeavor to delve deeper into this deplorable scam, has helped throw light on some other dirty hands that may have been involved, including but not limited to big staffing agencies in India and the US.

One worker, initially promised a Green Card, was allegedly threatened of dire consequences, including having his passport confiscated if he refused to sign H2-B documents just before he boarded his flight at Bombay airport. He and several others have not been mere victims of abuse, but have possibly been rendered penniless and consequentially, shorn of morale, as they have had to sell homes and other assets in order to get these dreadful “jobs”. The point everyone seems to be missing in this struggle for a fair dealing is - even if the companies are indicted, and justice in monetary form meted out to these workers, would they ever be psychologically ready for another low-paying, low-level job?

While on the topic of slight jobs, my mind inevitably harks back to Girija, my mother’s housemaid, who not only cleaned the house, and helped manicure our little green patch, but babysat for me when called upon; and eventually became my little girl’s best friend in what was otherwise an unfamiliar environment to her for the entire span of our holiday. While she welcomed the help and compensation that she more than deserved when offered, she gleefully accompanied me on my shopping jaunts across my hometown, seated in a rickety Indi-cab, as my toddler got her beauty winks, stretching between our laps. We even spent warm, languid afternoon hours organizing closets, snapping sweet peas off their pods, and flipping rice crisps moist side up on the terrace, sharing with each other our life’s ups and downs. Although I did take pity on her for the things she’s had to endure in her personal life, I’m relieved, in retrospect that I didn’t let her know, or let her down. I’m thankful, among other little things, for being blessed with the wonderful, affirmative upbringing I’ve had, which has given me the gift of good insight and civility so I know to regard every human as one. Girija may be the “housemaid,” and I her “akka,” but she works hard for a living, like we all do, and at the end of that line, for all the hard-working, resolute, indispensable “guestworkers” in the world, there ought not to be place for anything but respect and acquiescence.

If nothing else, our children, be it boisterous three-year-olds or docile pre-teens (or boisterous-again teens), shouldn’t have to be all clued-up when it comes to Simon Legree.

The Learning Deficit in Desi-ism

2008-03-17T08:59:00.001-07:00

Ever since Thomas Macaulay, the initiator of the English learning culture in India, referred to us as a sect that is “Indian in blood and color, but English in taste, opinions, words and intellect,” the scope for learning and education for all desis - homebound or outside - has been rather marginalized. For years, what we learn about our own civilization as well as that of the Western world has been more or less defined by those precincts he set in the 1800s. Which is why, perhaps, one doesn’t often happen upon “erudite” desis taking genuine pride in our heritage. There is always a hankering for an “East-West” flavor, for that mysterious medley of mores; as if dressing up like new-world androids to a desi do in the US makes up for the lack of knowledge on our heritage; and as if listening to the Beatles alone opens up vistas to Indian classical music. Even with all the manner of progression and advancement India has seen in the recent past, it appears as if it is merely the influx of wealth and resources from “outside” that has fueled this new-fangled power status of India on the global map. Our B-schools are still rarely spoken of in the same breath as those here or anywhere else across the world, and parents will go to any length to ensure their children get admission into these schools, whether or not the children are inclined to, to begin with.

A growing trend that has emerged lately is the highlight on the conduit of sports that leads straight to the Ivy League. Desi parents are scrambling to get their children in by way of athletic recruitment; and according to reports by the NYT, many squash players from India have made it to the great American Ivy League solely on the basis of their clout over the sport.

In the lower school levels, desi children are being pulled out and treated, to use a politically correct term, “differently.” A Sikh teen was singled out in his New York city high school and his hair forcibly chopped, in an incident last year. Some claimed that the incident was purely an offshoot of a xenophobic mindset, while some others averred that it was simply an average high school bullying case. And then in a more recent case, parents of a Brooklyn girl who was denied admission in a top-notch public school is taking legal action to ensure the incident doesn’t recur. The school has apparently stuck to strict standards on its recruitment tests in order to sustain a 6:4 “white” to “minority” ratio in compliance with a federal court order from the 70s, according to reports. Eleven year old Nikita Rau scored a “meager” 79 on a music admission test at the school in question, against the 84.4 limit set for minority groups; whereas the limit for “white” students remains strong at a much lower level of 77. This has given enough reason for her parents to sue the school for the enforcement of preposterous racial double standards. Another point that has been given emphasis by her dad is that the school’s discriminatory action could further ruin her chances of making it at “Harvard, Yale or Princeton.”

There are, however, rare cases that exemplify a reverse trend. For instance, several students from top of the cream schools across the US work with Indicorps every year in an effort to understand the import of their roots, and to give to India. Occasionally, some techies and other high-flying professionals take a kink out of their routine work lives to join hands with similar not-for-profit outfits and partake in India’s progress. But what can possibly be called the best instance in such a tenor is the cropping up of a new breed of hi-tech public schools in India. These are exclusive learning centers that train students for a British secondary school examination or the International Baccalaureate for admittance into universities across the world. While there has been a steady influx of NRIs sending their school-going children to India, to sophisticated boarding schools that cater to the whole new-world, “alternate” education whim, but this particular class of “public schools” has everything that one would generally associate with IT parks and Silicon Valleys: massive, well-stocked libraries; state-of-the-art IT systems; superior counseling services; cafeterias that serve global cuisine platters; 24-hour medical service…to list a few. And yes, many of these schools have been conceptualized and established by NRIs.

While there is no one way to glean complete knowledge about our rich heritage, emerge out of our cocoons, and take pride in the foundation our schools and elders have laid for us, learning to tell the difference between a mélange of bits of anachronism and authentic Indianness could definitely be a good way to start. To quote Tagore, “school forcibly snatches away children from a world full of the mystery of God's own handiwork,” and we as Indians should feel blessed for the finesse of that handiwork bestowed upon us. The best way to deal with the strain of bi-culturalism and inculcate in our children the greatness of our ethos is simply to not thrust the burdens of new-age technophilia-driven standards on them. Perhaps like Vijay Prashad says in his book, “The Karma of Brown Folk,” it is not enough to receive accolades for being gifted in the technical arts, or being able to live up to the levels expected of our genes, and children should never have to endure disapproval on those accounts.

Another Year to Live

2008-01-14T07:09:00.001-08:00

With all the manner of hurrah and ho-ho-ho filled New Year wishes streaming in, I must say I’m sorry, for what I’m thinking through isn’t exactly as thrilling, and may even screech-stop the music to the whole dandy-bandy. I am rather annoyed with the cheery all’s-fine-and-dandy-with-the-world-and-God’s-in-His-heaven messages I’m being bludgeoned with. I’ve woken up every so often in these past few months completely overwhelmed, emotionally sapped, and sporadically even fearing the worst, as more people are killed and more injustice is meted out to thousands of innocents for nothing. While it is hardly possible to overlook the recurrent flak over Iraq, and more recently, the horror of Bhutto’s slaying, several ordinary, middle-class Indians living here have been killed or dealt atrocities for no reason or rhyme.

So, grim as it may seem, as another New Year dawns and the norm of making resolutions is carried duly out, one wonders if the phrase “goodness and peace for all,” has merely been relegated to the books and the occasional greeting cards. Is a sectarian ideology better than cosmopolitanism, and irrespective of either, can we ever really stick together as one, for the sake of humanity, not partisanship defined by absurd precincts? In what can be best described as a near-peace-deprived society, do the Virginia Tech shootings that left several innocent students, including some Indians, dead; the Louisiana State University killings that took the lives of two Indian doctoral students; suicide and homicide attempts by Indians across the US…mean that we are living in a senseless one too?

Closer home, there have been three ghastly incidents involving Indians lately. In August last year, 32-year Nimisha Tiwari, set her house on fire killing herself and her two children in suburban Chicago. Reports claim that her troubled marriage was the cause of this dreadful act. In November, 34-year old Kaushik Patel of suburban Chicago doused his two young sons with gasoline and set them ablaze. He later drove them to a relative’s house in his car, and the episode has been described as a blotched suicide attempt involving him and the children. The three are said to be in critical condition, and while reports say that Patel is likely to be in the hospital for weeks, if not months, the children remain in drug-induced comas.

As if this isn’t enough to choke you, a third such case in five months has cropped up. In all these cases, fire is a common factor, as is the cause - domestic dispute, involving Indian families in the Chicago area. This one has particularly left me numb and utterly irate - 57 year old Subhash Chander of Chicago brutally burned his pregnant daughter, her husband, and their three-year-old son to death, because he apparently disliked his son-in-law, who belonged to a “lower caste.” While the man is believed to have his own contorted take on the case, nothing he or his relatives say can possibly heal the situation. Not only has he ruthlessly slain his own daughter and her family, including her unborn child, the psychopath has left several people in the apartment complex homeless, but mercifully, alive.

In another stray incident, non-violent, but baffling all the same - 24-year old Anu Solanki from, yet again - Chicago, went missing recently, causing considerable alarm and costing the investigation nearly $250,000. She has since resurfaced and had apparently taken off with a male friend, deserting her husband. Latest news on her case is that she may not be charged with a crime, but the question that still remains unanswered is whether or not the county will attempt to recover the money.

The blow in all these and any violent incident anywhere else comes not from the number of people killed, but from the fact that as humans, we can embrace the culture, the attitude, or the need to destroy every shred of peace in the world and take lives. So while we usher in another year amid this dire, reprehensible state of affairs, I think it is time we made serious efforts to create for ourselves an inner state of harmony and calm, which will radiate into our environs to produce a credible balance. While it may not be a bad idea to get in touch with our roots, and appreciate our mores, and stick with each other as modest NRIs in this faraway land, the exigency of the situation calls for something that is more significant than that. It is something that is as indigenous as is universal - to come together for humanity, to heal the world.

Perhaps it’s time to put the music back on track - something that will reverberate as the music of the spheres in all generations among us, beginning with the “Vaishnava Janato,” fanatics, to the Gen-X-ers, who should delve into the meaning of the more recently popularized “Mool Mantar,” from the movie Rang De Basanti, before blasting it on their I-pods.

Here’s to a New Year filled with compassionate deeds, equitable justice and inner peace to all.

Chak De, NRI!

2008-01-14T07:07:00.000-08:00

Right from the early immigrants, mostly of Punjabi origin, who toiled 19 hours a day on farms and mills in the Northwest, for a meager 18 cents per hour, to the high-tech IT pros swarming an ever-distending Silicon Valley, working the routine, white-collar, eight hour stretch and minting the big bucks, NRI wayfarers have surely come far. What fetches us here as immigrants isn’t just the notion of El Dorado anymore. Somewhere beneath all that it embodies - comfortable living, labor egalitarianism, and the whim of a “free life” that dangles precariously between summers (the stretch of time when the Indian equivalent of tradition-bound Toryism surfaces with the arrival of most parents from home) - lies the classic, often hackneyed desire to “make the best of both worlds.”

With all the manner of immigration rules being constantly picked up, tweaked, and constricted further to boot, and the recent fiasco that left thousands of temporary workers in a flux, there is still an upsurge in the number of immigration applications. Amid all the frenzy of repatriating NRIs with their lofty “reform India” missions rooted deep in Gandhism, there is still a section of us that wishes to disentangle from the furor of resettlement, and stay on, funneling our goodwill to the homeland in donations made to the Sankara Eye Foundation, or some such. While that might sound shallow in more ways than one, I, as an ecumenical, freethinking immigrant, believe that there is nothing unpatriotic about wanting to live outside the native land and acquiring new experiences. This belief, of course, goes beyond the premise of a newfangled “How Indian Are You?” quiz on Facebook, which has rendered me inept by putting the “Bollywood Superstar” tag on me - and I assure you that my Indianness is not theatrical by any measure.

It is hard to put a finger on it, but Indianness is a relative term. While most of the Gen-X NRIs, like I do, believe they still “have it in them,” despite submitting to the impulse of innovation in the new world, the baby-boomer generation of NRIs has a pre-set definition of the term. To them, a dip in the Ganga is still the epitome of sanctity; one of the, if not the only, way to feel that unique, deep connectedness with their homeland. To most of these first immigrants, moving to America was the only way to overcome sober, bourgeois conditions and attain financial stability. Post-independence, when the 6000-odd Indian populace entered the United States, the numbers increasing steadily thereafter, thanks to the Immigration and Nationality Act of 1952, the issues of biculturalism, objective nationalism, and stringent alien-resident policies were the least of their concerns.

Right from the outset, from apprehensively filtering in, then gradually entering the mainstream middle-class communities, and eventually establishing a visible and strong identity for themselves, these early immigrants seldom lost their grip on the bigger picture - to earn a decent living while in America, and save enough to be able to retire gracefully in India, in the caring embrace of venerable family and friends’ circles. Every other first generation immigrant that I’ve crossed paths with has shrugged at the mention of the typical American, “laissez-faire” high school experience their children have had to endure. And the mention of the other far out Yanksville elements like dating, unhinged sexual explorations, inter-racial marriages, drugs, invariably solicit the un-cool look.

And then there’s us - the new breed, if you will, of immigrants or Green Card hopefuls, for whom crossing the hurdles of immigration laws entails much more than financial security or the idea of the “better life.” For us, the immigration process is akin to a safety “blankie,” a thing of great value for our hard work and hard-earned moolah. It allows us the liberty of acquiring rich educational and professional experiences with an autonomous edge as opposed to the pecking order control-driven atmosphere back home. Further, it allows us to stretch and live freely, and garner the best of everything this land of opportunity has to offer and carry it all with us when we return to India. It gives us a purview of life in a developed and prosperous nation that is beyond the “burger-fries-coke,” or “Walmart - ‘great-value-for-your-every-dollar’” notions as read about in books; or the geometrically-perfect layouts of streets and motorways as seen from the window of an Air India flight.

A few months ago, a section of us found ourselves in dire straits as the USCIS turned its back on our immigrant applications. Several hopes were crushed, dreams shattered, and at various parties and potlucks, the only topic of conversation was “So, are you giving up and moving back?” There was no longer, however, the tension over assets and savings, as the considerable devaluation of the dollar has, in recent times, changed that equation and much more. Many of us scurried to bag interviews with companies in India, and seal job offers before we booked our tickets and hopped on a plane. And then, in a sudden turn of events, when the USCIS reversed the rules and opened up windows for fresh applications, we re-strategized our options and decided to take on the challenge of reaching the finish line on the course, on one of the toughest immigration marathons in the world. And even with the Green Card fever that has gripped us so hard, some of us still consider ourselves as belonging to the alien resident gang that is often singled out like a magnet for qualms about employment visa status, among other things.

While the election season is heating up the immigration debate; and a National Social Security registry is discussed, to help employers track down potential employees and their work authorizations; and H1-B quotas are talked of in escalating numbers, it is yet to be seen whether the repatriating NRI count will dwindle.

If the new legislation act of the 50s helped fashion a bustling new wave of Indian immigration, enabling entire clans of early immigrants to settle in, aside from protecting the status of skilled immigrant workers; one wonders whether merely increasing the numbers of visas for skilled workers, introducing stricter workplace enforcements, or eliminating the backlog in processing visas constitute a good package deal for this day and time. Will all that help solve the “out of place in America, not at home in India” angst we endure as we strive to strike a perfect bicultural balance as Gen-X immigrants? Will we hurriedly whisk our pre-teens away before they get fully exposed to the over-liberal ways of school life here, or will we stretch ourselves thin just to get a slice of that lived-in, worldly feeling before we move back for retirement? Does immigration policy really hold sway over our thoughts, feelings and actions, or is the reverse more veracious; in that we shape and reform our lives here, replete with borrowed thoughts, mixed feelings, and painstakingly balanced actions, based on our proactive stance to go through the entire, ten-yarded rigmarole of obtaining a Green Card?

The answers to those questions are as ambiguous as can possibly get, and they seem to further wince away into hazy oblivion when I update myself with the latest developments on the Green Card processing times and hoopla, courtesy Murthy.com. While I wouldn’t say I’m proud to have donned on a “world citizen” tag, I’d be lying if I said I haven’t been bitten by the immigration bug, even with its flogging rules, sealed walls and hinged doors. I have no specific explication for having one foot planted permanently in India, or allowing my thoughts to drift time and again, to the realms of the unembellished life lived there, where rules were often breakable, walls openable, and doors unlockable. I can’t say I’d usher the New Year in by bopping on my left foot with as much élan as Madhuri Dixit. Even she shares the “mixed feeling” syndrome, and at the end of the day, I’m just another Fresh-Off-the-Boater, even after my half a decade’s worth of stay in America. And even as oldfangled guitars thrum the famous Chicago Blues notes in the background, I will realize yet again that I may possibly never feel right anywhere, or comprehend entirely the import of my roots amid the clangor of the current up-and-coming façade masking India, but a girl can dream.

Perhaps the Facebook quizzers have a point - I see myself getting into an overly histrionic mood just before the annual trip to “desh.” But if I can say “Chak De!” with the same spirit as that of the hero of a movie on India’s national sport, I doubt if my Immigrant-Patriotism-Quotient is out of kilter. Is yours?

Of Cheap Bulks, Hip Hulks, and Related Toys.

2007-12-21T19:01:00.001-08:00

With all the manner of statutory warnings and recalls for children’s toys to be taken off the shelves this festive season, I was pleasantly surprised to note the debut of Hanuman and other great Indian epic heroes in figurine form. I mean, I’d heard of animation films on Lord Ganesha and others, but the idea of a dapper, monkey-faced demigod standing tall in a GI Joe-esque pose was rather unforeseen, even in this day and age.

Kridana, a Pennsylvania-based start-up has triggered more than curiosity and fascination with its new line of epic comics and action figures, and is all set to move on from Rama and Hanuman to the evil, ten-faced Ravana next year. While it is hard to imagine our very own little tykes acting out their pretend-wars with an angry-faced Hanuman and a bow-and-arrow stringing Rama as opponents (at least until Ravana makes a smashing entry) under the big tree or hanging mistletoe this Christmas, one wonders if it will be long before Indian festivals, like Dasara are celebrated with these action figures in tow, adorning the displays.

Sometime last week, in the throes of the toy hazard fiasco, I caught snatches of a television news telecast where an average American family was trying to find things (mostly in the spirit of gift-buying for the holidays) that were not made outside the US; or not made in China, more precisely. And unsurprising as it may seem, they couldn’t find a thing. So the question raised was - were the bulk of the toys coming from outside the US? And was it that the cost-effectiveness of the manufacturing practice was unable to provide adequate safety?

Curiously enough, I found, upon further prying, that there were certain items on the recall list that bore the forbidding tag, “Made in India.” The products - children's rings embellished with metallic dice or horseshoes, imported by a company in Baltimore, were reported as having high levels of lead content. Surprised? Well you wouldn’t be if you had been worn-out from scrolling down bottomless web pages with the over-accessed information on toy recalls. I mean, if Sony can recall a category of AC adapters that were sold with the Slim Version PlayStation-2 Systems, then it wouldn’t be as much hair-raising to note that low-cost products that were streamed in from outside the US would be on the list. Yet, to come across something of this order can be disgraceful, being an Indian in these shores; worse, if one has randomly picked out similar things albeit unknowingly as stocking stuffers or birthday party favors to gift to other children.

The company website for Kridana claims high safety standards - that not only satisfy children’s health and safety levels, but are also environmentally friendly. They further aver that their dedication to the initiative is so genuine that they have gone to great lengths in the inspection procedures for their products, and even display their inspection results on the website.

While that is rather commendable and is something of value that makes us chin up, one can’t be too sure that Hanuman’s “gada mace” would be thought of in the same vein as GI Joe’s “9mm with drop down holsters.” Then again, GI Joe’s “Mountain Scout” could turn unimpressive when Kridana’s hip and sassy Hanuman lifts him high up in the air, along with his mountain!

Noise, Poise, and Saying “Om Shanti Om.”

2007-12-21T19:00:00.000-08:00

What can one, even if one is a seriously critical movie-goer, or a light green, possibly do when Shah Rukh Khan’s six-pack abs are being spoken of in the same breath as global warming or something equally and earth-shatteringly imperative? There’s something about being blessed with desi genes that makes it hard to ignore the roll of larger-than-life Bollywood Diwali releases as they crash in on one’s television and computer screens like moths to a bonfire, and cash extravagantly in at the box-office across the world.

For months now, Bollyville has been churning out ripples of juicy hearsay around the two biggest movies of the year - Farah Khan camp’s Shah Rukh Khan and Deepika Padukone starrer “Om Shanti Om,” and Sanjay Leela Bhansali’s mega launch pad for Anil Kapoor’s daughter Sonam, and Rishi Kapoor’s son Ranbir, in “Saawariya.”

There was a time, even in the not-so-recent past, where old, superhit Hindi movie songs were only exclusively available on good old tapes, rare television programs like “Chitrahaar,” or, if one was lucky, on vintage gramophone records owned by one’s grand-dads, dads, or favorite uncles. The commoners’ only link to filmi gup-shup was hidden in the pricey, glossy pages of Filmfare or Stardust. The odds of one running into stars or superstars were limited to inadvertent, opportune occasions. Of course, a lot has changed since, and one can stumble upon a film unit anywhere across the world, not to mention the bustling streets of New York; and one can buy the golden oldens, as well as a section of the new breed of cutting-edge, technology-powered, refreshingly mellifluous music, at the click of a mouse or i-button now, and catch glimpses of the actors’ glitzy lives on multiple channels and websites. Further, a bulk of fresh talent that goes on to belong to the precious music circle where the ilks of A R Rahaman and Shankar-Ehsaan-Loy rule the roost, is being discovered by classy talent shows like Sa Re Ga Ma Pa and Voice of India.

While a general sense of tolerance prevails around me, as I see people taking in the behind-the-scenes glimpses into the making of potential blockbusters with awe, and listening intently to new top-of-the-charts tracks on their fancy, reverberating speakers, an overwhelming feeling of anticipation taking over as they wait for the DVDs to hit the shelves, what completely gets my goat is that the trivialities that get undue attention often ruin the elegantly built-up expectations. Why, for instance, should it be important that Shah Rukh Khan has worked out for three rigorous months in order to develop the perfect abs for his new movie? Or that Deepika Padukone’s presence at a cricket match should insinuate her alleged secret admiration for one of the eleven boys? Or that Anil Kapoor and Rishi Kapoor threw lavish parties to show off the stylish debuts of their daughter and son respectively, for the cream of filmdom?

All said and done, even all the noise from my whining, and the dhamaka from stray fire-crackers this Diwali, cannot take the thunder away from the fact that “Om Shanti Om” has fetched close to $1.8 million at the U.S. box office over its opening weekend (which, according to reports, places it at a decent #11 spot on U.S. charts, even if only on 114 screens); and “Saawariya,” having lost its sparkle to this Shah Rukh Khan starrer, will still go down in history as the first ever Bollywood film to be produced by a Hollywood studio - SPE Films India, a part of Sony Pictures Entertainment (SPE).

While still on the topic, I might add that “Ram Gopal Varma Ki Aag” has failed morbidly to revive the magic and magnitude of Sholay, and that Madhuri Dixit-Nene’s comeback vehicle, “Aaja Nachle,” is being hyped as the next big thing to Om Shanti Om. While she nurses her winter blues in Denver, and I, my cold sores in Chicago, I will still make a trip to my video-wallah shortly, to ensure I lay my hands on all these flicks, to watch them back-to-back, sitting snug in my Windy City home while my little one sleeps her beauty sleep…and quietly re-living the thrills of thronging the big-screen cinemas back at home, like back in the college-going days, for a first-day first-show, and drooling silly with just as much petticoat grace as sheer madness, over a certain King Khan’s knock-you-down screen presence.

The Festival of De-lights.

2007-12-21T18:59:00.001-08:00

Every year, as Fall kicks in, haggard NRI moms like myself get busy cleaning, shopping, as well as toiling in the kitchen, concocting secret recipes for meringues and marshmallow peeps for Halloween, alongside “phirnis” and “barfis” for Diwali. Given that almost all our festivals spin around good food, Diwali needn’t be any different. In fact, it’s one among the more popular festivals that hogs up all the hype because of the ritual of dispensing sweet assortments that has come to rule over the years. Moreover, with the advent of the Internet, age-old grandma recipes for that incredibly delectable, perfectly viscous “kheer,” or “laddus” with a light saffron-tinge and rotund shape just so, are only a few clicks from Google. One doesn’t have to be Saroj Kering, or Sanjeev Kapoor to whisk up Diwali delights like a genie blessed with a magic pot and a silver spoon.

As always, the festive season has sparked off an overbearing sense of nostalgia in me. The sights of glimmering diyas lit up at the onset of dusk, arranged in calculated geometrical order all around the house; the intoxicating aromas of coconut milk, sugary thick Milkmaid, neatly trimmed squares of jaggery melting away in a cauldron with equal parts of water, and fresh cardamom ground in the brass mortar-and-pestle; the sounds of firecrackers and prayers competing with one another, each equally strident and powerful in a way that makes one’s hair stand on end; they all imbue my senses with a longing that will possibly only wane with the turn of season. But for now, I would like to wallow in the wistfulness of the moment, and try to re-create some of the effects here, in a land so far away and completely oblivious to the intensity of the celebration, just so I can assuage my yearning heart a little.

So, what does the average NRI kitchen smell like at this time of year? With the heavy impact of Paula Deen’s weakness for rich buttery desserts cooked slowly and unperturbedly, and Sandra Lee’s obsession with all things quick, easy, and semi-home made, which is ostensibly more in line with the be-all, do-it-all Super Mom like myself, I’d like to believe there is no one way to make or bake. Further, with the little scraps of paper tucked in my hand-written recipe book that have logged the littlest of details - like a dollop of ghee at the end - that could do wonders for a certain type of “halwa,” and the colorful platters of pista, almond, and cashew-infused Diwali sweets that stare back at me from my little Macbook screen from an online Haldiram’s sweet shop, I am eternally re-thinking and re-aligning my ways of cooking during the festival. Influences of the Western bake culture could have myriad, wondrous possibilities to quickly turn-over an Indian version of any dessert (much to the dissent of slow-and-steady cooking moms in India); the time spent toiling in front of the stove can be reduced in half, and even if one wishes to indulge, the thought of sweating it out on treadmills often plagues us enough to go easy on the fat, which can be achieved without as much as a niggle, courtesy the good old conventional oven. Further, there are scores of quick-fix microwaveable options too for those in a great hurry.

While the prospect of toiling away making these sweet delicacies for Diwali - be it for a few minutes or hours on end - seems less appealing than that of heading to the nearest Sukhadia’s, or better yet, ordering some online; it is the enormity of the venerable, warm concept of “homemade” that binds us to our past, and might even open up vistas for handing-down a delightful little tradition to our children. While you’re still riding high on the notion of nostalgia I have managed to stir up this Diwali season, let me sneak in a recipe that will bring the zing back to your kitchens, and infuse the walls of your well-lit homes with the essence of India.

For those with a sweet tooth, as well for as those who like it light, this recipe is sure to be an instant hit - for it has all the makings of an avant-garde, stylized sweetmeat - a true example of East meets West, replete with cardamom and coconut, and cream cheese and almonds. What’s more, it goes right into the oven, then in the refrigerator, and melts like honeyed silk in your mouth, after.

***

Almond Bars:
1 1/2 cups confectioners' sugar
1 cup all-purpose flour
1 8-ounce package cream cheese, at room temperature
1/2 cup (1 stick) butter, at room temperature
1 cup chopped almonds
1 pinch finely powdered cardamom

Topping:
1 cup heavy cream
2 tablespoons granulated sugar
1 cup lightly roasted, sweetened desiccated coconut

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees F. Grease an 8-inch square pan. Whisk the confectioners' sugar, cardamom powder, and flour together in a bowl. Use a pastry cutter or a simple kitchen fork, and cut the cream cheese and butter into the flour mixture till it gets all crumbly. Press this mixture into the greased pan, spreading it out uniformly. Sprinkle the chopped almonds on top and then press down gently. Bake for 30 minutes flat. Once done, set it aside to cool completely.

While it cools, whip the cream and granulated sugar with a hand-held electric mixer until stiff; fold in the desiccated coconut. Spread this topping over the cooled bar in a swift swirl and smooth roll, cutting into squares gently after. Cool in the refrigerator before serving.

***

Now, as those frost bites are balmed, scented candles burned blazing red to supple blue, bells rung and long-distance phone calls made, new “Dhanteras” possessions sought, and lest I forget - this recipe tested, here’s wishing all of you a most glorious Diwali. Let there be light.

Deliquescing in Diwali Dreams

2007-12-21T18:58:00.001-08:00

With Halloween around the corner, and the barrenness of Fall settling in, there is not only enough spookiness in the air; but if you put your mind to it, you might hear, along with the haunting hoots of owls and hum of fiendish tunes, the clamor of firecrackers cannonading somewhere faraway; you might smell, along with the sugariness of candies and pumpkin pies around, the sweet essence of milky, cardamom-laced halwas and kheers permeating through the walls of Indian homes. Of course, the aura of scented candles that burn slyly behind closed windows, functioning as makeshift diyas, are bound to suffuse your senses too, but there is no patisserie that comes even close to our good old Indian mithais when it comes to bringing to us the spirit of the festival we miss the most being where we are - Diwali.

My earliest memories of the festival comprise mainly of cartons of firecrackers stacked away on an unreachable, cozy attic in the guest room at my parents’ house; early morning Pujas - where one woke to the mellifluous sound of the sacred bell ringing, and the whiffs of burning diyas and incense sticks; and an assortment of special dishes, eaten and relished with the family huddled up under a reverberating roof that was exposed to shrieking, fired-up “rockets.”

How that carton of firecrackers would get up on the attic was a mystery to me for years, but when I persisted once during the detective-minded teen years, I found out that it was actually a yearlong plan - there was actually a “fund” allocated especially for the festival - the typical proletariat way of maximizing efforts and investments in those days - this monthly fund would be deposited in a box at my father’s office, and at the end of the scheme, there would be a sweepstake, with no losers, for there would be only one winner each year who walked away with the big prize, but every participant would walk home with a kitchen appliance, a cutlery set, or a household item of their choice, plus, the big bonus, a carton of firecrackers. The carton would only be opened on Diwali, and the firecrackers would be rationed among the children, with the eldest, sober sister choosing her share of enormously risk-free, long-handled “sparklers,” the daredevil brother getting all the big, “dhamaka” bombs, and I, being the smallest, having to make do with teensy packs of the less-dangerous red “patakas,” the spouting-hissing “snake-tablets,” and “flower pots” that spewed smithereens of glittery-lighted sparks.

As for the Pujas, the three days of Diwali (as well as several consecutive days that led up to “Tulsi Puja”) were each auspicious in their own merit. The sound of the sacred bell, a prelude to the “aarti” would begin filling the house on the first day of “Naraka Chaturdashi,” flow into the following evening, when Goddess Lakshmi would be worshipped, and resound through to the following day, when the culminating Puja would be offered in the name of “Bali” on “Bali Padyami.” In the days leading up to the festival, the house would be transformed into a pandemonium of marigolds (which would be tucked in little cow-dung pyramids, embellishing the wooden ledge at the foot of the main door) and other flowers, fresh fruits, and a load of ingredients for the festive fare, including but not limited to dry fruits, Milkmaid tins, lentils, and herb varieties.

The kitchen fires would light up right at the crack of dawn - pots and pans clanking away as if rhythmically, the gentle crackling of butter as it melted down to take in raisins and cashews, the sickly sweet smell of milk as it boiled down, browning up the sides of the container, the smokiness of chillis as they roasted in oil, the pungency of asafetida as it disintegrated into seasonings with sputtering mustard seeds and cumin…would kindle enough hunger to keep the entire family hogging relentlessly for days, with steaming cups of coffee or “badam milk” dispensed tactically to fill the gaps when the “idlis” took longer than anticipated to steam up for breakfast, or the spicy savories were taking too long to fry up at lunch hour, or sweets soaked evermore lazily in their ghee or syrupy coatings before hitting the dessert table.

With all the manner of things here - Diwali celebrations restricted to hushed little cracker-simulations fired off furtively in secured basements; Diwali cleaning pre- or postponed opportunely to Springtime; Pujas scheduled for weekends to suit conveniences; candles and electric lamps lit and turned off strategically, alongside spooky lanterns; sweets either exclusively store bought, or readied in a jiffy from thawed, frozen packs; and new acquisitions in the form of handy dust-busters that seldom get used, or cool new laptops that connect us to the folks back in India so we can see and hear about the whole ten yards of full-blown celebrations from them - it simply makes me cringe, and hum this old Lata-Mukesh number, melancholically…

“Lakhon tare aasman mein, ek magar dhoondhe na mila…Dekhke duniya ki diwali, dil mera chupchaap jala…”

Gandhigiri - A Class of Its Own.

2007-12-21T18:57:00.001-08:00

Gandhi is not just a name that all desis, especially NRIs, are routinely expected, and ought to be proud of. Gandhi is a phenomenon - forgotten, revived, forgotten, and revived again, over the decades. The term “Gandhi” insinuates patriotism, peace, and whether we’d like to believe it or not, poverty too, to an extent. Gandhiism, or “Gandhigiri,” to use the celebrated Indianism, has been given a fair share of attention lately. First, there was “Lage Raho Munna Bhai,” a typical road-Romeo-with-quirky-sidekick Bollywood comedy, which shook the box office, the nation, and other NRI-populated countries across the world with its simple yet staggering theme - it had Gandhi appear miraculously in his Khadi attire, for the hero’s eyes only, and teach him the age-old lessons on truth and non-violence. The movie was a breakthrough of sorts, as it brought Gandhi to the masses, to the autorickshaw drivers, the pan vendors, and even the black-market ticket sellers - for whom he remained, up until then, perhaps, an unknown enigma, given that Gandhi has been turned into a familiar text-book concept for school-goers alone in India. And of course, continuing in the same vein, we recently witnessed an incredible NRI-groupie episode right here, at the time of the Green Card fiasco, where a Gandhian style passive-protest led to re-opened doors and renewed hopes for hordes of hopefuls among us.

Then, there was the movie, “Gandhi, My Father,” and even though the crux of the film’s matter revolves around the troubled relationship between Gandhi and his son, it brought to light the lesser known, personal anguish that Gandhi bore in his heart. But the highlight of the film was Gandhi’s choice of principles, and his relentless pursuit and respect for dignity and humanitarian values…over everything else in his life. Also another reference to Gandhi, and his principles can be seen in Ramachandra Guha’s recent book, “India After Gandhi,” which, as the title suggests, is about India’s emergence as a secular nation, after Gandhi.

With all the manner of things that surround us today, in a world filled with violence and myriad injustices, and with the countless allusions to Gandhi, and Gandhian philosophy, how much of it do we actually care for? And how much of it have we really imbibed? If it takes a Bollywood masala movie or two to bring Gandhi back in vogue, and if our children have to heed TIME’s 100 most influential people (they don’t exactly have to know Gandhi was runner-up to Einstein in TIME’s Person of the Century ranking; not that there’s anything absurd about Einstein as an apposite choice for that one), what good is it hailing from Gandhian territory?

Okay, not that we should go overboard, and turn overly patriotic, and truthful, lovers of peace, and weave our own Kurtas and quilts; but one can’t help wonder how we’ve demoted the good things about being Indians. For instance, going back to “Gandhi, My Father,” the producers of the film abstained from putting up posters of the movie across India for fear that they might get spat on, torn to shreds, or disrespected in other ways; or perhaps even become the cause of unwarranted riots. So, while audiences abroad, and in South Africa per se, comprising the likes of true-blue Gandhian cohorts like Nelson Mandela, sat in peace and reverence watching and appreciating the movie, the Indian cinemas had to use caution before screening the movie, for fear of stirring up unnecessary troubles.

Every time a communal clash results from the slightest of provocations, and Hindus and Muslims get caught up in bloody turmoils, no stones go unturned in setting the tone to besmirch Gandhi, as the topic invariably flits to Kashmir. Even sitting oceans away, we are not totally exempt from or oblivious to such debacles, for every riot there has rippled effects on the lives of Muslims and Hindus here. But what fails to manifest, each time, is the camaraderie that Gandhi would’ve wished to see, and the solidarity he prioritized and preached, which seems superficial somehow, like say, getting patriotic over a game of cricket and then, with a Miller Light or two downed, blissfully forgetting all about our roots.

It’s about time we moved on from relegating Gandhi as a mere fashion statement, and heed his simple beliefs, put them back up on the pedestal they deserve. That’s not to say we should discredit the value of Khadi, or simply revel in the repentant tone of the Nobel Committee for not having bestowed the prestigious Peace Prize on Gandhi. As lame as it may sound, if Leicester Gujaratis can campaign for a statue of the Mahatma, to denote the city’s multiculturalism, the least the throngs of NRIs elsewhere can do is think Gandhian thoughts and, shedding all fear, take true pride in them.

The Kissa of Cricketing

2007-12-21T18:56:00.002-08:00

Okay, I know enough has been said about it. But being the desi that I am like any other worth her salt-and-spice, with heart and soul reserved for cricket and Hindi cinema, I cannot possibly let an opportunity to write about it pass by. So here it is - India has finally clinched a cricket championship title, sans the smashing “big three” of Indian cricketdom, Sachin, Saurav, and Rahul; and above all, against legendary archrivals Pakistan.

While it may be fair to an extent that some of us desis, since that hapless fallout from the World Cup in 2003, have shifted loyalties and longing to other, more popular Yanksville sports, a win like this one is more than is required to bring out the cricket-crazy fanatics in us. Cricket to most of us is more than just a game; it’s like an inheritance, a fanaticism that is passed on from generation to generation. It is more than likely that every second desi among us would have played street cricket, or watched and cheered as some of their friends did. And that many grandfathers and fathers would have dragged their uninterested wives to a stadium somewhere in India for days-long test matches, and tuned themselves out of the roll of curses, while the lilting voices of some of the early commentators along with the swish of the mighty bats of Gavaskar or Vishwanath, made them sway and rejoice.

I have friends in India who have had to queue up in order for their children to get into elite cricket academies, which, I’m told is a privilege that only few can afford or dream of. Kamblis and Jadejas may come and go, but the Shastris and Patels live on. The Brijesh Patel Academy for cricket is one such, and I know at least two little boys who are training to become the next Sachin, or Srinath.

So, are the NRI kids missing out on all the fun? Have you ever mentioned “cricket” to a little sporty desi child and seen him or her turn around trying to listen in to the whirr of an insect? If you have, then chances are you’ve ended up throwing a ball in a basket with them. And with all the hoopla about the poor encouragement given to the sport in these shores, you’d probably even think there is no hope. But there is.

According to the very American MLC (Major League Cricket) board, cricket clubs were established as early as the 1700s in America, not very long after they became popular in England. The sport has sunk into obscurity, been rediscovered, and gone down again since. But with cricket-loving immigrant populations streaming in, the collective makings of their sportiness and support has enabled ways, if small yet, to give cricket the merit it deserves and enjoys on a global level. Several cricket leagues have burgeoned across the nation lately, and you’d be surprised to know that there is also a one-credit course dedicated to the sport in the Midwest. Given the testing weather conditions, and struggling levels of financial backing and moral support, however, most leagues have had to cross some serious stumbling blocks since their inception. While some have been lucky to thrive on assistance from outside - Australian and British, to be more precise - ends, the rest are still struggling to make their mark in a world where NFL and MLB are all the rage. If the BCCI’s revenue has hit the one billion mark (in dollars, not rupees), and can afford to dole out a couple of millions of the same to its Men in Blue, then dollar-pocketing desis can surely come together and back young cricket enthusiasts in the US.

Haunted by memories of an antiquated Phillips transistor screeching itself into action from my granddad’s room at the crack of a test-match dawn; and sepia-toned glimpses of a nail-biting one-dayer flashing on a dial-less Orson television set, as entire neighborhoods huddled together cheering a Chetan Sharma hatrick, back at home…I wonder if the same magic and spirit can be restored as we cheer our own little budding cricketers score fours and stump wickets at school and state levels. With a little nudge here and a dollar dropped there, perhaps it won’t be long before cricket is rediscovered by desis in the US, and its thrills reveled in even as Jay Leno mocks at every second HughGrant-type on his show. And with many a Hindi flick shooting locale cropping up in the US, the odds of getting Shah Rukh or Saif to chant “Chak De…” at local cricket grounds are many.

Little Wonder, Mammoth Blessings

2007-12-21T18:56:00.001-08:00

The good old elephant God, as I know it, is the only Indian god who is omnipresent, in the truest sense of the word. From the humble hands of the rural Indian potters, to the more sophisticated, crystal-studded glory of Swarowski, Ganesha has duly been covered. He has been envisaged and crafted in many poses, and He is the only God to have set a trend following, among the old, the young, the old-fashioned, and the contemporary. Peek into a desi’s car and you may well happen upon a magnetic, glittering Ganesha in a Yoga pose, sitting unreservedly on the dashboard, ready to bless them along their trips to strange destinations on foreign roads.

Every year, like many other Gods of His standing, Ganesha is beckoned and worshipped over a period of ten or more days, usually in early September. The commercialization of this festival, which has now touched American shores, dates back, ostensibly, to the 1800s. According to ancient lore, it was Lokamanya Tilak who encouraged the making of the festival a public event, in order to foster friendly relations among the various strata of the Hindu community, in a way that would scream to the Britishers how unified they were, with their cohesive prayers for the God of “everyman.” But it makes one wonder just how private the worshipping of their favorite elephant-faced God, who is considered the sole harbinger of good fortune, used to be prior to that, for the select few Hindus who considered themselves chaste and eligible enough to do so.

When I see the throngs of people gathering at a community association hall (which, more often than not, is merely the stiff-walled confines of a district school classroom), or the local Hindu temple, scurrying to make it in time before the holy water is sprinkled, the consecrated flame is offered, or the “prasadam” is distributed, just so they can make that one last prayer, one last request before the curtain falls, it makes me realize just how profound the effect of this perfect, charming God is on us all.

With every flicker of a scented candle flame, which is, more often than not, a makeshift for the cotton-wicked lamp, I see flashes of a childhood steeped in forgotten mores. Of times when entire colonies of trusting adults flocked a small, brick-tiled-platform version of a “temple” in my city to see the finely chiseled stone idol of the elephant-headed God take in gallons of milk through His winning, coiled trunk. Of moments when every new beginning, including something as meager as the first day of school, was always ushered with a little prayer to Him. Of a memorable, touching glimpse of time when my grandma handed me a “growing stone,” one that she had found amid abandoned temple rubble in her native village in Southern India, and one that had, as her innocent childhood thickened into an affirming adolescence, taken to sprouting hints of an elephant-face. And even though the life-size clay idols are greatly missed, and the chants reel off from speakers attached to precariously wired electronic gadgets, as opposed to the animated vocal chords of a family priest, the goodwill and harmony that the festive season generates is overwhelming enough to make one feel completely at home and at peace, even sitting estranged by oceans and miles from the homeland.

Even as I clutch on to my grandma’s secret little miracle “Ganesha,” and carry on with my praying routine almost perfunctorily, chanting His name invariably in times of distress or joy, the real jolt stems from something else. It is not often that one sees the universality of a marvel such as this, especially when, through the mind of a foreigner, wearing a “Ganesha” locket is depicted a surefire way to hope for a win at a contest on a television show. Religious preferences aside, Ganesha is surely as big a phenomenon as Eid, Christmas, MLB, or World Cup cricket. He reminds me every so often, from the moment I wake to his smiling countenance on the nightstand, that He is as prevailing as a blue, sunlit sky would be on a bleak winter’s day in Chicago.

All His modern “avatars” notwithstanding, even if it depicts a computer “mouse” and Him lounging and listening to i-Tunes on a Macbook, or Him in any of Lladro’s elbow-resting poses, as a real mouse fans Him devotedly, He will always stand out in unique grace for His sundry believers, smiling His coy smile from beneath a tusk.

The Inside Story on In-sourcing.

2007-12-21T18:55:00.001-08:00

After months of speculation, and much fuss about it, the term “outsourcing” seems finally to have found its perfect antithesis - no, not “reverse-outsourcing,” as an archaic indigenous version may have you believe, but “insourcing,” is what they’re now calling it in Yanksville.

But given the current rate at which India’s economy is growing, and given that nearly four-fifths of its annual revenue is generated from IT industry exports, with the US making close to half the mark among the top players, it would be interesting to see how the mounting white-collar salaries in India would balance out in order for the rupee to continue to appreciate and stabilize. Especially given the big “insourcing” hoopla, which seems to be gaining impetus in light of the looming elections.

How, you might wonder, could this affect the middle-ground-H1B holders, and Green-Card-aspirants? Or even just how much this would impact the life of any NRI. Well, if the plunging dollar doesn’t seem to concern Indian investors in the US, and if all this insourcing were indeed to create more jobs for Americans than “outsourcing” were to cart off, in order to help unassuming BPO workers in India, where does that leave the hoi polloi H-1Bs? If software jobs are moving back to America and benefiting American techies and enriching the lives of well-heeled CEOs of Indian IT giants, will the middle-grounders be forced to move back to India and strive to find decent jobs again? And to even begin to imagine the effect this would trigger off on the lives of the general NRI lot is a mighty task. Then again, if the dollar continues to sink, gas prices continue to escalate, cost-of-living indices remain status quo, and long commutes, stiff working hours, and diminishing savings continue to cause stress and distress, the lives of ordinary NRIs may just continue to crumble, leaving little to no scope for revival.

As the election hungama heats up, more and more Indian software corporations are signing new-fangled lobbyists up to help them downplay the relentless, episodic tittle-tattle that not only goes on about how outsourcing has been costing America jobs, but also derides the English-speaking fancy of modest call center workers in India.

In fact, according to an article in the New York Times, a certain Washington lobbyist revealed recently that information on Indian corporations’ investments in the US was being collated in order to advocate Congressmen and lawmakers from the districts that the investments have generated jobs, and explain to them just how much the “insourcing” is benefiting Americans.

While Obama may not be the best person to go to with this, Hillary would certainly have a word or two to say on the topic. But would this really help promote the expanding Indian middle class as a positive streak to an American middle class that’s currently battling fiscal uncertainties? And whether or not the outsourcing versus insourcing battle continues, the pressure is building up not only for Presidential candidates, but also NRIs. The point in question is not to be or not to be, but whether to be in-source-side or out.

On a lighter note, perhaps, like the Simpsons say, outsourcing is yet the best form of sourcing, at least till insourcing helps the “common man,” to use an Indianism. And wonder what Lou Dobbs would have to say out-and-out on this one. Or should that be inside out?

Flighty Frills And Mighty Bills

2007-12-21T18:54:00.003-08:00

If you think cutting into a microwaved “strictly vegetarian” meal (with options of Gujarati, Jain, and “raw” varieties), suspended in mid-air above sea level, is progressionism, you don’t know the half of it. The desi air travel industry is back in the business, despite the good old navigational glitches and hostess hitches that are often scorned upon, with exclusive in-flight features and low fare deals being offered by most companies.

While Air India’s Maharaja with his smiling, curtsying countenance may have, over the years, become representational of desi air travel, there are other competitors seeking earnestly to steal from Air India’s limelight. Jet Airways, for instance, which up until now had dominated the Indian domestic market, has introduced an 18-hour direct flight from Newark to Mumbai with a short stopover in Brussels starting this month. What’s so great and unusual about that, you ask?

Well, how would you like, on this high class Boeing 777, an ultra-comfy private cabin, with a seven-foot seat-cum-flatbed (which is not only spacious, but vibrates and wiggles to assuage those worn out limbs), big screen entertainment monitors, all-purpose buffet wings, and also a personal closet, if you’re traveling premiere class? And if you’re traveling economy, how would you like soft, downy cushions that distend beyond your seat’s stretchability, giving your legs extra comfort, without you having to fret over thumping your feet against concealed metal extensions underneath?

Well of course the premiere class extravagance comes at a price, but if you’re willing to shell out a little over 10 grand, you can be sure to kick up your heels and delight in the finest cuisines and wines as you lounge back in your King-style chaise, crank up the volume on your music station, and maybe even text or email your friends around the world about the luxury you’re steeped in.
And well, if you’d rather take economy, you wouldn’t have to worry about the ergonomics of the arrangements, which are more than optimal, according to the buzz.

Of course, the imperial comfort provided by Air India has been upgraded too, lately. Not only are its first class travelers given Maharaja treatment in airport lounges, they are also given 6.5 foot-luxury seats, and televisions with up to 500 channels.

And well, if Air India and Jet were to stop vying for the “better” title, and enter into a tie-up instead, like Jet’s CEO Naresh Goyal recently expressed, they’d possibly augment the market share (for Indian carriers) to a whopping 50 percent in the near future, from the present meager 20 percent.

Meanwhile, other international airlines are bucking up to follow suit and offer high-end services to their desi customers. Virgin Atlantic, for instance, has upped the ante a notch by offering suites with recliner seat-cum-beds made of fine leather, and complimentary massage services and free champagne, for its upper class London-to-Mumbai travelers.

Yet with tags like “dirt(y), cheap air shack,” “cattle car,” and “flock fest,” given by irate passengers, Air India is not the only one in line to endure reproach. Even with all the fancy fittings and frills, air travel is getting increasingly exasperating, and moreso for us desis. And if you think getting singled out like magnets at airports and being questioned about trivial things such as purpose of visit to India, or just enunciating the convoluted names some of us are blessed with is daunting, you’re in for surprise.

What’s more, if you share your name with any of the array of suspects deported from the US, or with a member of any of the stealth extremist groups under acute vigil post 9/11, you’re bound to go through a series of humiliating and infuriating security checks before you can get on board.

On a lighter note, the liveries we desis sport can also turn into travel nuisances. And then there are the “usual suspects” - stapled packets of colorful powders, reeking of pungent, dangerous spices.

The “Naya Daur” of Facebook Avatars.

2007-12-21T18:54:00.001-08:00

In an age where Internet and Web 2.0 fanatic desis are finding ways and means to connect and reach out to global NRIs through their blogs, networks and startups in order to stay on top of the social circuit, there is a new rage that is gaining impetus - Facebook applications and avatars. For the uninitiated, Facebook is the trendiest, coolest new online “social utility that connects you with the people around you.”

In fact, if you’re not already in there, this would be a good time to start. And it may be a good idea to purge off all those unwanted (in some cases, ersatz) e-identities you may have and go web-green by sticking with a real visage on “Facebook” alone. That’s what the insiders swear by anyway. In fact, if some of them are to be believed, the latest water-cooler-cool-quip doing the rounds is, “Have a Facebook application up yet?” as opposed to what yesteryear’s technophiles may have had you presume, like, “Have a blog yet?”

From Krutal Desai’s “Web 2.0,” to Michelle Haq’s (who poses with Kal Penn) “Desi Hits,” the desi Facebook groups are burgeoning by the minute. Of course, not to be left behind are other e-business groups by the likes of Rajesh Lalwani, like the “e-business evangelists,” or the “business of brands.”

But what about the pedestrian desi classes who may not be familiar with Facebook, and whose internet savoir faire, in the form of “curry-for-thought” or “bollywood-bhangra-balle-balle” blogs are only yet taking shape? Well, one can hope that “dingchak” would create an interface to generate online hubs with names that are most likely to catch the NRI readership attention, within Facebook. Well, at least based on what “dingchak” claims, it is a considerably fair wish:

“Since every third desi blog title is either a “confused writings of.. “, a “random scribblings from..”, a “mad thoughts of.. ” or a permutation of other such similar apologist disclaimers, aimed towards pre-empting readers from commenting on how shallow and lame the posts really are, to save time, Dingchak.net has a cool new utility that will generate these titles for you [wordpress/ blogger plugin to follow soon]…”

Even though Facebook is already ranked number 22 in order of popularity in Indian circles, and right on top of the social network scenario, the gurus are contemplating on whether or not it makes sense to “Indianize” the content, (replete with widgets and subgroups) on Facebook. At any rate, if an Indian version of Facebook were to be initiated (Chak De Chehra?), it is the “trolls” that the sticklers would need to fear, aside from the monetization potential of the plan in the so-called applications democracy triggered by Facebook.

Now, for sticklers, the problems created by so-called “trolls” on other networking sites can be dealt with on Facebook as simply as one would deal with, to use an Indianism, a “housefly” - bat them away to zombie status.

And if you’re still wondering what “trolls” are, you can look them up at wiki. For some queer reason, desi trolls that even bite the dust seem to be far more popular than exotic ones. While we’re at it, for some pure fun about alleged “stalkers” on Facebook, look up Penn Masala’s (in)famous video on YouTube, called “The Facebook Skit.”

I may as well conclude by asking you the question of the year - so, what’s your Facebook avatar?

Diddler-fiddler, Diaspora-ducker

2007-12-21T18:53:00.003-08:00

Ever been snubbed by fellow-desis at a local shopping mall, restaurant, gym, or even in the modest corner of your neighborhood elevator? I have often wondered, like you, why anyone should ever cold-shoulder anyone, and with desis in particular, why an element of superiority interferes, when in essence, at some level or another, we’re all seeking that wee shred of familiarity or a sense of a shared heritage.

Although, I must say, if it weren’t for my own attempts at being amicable and striving to break the ice at awkward “I’d-never-talk-to-YOU-at-a-Mc D’s-even-if-it-were-in-Timbuktu” instances, I’d have been at the receiving end of such rebuffs more often than you’d imagine. The great American hamburger and fries combo meal doesn’t, as it were, bring vegetarian, lard-conscious desis together. They’re more ashamed to admit their qualms and fears about meat and animal fat in front of their indigenous comrades than their (in some cases, far-fetched) friends across Yanksville.

Of course, there is a thin line between ignoring someone and shaming them, and it’s only reasonable that despite sharing common ground, all desis have the right to express their culture in forms they deem suitable. However, in a land where we make close to 1% of the millions of American populace, it is not unreasonable to expect a show of solidarity, if little.

I live amid an ocean of desis in an already desi-dominated Chicago, and every day is a new learning experience. There are incidents that remind me time and again that more than being bound by nationalism, it is where we are, to be able to uncover or recognize that bond that is more important. For instance, when I take my little one to a tots’ fun time session, I am forced to turn away when the desi moms start crooning out in their cheery voices, “Chubby cheeks…teacher’s pet…very fair…” - a rhyme like that could be veto-ed for the politically incorrect nature of its possible connotations in an actual American toddler group setting. Yet, blissfully unaware of this, the show goes on, and I cringe, feeling inflicted with a tinge of violation. So, I wonder, is this about trying to “fit in” or just trying to do be fair and fine given the time and place we are in?

And then there are times when I find myself exhibiting typical Indian sentimentalism, when my attempts of greeting or even recognizing the presence of a desi go unnoticed. That’s not to say I’m customarily on a befriend-everyone-spree; but I like to socialize and schmooze and on occasion, study incongruity when it’s around. And let’s get real - I do like the little thrills of synchronized eye-brow-raising that comes from just being with another normal desi woman when the lady at the American spa refuses to crank up the heat, leaving our feet to soak in tepid (or, to use an Indianism, “mild”) water. Or the way in which, when dining out at Indian restaurants with our American buddies, the mention of “tandoori” elicits a peculiar manner of attuned head-bobbing and shrugging from the desi waitresses as they lock their eyes with ours.

Does it mean that I don’t really conform to the white preferences and proclivities I have acquired and flaunted over the years of living here? Or that I weep and wail when a desi woman looks right through me in a public place? No, certainly not. But that’s not to say I don’t enjoy a little gloating when my Indianness is discerned and validated through lesser-known or even humdrum social touchstones that are unique to desis alone. And it certainly bothers me when fellow-desis fail to accede our very rich, common background, and say, would rather hit the treadmill than do yoga.

And well, I’m immensely annoyed when fellow-desis skip the Hindi phonemes and rattle off hurriedly in an inevitable Apu-esque tone while conversing with a Hindi-speaking desi cabbie or vendor, just because an American is in line behind them.

Battling Green Card Blues

2007-12-21T18:53:00.001-08:00

Last month, when the USCIS made an announcement that could have helped several thousand H1B workers get one step closer to their timeless Green Card dreams, there was a different kind of logjam to battle - at the doctors’ offices, picture studios, and perhaps even Kinko’s. These excited GC hopefuls were scrambling to get their files and papers in order to maximize the opportunity, to take that one last step needed to apply for permanent residency. While some requested exemption from re-immunizations, some fumbled around in vain to lay hands on their birth certificates and other documents. Consequently, they had to assign the task of raking up old records in their hometowns in India to their aging parents or relatives. Some others, including a friend of ours, canceled important appointments, to the extent of even calling off birthday celebrations, just so they could confabulate with their attorneys and work things out in time.

Then, on the 2nd July, which was the day of the deadline, their fates were altered, just like that. The USCIS withdrew the announcement, closing all windows for these expectant H-1Bs to be able to attain Green Card status. The reason - the USCIS claimed that it had already met the annual quota for EB (Employment-Based) applications.

At a local USCIS-approved medical practitioner’s office in the last few days leading upto the deadline, I ran into scores of eager H1-B visa holders, some with their relatively happier spouses, getting their routine check-ups. I witnessed the flurry of activity that had kept the staff working 22 hours a day in order to fulfill the sudden surge for medical report requests. After the decision was reversed by the USCIS, amid all the retreating clockwork-like action, I noticed two women, both pregnant, and a trifle more restless than the others, but for different reasons. One, a Chinese woman, with virtually no patience to wait for her records to be disentangled and ferreted out so she could just get out of there and possibly, never return; and the other, an Indian, bursting with mixed emotions - anger and an acute sense of desolation - and readier than ever to return to India after having spent close to $2000 on the same medical test twice over (The USCIS shut the window for EB-based categories last year too, just before she and her husband could turn their files in).

But a slightly more interesting incidence ensued in the aftermath of this fiasco. While some of these dejected Green Card hopefuls engaged in melancholic story-telling through their blogs, some simply kept to themselves and began looking for options to counter the injustice they had been meted out. But a majority of them grouped up, and through participation in online forums, networking, and personal meetings, came up with a curious little plan to get the media attention they deserve, while also sending out a hidden message to the USCIS. No, they didn’t flood the USCIS or the media with grievance letters, nor did they stoop to the level of engaging in hideous or harmful activities. They decided, instead, to follow the Gandhian philosophy, triggered rather ceremoniously by the recent Bollywood success of “Lage Raho Munnabhai,” and send out flowers to USCIS director Emilio Gonzalez, as a form of peaceful remonstration. All bouquets were standardized (purple roses, or pink lilies or yellow daisies) and customized to reach Gonzalez’s Washington DC office on July the 10th, with the message, “All the best for future Employment Based visa estimates.”

So, did the Gandhian mantra help? Well, it got the H1-Bs and their debacle some media coverage. But beyond that purview, things remain status quo at the USCIS office. Some attorney offices are working overtime to collect sufficient “rejection” stamps on EB-based filed applications to work out the logistics of a potential lawsuit against the Immigration Department. On the other hand, while the USCIS strategically accepted the flowers and sent them off to recouping soldiers at an Army Medical Center in DC, the symbolism behind it all has stirred enough spirits to be able to see the greener side of things. And consequentially, perhaps, several perturbed Green Card aspirants have decided to move shoo their blues away by returning to India, where the grass may not be greener for now, but hope lives on. Green Card fever seems to have finally abated for wannabe immigrants, but it looks like the USCIS needs to warm up to the chills.

Dollars to Doughnuts - Yeh Desi Dil Maange More.

2007-12-21T18:52:00.001-08:00

It is hard to tell exactly why, but living in the US makes us Indians crave and chase an elusive state of “happiness.” It’s like an American conundrum that seems to saddle and befuddle the Indian mindset. When I say Indian mindset, I mean the celebrated tradition that has for generations made us slog, spend little, and save a lot for a “rainy day.” There’s not a convenient store corner you can turn without noticing a new desi entrant frantically converting the price of say, a pack of lentils, or a boxed set of mangoes, into Indian rupees, and shrugging at the steepness. And even with the fortune of having the American essentials that make up a good life, thanks to the credit system - car, house, and on occasion, boat - one finds a state of unrest and a secret yearning for a better life, among Indian Americans.

So, has the whim of big bucks become the core of this “pursuit of happiness” for us? Well, we’re no longer satisfied with one house and a car; we want more houses, cars (and where applicable, RVs, SUVs, and yachts). This also means clearing credit card dues, which means daily grind, and it leaves us with no time for anything but work. But it doesn’t seem to stop there - this also makes us fore think, and plan our retirement, and for those of us who prefer to cross the oceans and settle down in our hometowns, it means investing in property in India. And with the real estate prices escalating in a fiscally budding India, it makes us toil harder and, consequentially, completely detach ourselves from our already limited social circles.

Can the mediocre lot among us leave our day jobs and turn to movie making, or singing to attain overnight success and glory, like Nagesh Kukunoor, or Shankar Mahadevan? Perhaps not; yet one hears every so often, of a star emerge somewhere in the midst of a bunch of bourgeois NRIs. As a stay-at-home mom (although I wonder how accurate that hackneyed tag is, given that I’m on the move mostly, running menial errands like returning books to the library, and stocking up on groceries, or baby diapers), I am often inspired by such accounts. And as an intransigent seeker of story fodder for my expatriate-centric features, I have even had the pleasure of meeting with and speaking to a few. For instance, the sister-duo of “MeeraMasi” fame in the West, who produce and sell CDs and books with limericks and stories in Indian languages for NRI children. (‘I could have very well thought of that, why didn’t I…?’ I lash out at myself in thought). But I will have to make do with waiting for an opportunity to collaborate with them sometime.

And then there is the bunch of NRI moms in the East, who conceptualized the quarterly magazine “Kahani” for children of South Asian descent in America. Given that these children are seldom given an opportunity to learn about and assimilate the significance of their heritage, “Kahani” definitely takes care of that and more. (Of course I could have come up with something like that! After all, I have a deep interest in children’s literature and have a stories collection waiting to be published…but I digress). I found solace by writing about them instead.

Somewhere in the corner of my vacillating mind, there are a few dreams waiting to be realized. And not one of them is any less a potential jackpot than another. There’s a restaurant, a patisserie, a bookshop, several ideas for simple household widgets and tools, an arts and crafts store, or a gallery that will showcase some of my own designs and creations…all waiting to be worked out, funded, set-up, and turned into million-dollar-realities. And in my overwhelmingly restless, stress-ridden life, I still find time to dream and aspire. I hold on to a scintilla of hope that gets flimsy at times, yet it makes my desires soar and my hopes float higher.

But the reality perhaps is that I will follow the well-tread path, rather than give up writing to take a jab at these so-called dream projects. While simply saying so won’t exactly excuse me from a getting a ticket to a guilt trip, I hope, while I’m at it, I don’t turn into a hustling, avaricious NRI for whom the essence of having a good life is measured in cash and chattels. The pursuit of happiness is overrated, and I believe that if one chooses to see it that way, happiness is hidden in the littlest of things, like in the attainment of inner peace, as opposed to getting lost in the noise of the materialistic world.

That said, if a certain Gauri Nanda can patent a “clocky” that runs and hides each time you don’t wake up to its alarm, then the power of my own “whatsis” shouldn’t be underestimated. And to find out, you’ll just have to check this space often.

H1 Fever and Homecoming Hoopla

2007-12-21T18:49:00.001-08:00

With all the hype surrounding the Immigration Bill, the hordes of H-1 hopefuls are left wondering if they’ll be “chosen,” or whether this dream chase is worth it, after all. But even without that, a group of middle-field desis beleaguered by a relentless dilemma is burgeoning across the US. Their prime concern is whether to head back to India while still scaling new heights in their pursuit of success and big bucks, or stay back and cringe while their children, oblivious to authentic Indian mores, live the American dream the American way.

And then there is a bunch that sits on a rickety groupthink fence, strategizing how to spend the wintry months in the tropical pockets of Asia, and enjoy the warmth of the American sun the rest of the year. But what about the golden beaches of Hawaii, or Florida, that can provide the much-preferred warmth year-round, you ask? Well, what about the friendly seaside mongers, the spirited banter and nonstop gossip, the roar of the local dialects, and more importantly, the sense of belonging that only setting foot on Indian shores can bring, they ask. So, they relent to traveling back and forth, choosing merely the seasons that suit them.

This approach, if one looks at it that way, could be the perfect ground for the bicultural-mélange. Unfortunately, the birds of this feather cannot quite make that work --- they either don’t have children, or if they do, they’re in college, or don’t live with them. Besides, with the admission impasse prevalent in India, only Shankar Jr. could think of having his child study there every semiannual semester. But I digress. The point is --- this extravagance is not one the rest of the wannabe-RNRIs (Returned Non-Resident Indians) can afford. For one, it does cost a lot to endure the “floating NRI” expenses. And then, there is also that guilt factor that could haunt the minds of the stanch wannabe-RNRIs --- aging parents that need caring, the unfussy manner of meeting friends or attending a family function (and not essentially scheduled for weekends), which could hamper their returning to the West.

This RNRI-syndrome applies rather aptly to the IT geeks, although scientists, physicians, and architects are not to be left behind. Now, with 60,000 of them having turned RNRIs in recent years (according to a report by TiE), one wonders, will there ever be a scarcity of foreign talent here? Or, given that close to 25,000 of these have landed in the erstwhile “garden city” of India, which is now a hapless concrete-and-metal jungle, thanks to the “Americanizing-India” initiative that has erected high rises, swanky malls, and non-pecuniary, customer-is-king stores that could put Walmart or Sam’s Club to shame; could one anticipate a reverse-again brain-drain sometime soon? One can’t possibly tell this way or that, but it should be interesting to note that the RNRI Association in Bangalore is going strong, and has only recently celebrated its 12th anniversary. Even as the whim of “outsourcing” and “being Bangalored” wanes gradually away into the background, the RNRI populace is gaining impetus.

But what about the transitional NRIs --- the ones who want to make the most of what America has to offer, retain their Indian values, and take with them the acquired conviction and credence when they do return to India? People, who, after slaving to earn a coveted Masters from a good school, scrambling for a H1, and slogging till they can afford to pay off hefty credit card dues, realize that they have actually learnt a lot about work culture, and the lowliness of being contingent on the so-called (elusive) cosmic forces for success, among other things. These are the people who want the best of both worlds, and are not essentially under any kind of pressure to make the much-hyped move back (yes, we’re among them, thank you); yet, they want to go back because they’d really like to.

It is not uncommon for these transitional NRIs to envision a clean, greened, developed India, where the masons that build their homes have literate, healthy children; their workplaces value time and talent (and not just when it comes to “overseas” clients); their children learn and appreciate the rich Indian heritage beyond weekend discourses at a temple; clean water, air, and electricity are not unaffordable luxuries; giving generous alms does not help ameliorate the poverty rate; and where the simple pleasures of life, like having the entire family together at dinner, does not come at a price. But that’s not to say they’d forget the enrichment they gained from living in a germ-free world, replete with social courtesies and life-size opportunities. And no Immigration Bill can pinion them anymore than can their free-spiritedness liberate their minds.

On or off the “Inde” Platform?

2007-12-21T18:48:00.001-08:00

While the so-called bigwigs of Indian filmdom are busy settling recently sparked feuds from the low-key invite list to the Abhi-warya wedding, two of the three most popular women in the business, even if slightly off by a tangent, are cooling their heels from hot controversies their films have stirred up lately. While media coverage of anything to do with Indian movies and stars usually makes page three material, these proceedings have made it to the front-page headlines, breaking all “kosher-curry,” and “star-o-typical” barriers.

So what if the rest of the world cannot tell a “Bend it Like Beckam” apart from a “Monsoon Wedding”? Deepa Mehta has taken a part of the same world by storm with “Water,” but everything about the polemical making of the movie was conveniently sidelined; given that its singled-out actors, what they wore to the Oscars, and who accompanied them, were milked dry to the limit of their thrill-yielding potential by the media. But what of the essence of the story, its reflection on the low ranks allocated to women in ancient Indian society? All the movie itself has gotten is backlash from Hindu fundamentalists back in India, who were angered by what they say are historical inaccuracies and unnecessary exaggeration of lesser-known facts. And more recently, Mira Nair’s adaptation of Jhumpa Lahiri’s “The Namesake” has opened up a rusty old iron curtain on the quintessential immigrant experience --- of feeling detached in a foreign land, coming to terms with the distinct nuances that dichotomize them from the natives, and so forth. Again, the media has unabashedly puffed up Nair’s endeavor by labeling it evidence of the current rage of “Diaspora Dandy” creating waves in the Western world; although for a part of the diaspora, it may seem to bear a rather droning, sluggish effect.

As a part of the movie-fanatic diaspora that is often plagued by the issue of what really constitutes the big idea of biculturalism, I can unreservedly say that these moviemakers, being the ellipsis in this map-notion don’t seem to help a great deal, nor do the media, with their rather sly, shifting applications. Most movies made by these crossover filmmakers concentrate on a rather non-progressivist image of various sections of the Indian population, and more often than not, the people depicted in them are a confused NRI lot, some stinking-rich, while others, good old struggling-straggling middleclass. For instance, in “Bend it Like Beckham,” the gumption of an Indian girl and her family’s support to her in her Beckam-isque pursuits, that came by eventually, were depicted as an Indian tradition, which was only yet changing. In “Bride and Prejudice,” the ending was a compromised, happy, near-perfect union. But not before the radical, plebeian Indian heroine chastised a “gora” businessman, (before he saved her from big trouble, and consequently, wooed her), by telling him in her typical essentialist tone that brown-skinned women like her needn’t be looked down upon as mere second-rate images of Western gratifications. And then, there was “Mistress of Spices” - a movie based on Chitra Divakaruni’s novel, which basically brought out the slave in the Indian woman. Slave, of spices, the kitchen, and the general liability of homemakerly onuses, a long-standing mold, which even the most modern of divas haven’t been able to break out of. In essence, most of these “Hinglish” films continue to focus on and grapple with monotonous issues of “lineage,” “traditionalism,” and "identity crisis,” as was seen in a series of the diaspora films, like “American Desi,” “Green Card Fever,” “Flavors,” “American Chai,” which simply don’t cut it anymore. And it doesn’t help when the media focus on where these movies are being filmed, who fought whom on the sets, or whose fashion faux pas was caught on a random camera phone, rather than the issues that need to be addressed.

Occasionally, movies like “Black Friday,” or “Kabul Express” come along, but duly get lost in the glare of a non-monsoon, “desh ki sabse badi shaadi,” buildup, or the new-fangled hairdo of an actor at an award ceremony. Further, when Madhur Bhandarkar comes up with a “Traffic Signal,” it gets disregarded because of a mainstream movie shot in the modish gridlocks of New York city, where extra-marital affairs (God forbid the Hindu fundamentalists get an inkling of that!) loom.

So, amidst images of the pinked-hype surrounding the subject of homosexuality in “When Kiran Met Karen,” and repetitive snatches of a 30 second post-wedding footage of Abhishek Bachchan and Aishwarya Rai that define new heights in cosmopolitalism-lined, gossip-for-profit media culture, the true-blue NRI segment is left with no choice than to deflect from acute transnational issues that solicit their attention, and look out for a skimpily clad Rakhi Sawant being ousted on a substandard reality TV show, or wait tolerantly as the media scrape the bottom of the Richard-Gere-necks-Shilpa-Shetty stories barrel.

Chuck-E-Cheese’s, or Chaat-n-Chais?

2007-12-21T18:47:00.002-08:00

In a land where Disney princesses and Tinkerbells rule, hatching clever ploys to win little minds over, by tempting them to dress up, play pretend, and celebrate birthdays spinning around their themes, there is little a poor desi mom of a toddler can do to resist. When my little girl turned one last year, the onus of choosing her birthday theme, and organizing a party that catered to the needs of well-meaning, hungry adults (mostly desi) and of course, some of their sugar-rushed little ones, was entirely on me. But now that she’s turning two, she seems to have been taught a thing or two about birthdays by her little friends, the television, and Toys “R” Us.

Among the scores of fancy themes out there, I learnt just the other day that Strawberry Shortcake is back in the business, and full swing. One of my daughter’s little friends had a Strawberry Shortcake themed birthday party, and like hordes of other desi parents about, I wondered how a casserole full of steaming idlis would go with Strawberry Jelly on the side; or how best one could complement the spiciness of “vadas” with say, Honey Pie Pony patchwork buns. Like all desi moms, I too am bound by the gregariousness and food-sharing values that govern our general idea of fiestas. The Chuck-E-Cheese’s and McDonald’s birthday parties are few and far between for us. We can’t seem to get accustomed to the notion that pizzas, French fries and coke can make for a fairly decent birthday meal. Our celebrations call for a multi-course spread, with savories and sweets that can satiate the littlest and biggest of appetites; besides, kids’ birthdays are merely reasons for our cooking ranges to smolder and whip up delicacies.

Back at home in India, food was always at the center of birthdays and special occasions. Even as my thoughts take me down memory lane, I realize, as a child, I never had a themed birthday party thrown in my honor. No dining tables with ritzy fanfare of food and drinks in gleaming china or glassware, no glitzy trimmings adorning the house, no bean bag tosses or other fancy games to be played, and no party favors hiding under tables or on discreet closet shelves, for a growing guest list that could take my diligent mother by surprise. Neighbors, friends and relatives clocked in and out of the house uninvitedly, ate simple home-cooked food out of bottomless pots, and huddled around one, showering wishes, singing, and sharing more food and stories that bound everyone in a curious sense of belonging. Birthdays were meant to be spent with one’s nears and dears, beginning with an offering of prayers to the family deity, and culminating with a hearty (extended) family meal, eaten, on occasion, out of broad, fresh plantain leaves (a natural, eco-friendly substitute for the synthetic, disposable varieties one can buy from the Party City outlets here). The only embellishments that added color to the house were the attractive “rangoli” patterns in the frontyard, the “puja” corner; and strings of fresh mango leaf frippery that hung from door tops. The open kitchen provided space, warmth, and food for everyone --- right from the weary vegetable vendor who was offered a glass of lemonade, to the uninvited friends who were offered simple servings of home-cooked food, when they stopped by to wish one.

With only a few days to go before my little girl turns two, I am wondering how to reorient the way I entertain, to suit a crowd that is not only eclectic, but also finicky. If the Indian way of celebrating is distinctive, the Indian palate is rather accommodating in relation to the mild American appetite. So, if the “samosas” and “bhel puris” stack up on one corner of the table, one must also pile up hot cross buns and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches across on the other side, to offset all the spiciness. And then, to wash them down with, one must stock up on the Welches and colas, as alternates to the tangy “lassis” and perky “masala chais.” And once the diverse appetites have been whetted and catered to, it will be time for other forms of entertainment, and the indigenous “antakshari” might not go too well with a scavenger-hunt-fanatic pack.

While I figure out the xyzs of obliging to a mixed party crowd later, I must heed a more imperative need for planning the logistics of a mega Toys “R” Us fun time in the heart of Manhattan, where my little one, in her colorful Springwear, will ride on the giant Ferris Wheel, cuddle her favorite plush toy, admire the latest fashion trends of Barbie in her star home, and possibly, squeal in delight upon seeing her favorite mammoth Dino. She will, of course, visit and greet her favorite “elephant-faced” God at the temple, and relish a bowl of her favorite “kheer” prior to all that, dolled up in a bright, embroidered “lehenga.”

Of Bake-a-thons, Trike-a-thons and Wannabe-Soccer-Mom-a-thons

2007-12-21T18:47:00.001-08:00

As an active, full-time, work-at-home desi mom of a twenty-three-months old toddler, I am still familiarizing myself with the concepts of play dates, sing-along sessions, friendly Fridays, pretend-play Mondays, and select park fun times. Even though I am aware that these are key activities that will help her hone her motor, verbal, linguistic, cognitive, and socio-emotional skills, among others, I am possibly just in awe of the notion of introducing my little one to a range of pre-planned activities for groomed interaction.

So, while I thought I was getting up to a good start for summer at the onset of spring, I was told off by a couple of park district centers. Apparently, when I was busy building snowmen with my little one, or perhaps, visiting temples to commemorate a range of Hindu festivals, the others (mostly Americans) had gotten their forms signed and enrolments sealed. And now with waiting lists brimming over, I’m apparently only good enough to get on one of them. So while I wait it out to see if my little one can join in with other little gymnasts and water sport enthusiasts, my thoughts go drifting down to the summers of yesteryears, back at home in South India. I don’t recall my parents losing sleep over what I’d do in the summer, or any other turn of season. Summers, for instance, were meant to be spent outdoors, feasting on succulent mangoes and cool melons, taking leisurely, free laps in the officers’ club pool, rolling in a grubby playground playing hopscotch, or “kho-kho,” or even hide and seek, as the sun sank unhurriedly. And with the resulting fatigue making way for hunger pangs, I’d be eating early dinners at neighbors’ homes, chasing a coy moon as it slipped behind feathery clouds, from wide open, balmy rooftops.

And then there were unscheduled visits to aunts’ and grandparents’ houses, where a bunch of equally excited cousins would indulge one with fun activities, including, but not limited to, clambering up random fruit trees in the neighborhood, drinking tender coconut water from street-side vendors for lunch, and going on afternoon riding expeditions on vintage, grandfather bicycles, often barefoot. The only time our activities needed adult intervention was during a brawl or mishap. And of course, as the years rolled on and one grew older, when the good old holiday homework had to be dealt with, which, more often than not, comprised writing an essay on what had ensued, or how productively one had spent one’s holidays.

For now, I am stuck with making more enquiries about organized group toddler activities, scheduling June play dates in April with some friendly neighborhood folks, and wondering what else I can do to get my little one to enjoy the summer. Of course, there are rounds of visits to parks, zoos, and houses of the few relatives and friends around --- all planned ahead, to the littlest detail. But no impulsive sprees, or wayside carousing activities, like I enjoyed in India, to take her by surprise, and enthuse her curious mind.

In retrospect, given that there are not too many choices for a desi parent like me, to engage my little one, it’s perhaps time to accept these exclusive socializing concepts, and go with the flow. What can one possibly do to bring change and freedom in a place where the Ramayan and Mahabharat are reduced to folklore meant to be discussed in the weekends, in the premises of a temple? Or gather a bunch of kids for playtime after scheduling appointments months ahead with their busy parents? Or call to check if the weather, and rules are conducive to take my little one trike riding in the park? (While also ensuring that she’s appositely dressed, in Shimano shoes and light clothes, to ride on the right trike for her age).

I’m sure she’s soon going to learn to see the joys of being independent, and wait her turn at the park, pool, or bake-a-thon. Until then, I’m going to have to make do with prepping her up, and watching on, as she learns to play by herself, and feel belonged in a cosmopolitan community. Of course, I must keep her off the neighbors’ gardens and teach her to ask before she eats at one of their houses.

Parenting in these shores is wearying, but there are rewards, and they’re bigger than life. For instance, those little eyes that seek answers to everything on my face, they’re what keep me going - they wake me in the middle of the night, and boost me to shout hurray, enact teddy-bear-turn-around, or say, put my thoughts down like this.

Enchanted, I look on. She turns away, beaming at her success still, and then, swerving a little out of control, grabs quickly on to the curvy handgrip with tiny palms that were busy making circles in the air. An array of emotions manifest all at once on her face - fear, joy, sorrow. I smile, even as I grind my teeth together in horror, and cheer her on. It works, like magic. And she goes all out for more, and more. And with each encore, she looks at me, as if to check on the pride in my eyes, and flashes her dimpled-cheek smile. These, to put it mildly, are moments I live for. What’s so special about a twenty-three month-old toddler learning to ride a tricycle on her own, you ask? It’s in knowing that for nine months even before she came into this world, you only knew she possessed those feet, and then, when you saw them, and re-checked their authenticity, they still were practically useless. Then came the action - flapping, kicking, and gradually, crawling. Yet, those little booties, they never got dirty, and then came the pre-walkers, and finally, pairs of real shoes. And now, suddenly, it’s time for Shimanos, the easy-on-feet biker shoes. Well, I guess it’s routine for mothers to glorify every bit of progress their children make, and delight in all the fudge surrounding it - even if it’s something as flat as cleaning dirty shoes to a shine. Although I wonder if her shoes will get even half as dirty as my shoes did, when I was growing up in India, given that her playtime has been restricted to the confines of the house until now.

But with summer finally around the corner and the mercury soaring steadily, it’s time for haggard moms like myself to crack and track tot rock and toddler fun programs. It’s all very new to me, and curiously so. While I thought I was getting up to a good start at the onset of Spring, I was told off by a few park district centers, and with waiting lists now brimming over, I’m apparently only good enough to get on one of them. So while I wait it out to see if my little one can join in with other little gymnasts and water sport enthusiasts, my thoughts go drifting down to the summers of yesteryears, back home. I don’t recall my parents losing sleep over what I’d do in the summer, or any other turn of season. Summers were meant to be spent outdoors, feasting on succulent mangoes and cool melons, taking leisurely, free laps in the officers’ club pool, rolling in a grubby playground playing hopscotch, or “kho-kho,” or even hide and seek, as the sun sank unhurriedly. And with the resulting fatigue making way for hunger pangs, I’d be eating early dinners at neighbors’ homes, chasing a coy moon as it slipped behind feathery clouds, from wide open, balmy rooftops.

And then there were visits to aunts’ and grandparents’ houses, where a bunch of equally excited cousins would indulge one with fun activities, including, but not limited to, clambering up random trees, drinking tender coconut water from street-side vendors, and going on afternoon riding expeditions on vintage, grandfather bicycles. The only time our activities needed adult intervention was during a brawl or mishap. And of course, as the years rolled on and one grew older, when the good old holiday homework had to be dealt with, which, more often than not, comprised writing an essay on what had ensued, or how productively one had spent one’s holidays.

For now, I am stuck with making more enquiries about group toddler activities, scheduling play dates with some friendly neighborhood folks, and wondering what else I can do to get my little one to enjoy the summer. Of course, there are rounds of visits to parks, zoos, and houses of the few relatives and friends around --- all planned ahead, to the littlest detail. But no impulsive sprees, or wayside carousing activities to take her by surprise, and enthuse her curious mind.

Soon, she’s going to learn to see the joys of being independent, take charge of her choices, and ask to be enrolled in ballet, or say, ice-skating classes. Until then, I’m going to have to make do with prepping her up, and watching on, as she learns to make friends and feel belonged in the community. Parenting in these shores is wearying, but there are rewards, and they’re bigger than life. For instance, those little eyes that seek answers to everything on my face, they’re what keep me going - they wake me in the middle of the night, and boost me to shout hurray, enact teddy-bear-turn-around, or say, put my thoughts down like this.

Holi Smokes, Where’s the Hungama?

2007-12-21T18:46:00.000-08:00

For someone who has never had the pleasure of understanding the true meaning of the Holi festival, and has only celebrated it for the love of cheer and all those myriad hues, it is further saddening that even those windows are not half as open out here. It’s not like I was any less of a cleanliness freak before, but I now wouldn’t dare stain the carpets with obstinate patches of color spills. Besides, if one counts the turmeric on my hands on any given routine day, one wouldn’t discount the marked presence of color in my life. But then, isn’t there more to Holi?

There are certain things one associates with all things desi. And most of them, rather than being culturally or ceremonially oriented, tend to point at Bollywood, by and large. Which desi in his or her true-spiritedness wouldn’t think of Big B’s famous “Rang Barse Bheege Chunarwaali Rang Barse…” during Holi? Okay, perhaps the Gen-X-ers (which, by no means hints at my seniority, or old age, by the way) will think of Shah Rukh’s “Ang se ang Lagana…” but the essence of Bollywood remains.

The only other things that come to mind during this festive season are my mom’s “obbattu” preparations (sweet bread stuffed with a cardamom-infused lentil and jaggery filling, for the uninitiated). Of course, the Hindu temples sell them, but the hurdles one must cross in order to get there are many --- snow and sleet, for one; besides, that magic ingredient, which only moms seem to know the abracadabra to, and all that love in the form of, say, dollops of butter on piping hot goodies will still be amiss. There’s no dearth of anything desi here, if one looks at it that way…but the microwaveable quality still doesn’t warm the foods in a way we’d like.

And so the festival of colors brought little color, so to speak, to my life this year, as any other. I watched forlornly as little children were tobogganing on the snowy landscape the play area has momentarily transformed into; some building snowmen, forts even, hurling little, fluffy, white blobs at each other. My thoughts went back in time to a place where, aside from friends, and neighbors who would come by with colors and sweets, one would even get accosted by complete strangers on the streets, with requests to daub a tiny blotch of red on one’s forehead --- a token of affection, as it were, from unknown people. There were no fears, no apprehensions; just a celebration of something that signified Indianness, and a friendly way of spreading cheer and touching people’s hearts. All this was often accompanied by related diversions, so to speak. If one went to the market, one would see wayside hustlers trying to push mixed colors, water squirts, sparkling vermillion sachets, and hordes of other oddments that insinuated color, and warmth.

Yet, Chicago did come alive this holi in its own special way. If a certain suburban storage facility got painted red, purple and blue, the premises of a Hindu temple were certainly not to be left behind --- visitors and devotees were allowed to play with colors for an hour, outside the temple, even as some of them chose to dance and make merry indoors. A “Holika Dahan” was apparently performed too, and many are said to have braved the chill to witness this annual event. Also, the Indian restaurants around town served their Holi specials, ranging from gujias, chaats, gol gappas, to the more colorful, layered, biryanis, alongside pista-almond-raisin speckled sweets. A well-known upscale bistro even mixed up some exclusive cocktails to make up for the missing “Bhang,” one of them, I hear, was even aptly called “Rang Barse,” which included three distinctly and vibrantly colored tequila shots.

I’m sure desis in the other Metros had their own courses to follow through to herald Spring. Perhaps, in certain clubs and cafés, DJs were mixing up tunes and beats that screamed “Holi Hai…” in unique ways; some unfinished basements were taking generous smudges of color from those who liked to keep the fun indoors; and elsewhere, a section of the hard-working busybees possibly returned home to don on their traditional attires and sport neat little “tilaks” on their foreheads, while also enjoying a fresh, home-cooked meal.

Whatever the case, even with St. Patrick’s Day looming, and the prospect of being able to witness a thawed, greened Chicago river, or leaves and buds that promise to burgeon forth, the nostalgia still lingers on. On a lighter note, maybe, just maybe, if Sholay-2 opens soon enough, complete with a recap of the “Holi ke Din…” number from the original, there is hope --- for color, and warmth, to be revived heartily.

Of Old Dons and New Dhooms

2007-12-21T18:45:00.000-08:00

This one’s for the desis among us that crave the saas-bahu soaps and grumble about not having a dish connection – despair not. Help is well on its way, and it doesn’t even entail as much hard work as picking up and dropping off DVDs in neat little Net Flix packages. Nor does it require you to make a trip to your local India video rental shack. You can now watch select Star World programs right in the heated comfort of your own home --- a click on the mouse button is all it takes. Star World is offering a select set of programs for online viewing at a measly sum.

With the upsurge of piracy, the industry has been going haywire, trying to restore a balance of sorts between money spent and ROIs. One sees veteran bigwigs right from Shah Rukh Khan, down to edgy newcomers like Abhay Deol, urging the random public to refrain from buying pirated copies of their movies. But little do they know that the random public, so to speak, would rather not spend at all, and watch movies on shady, free-for-all websites.

For someone who was surprised at a serialized collection of Ramanand Sagar’s “Ramayan” alongside Ekta Kapoor’s “Kyon Ki Saas Bhi Kabhi Bahu Thi,” at the local video store, the concept of “buying” an episode of Karan Johar’s “Koffee with Karan,” at the price of a gallon of milk online was rather astounding. But when I heard about the possibility of catching sneak peeks of the show, as many others, on You Tube at no cost, I was further astonished. Whether you want to watch Shah Rukh mesmerize his contestants on KBC with his evergreen charm, or catch up on a 15-second post-engagement video of Abhishek Bachhan and Aishwarya Rai, it’s all up there for free.

In the wake of all this, DVD rates have been slashed, and video rentals are now dishing out movies under special rent-to-own schemes. Gone are the days when one had to make do with the rare Filmfare magazine on the stands at a Patel’s store to catch up on filmi gupshup. As are the times when one had to queue up at the local Indian restaurant to watch a game of World Cup cricket alongside hordes of fellow desi cricket fanatics, on big screen television. With the internet and other technological advancements today, it is possible to get real time podcasts of events that pique our silver screen and general desi curiosities. Yet, it leaves one with a wistfulness, a longing for the golden times of yore. The tele-serials and movies that didn’t require heroines to parade in near-nothings in the frozen expanses of Antarctica; the villains (male) to sprout a jagged vein on their shiny foreheads each time they caught sight of heroes and heroines cuddling in evergreen New York parks; and if they’re female, to sport snaky ‘bindis’ slithering between stenciled black curves for eyebrows, to denote their contempt; mothers to conspire against their own children, or vice versa; and where simplicity was just the order of the day. DD was the prime television channel, and fillers like “Sooraj ek, chanda ek, taare anek,” produced by the Films Division of India, actually promoted a feeling of oneness that stretched beyond huddling up in front of a Dyanora television set in the community and cheering Gavaskar and his mates on as they wrung the life out of their opponents. Advertisements never came in the way of a “Hum Log” or a “Nukkad” run, and when they did, people really didn’t have too many choices --- Nirma was always up against Surf (sans Excel or Power); Hamam, against Lifebuoy; and Colgate, against Binaca.

With the number of media conduits today, advertising possibilities that seem larger than life, brands wars, a crazy bunch of desi paparazzi that won’t rest till they get an actress or actor to wash their dirty linen in public (or make it seem so), and alleged underworld connections to the big bad industry that brings to our eyes the glamour and glitz of the Manish Malhotras and Tarun Tahilianis, and to our ears, the reverberating rhythm of the Rahmans and Shankar-Ehsan-Loys, it shouldn’t be surprising if the “Abhiwarya” wedding gets reduced to a complimentary mpeg file. Of course, Shilpa Shetty has stolen their thunder for now, but it won’t be long before the ex-Miss World and current-Mr. Bollywood Badshah fire up the Jaipur Palace, or more appropriately, our very own blackberry screens, with their sensational nuptials. While I go back to pining for the Buniyaads of the old Dons and marveling at the new Dhooms, do buzz me for when that actually ensues.

The "Patel’s" Fixation

2007-06-08T21:04:00.000-07:00

From the moment our odyssey to the US of A begins, we desis are forewarned about carrying home made goodies, including pickles, papads, halwas, mithais, masalas, chutneys, and other condiments, for which we are singled out almost like magnets and cross questioned about the smelly packs. The big American fast food experience that’s complete only with the use of forks and knives soon becomes a saving grace; and of course, the fast paced life in general takes its toll on us.

While most of us steel ourselves and take to the new changes after the initial hiccups, we do still miss the sights and sounds and smells of India. For instance, when we look at dozen-odd brands of cereal on the shelves at a supermarket, some of us think back to the good old “ragi porridge.” And when we talk “idlis,” with our children gazing in wonderment, suggesting the name “rice cakes” instead, we gladly incorporate it into our evolving lexicons.

The choices here seem more difficult, as there are many. Further, with no small market places like in India, where there are easy options, familiar faces, and where one can bargain and buy seasonal fruits and vegetables right off newspaper-lined wicker baskets in the fresh produce markets, as opposed to glossy, waxy produce that adorn these local supermarket shelves for days, things seem a little more tough.

Even as more and more of us try to find a life away from home in this land of opportunities, there are few who strive toward making it possible for us, like the Patels, Anna Daatas, and others. With their stores, which are more like little passages to India that stock everything an Indian kitchen would need to subsist, they even serve us during late night emergencies, at times. Like midnight cravings of “rosogullas” or “bhel puris” that have been known to knock many a would-be father off his snoring slumber and out the door.

And it’s not just the fresh spices, flours, grains, dry fruits, sweets, and savories that I’m referring to in particular. These stores have become the serve-all, cure-all stock for us desis. Of course, there are “Mother’s Recipe” pickles for spicing up that bland dal-chaawal, “Lijjat Papads” for adding a crunch to a soppy meal, “Monaco Jeera” to go with that evening cup of “masala chai,” “Maggi Noodles” for that 2-minute breakfast on a lazy weekend, and hordes of MTR, Swad and Gits frozen ready-to-eats for busy week nights, including “Mixed Vegetable Upma,” “Masala Dosa,” and “Rajma Chawal.” Also, there is the odd pack of parathas or ghee-smeared rotis that people make do with at times too. And for those that miss the rare vegetables, there are frozen “drumsticks,” “parwal,” “tindora,” and the likes; while canned coconut milk, sliced jackfruit, mango pulp, tamarind paste, ghongura chutney, are just some of the other rare offerings in stock. Not to mention the “Parachute,” or “Dabur Amla” hair oils for the hair care fanatics, “Margo,” and “Pears,” soaps for the desi-formula skin care enthusiasts, “Multani” face packs and “Ayur” herbal products for the natural products aficionados.

When I saw that my local desi grocer was selling ziplocked packs of dosa and idli batter, it seemed, at the outset, an outstandingly brilliant concept to serve some urgent needs. Word got around, and before we knew it, these little packs brought the authenticity of the good old Rajalakshmi Wet Grinders to every other desi home, and sold off like hot cakes. And slowly, the excitement began to recede; and my grocer was thinking of new plans to beckon his customers back with. And then came the festive offerings: packs of region-specific sweets, like sesame barfis, puffed rice laddus, and even sugar-coated plantain crisps for Onam, or the yearly blend of dried nuts with coconut flakes for Sankranthi. And so on and so forth, he continues to surprise and lure us with his novel ideas. His latest is by far the most utilitarian, best-selling of all --- pre-washed, pre-cut okras, beans, and all the other vegetables that are known to take the most time-consuming and painstaking efforts to dice up. Of course, they come at a price, but that seldom comes in the way of the convenience of being able to experience what only the good old maids in India could provide us with --- pain-free and stress-free home keeping, and quality time for ourselves, which, hopefully, we will put to good and constructive use, if we already aren’t.

With all these amenities, and with the Patel’s store on Devon stepping up with its demo area and pickle bar, one wonders, what’s next? A microwave at the checkout corner where one can warm one’s frozen food pack, and take out piping hot to gobble down on the way home? Perhaps it’s time for the India Gardens and Hyderabadi Houses to wake up and smell the "Chole Bhature."

Fingering with Food Etiquette

2007-06-08T21:03:00.000-07:00

When was the last time you ate a simple home-cooked meal with your hands, relishing every bite, smacking your fingertips, and felt curiously satiated? The great Indian spoon-and-fork seems to have lost its utilitarian value, thanks to the eternal quest of what can only be called, a “different” lifestyle. Most of us drop aspects of our culture when we set foot in another continent, and take to, what we believe is, the more sophisticated “other” living. And be it something as trivial as food habits, for instance -- we seem to feel humiliated when seen eating with our hands. Of course, there isn’t essentially any section of our society that could be excluded from this doing. A globetrotting desi sitting pretty in his exquisite business class suite could well be as uncomfortable as someone in the economy class, in his painstaking efforts at slicing up his “masala dosa” with the dulled edges of a disposable knife, and savoring it.

Of course, there are exceptions, and we can’t even claim rights to their origin. Finger foods have come to belong to a category of exotic fare that is meant to sound elegant, and classy. And the only time we’d consider indulging in them is when the situation doesn’t have anything to do with us. The Deep Southern cuisine, for example, is considered “special,” and necessitates the use of hands in a “different” way, one that we deem stylish. And sometimes, eating appetizers right out of your hands at cocktail doodads is considered a pardonable sin. But at desi parties, one might yet see people cutting up their samosas with “plastic” silverware, and wonder how much of the samosa actually reaches their mouths. These forks and knives also dig into rotis with such exertion that it takes all the pleasure out of relishing rotis in the first place.

Winters, as I’ve known them, are perfect for family dinners and snack times, with everyone huddled around a cozy fire, and enjoying finger-licking platters of hot, spicy food. Of course, when the term ‘family’ ceases to include a bunch of nears and dears, and all one can possibly do is eat at quaint little chaat shops, the offerings there are far from being homely. When I see these eateries serving appetizing “pani puris” and “sev puris” on sleek little disposable plates, complete with dainty forks and knives, I’m instantly taken back to the roadside joints back at home, where “churmuris” and “mango bhels” were served in newspaper cones that served as perfectly functional containers, and were most delectable when eaten with one’s hands. I might add here that it is virtually impossible to eat “pani puris” out of hollow plastic spoons, although, if one did try, one might end up treating one’s shirt to a lot of the “pani” and one’s chin to some of the “puri.”

Isn’t it rather curious how we bend and twist and even unlearn things just to be able to fit ourselves into the mold of the acceptable “other” living? We relinquish life’s simple pleasures for a dream we seem to be chasing, which may not even get any more real than surreal for some of us. At times, we even choose to starve in order to appear comely. We do anything in our mortal power to avoid being screened out like magnets. Some of us take to eating the things we were never taught to, or perhaps never meant to, if one looks at it that way, just to belong. And some of us may have even been humiliated by the occasional sudden release of garlicky odors from our lunch boxes at work; or the piquancy of our spices and seasonings that cling to our walls, when visitors come by.

And then there’s the quintessential Indian finger food - “rajma-chawal,” or to a section of us from the South, “thair-saadam,” or yoghurt-rice, which has to be taken with pickle on the side, and smacked and savored to the last morsel. It is rather impossible, and I speak for many from the tribe, hopefully, to relish these foods fully with the aid of spoons and forks. That’s not to say belching, or slurping crudely should be forgiven. In fact, aside from the crackling sound of the papad, the only other sound that can be tolerated at our tables must surely be that of our hearts going “Hmmmmm.”

Colors of a Lost Tradition

2007-06-08T21:02:00.000-07:00

It is not often that one can tell the front porch of an NRI household from that of others. Especially not in the winter, when everything around is bleak and bare, sparing the holiday lights that dot and adorn a few. So when I went to visit a friend who has just given birth to adorable twin girls, I was rather flummoxed --- a fine pattern of dove-white “rangoli,” outline, filled with dazzling Holi-like colors that had stood the test of Chicago’s brutal winds, welcomed me. And even as I was reveling in it, I saw were blobs of turmeric and vermillion here and there, and a wind chime of Ganeshas in different postures was swaying gently, as if to say amen and complement the other endearing displays.

Now, knowing my friend, she barely has the time to water her tulips in the summer. And I’m sure she wouldn’t be able to draw a straight line with the silken “rangoli” powder even with the aid of a scale. And now, with the double dolls in tow, it would hardly be expected of her to keep awake for guests. And so at once I knew that it must be the handiwork of her mother, or mother-in-law, depending, obviously, on who got their visa cleared first.

For people who know the significance and splendor of “rangoli,” the sight I witnessed would surely have brought the ultimate joy. Growing up as a little girl in Southern India, I would often witness my mother’s nifty hands create magic with the powder. It was a daily ritual --- the front porch would be cleansed with water, and once the water had run off, the pattern would take form, curve by glorious curve, line by shipshape line. My mother has never been fond of rules with respect to anything, and certainly not in this regard. No clean slated dots and connecting-the-dots designs for her; she believes in letting her passion and creativity rule. Well, more than that, actually, given her Godliness and devotional spirit.

The “rangoli” sessions didn’t stop there. There was a theme set for every occasion. Sugarcane sticks and leafy designs during Sankranthi, lotuses and miniature Ganeshas during the Ganesh Chathurthi celebrations, diyas and glowing, colored flames at Diwali, and so on. There would be an unstated contest for the house with the best-adorned front porch, in the neighborhood. And despite some bright, impressive flowery creations during Onam by some others, my mother’s “rangoli” pattern always stood out, like a lone shining star in a galaxy of dim spots.

And today, it nearly has been reduced to a has-been art form, given the mass production of sticker rangolis. One can see these brick-red strips with painted motifs that glue onto any surface, and even though they stand out on white marbles and wooden planks that sit pretty on carpeted floors, they’re not even close to the real thing. They’re even sold off the shelves in Indian stores, alongside “aarti thaalis,” and assorted “puja items,” including but not limited to artificial, turmeric-lined coconuts stuck to small white silver ewers, plastic rows of mango leaves, and other oddments.

While some of these modern day simulations of traditionalism have caught up even in India, there are still pockets of authenticity that yearn to be noticed, and they’re rather mind boggling if you ask me. And out here, the pleasure of witnessing them are a rarity, and limited only to the time of year when the mothers and mothers-in-law visit. Be it summer, spring or winter, they take the time to transform desi houses into homes, even if it means creating an array of colorful designs that gets trampled on by sloppy visitors. Of course, some of them prefer to use the good old chalk in the Fall, lest the winds that tweak the leaves off trees muss their labor of love up.

And when I returned home that evening, I saw what a contrast the bareness of my front door was, despite its fancy holiday wreath. But there seems to be hope, because the local Hindu temple has scheduled a “rangoli” competition, later this month. Even though I may not exactly partake in it, I’d really like to see if the children’s creations of those time-honored, symmetric patterns can match up to their other works that often adorn refrigerator doors.

Remniscences of a Desi Stuffaholic

2007-06-08T21:00:00.000-07:00

A visit to the local children’s museum was enough to get me nostalgic for the umpteenth time this year. The sights of gigantic balloons that fill up by a lever-driven, pedaling or pumping action, mazes of different kinds, windmill replicas --- they all brought back memories of a childhood that didn’t need museums or fancy green islands to explore and learn about the world around. I mean, our own backyards or front yards served as learning stations, back at home.

I remember walking down to the windmill to get fresh “atta” ground, hand in hand with the other kids in the neighborhood, led by my maid. I also remember, as a little girl, of about seven, or eight, my intense love and fancy for stuff - which made me a stuffaholic - stuff like stamps, coins, pressed flowers, leaves, cashews (tucked securely in their shells), and a few other things I cannot seem to summon up at this moment. A stark contrast, I might add, to the manner in which our little American-born ones are saving their “favorites” in computer bytes, and gluing things that they might consider reminiscing later, onto pages of custom-designed scrapbooks, sometimes even e-books. Even their memories are a bargain --- which makes me wonder if they’ll ever be able to enjoy the little things in life like we did. Little things like picking fresh flowers, and leaves, and pressing them between dog-eared pages of books handed down from generations. Gathering bird feathers under banyan trees, eating fresh guavas picked from neighbors’ gardens, slurping on homemade tamarind lollipops, among other things.

When I was a little girl, the most exciting summer activity of all, was an unstated competition for collection of cashews. There were about six cashew trees in my neighborhood, and the biggest of them all stood in my neighbor’s garden. A strapping, grumpy woman, she was known to be rather hostile to children (and adults too, in general), and the right time to sneak in would be the afternoon, when she’d take her post-lunch siesta. I remember sneaking in there with my little plastic bag, clambering up the tree in a trice (I knew all its branches, nodes and safety handles closely), and counting how many were within reach. I would then end up biting into one or more irresistibly juicy cashew apples, and meanwhile, my friends, who were apparently shrewder, would have picked a dozen more cashews. The norm was to hurl the cashew apples away after the cashews had been pinched off. These cashews were then stowed away in tin boxes in our respective kitchen attics, and on one chosen day, they would all be counted, and the shells roasted, in a small garden fire, under the supervision of an adult who was considered wacky and wild enough to be a part of the squad. The winner would get a fruit picked fresh from the garden, or, on occasion, a pencil or a sharpener.

Sure, my little one gets to go apple picking, enjoy corn-on-cobs, relish cotton candies, and even popsicles. But there is a huge difference - her access to these things is limited, and not so much natural as it is fabricated. I wouldn’t dare let her pinch a couple of fruits off the neighbor’s garden, and the Scrapbook Groupies sell far more attractive pressed flowers than she’d end up getting if she took a shot at it on her own. She wouldn’t know the greatness of tiny, shiny marbles (as collected and deposited in little tin boxes, in my days). She wouldn’t know the value of stamps (as begged and beseeched from “foreign-returned” relatives) given the scarcity of snail mails. She wouldn’t know the thrill of counting coins (as segregated and stacked based on their geographical origin, in China silk pouches) given the swiping, sweeping abundance of Visa and Master cards around.

Even though my own stints with collecting stuff never lasted long, there was always something new to enthuse my little mind, during the good old growing up years. I seldom stuck to any one thing, and relentlessly kept at acquiring several fractionary collections, through the years. But rather surprisingly, I find today that it’s impossible to lay my hands on a single stamp or quarter or dime even if I rummaged the entire house, and my flowers and cashews are exclusively store bought. And being the modern, more reformed stuffaholic these days, the least I can ensure is to save my little girl’s visits to parks and museums on sleek little disks for her future viewing pleasure. But for now, I must get her to nibble on sugarcane sticks with rows of brand new teeth, this Pongal.

When the Saree Meets the Sarong

2007-06-08T20:59:00.000-07:00

One doesn’t have to catch up with the latest Bollywood movies anymore to get a glimpse into current desi fads and trends. Although, if one did, chances are one might see very little in terms of attire. It is not au courant anymore for desi women to dress in bikinis, or the men folk to walk around in embroidered shirts, and equally ornamental trousers. The rage these days, as the local grapevine has it, is for the women to be dressed in the traditional Indian saree, which, as opposed to making them look like divine divas, makes them look like bare-all babes; and for the men to be seen in front-open “kurtis” and ragged-jagged-edged denims.

I believe that the main problem with some desis living in America is their inability to hold their own - be it culture, appearance, food habits, or even fine arts, like music and dance. Fusion is their newest fashion, or so it seems. One visit to a desi party, and you’ll know what I mean. I personally end up being the odd one out, many a time. I have an almost freakish tendency to misunderstand the significance of such gatherings. For instance, there was this time when I went to a desi teen’s graduation party (although why I was asked to is yet an unanswered question) dressed in a pair of jeans and a semi-formal shirt, to find all eyes fixed on me from the moment I set foot in there. All the desi women there were clad in glitzy ghagharas with the tops held precariously in place by a flimsy pair of cords, or sheeny, translucent sarees with little to no sign of a blouse to go with. They seemed to make up for the lack of clothing with heavy accessories though. The poor teenager, in whose honor the party was being held, was slouching away in a corner, his face buried under a book. There were beers and cheers all around, and that only seemed to add to his misery. How did all that razzmatazz matter to a young, intelligent boy who had just finished school, and was looking forward to a scholarly stint in college?

And then there are the Pujo celebrations, where showing off jewelry and sporting the fanciest silk sarees, paired, more often than not, with strappy, lacy, knit tops from Macy’s that pass off as blouses, is a religiously followed routine, for some of the womenfolk. The men, of course are burdened with the task of taking pictures of the damsels, and can be seen more actively perfecting angles and flash screens, than partaking in the festivities. How does, one wonders, all this lavishness contribute to the devotion and spiritual essence of the festival?

I took my little one to an early kids-all Christmas party last evening. Even though the crowd was fairly cosmopolitan, the majority were Indians. While I went casually dressed, I was rather baffled to witness hordes of desi moms show up in formal party wear - which is a relative term, actually. Most of them were dressed in sparkly lehengas topped with sheeny, second-skin-like blouses, which they paraded off as “formal Indian skirts-and-tops.” Did Santa even notice their glimmer and shimmer, or was he more interested in handing out gifts to eager little toddlers who had braved the chill just for that?

It may also be noted that these are the same women who go to the temple clad in leather jackets, skinny pants and tall boots. Of course, that may not be permissible anymore, what with the new bulletin up at the temple these days, requesting devotees to be appropriately attired for their visit to the sacred shrine.

I wonder if they’d dress similarly when at home in India. Fashion seems to have taken a new connotation - and amidst all the hoopla, even the identities seem to have gotten contorted, just like the typical Bollywood actress who changes clothes and roles with each new release. For instance, when Preity Zinta sports long, mirrored, appliquéd, embroidered skirts with jazzy tops, the lehenga becomes the most sought-after dress. But when she dumps that look for a more glamorous one, with a halter neck, micro-mini, silk dress in a bigger box-office hit, the lehenga gets frowned upon.

With the New Year around the corner, I can only imagine how the desi fashion scene could be exploding with new styles. Dupattas coiled around slender, bare necks that seem ready to choke as the New Year is ushered in, or worse, a saree wrapped tautly around the waist to make up for the absence of a band to hold a teensy, delicate sarong, or nonesuch. As for me, I guess I’ll slip into my most comfortable pair of PJs. But I wouldn’t be too surprised if I trigger off a hot new rage with them in the coming year. After all, they’re snug, soft, and they’ve had their share of Bollywood limelight, thanks to Rani Mukherjee, or someone equally famous.

Bustles of a Budget Mom

2007-06-08T20:58:00.001-07:00

Frugality, I’ve learned, isn’t just one among the many whacky thing associated with us desis. Being cheap, as it were, is universal, and what’s more, it’s the in thing these days. Well, when you’re an overly distraught, and completely overwhelmed mommy of a diaper-wearing toddler like myself, you do tend to get cheap. You may even, if you’re as tech-lame as I am, acquire some knowledge on the dos and don’ts of online shopping. With all those deals and coupons and weekend-only sales on tiny products that otherwise cost a fortune, why not? Of course, there is a thin line between trying to be cheap and actually being cheap. Let me explain.

My entertainment and sleep-deprived eyes are constantly on the look out for the words “save,” and “sale,” especially when they pertain to a baby product. My Sunday mornings are spent enthusiastically, cutting coupons out from newspaper supplements. These coupons, as fate would have it, are then stacked away in a “safe” place - a place so safe and secretive that it simply evades my already-fading memory. So it is only when the diaper pail runs out of refills and the odor of dirty diapers permeates the house that I suddenly and breathlessly recollect a coupon for “buy one, get one free,” refill packs that I’d cut out. And of course, I never find it; or if and when I do, it’ll have expired. So I end up spending twice as much, and so on and on it goes.

Thus, when the printed versions failed me consistently, I turned to the internet for help. I signed up for as many baby-related web sites as I could. The coupons and deals flooded my inbox, but so did the junk mails. And unlike days of yore, when junk mails were sent in bulk, to a zillion ids at the same time without a whim or care, these days, junk mailers seem to know the race, color, ethnicity and nationality of their receivers rather well, despite the hard to crack, bizarre ids some of us possess. For instance, I get mails from various Nevers and Naysayers asking me if I need help with parenting, by offering me the services of certain Indian babysitters with equally shady names. So amidst all this junk, the Pampers and Gerber coupons get little notice and ultimately hit the trash. And of course, it results in a rushed me standing in line to pay off a hefty bill for a range of over-priced baby stuff in a wobbly shopping cart, to witness a perfectly au fait American mommy in front of me, drawing strips of coupons out from her bag like she were a magician.

I don’t ever remember seeking and cutting coupons out for petty bargains whilst in India. Our self-made discount conduits, as it were, used to be our own tongues out there. Just last year, I managed to get a pack of “imported” diapers at a considerably lesser price than advertised by merely haggling with the vendor. And haggling is an art that can’t be mastered by everyone - sometimes it is also something that is inherent, or genetic. I think I acquired mine from my sister, who has this amazing ability to make vendors feel sorry for not selling things to her at the price she deems fit, right at the outset. And I have been known, on an occasion or two, to get a pair of what-have-yous at the price quoted for one. Well, it’s no rocket science really, but it takes practice. And I cannot even begin to imagine what would happen to the holiday shopping sprees out here if haggling were permissible, in the place of coupons. A bunch of us desi moms could sweep stuff off of store shelves on Black Friday faster and easier than the night owls and early birds, with their pocketfuls of coupons and codes.

But alas, alack, that’s not the case, and we must move on in our quest for cheaper deals and bargains. Well, these paltry negotiations may not be on everyone’s agenda, but if you’re a desi mom who knows how much diapers and wipes and pail refills and teensy clothes and shoes and the like cost here as opposed to India (which you may have experienced on a recent or erstwhile visit), you’d better look them up. But if motherhood has blessed you with a failing memory like mine, and you’re not Stephanie Nelson, you can at least make a start somewhere. I hear they’re selling cutout, printed, and collated coupons in little booklets, just for people like us. So going cheap is not only fashionable, it’s easy too. And if there’s a deal on that booklet, count me in.

A Khichdi of Traveling Nuisances

2007-06-08T20:57:00.000-07:00

With the new guidelines for check-in and carry-on baggage for air travel, and the new list of restricted items on board airplanes, going on a vacation doesn’t really seem like a happy thing anymore. And of course, if you’re a harried desi mom in these shores, like me, you’re done for. So if you’re looking to feed your baby healthy, ghee-laced, homemade food on a local flight, like say, “khichdi,” forget all about it. Even a sipper filled with the purest of ‘baby water’ is not allowed; well, not until you’ve reached your gate, at least. Based on these and other equally niggling regulations, the bliss that earlier used to stem from just the thought of an annual vacation, which we just wrapped up, was conspicuously absent during the travel and airport transits.

Not more than a year ago, I remember traveling alone across continents with my little baby, then all of six months, all snuggled up in a cozy Kangaroo pouch. There was no count to the number of times I had to un-strap the pouch, and get ‘checked,’ even as I tried to lug my cabin carry-all, balance a diaper tote that was ten times heavier than the baby on my frail left shoulder, a laptop on my right, and all with the baby precariously dangling on my disappearing waist.

Of course, if you’re on an Air India flight, chances are you’ll get help from old, affectionate parents of other desis, who are, possibly, leaving their own grand children behind, to return to their homeland. Or perhaps, you may even get lucky with a fellow desi mom or dad, a bachelor or bachelorette, as long as they understand your predicament and your need to take a deep breath, or sometimes, even relieve yourself, while the baby is watched over. Of course, you might be wondering about the big old “Lakshman Rekha,” or the one thing that all desi parents forewarn their children about when they travel, “Do not talk to strangers. Do not trust strangers.” But when it comes to our own, we seem to take things for granted. And in my case, there was this cloying single desi girl who was going home on vacation, and she gladly agreed to handle my wailing, whimpering little one as I excused myself to the restroom. My opened up bags and belongings were resting at her feet, and somehow, it never once occurred to me to think back to the “Lakshman Rekha.”

But this time, we were traveling locally. And the fact that my husband took care of our little one didn’t seem to suffice to ease my nerves. My bags were ripped open, sippers full of fresh, homemade fruit juices were discarded, the baby’s sunscreen was screened (it was more than the allowed limit of 3 oz., yes, it was 4 oz.), and even though I didn’t care much about it then, I am now glad I didn’t carry the baby’s nasal drops, general medicines, Pediasure, and a few other things in my diaper tote that would have had to hit the dump. And the screening machine seldom fails to single out handbags of poor, frenzied moms like me. So amidst all the checking, and detecting, I was busy explaining to the lady in the uniform that I had genuinely forgotten that I had placed a Gerber food bottle in my handbag. I even told her that I was willing to pass it by if she so deemed fit. But all she wanted me to do was stand back, and watch, without touching, as she explored and rummaged my debilitating handbag and its various nooks and hidden corners, as if it had something as harmful as the pack of Gerber “mashed sweet potatoes.”

Anyhow, once the ordeal was over and done with, the next daunting task was to put on my shoes and jacket, dress the baby back up in all those layers, and teensy little walkers, strap her back in her stroller seat, hand her over to the husband, and handle a couple of elephantine bags, after their contents had been put back in order, lest they fail to zip up - and all this, to be on the airplane in time.

After we had reached our destination, however, it was all forgotten, albeit momentarily, as there were the scrutinizing gates and guards in all the places of interest on our agenda. But my daughter was happy to see Mickey and his kin, and she picked out her first tiny seashells, as she enjoyed her first visit to a beach, playing “Jump Up High” with the seagulls and learning a thing or two about the hazards of getting sand in her mouth. I have even taught her to say “bonda” and “bhaja” to refer to the fried American delicacies she feasted on, on the beachside, when she speaks with her grandparents. All’s well that ends well, as they say, and I’m especially glad that her sunscreen had already been used to beat the Windy City heat this past summer. Well, at least so that it made the tube feel lighter than 4 oz., to be able to make it through, albeit locked in a special plastic seal.

Mamma Mia – Confessions of a Doggone Desi Mom

2006-11-16T12:21:00.000-08:00

As a full-time mom of a pre-schooler, pre-play grouper, and all-rounder-little-miss-mischief, I have joined the bandwagon of classic desi moms that handle home, work-at-home, and host play dates, aside from the entertaining and cleaning and ironing and everything else. While the idea of hosting play dates, like the infamous desi ‘kitty’ used to, sounds fun and exciting, it simply means that you’re willing to forego another night’s sleep conjuring up images of playing mommy to a few other kids alongside your own, and, if you’re lucky, you might swoon yourself to sleep. Or not. But the point is, you also have to ‘wake’ to bake or make goodies, and the worst part of all, clean up the house. If you are willing to stoop to the level of considering an ocean of toys as a house, that is.

I always have to ask my guests to inform me in advance if they’re visiting because the house is a constant wreck, and I need to make it at least mildly presentable. Of course, there is no way one can get everything in order in a meager few hours, so one finds shortcuts, and stuffs drawers and boxes and cabinets with things that don’t belong, or worse, fit in. And then one makes a mental note to spare a couple of hours in the weekend to undo that, but the weekend often has its own devious plans of getting one into other tricky situations. And of course, the parents in India will give one a protracted lecture about how they used to manage things when we were kids, and yet find time to cook a fresh, decent meal. By decent, I mean a twelve or thirteen course meal, the recipes of which you may never find in a fancy gourmet Indian cookbook. So there’s not a chance one can seek sympathy from that quarter, when one is feasting on peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Of course, one can bring up the issue of the absence of domestic help here as opposed to there, but they always find a way around it. So, in order to discuss the miserable state of affairs with a co-desi-mom who’s as haggard and distraught as myself, I must make the time for a long telephone session. Or make note of it as a to-do on the post-it glued to the refrigerator door, which will later have fallen off and been made into a paper swan or a rocket that I’ll sit on and never see again.

I just hosted a play date, and I’m still reeling from all the frenzy. Especially given that we just dealt with the enormity of the rumpus that Halloween was, and the kids were all high on candy and refused to behave. I am not sure if Lego or Playskool or any of their affiliates have researched the destructive tendencies some toddlers are gifted with, but this would be a good time to start if they wish to. My little one is endowed with the best of these abilities, and she is more curious about what Pooh’s tummy can hold, than she is about his squeezy-squeaky right ear. So she rips his body parts apart, and realizes his tummy cannot be pried into after all. But in the bargain, I’ll be blessed with a bleeding, throbbing toe given that she’d have flung his pointy little shoe away and I’ll have tread on it, in an attempt to reach out to her little friend who was having a hiccup emergency.

The worst part is handling the little brawls --- especially when one is playing host, and the other moms are watching one with their magnifying parenting-foible-reader lenses on. That’s not to say it’s easier to go attend a play date as a guest. Then one is obliged to carry a snack or two, and that, coupled with the fact that it’s winter, can be quite a daunting task. I say this about winter because getting the little one into layers of clothing can take half a day, and if one is lucky, one can make it to the play date without limping and shuffling from running a stroller wheel on one’s foot while trying to bend over and get the cap to stay on the little one’s head.

And yes, here too, the parents would say they’d rather have carried the child in their arms. But given that I have never been in a professional circus, I wouldn’t want to risk that, knowing how heavy the diaper tote is and how loosely I tie my shoelaces for sheer lack of time. Speaking of which, I think I’ll take some time out, untie my hair, and have a cuppa (instant) Folgers. Unless, I’d want to risk brewing a fresh pot and saving it for later, as the beep would wake the little sleeping beauty.

Halloween Hokum Meets Diwali Delight

2006-11-16T12:17:00.004-08:00

As Fall kicks in, haggard desi moms like myself are not only busy cleaning and shopping, but also toiling away in the kitchen, concocting secret recipes for honeyed candy and Marshmellow peeps, possibly, alongside laddus and barfis. Fall brings with it a new hope, of color, and merriment. And while the entire citizenry around us in this land of big bucks is busy stocking up on gifts and goodies, we are busy choosing Halloween costumes and Diwali candles (unless, ofcourse, diyas are reasonably available and safe to use). For us it’s not just about pumpkin pies and cranberry sauce, but also about halwas and vadas. Our string lights are not only to adorn the Christmas trees, but also to illuminate the ‘Puja’ corners, tucked away in a closet somewhere, or another nook that the kids can keep from.

We pride ourselves on the plum cakes we bake and turkeys we stuff, just as much as we do on our Dushhera sweets and Diwali treats. If Fall means bringing out the wool and fleeces, it also means dusting off the silks and silver. If the Magnificent Mile represents the quintessential holiday embellishment, Devon Avenue helps our suburban Chicago homes light up. In these homes, stars and candles glimmer in harmony; meringues and mithais sit pretty on the tables, in multi-colored bowls; the welcome wreaths lead you to the tinkle of the sacred bells; the stockings and garlands brim just as fresh; and, underneath the spiffiest and scariest of tiny Halloween costumes, a trinket or two clinks, waiting to complement kurtas or lehengas that may well follow suit.

Yet, in all this fervor, there is a void somewhere that lurks, and reminds us of our roots. Call it what you may, but the pleasure that derives from knowing that a festival like Diwali is arriving in all its glory on a weekend, is second to none for us. That, or if a severe snowstorm is looming large, forcing everyone to stay indoors, and usher the festival of harvest, Pongal. Diwali, for one, is not as much fun without the sounding and spattering of firecrackers. Which is why, in all likelihood, one might catch a bunch of desis reveling in a fourth of July fireworks display, likening it, in whatever minuscule manner, to their own Diwali dhamakas back at home. Every Diwali, I am reminded that my little one will never get to experience all the excitement and thrill of Diwali like we did when we were children. She won’t even, possibly, get to impulsively light off a sparkler, or blast off a ‘rocket’ into space. That’s not to say I’m not a light green, or that I would love to see the atmosphere defiled.

And then there are the lights. I remember lighting scores of diyas and helping my mom arrange and display them around the house, punctually refueling them when the oil dried out. Living now in a suburban multiplex across the seas, the most I can do is light up candles, and remember to turn them off before the wax melts down and messes up the carpets, or worse, spreads the fire and triggers off the alarm. Of course, there is no hope for anything as fiery and dangerous as ‘fire’ to stay put at an elevation of three feet or below, to begin with, given the curiosity of my little girl. Sure, there are electric lamps, and there are fancy earthern diyas, but they don’t seem to befit the sternness of these walls and the rigidity of these statutes.

Last but not least, there’s the food. No festivity is complete without the “mooh meetha” tradition. But the only difference is that we don’t exactly enjoy sweating it out in the kitchen like our moms do. So we turn to our Sukhadias and Haldirams. Sure, we miss the authentic homemade ghee and Milkmaid flavors, but we make do for the sake of the festivity, and on occasion when we do hit the stove, we substitute them with cottage cheeses, or half-and-halfs. Of course, cholesterol and health consciousness never bothers us, and anyhow, we look for summer to hit the treadmill, just so we can fit into the beachwear, only to distend and bulge again in the Fall and Winter - it’s like a vicious circle. As they say, all this food talk is making me hungry, and it’s time to queue up at the temple for a quick ‘darshan’ and a bite of the ‘prasadam.’ And yes, I will have to carve out the pumpkins, whisk up the meringues, and spook up the house, but not before I’ve dug into my paneer rolls and rasmalais.

Craving Consecration in Chicago

2006-11-16T12:16:00.000-08:00

Gandhi once said, “A nation's culture resides in the hearts and souls of its people,” and his words ring particularly true for us desis, or the Indian diaspora, in America. Of course one could say that this curious spirit of harmony stems from the craze of Bollywood movies and cricket matches - they never fail to bring us together. But beyond this broad, national purview, I have seen that strong ethnic correlations are abloom – be it at a graduation party, a pre-wedding Sangeet ceremony, or simply a visit to the temple during the festive season – we come together to revive and celebrate even the most arcane of traditions.

In a country where life is always on fifth gear, and mostly materialistic, most of us seek spiritual serenity in temples. To get away from the hustle-bustle of everyday life, we all flock to our local sanctuaries. We attend weekend discourses on the Gita, and partake in festive
commemorations. And it’s in these simple, unnoted proceedings that our Indianness is kindled, just as it is when we recount stories from Ramayana, or say, Vikram Aur Betaal, to our children.

If the Sri Venkateswara temple in Pittsburgh can bring the matchless spirit of Tirupathi alive, Chicago’s own Aurora and Lemont temples are certainly not to be left behind. And it’s not just the efforts of the managers, volunteers, and trustees that make these temples special. It is also the diligence and dedication of the priests that add extra merit to these shrines. So I decided to go on a sublime sojourn to discover the divine obsession and way of life of these unassuming Godmen.

Even on a chaotic workday, the Aurora temple is brimming with devotees. A serenade of ‘shlokas’ falls melodically on my ears as I calmly walk the untainted floors of the temple. A whiff of burning incense mixed with fumes of the ‘aarthi’ gushes into my nostrils, and the tinkling of a bell that follows makes my hair stand on end. I am face-to-face with the most beautiful idol of Lord Krishna, and suddenly, everything else seems insignificant. No worldly thoughts to stir my mind, and no apprehensions to disrupt my feelings. It is a moment of sheer bliss, almost celestial, and it makes me want to freeze and hold on to it forever. The priest, Hanuman Prasad, offers a platter of dry fruits to the Lord, and steps out with a gleaming silver carafe in his hands. Without uttering a single word, he begins to proffer pint-sized drops of holy water to everyone. Everyone just knows what to do - how to hold their hands out in devoutness, and sprinkle the remnants on their heads. It’s almost like a powered, perfunctory action.

Later, with a simple wave of his hand, the priest beckons me to a spot where his prayer books lie scattered, behind a soaring pillar. Greeting me with an assertive ‘Hari Om,’ he tells me that it’s been a decade since he left Tirupathi to set up home here, taking me down memory lane with his fluid, chaste words. “I have attained utmost contentment - performing pujas and imparting the spirit of sanctity on thousands of devotees - in these ten years.”

Pointing out that the ‘Sathyanarayana Puja’ is the most popular service among South Indian devotees, he quickly adds that the number of weddings he has conducted easily outmaneuvers its repute. He jokes about how he is forced to explain the appositeness of ‘gulika kala’ and ‘rahu kala’ of performing pujas, given how weekend-oriented people are in this super fast world. “But on occasion, even the rules have to be overlooked,” he says. “These ten years of my life have been the most rewarding, and the one thing that still makes me heady with satisfaction is the relief on their anxious faces when I counsel and point them to righteousness. That makes my life worth living.”

“Do you have your family here with you?” I ask. He smiles, and says, “Not yet. I got married last year, and hope to have my wife here by the next. But if you insist, the temple, and all of you devotees - make my family circle complete. Hari Om.” I bow down in reverence and look in awe as he takes leave gracefully, to tend to another devotee.

The scene in the Lemont temple is much the same. The same sacramental sensation and the same sense of belonging hit me as I pass fellow devotees with a knowing look on their faces, as they scramble to receive a morsel of the ‘prasadam’.

Chanting his ‘mantras’ with the ultimate ease and commitment, priest Krishnarajan culminates the end of the day’s pujas by bowing obeisance to the Lord. He then flashes a cherubic smile at me, and coyly breaks the ice by using a South Indian dialect. He is happy to learn I’m equally conversant in it. “I hail from a small South Indian town, and have been serving at this temple for the past two decades, my dear,” he says. “Although I had my initial struggle with acclimatization to settle in here, I always looked back to the one piece of advice that my guru had given me - ’Desha-kala-sankeerthya,’ meaning - regulate your life depending on the time and location of your subsistence. Yes, it does matter to me that the disparate timings, the environs, and overall, the distinctive way of life affects the manner of rituals in this faraway land. But it’s still the same sun that rises and sets, the same moon, the same stars, and the same earth. And I am here to serve my fellow Indians, through my prayers to the Lord. That is more important to me, as is devotion and wholeheartedness.”

He says he has blessed several thousands of inter-continental couples over the years as they entered holy matrimony. He finds it surprising that the number of Indians marrying Indians is severely low in comparison. “But it hardly matters. Where there is love, there is the presence of the Lord,” he adds. His family lives with him, and they visit their native town every couple of years, just so they can stay in touch with their roots. Even as he excuses himself to serve sanctified droplets of water to new devotees queuing up, I curtsy respectfully and stare in awe at the positiveness he exudes. I then turn around, and heave a sigh as I leave the premises to join the blast of peak hour traffic. But the elephant-faced, pot-bellied, adorable little Ganesha sitting pretty on the dashboard, reminds me of my heritage and to be proud of it.

2006-11-16T12:13:00.000-08:00

As the festive season rolls in, a nostalgic nip fills the air. I have come across a dozen-odd fellow desis in the past fortnight who have talked about the festive season and how they miss being home to enjoy the spirit it exudes. But they have also heaved a sigh of small relief relating the ways and means they have invented to be able to duplicate the effect out here.

Not a big brainteaser - as most of these so-called ideas revolve around eating and the one other thing that puts us apart - chattering. When the Maharashtrian “Ganapathi Bappa” nostalgia kicks in, it is said, Mumbaites and Puneites convene to pray and eat together, hashing over how minuscule the idols are here as compared to the gigantic ones back home. And in the sound of silence they reminisce the blaring devotional songs that beamed out of every street-corner loud speaker.

During Gowri Puja, the Kannadigas flock to their association hallway, enjoying classical music recitals and slices of ‘obbattu,’ with the womenfolk groaning about the hazards of lighting the ‘Aarti’ in their homes, and the absurdity of stirring out into their offices with turmeric-doused bands around their wrists.

During Onam, the Keralites gather around, sharing coconut-laced fare, and quibbling over how the carnations and daisies are but a poor match for the bright, golden marigolds that are used to adorn flower patterns back at home.

And then there are festivals that bring birds of all kinds together. Like Janmashtami, and Diwali, for instance. On both these occasions (as on many others), they queue up at their local sanctuaries, for a peek at the Lord, and a morsel of the ‘Prasadam.’ The cafeterias brim with delicacies and for every group of ten bachelors, at least one will choose to pay a buck for two packs of sambhar carryouts, to relish till midweek. Of course, the sweets and savories will be hankered after too, and some volunteers get a whiff of them even before they’re sold.

It isn’t unlikely for a segment of morning-temple-goers to assemble in a family home at night, to share stories, memories and, yet again, food. Diwali enthusiasts even sit for a gambling session, biting into deep-fried snacks and sipping their Budweisers, while the kids are tucked away in another room or the basement, and allowed a special screening of their favorite movie. The ladies, on the other hand, are happy to light the candles, catch up on their gossip, and recipes.

All this talk of food brings us to the one big fictitious feast concocted by desis who miss the festive merriment back at home. The big old American “potluck,” a rather twisty celebration route for food lovers. Even though potlucks are more rampant during the festive season, they are also for teas, book clubs, mom’s clubs, baby clubs, and any other daily routine that needs more than one person to deliberate over. Funny how they all insinuate the presence of women - the men either just saunter in and join them, or if it’s strictly a men’s gathering, they don’t call it that. So one way or another, the term “potluck” has come to be known as a women’s thing, and as the American equivalent of the desi “kitty party.” Only, here, there needn’t be a kitty to usher the food or fun in.

I have been to at least four potlucks in the past four weeks, and none had a real reason whatsoever. One was to catch up with friends over tea, another to discuss the kids’ playtime, another to simply while time away, and yet another, to do nothing but eat. And in the last one, there even was a prize - no, not for the one that ate best, but, sorry to kill the excitement, for the best recipe. I’m afraid my book club doodads are limited to a cuppa from Starbucks and the shelves of Borders, and occasionally, when my daughter behaves, the hubby, and of course, myself.

While Durga Pujo is just around the corner, my mind is already darting off in a hundred directions. Of course, there’ll be a potluck after the Pujo, but what I’m slightly more anxious about is the one before it - where the outfits and jewelry might get discussed. Not that it doesn’t happen at the venue itself, but I guess that’s a different kind of potluck - one where you discuss what others are wearing, and pay to eat someone else’s food. And well, I do wonder what Goddess Durga is thinking, after all.

2006-09-14T12:08:00.000-07:00

They’re everywhere --- the malls, Patel’s stores, the gym, and even the library. And unless you’re considerably hidden under layers of Holi colors, or are sporting a hair-raising flaxen wig that can adeptly hide your desi origin, there’s no ducking out. Even their ‘pick-up’ tactics, so to speak, are so prosaic that their decoying smiles are not as much of a telltale anymore. First, there’s the awkward hovering around, then, depending on the savvy levels, a pick from the obvious-questions-list. For instance, a novice in the trade would ask, “Excuse me, are you from Mumbai…or Delhi?” and a veteran would say, “Excuse me, have we met before? You look very familiar!”

If you still haven’t figured out, I’m referring to the hordes of desi direct sales consultants that are mushrooming by the dozen even as I write this. People are so frenzied about this that it has now become the party topic around town. Every get together I go to, people are bundling up in corners, with their platters of samosas and cups of tea, and discussing ways and means of keeping these irksome hawkers at bay.

A friend of ours, for instance, believed that honesty would be the best policy -- and told this guy he met in the mall that he doesn’t usually give out his numbers to strangers. But the guy persisted, trying to rope in vague connections they may have shared, and trying to explain that he would just be glad to have him over for tea sometime. “In this country, so faraway from home, we desis must stick together, you know. You never know when you might need help,” he’s said to have mumbled. But our friend said, “Well, I have enough friends that I can count on, and thanks for the offer. But I think I’ll pass.”

In another equally interesting episode, another friend was tired of being hounded with phone calls --- some came in the middle of the night --- all the way from India, where this Amway amateur was apparently holidaying. So, my friend decided to play it the Amway way. He took the initiative after a spell of silence, called up the guy, and said, “Hey, remember that business proposition you came to me with? I’d actually like to take you up on it. But there’s one minor hassle --- I don’t exactly have the money to invest at this point of time. So, may be you’ll pitch in, and if I make a profit, I’ll pay you back?” That was the end of it.

Now to our own experiences --- a few years ago, my husband ran into an ex-colleague at the hair cutter’s and it was just a simple, harmless conversation --- catching up on work and such, and it culminated with the exchange of business cards. The calls started to pour in even before he’d reached back home. The guy turned out to be another Timeshare geek, and was literally breathing down my husband’s neck to get him to go over for “snacks and high tea.” My husband, being the gentleman, went over, sat through an elaborate, dreary convention that explained the value of Timeshare, alongside a few other poor, unsuspecting desis like himself, and got home. And something had happened that made him smile --- even before he’d reached back, I’d called the guy’s house to check if my husband was still around, as he’d forgotten to carry his cellphonel. And then I politely told the guy to back off, and that we weren’t interested in any business offer, as we already were into something else. The house was peaceful for days, and the ringing of the phone was merely an echo inside our heads.

And then there was the time when I was at the mall, on a weekend spree, and was chased by this sly desi couple. Finally, when I was at the Starbucks counter, the lady came up to me, and asked, “Hello, excuse me? I was just wondering…you know…if you’re from India…” And I had had enough of being followed and harassed, so I snapped back, “No.” And that’s all it took, really.

In the past weekend, we were at a child’s birthday party, and amidst an ocean of desis, one specimen that caught my attention. He seemed nervous, and was constantly gawking at people from the corner of his eyes, as if to study their mindset. He even gave me the ‘look,’ a couple of times, but I blissfully ignored him. Finally, at the dinner table, he came up to me, and muttered something in Bengali, and said, “Your daughter is beautiful, and very bright too…” I simply cut him short, and said, “Do I know you?” To which he said, wiping his brow restlessly, “Oh, I’m sorry, it’s just that you look very familiar --- are you from Mumbai?” And I said, “Oh, I have a common face. And so do you, by the way --- are you an Amway consultant?”

2006-09-14T12:07:00.000-07:00

Come summer and my mind harks back to the alluring warmth of Bangalore sunshine and the cool cascade of the monsoon. Thoughts of sunbathing on the rooftop while slurping on orange popsicles, soaking in first showers and scurrying to pick up marble-sized hailstones, stir idyllic memories in my mind. Even as I write this, I can conjure up visions of eager children in my parents’ neighborhood, drenching merrily in an impulsive monsoon downpour. And my parents are possibly indoors, readying candles and lights for an unforeseen power cut. They’re also, perhaps, relishing piping hot vadas with strong, chicory-laced filter coffee.

Every summer, most of the NRI population here in America goes into a funk, just like me. While my UPite friend in Minnesota misses the gush of the Ganga, a Chennaite pal in Ohio pines for Marina-beach merriment. But there’s much more to this season, aside from the widespread mango mania. There are sights, sounds, smells and tastes, which bring different aspects and cultures of the Indian summer alive.

On a recent trip, I visited the Northern and Southern parts of India, and despite all the diversities, I found that the intoxicating smell of wet earth after the first showers, the taste of roadside chai and chaat --- they’re still the same, and they evoke the same sense of nostalgia. In Kolkata, the season’s first downpour didn’t deter the salted-peanuts vendor in our little boat on the Ganga, while being ferried to a quaint town across the border. And in Chennai, the terraces were beaming with papadam-lined plastic sheets, soaking up the sun while it lasts, and parching just enough to be stowed in aluminum tins for use in the winter months.

What ensues during this time of the year here in the Windy city, however, is quite contrasting. Even when the sun is out bright and nice, I’m left wondering what to wear so that I don’t feel like a fool downtown. You see, the grand Michigan and the mighty Chicago river, not to mention the perdurable nimbus clouds that swathe Illinois skies, have this obsession about conniving against poor, diligent weathermen like Rick D’Maio. On a bright, 84F day (which feels like 94), when one is in the mood to flaunt some skin and tiptoe around Navy Pier in strappy AnneKliens, a sudden blast of chilly air might fleck one brazenly with gooseflesh, and worse, if one’s cruising down these water bodies, the torrent will come teeming down and drench the boats sloppily. And one has to make do with a pack of greasy fries from one of the eateries in Navy Pier, and a Tazo chai from Starbucks. That’s when I think back to the piping hot singaras and masala chai I was duly offered back in Kolkata.

And even though there’s something tenuously seductive about these city lights, which makes me feel special, I long for candle-lit monsoon evenings back at home. Ambling down swarming streets across the gorgeous Millennium Park, I find myself wondering where to take shelter if it pours, or where to pick up a drink to quench my thirst. My daughter, like scores of other cheery toddlers, loves to drench in the spritz of the crown fountain and is absolutely fascinated by the gargoyle effect - she leaps everytime water gushes, so to speak, out of a person’s mouth. But I feel sorry that she’s missing out on the street rain-dances back at home. I see elders delight in the fountains too, and all I can do is sigh, and try to find a familiar desi face on the glass block, just so I can swank a little, and feel belonged.

Yes, there is a place I can go to for a feel of home --- Devon Avenue --- but there are limitations. The roadside tender coconuts are not authentic, they’re Mexican simulations. The masala puris at Sukhadia’s are good, but not as good as the ‘chur-muri’ on MG Road. The Alphonso mangoes sold in cartons and tins, in pulp form, are no match to the luscious, fleshy ones plucked straight out of the neighbor’s garden back at home.

All this makes me pine for the simple pleasures of the summer and monsoon in Bangalore. I miss charcoal-roasted corn-on-the-cob, glazed generously with chili powder, as well as the jovial spirit of the wedding season, during the monsoons. And well, the child in me misses the tautness on my palms and the mocha stains on my pastel cotton outfits, from making mud pies in the slush. And even as I sip lemonade from Auntie Annie’s, I can’t help but think back to my mom’s own jaggery-water blend, with just a hint of lemon for that extra zing.

2006-09-14T12:06:00.000-07:00

In an age where women have long emerged out of the stay-at-home cocoon and ascended the corporate ladder, I’m possibly bound to get walloped for what I’m about to confess - I feel like a mistress of spices. Watching the movie only enhanced it. I feel like I have strong ties with the spices, the kitchen, and the spiritual core of the family.

When a common cold or cough passes through the household, or say, when the tonsillar tissue acts up, I raid the kitchen for a variety of spices to brew in a range of magic concoctions. The basil and honey blend soothes the throat; the coriander seeds, black pepper, cumin, cinnamon, cloves, and dry ginger decoction relieves congestion, and so forth. And then, I also remember swallowing pungent chunks of garlic roasted in ghee, to keep the body “warm and nice,” during my initial post delivery days. Like this, there are remedies and cures for a whole set of illnesses, passed down through generations, from grandma’s secret recipe box.

Now one could take the mistress thing to a whole new level, and aver that it is not just the spices Indian women used to be mistresses of in olden days of glory. A fact, which, I’d like to believe, is not far from the truth even today. In a land where 24-hour drive-through Walgreens stores represent panacea, and elegantly carpeted Hindu temples, where ‘weekend pujas’ are conveniently scheduled for busy workaholics, represent spiritual sanctuaries, it would be rather astonishing to see that it still holds good for some modern day divas.

Just the other Friday, on the evening of the Lakshmi festival, I got an invite for a ceremonial “turmeric-vermillion-flower-fruit,” offering at a neighbor’s place. Just the prospect made me all nostalgic about the festive season back at home. I reminisced the cemented front yards of several Hindu houses being decorated with colorful ‘rangoli’ patterns, to denote the festiveness of the day. The markets deluged with bunches of bright yellow chrysanthemums, orange marigolds, and white jasmine garlands; the green of tender mango branches, and clusters of other fragrant hallowed herbs; assortments of fresh fruits, and mounds of turmeric, vermillion and other puja items. And to top it all, the bargaining binges - inevitably being presided over by the womenfolk. The houses exuded the same sense of celebration - aromas of camphor, and burning incense stuck to their walls, and the kitchens were ablaze with sweet dish preparations.

As I ambled along to the neighbor’s house, clad in a salwar-kurta outfit, I realized there was so much amiss. Nothing traditional ‘led’ me into the house, to begin with - no rangoli, no mango leaf borders hung at the top of the door, and not even a whiff of camphor or incense. There was a deity of Goddess Lakshmi sitting prettily adorned by hybrid orchids picked from a Jewel store, possibly, on a side table in the living room. But it was clear that it would have to be taken off the next day, to enable normal Americanized living, and replaced with empty cups of carelessly swigged down coffees. There were no ‘diyas’ burning gleefully at their own pace, lest they trigger off the fire alarm; but there was a string of mini light bulbs hanging precariously over the table. There were little girls in pigtails and ‘lehengas,’ but they weren’t clinching their mothers’ ‘dupattas,’ and sitting coyly, like the ones in India. They instead chose to watch an animated movie on the telly and laugh uproariously in the midst of prayer chants. But the lady in charge seemed like a ‘mistress,’ of spices, of prayers and of the kitchen. She had everything in perfect order - she offered me, and the other guests, a glass of cold ‘badam milk,’ to “keep the body cool and balance the righteousness factor,” to steal her words. She had a platter of ‘prasadam’ packets ready to distribute amongst visitors. She fell at elderly women’s feet to take their blessings. And yes, she too is a modern day diva like scores of other women in these shores - works full time, and on a random day you wouldn’t be able to tell her religiousness from her novelty manner of dressing, and from her general disposition.

Anyhow, this is just one of the many incidents that make my hypothesis true, at least for me.
I feel like I have violated the rules, aka Aishwarya Rai style, if I leave the cumin smoking for too long in the pan while seasoning, or say, if I drop salt on the floor accidentally. Having said my prayers tonight to keep the dream-demons at bay, and emptied the leftovers so I can make a fresh, friendly start with the spices tomorrow, I must go and rub some sandalwood-turmeric-paste on my little one’s insect bite - the turmeric’s an anti-inflammatory agent, and the sandalwood powder will help cool off the itchiness.

2006-09-14T12:05:00.000-07:00

When you’re an Indian, and a foodie, living in these shores, chances are you’re familiar with most Mexican spices and foods, simply because they satiate your appetite like no other non-Indian cuisine possibly can. Well, in retrospect, it doesn’t really matter if it’s Mexican, Chinese, Mediterranean, or even American. Because you know how to put an Indian spin on all these cuisines.

At first, you try to evaluate a snack, and then you liken it to an Indian one that comes closest to it in terms of the look, aroma, texture and taste. This way, you’ll know what to call it, what to substitute it with, or what to spice it up with. Of course, you ask for ‘peppered okra,’ at a Chinese place, but when it arrives at the table, and if you’re among desi friends, you’d refer to it as ‘bhindi pakoras.’ And if it’s ‘Jalapeno fritters,’ you’re munching on at a Mexican place, it’s still ‘chili bonda,’ to you, just like ‘falafels’ are ’dal vadas,’ ‘onion rings,’ are ‘onion bajjis,’ and so forth.

I have an interesting theory about Indian palate and spice. Of course, primarily, they go hand-in-hand and nothing can ever undo that. That said, it is in varying degrees of hot, sour, bitter and sweetish-savoriness that the Indian palate can be classified, which in turn can be used in multifarious ways to define different personae, and which part of the world they would best thrive in if they had to. Well, it’s not as simple as calling a sweet-toothed guy from Bengal, ‘sweet fellow,’ but involves meticulous analysis of the person’s food habits. Let’s say a person from Karnataka eats his rice or rotis with a red-chili-garlic chutney. Now, you have to figure out where those chilis were grown in the first place, to know what this guy is actually made of. If it’s Assam, then Mexico’s probably where he’d fit best in, because the Red Savina Habanero chilis of Mexico are on par with Tezpur chilis, the hottest chilis in the world. Like this, a Kannadiga may well be an Assamese, or a Mexican, at heart.

I was at a party a few weeks ago, and the hosts, being Indian, said they had a half-store-bought, half-home-made surprise appetizer that would knock me out. It turned out to be an Indianized version of tortilla-wrap: store-bought tortillas stuffed with homemade rajma (in the place of beans), a tomato-onion-cilantro-yoghurt mix (a take on Mexican salsa), and crumbly, melted shreds of paneer (instead of cheese). It was indeed a ripper of a dish and I have since come up with my own stuffing assortments to modify this recipe.

Like this, there are scores of other incidents that come to mind, which depict the diversity of desis trying to Indianize other cuisines. I remember recommending to my husband’s Tamilian colleague, who happens to be a food lover, an exquisite Ethiopian restaurant we used to frequent. It turned out he’d already been there himself, and the concept of sharing and eating out of a single plate, and being able to relish the food minus the nuisance of forks and knives, had really appealed to him. I was happy to hear that, but he was quick to add that the ‘injeras’ hadn’t been fermented enough, to match the taste of his mother’s dosas. He even joked that he may as well have eaten them with ‘molagapudi’ (a South Indian condiment made with a blend of fried chili, lentils and curry leaves) and yoghurt.

Then there was an incident right at home, where my mother-in-law fussed over our Black & Decker blender that wouldn’t grind ‘shorshe’ (mustard) to a fine paste like her Sumeet heavy-duty mixer-grinder did back at home. And then she discovered America’s own miracle mustard. One weekend when she had invited some friends over for a luncheon, she had used the paste generously in an eggplant curry that instantly became a hit with everyone. Everyone knew it had a magic ingredient, that special something, which they couldn’t lay a finger on. Of course, she wouldn’t reveal the secret, until one day I accidentally caught her squeezing Woeber’s sweet-and-sour mustard right into a pan of eggplants simmering in seasoned low-cholesterol vegetable oil.

Being a epicure of sorts, God knows I’ve Indianized a few exotic dishes myself. I’ve seasoned up my fries with MTR chaat masala, smeared tamarind ‘thokku’ on my pizzas, glazed my ‘burritos’ with curry powder, and jazzed up my broccoli with ginger-garlic paste and red chili powder. And of course, to wash it all down, I’ve drizzled jeera-ajwain powder into my Diet Coke for extra zing.

2006-09-14T12:03:00.000-07:00

Bringing up an Indian child in a country where a ‘family’ is merely a social organization form that sticks with you till you’re a teenager can often get tricky. It is not uncommon for harried Indian parents to go out of their way to teach authentic Indian values to their children. They sign up for weekend Bhagavadgita classes at their local temples, recount stories from the Ramayana and Mahabharata, offer them Indian classical music and dance lessons, throw them lavish arengetrams, arrange for language classes to hone them in their respective mother tongues, and take them to their native every other year. But what some of the children do with all this is a different story altogether. For instance, they refer to the demigods and demons in mythological stories as ‘dudes’ and ‘dudettes,’ secretly practice headbanging to a highly amplified heavy metal warp in their friends’ basements, can’t get Vande Mataram right even after contorting their lips and rolling their tongues to a 360 degrees glob, and would rather stir clear of stray dogs and roadside food vendors, among other things, in India.

I met an enthusiastic Indian parent recently - a father who resumed his love for the violin despite crazy work schedules, just so his eight year old son could receive proper Indian classical violin training. Apparently, the school requires that a child be taught and perfected at home by a parent who has adequate knowledge of the instrument. I was even fortunate enough to see the little one perform, and was blown away at his dedication and demeanor. And I can’t wait for him to grow up and perform for bigger audiences. I’ve known several other such parents, but sadly, I have also seen some of their children grow and completely disregard their the lengths they went to in order to provide them with superior initial grounding. And more often than not, when they grow up, they also grow wings, to use an antiquated Indianism. Which means that they give in to peer pressure and move out to build new homes and lives outside the influence of their parents and Indian roots. Some even cut all ties with their parents as they’re, to put it brutally, ashamed of them. Makes you wonder about the good old Indian dream of raising and nurturing children to have them take care of you in your old age.

But there are exceptions. There’s this respectable family of immigrants belonging to the baby boomer era, with two children. While the son brought home an American bride, the daughter chose a Russian groom. Both the children stayed with their parents until they got married, and they still visit them every other weekend for a family reunion of sorts. I’ve often seen the American daughter-in-law drape saris and celebrate Indian festivals, and the son-in-law belt out Vedic hymns and quote the Gita.

Then there’s this young computer geek who hails from a remote village in South India, and hasn’t forgotten his roots at all. He’s made huge donations to charity causes, including one to build a school for the underprivileged children of his village, and isn’t ashamed of taking his sari-clad, beetle-nut chewing, Telegu-speaking mom (who has little to no knowledge of the English language), sightseeing. In fact, he takes pride in everything she does, be it sow coriander seeds in his backyard for a cilantro mini-lawn, or pack a pungent spiced-rice preparation in Ziploc bags for a Statue of Liberty brunch.

There’s a group of Indian bachelors and bachelorettes in my community that organizes programs for children to get to know their Indian traditions and be in touch with their ethnicity. They also celebrate Indian Republic Day, Independence Day, and organize cricket tournaments for little baseball fanatics who couldn’t tell a cricket ball from a Lego one if it hit them in the face. There are at least a couple of buoyant housewives that have gotten together to publish magazines for desi children with an Indian touch to the stories and features. There’s also an innovative sister-duo that has come up with Hindi rhymes and ‘varnamala,’ (alphabets) for toddlers. And of course, there are Indian channels on the television that air educational programs for children, even if it’s something as rudimentary as a ‘Sri Krishna’ series. But then, the children also have access to the mournful melodramas of Indian families complete with conniving ‘bahus,’ and their mothers-in-law. They also get exposure to Bollywood movies with shoddily dressed heroes and heroines and their claptrap song-dance sequences.

Now every time I hear of an Indian whizkid winning the Spelling Bee, or gyrating to a hot Kareena Kapoor number at the local desi community gathering, I don’t really think of it as progression. I would be much happier to see an Indian kid chin up when his parents ask for ‘alu bhaja’ at Mc D’s, rather than hang his face in shame. But first, I need to teach my little one that the ‘elepayn’ (elephant) as she knows it, on the lobby wall is actually a God named Ganesha.

2006-09-14T12:01:00.002-07:00

I remember vividly, how that spattering of a blackish-green ‘shikakai’ blend I’d been handed down as a family tradition, along with a bottle of thick castor oil, had mucked up an otherwise spotless, dove-white bath tub. To my horror, it started to clog solidly and steadily, and wouldn’t run down the drain even after several powerful prods. I didn’t know whether to begin removing the stains, or dissolving the messy congestion. It didn’t take me long to figure out there was a bundle of hair muddled up in it as well, blame it on the lead content in the water, like my mom said. I guess many desi women here have experienced similar atrocious episodes, especially the ones that believed they could take care of their scalps and tresses just like they did back at home, only to sooner or later realize that grandma’s henna, or methi formula is rather hazardous to the elegance of American baths.

Then there was the time when I began frying pakoras on a dull, rainy evening, triggering the fire alarm, and eventually, a dose of heavy embarrassment that has stayed with me for years. I have since taken refuge in the convenience of ‘Swad’ and other frozen, deep-fried delights, which simply need to be thawed and popped in the oven. Consequently, I don’t spend hours kneading the dough and readying the filling for scrumptious samosas anymore. And speaking of ovens, there was no way to learn what is safe for microwave use a few years ago, when microwaves were unheard of in India. So for a newbie that had just set foot in here, it was a matter of trial and, on occasion, irreparable error.

And that’s not where the awkwardness ends. The initial struggle of getting used to left-hand steering, and the reverse order of many other things, is still fresh in my memory. The sudden, pungent, garlicky odors that emanated from the rajma in my lunch box at work, sending some colleagues into a tizzy; the puzzled look on the librarian’s face when I’d hunted down and picked out a dusty, Satyajit Ray video from a forgotten corner; the subtle surprise on the sales clerk’s face on seeing a string of deftly cut-out coupons pop out of my bag; the confusion I stirred by saying “water, without ice please,” at a restaurant; how I used to get wished on the wrong day for writing my birthday down the wrong way; the tongue-twister effect my name has had on countless Americans - all these incidents have changed my entire outlook on life. I have reoriented the way I cook, eat, talk, write, and to put it mildly, live.

I have fond memories from an age bygone, when my mother made sure I got those weekly warm oil scalp massages, and cleanses with the finest of traditional hair care ingredients, either grown and mixed at home, or hand picked from the maid’s farm. But now I make do with damaging shampoo, cleanser, conditioner, and other mysterious chemical combos, to make my hair look passable. My ‘rice cakes’ baked in a microwavable set of trays, turn out just as swell as my mother’s steamed, pressure-cooked ‘idlis’. My coffeemaker brews Folgers coffee just as fresh as my mother’s ‘Kothas’ blend in a stainless steel traditional kettle.

Also, these days I delight in reading a painstakingly typed out email from my folks, just as I used to, when they sent a hand-written letter tucked coyly inside a tightly wrapped parcel. I see the herbal hair oil pack that my husband sheepishly orders online from an Indian portal, and rejoice secretly. I bake raisin bran cookies from store bought mix for my little one and take pride in it. I enjoy onion rings dunked in mayonnaise, just as much as I would, a platter of samosas with spicy chutney on the side. I soak up the richness of honey bunches of cereal in milk, like I would, of my mother’s ragi porridge. Yet, there’s definitely something amiss - my life definitely isn’t the same as it used to be.

I sometimes wonder - will I hand down a list of the best ready-to-eat brands to my daughter, or actual recipes? Will I teach her the secrets of homemade fresh fruit face packs for glowing skin, or simply buy her those trendy chemical peel-off masks? Well, these are questions that only need to be answered in the long run. For now, I need to read out some stories from ancient Indian mythology to her, at least before she grills me about the Godly ‘dudes’ and ‘dudettes’.

2006-09-14T12:01:00.001-07:00

Yet another long weekend has gone by. And while most people we know spent it soaking up the sun at the beaches, or sightseeing and shopping at hotspots, we decided to do nothing. Well, near to nothing, as the highlight of it was a housewarming party we attended. Yes, there surely was a house, it was new, and there was a party to celebrate it. But it was nowhere close to the housewarming celebrations as I know them, from back home.

There was no sign of a deity whatsoever, given that the hosts were Indians, theists, and rather pious, to boot. So that rules out any impressions that come from a ceremonious puja that is typical for an occasion such as this. Just a clean house with presents stacked up in a corner, and a bunch of bouquets and cards in another. Of course, there was plenty of food, and several desis to indulge.

Understandably, this evoked a feeling of nostalgia in me. I vividly remember the day my family ritualized our new home back in India. Lord Ganesh, considered the harbinger of goodwill and prosperity, was worshipped initially, to kick off the celebrations. A series of prayers and offerings to many other deities followed, and when the walls were laced significantly with the fragrance of holy smoke, burning incense, flowers, camphor, fruits, and ghee-doused semolina pudding, the rites came to a close. Of course, a formal lunch and dinner for friends and relatives followed, but that wasn’t the focus of the entire affair.

There was something about the air in the house that day that made me heady with pride, peace, and a weird sense of triumph. It made me admire my parents a little more, and fall in love with the house. I could feel the rhythm of the sacred chants in every brick and stone, and that made me shudder with sanctity. Thereafter, I felt, strangely as it were, secure and sheltered, to live there. Every special memory associated with that house has a sense of righteousness about it. So much so that this silly fact - that our first homegrown coconut was offered to the Lord before being eaten in the form of a delicious burfi, makes me ebb with delight.

At the party we attended, there were many redolent features too. Pigtailed little girls dressed in resplendent lehengas, women in heavily embroidered six-yard splendors, and some men in their Indian finery too. Tiny voices with squeals of hide-and-seek play, noisy adult chitchat, fused with the clanking of ladles and bangles, filled the atmosphere, making it homely, but in a peculiar way. Also part of this strange atmosphere were several aromas, sounds and sights, none of which was spiritually soothing. The aromas came from - samosas, mixed in a painstakingly cosmopolitan manner with nachos and crackers, complete with cheese-dips and salsa, and the main course. The sounds were several - right from the crackling fizz of soda and beer (at times it was hard to keep the kids off), to the click of high-fives, symbolic of a curious bonding amongst desi software pros. The sights were colorful - clothes, food, flashy cameras, and jewelry, to name a few. The interiors of the house were too spic and span, no tinge of warm and welcoming turmeric or vermilion, no scent of incense, no scattered petals of flowers, no chants or hymns. That’s not to say there’s something amiss or wrong with the set-up, but it just felt a trifle one-dimensional and bare for my conservative and perhaps silly, values.

In this world of luxury, novelty, progress, and high-speed life, even the Honda-driving, cell-phone-sporting priest clad in a silken kurta-veshti and sleek Reebok sneakers seems to send out a homespun kind of signal to me. I always find a sense of divine merit and peace sipping the pint-sized drops of holy water, eating the sanctified pieces of almonds and raisins, while resting my feet on the carpeted floors of the Hindu temple. I experienced a bone-numbing, gratifying, consecrated sensation when my little daughter was blessed by the high priest on her first birthday, after a formalized service.

Maybe it is just a state of mind, and the religious aspects of the whole thing are always debatable, needless to say. But it feels, to put it mildly, good, and fulfilling to be in the presence of indigenous traditions and customs. That’s not to say I don’t enjoy some wine on a special occasion, or spread festive cheer with a beer. It’s just that sometimes too much revolution is a little too much to handle. Besides, that elephant-faced, pot-bellied, adorable little demigod - sitting pretty on the dashboard, nightstand, and in various forms in my arty clay collection, reminds me of my roots, and to be proud of them.

2006-09-14T12:01:00.000-07:00

I seem to have developed a new sentimental edge these days. Well, not so much ‘these days’ as ‘eternally since I can recollect.’ And my guess is that it’s not just me, or something to do with my exclusively patriotic genes. I look around, and see every other Indian woman worth her salwar kameez share my state of mind. And all it takes is a box of homemade besan-laddus to take this melancholy up to a higher level.

It’s not like we don’t get Indian food here in all sorts, tastes, and regional specialties for a few bucks. It’s not even like we have to drive miles away for those, although, if we did, there’s a fair chance we’d come upon a wider assortment of sweets, biscuits (of the likes of Parle, and Good Day, not the American versions, like Pillsbury) papads, and related condiments with a potential to bring home closer to us. It’s just a daffy little obsession we seem to have about home made food. May be it is the thought of our mothers toiling in the kitchen for hours on end just so we could get a little taste of their gourmet cooking, that drives us wild with nostalgia.

On my recent visit to India, however, I witnessed some unusual things. My mother’s refrigerator was stocked with an array of neatly organized bottles, with pickles of many kinds in them. However, they didn’t really taste home made, even though they screamed ‘Mother’s Recipe,’ (the brand, I mean). At the break of dawn, my mother sheepishly offered me Kelloggs Crispies in a bowl of stove-warmed milk, while all I secretly hoped for was a cup of steaming hot filter ‘kaapi.’ And eventually, when the kaapi did make its appearance, it was a vanilla-cocoa blend, decaf, and it came with a platter of Cheez-Its. “It’s a new flavor, from Coffee Day,” she said, “I think you’ll like it.” But it didn’t stimulate my senses like the chicory-mixed, caffeine-rich cuppa would have. Suddenly, I felt ancient, and my poor old parents, in all their attempts to make me comfortable, seemed, rather sadly, to have developed a modern, youthful predilection.

Even as I braced myself for these new changes, I found that the more I explored this freshness, the worse it got. My dear old Bangalore, which was once known for its lush green landscapes and simple, old-fashioned lifestyle had transmogrified into a concrete jungle, full of choky malls, and fancy lounge bars, among other things.

My local grocery, or ‘kaka’ shop had been replaced by a sprawling, cramped supermarket that sold Tropicana juices in the place of Maazas, and oversized RedKen shampoo-conditioners in the place of convenient Clinic Plus sachets. The quaint little ‘Darshini’ that used to sell idli-vada with coconut chutney in steel plates had been redesigned into a trendy eatery with a proper, printed, laminated menu, and pizza varieties, to boot. The down-to-earth ‘chaat’ joint of yester years had turned into a stylish bistro that sold grilled sandwiches with a diverse selection of cheeses, and a vending machine for diet colas.

Cinema halls with squeaky chairs were now a thing of the past - multiplex, escalator-driven talkies appeared to be the latest fad. Even the local goldsmith had had a makeover - he no longer sold authentic, 24-carat jewelry out of a petty shack with wooden shelves, protected by grandfather locks, but 18-carat white gold ornaments, in a glass-walled ‘showroom,’ complete with security guards and tempered glass displays.

The kids in the community no longer played in the muddy, fenced playground; they either enjoyed videogames in the confines of their homes, or went to ‘entertainment zones,’ for more choices. The oldies no longer sat on the stone bench in the park, laughing their worries away, but attended ‘Ha-Ha Clubs,’ for therapeutic sessions of forced cheer.

I felt suffocated in this new-fangled way of life, understandably enough. Maybe I was being a little too crabby, but I wanted to enjoy the joys of simple, everyday living, like say, shopping in a ‘Season’s Discount’ roadside sale counter without the frills and thrills of high rise malls, or enjoy a by-two coffee with my dad after a Masala Dosa meal, without having to endure the nuisances of exotic blends and complicated carte du jour. So, when I returned, I made sure my mom packed for me home-made ‘rasam powder,’ (I get MTR ready-to-eats here, thank you) and home-grown ‘henna’ (no L’Oreal streaks for me, please) among other things. And I don’t spend hours contemplating my choice of oxygen-enriching or camomile-cleansing facials here anymore. I’m happy to make my own multani-matti face pack, and I hope it shows well enough.

2006-09-14T12:00:00.001-07:00

Home keeping is grisly business, more so if you’re a cleanliness freak like myself. And with spring in, it’s really a tough grind. I wish sometimes that we could reschedule this annual cleaning ritual to good old Diwali season like we do back home, but that would be winter, and we’re at a high risk of breaking bones then, given how merciless Chicago’s winds and flurries can get, making that trip to the garbage unit rather deadly. So basically, springtime cleaning is a fixed routine one cannot escape from.

I usually begin by making a list of the nooks, crannies, boxes, cabinets and other quaint places that need tidying up. And if this piece of paper doesn’t get torn into bits and munched on by my little devil, I end up trashing it as junk myself, only to later realize I need to get started all over again. So this can actually take a while. And once the list is finally set, I put out all the trendy gadgets, wipes, liquids, brushes, and scrubs available, and try to put them to use on the many surfaces with every knack I could possibly possess. But I confess - I do have my precincts - I cannot lug that brawny vacuum all by myself to all those remote attics and wicked little crannies. And that’s when I can’t help but think back to the good old Indian broom - handy, robust, and good enough to dust cobwebs off ceilings, or kill cockroaches in a snap. And then I reminisce the olden days of glory, when I used to lead a laidback, comfortable life, courtesy my maid. But I also feel awfully shamed when I think of how I used to taunt her and remind her of a few specks of dust in that one forgotten corner.

Then there’s the laundrying. Winter clothes, formals, and those other special coloreds have to be carefully segregated, washed, and dried without crumpling. And if you accidentally hit the wrong button, you have to spend hours straightening out the crinkles, which is generally not an easy task to accomplish with lightweight irons. And when this happens, I feel helpless without the ever-faithful istriwallah who used press all clothes crisp and creaseless with his charcoal-filled, brawny box back at home.

Once the cleaning is done, somehow, there’s the clearing. I miss my maid all the more when I have to sort, bag, and empty the trash. I absolutely loathe the thought of carrying heavy, wet bags filled with soggy, rotting vegetable peels, and smelly leftovers to the disposal units, then cleaning the baskets, and lining them with fresh plastic. My poor maid took care of all that very painstakingly, and my association with all that garbage was limited to just filling it up.

Another major cleaning ordeal, if you have a baby in diapers, is emptying the Diaper Genie, which basically is a con-trivance - it makes you believe that its plastic liner is mal-odor-proof. So you pop open its bottom and roll out a stringed, tentacle-like diddie, and (unless you’re Shankar Mahadevan) you’ll probably choke by the time you get it to the dumpster.

And to top all this misery, my little daughter seems to bear an uncanny adulation for trash bags. She loves to drop perfectly healthy fruits, vegetables and any other eatables she can lay her hands on in them, and is quite happy to feast on tidbits of old, dust-covered, baby food droppings, bits of paper, or any other forbidden objects off the floor instead. She also likes to, depending on the day’s mood, decorate the kitchen floor with the minutest flecks of selectively magnetic onion peel, or douse it in dishwashing liquid. So my cleaning routine retreats to where it began, and so on.

There are times when this entire chore gets so dreadful that I end up having all that dirt ramble through my dreams. Those soapy spots on the mirror, those stubborn flecks of dust on the television, scraps of junk on the floor, and my daughter with her four-toothed smile, and handfuls of rubbish - they all come to haunt me one way or another. It seems like cleaning has taken over my life. I’ve come to terms with it, at least partly, and try to look at the rewards it offers. My travails often make for good story fodder at get-togethers, for instance, when I say that I can well relate to Monica of F.R.I.E.N.D.S and Jerry of Seinfeld, and add jokingly that I’m just short of having a clinical disorder (It’s always nice to leave people guessing anyway, so they won’t mess around when they’re in my house.) And then, I get my share of exercise with all the bending and stretching, so that makes up for my excuse of not being able to hit the gym.

Birthdays, Then and Now

2006-09-14T12:00:00.000-07:00

In the past week, several people have asked me, “Sooooo, how does it feel to now be the mom of a one year old?!” The real answer, I’m afraid, is, “Terrific, I’m on cloud nine, I could fly…(my wallet is so light) etc.” But I ended up saying just, “Terrific.”

My daughter just turned one. It has, no doubt, been the most amazing year of my life - watching her grow from a teensy, red, blotchy, wailing newborn, into a beautiful, babbling, tottering, bonny little girl. But it has also been the priciest year of my life. And I am now officially a member of the prestigious Party-City-Pauper-Parents-Association, which is basically like an ancillary unit of Party City, and ensures that parents like us get so broke that we cardinally become party-poopers.

Planning my little girl’s birthday party was no child’s play. It involved some grisly tasks, the most primary of those being - to choose a party theme. There’s a whole array of themes out there - and every time Disney brings out a new movie - wham, a new one is added to the list. There are Nascars and Star Wars for sporty little boys, Barbies and Princesses for stylish little girls, and Batmans and Harry Potters for the adventurous lot.

Being stuck amidst an ocean of party supplies and themes, I was virtually clueless about how to put them all together for my one year old. I wondered whether it would make any sense to someone as tiny as her, who barely even knew the party was going to be held in her honor. All I knew was that I wanted to make it special for her, something she’d look back on, someday in the future, and cherish with pride. So I took the help of a few been-there-done-that-moms, and finally narrowed down on a theme, and everything that’s currently the rage.

The next step was to book a banquet (which, like preschool, or say, a Kalyana Mantapam in India, is usually signed and sealed atleast six months in advance) send out e-vites, garner all the RSVPs, hire a clown, choose a caterer, baker, and anyone else that might be of use in putting a menu together. Although, if you’re hosting a party strictly for kids, in true Yankee style, you could probably make do with cake, cheese pizzas, fries and coke. But we, being the gregarious Indians that we are, had half the city desis on our list, and hence had to have a full-fledged spicy, savory Indian spread. Then, we had to stock up on the supplies, which, at the outset, entailed getting scared stiff by monstrous balloons that crooned upon touching or exploding streamers that seemed to guffaw at our plight. And once we’d gotten over this phobia of leaping, screaming festoons, we had to pick out theme-based plates, cups, spoons, forks, napkins, table covers, banners, and candles - the works. There was also an entire package of theme-based party favors (or ‘return gifts,’ to use an Indianism) for the little invitees, which was hard to turn down. After everything had been sought and bought, the house, for about a week before the event, transformed into a pandemonium of party trimmings and trappings. So much so that we had to tread with caution around the danger zones, lest we rouse a resting inflatable to screech happy birthday in high pitched tones, and consequently get my little one into a wild frenzy.

Eventually, the party was over, and the only economical thing about it was that the leftovers were zip-locked, frozen, reheated and relished to the last bite. Even as I reel from the fervor and furor of the gala, I cannot help but recall the minimalist, hush birthday celebrations back at home. One woke to the fragrance of burning incense and the tinkling of the sacred bell - an indication that a special puja was being offered to the family deity; and after a ceremonious ‘oil bath,’ one would sit down and enjoy a traditional Indian meal with family, complete with ‘kheer,’ ‘gajar halwa,’ or ‘gulab jamoons,’ and rather coyly, accept gifts, which mostly comprised clothes, books, or on occasion, jewelry. A bash, if at all, would be limited to a group of close friends who were served potato wafers and pastries, accompanied by a refreshing ‘Rasna’ or ‘Kissan’ juice blend, to help wash the snacks down. There were no frills, no thrills. Just a bunch of loved ones huddling up together and wishing one well.

I am not so sure my daughter really understood the significance of all the hoopla, but for now I can quietly revel in the fact that she absolutely loved the idea of a pack of animals adorning the top of her cake in a delicious butter cream frosting. How else could she have imagined biting into a lion, turtle, or frog with her teeny mouth and six brand new teeth?

No Elephants, Still Indian

2006-09-14T11:59:00.000-07:00

It’s funny how people react when we confess our origins. That, or when our dialect gives us away, which, I’m afraid, is more often that not. We’re associated either with Gandhi, or tandoori chicken. On occasion, some people want to know if, in India, elephants are still a principal mode of transportation, and if children live with their parents till they die. Surely, these folks haven’t quite heard of Narain Karthikeyan, or watched Aishwarya Rai on Letterman’s. And why they haven’t is simply beyond me.

On our part, we gawk at an American bride struggling to waddle her way through the corridors of the Hindu temple clad in a saree, and jeer at all the non-Indians on Devon Avenue burning their tongues out on blowtorch-hot paani-puris. But we seldom sneer at the svelte, young ABCD dressed, well, hardly, or belittle a traditional tam-brahm pigging out on an extra-large hamburger. It is difficult to say why, but I suspect it is mainly because we are quite fraught with attempts of being like them. I mean, who wouldn’t want to be skimpily dressed or obese, to feel belonged enough, or be noticed?

Also, we love our Paddys and Chaks more than the Padmanabhans and Chakrapanis. We experiment with exotic foods, and feel free to share and eat with our hands only at an elite Ethiopian restaurant, even as we acclaim the importance of keeping it “real, and simple,” like it were an alien concept. We commend the finesse of Rachael Ray, like cumin, in all its smoky glory, was a spice we’d never used. We exalt the connoisseur in Martha Stewart, as if crochet were an art our grandmothers never excelled in. We commiserate with Patricia Heaton as if Doris Roberts were more appalling and melodramatic than all the mothers-in-law of Ekta Kapoor’s one million soaps put together. We indulge in potluck-poker-nights like the gambling addas during Diwali were uncivil. But we still enjoy the rare bonding with a Hindi-speaking cab driver, or the congregations with fellow-Indians at the local grocery. (Unless the cabbie exhibits stalker tendencies, or the person at the grocery is an Amway distributor). We love to hotfoot to the lanky weekend line at the temple cafeteria in a haste that would put Tirupathi pilgrims to shame. We queue up at the Thanksgiving sale counters like we’ve never haggled and gotten a good deal on anything.

But fact is – even if we’re able, successfully, to order a light pizza on the phone without much ado (“easy on cheese” is not that difficult to say, after all) we can’t always camouflage our Indiginized utterances and usages. We wouldn’t rest in the restrooms, ask for checks at the end of a meal, or worse, hand out bills. Plastic silverware will remain an oxymoron in some of our dictionaries, and some of us wouldn’t eat our dinners (with or without them) at 6pm.

That’s not to say we’re elephant-riding, namby-pamby, curry-eating yellowbellies. Well, let’s face it - it takes more than dependable, cheering parents and a gut full of curry to ride on a scuzzy, wobbly behemoth.

Woes of Being an Edgy Veggie

2006-09-14T11:58:00.001-07:00

Being vegetarian, I’ve realized, is not so pertinent as an unbecoming ‘desi’ thing anymore. It’s more like a kooky thing. So, what does sheepishly ordering onion rings and fries (discounting the fact that they’re ‘fried,’ in all probability, in lard), amidst an ocean of hamburger hogs make me? A hippie desi with very poor levels of health consciousness and probably, very high levels of cholesterol. Although, in my defense, it doesn’t really show.

With a 14-month-old elf for a daughter who complicates my life as it is, I have complicated it further by turning vegetarian. Or rather, returning to being a vegetarian. I was actually born and raised a vegetarian, and then, rather gingerly, took to eating chicken just for the fun of it. In retrospect, I didn’t exactly love it, but it just made things easier, in India, and around the world (except Fiji, of course, which I don’t intend visiting anytime soon). And then the pregnancy brought in a blast of nausea and I simply had to relinquish it. But that was the easy part. I had to make up by feasting on insipid bunches of broccoli and mushy mouthfuls of tofu.

And now, not only do I have to live with being known as the freak that doesn’t eat beef or pork, but also as the ostracized lunatic that doesn’t eat chicken or fish. And unless I’m attending a ‘desi’ shindig, where I can be pretty sure there will be at least one veggie dish on the menu, I should either be well-versed with excerpts from Sue Coe’s “Dead Meat,” to save my skin, or simply, chicken out. Else, I’d have to inform my hosts beforehand, and drive them up the wall, quite literally, to dust off their vegetarian cookbooks. On second thought, it’s much easier to eat before I go, and, feigning a queasy stomach, munch on salads and desserts. Yet, that doesn’t make me any more likable, because the hosts have either burned themselves out barbecuing the steak, or broiling the chops.

But I always end up giving restaurant staff a hard time by forgetting to say ‘no meat,’ (instead of, to use the good old Indianism, ‘without meat’) or gorging on gorgeous stuffed mushrooms, only to later realize that the stuffing was, in fact, made of creepy bivalve clams, or other squishy mollusks. And many a time, I am humiliated further when people, in all their effort to be polite, raise a brow and say, “Oh, vegetarianism – sure, I’ve tried that,” like it’s an eccentric cult and they just had to go back on it in order to subsist in the real world.

While I struggle to justify vegetarianism without sounding like a prudish party-pooper, I can safely say that I don’t eat anything that bites back, given that eggs, as I know them, do not. And apparently, Alex Poulos has said, “I will not eat anything that walks, runs, skips, hops or crawls. God knows that I've crawled on occasion, and I'm glad that no one ate me.” Surely, he hasn’t visited Fiji.

Ski is the Limit

2006-09-14T11:58:00.000-07:00

Every winter, I’m reminded that there are two kinds of people. Those who ski and those who don’t. But it’s really not as simple as it sounds. Skiers are basically people who love to wear wacky, slippery footwear, and glide down steep, scary, snow-slopes, being fully aware that they could end up twisting their backs, breaking their bones, or simply, in the gut of a very famished wolf. As for non-skiers, they are usually happy to be alive, and can often be seen enjoying the wretchedness of winter sports on TV.

I’m not much of what you might call a sporty individual, if you disregard those biking miles and tennis points. To give you an idea - I generally elude looking down when, say, on the terrace, if I’ve been gritty enough to get there in the first place. And ‘tall,’ in my dictionary, puts the ceiling on ten feet, or thereabouts. So you can imagine what the prospect of boogying on a very craggy sand dune, stomach down, could do to me.

A few years ago, along the colossal, shifty sand eskers of Te Paki Stream in New Zealand, I was summoned and handed a boogie board to lie on. Petrified, I dropped the board, (never mind that I nearly tore my left toe apart) yowled, and implored my tour guide to let me go. But being sternly resolute, he dragged me to a smaller, less daunting mound of sand, and backed me up with some basic grounding, and a lot of reassuring. I then stood and witnessed many people boogying. They were basically being hurled like lumber on planks, and, on touching bottom, they appeared to have been casually axed off their boards. So, readying myself for the absolute pits, I lay down on the board, like a goat ready for its sacrificial ceremony, and went slinking down. Eyes shut, nerves clenched, I landed at the base, with a lungful of very sandy air. And somehow, several grueling sashays later, I was proclaimed bonafide boogier.

So when I was asked to go skiing in Wisconsin, I thought, why not. All I had to do was stand atop a snow-covered cliff, slide down, collapse, coalesce with gravity, get circled around by sneering six-year olds, and if I didn’t feel mortified enough, go back up for more. And since I couldn’t even stand erect with ski boots on, I took lessons at a beginner’s camp. Once everyone had been gathered up, the instructor slithered down, ducking every now and then, turning stylishly, and yelling, “Come on, follow me,” as if it was no big deal. But unless you were raised by mountain sheep in Montana, you’ll need more than that to take off and alight in one piece.

Anyhow, I took a crack at it, and haven’t looked back since. What I mean is, I haven’t looked back at the gradient of the slope halfway through, slammed into a fellow skier, and plummeted like a bag of bricks onto the gear-rental shack.

Much Moving and More Shaking

2006-09-14T11:57:00.000-07:00

If you’re looking for a windy-city-winter-warm-up to scald your feet, fry your brain cells, char your patience, and burn your pocket crisp, you simply must move homes. How you accomplish it depends, among other things, on how many landlords’ whims and wiles you’re willing to endure, and how fast you can crunch numbers without reaching for a calculator (because costs invariably escalate with the batting of an eyelid, or revamping of the Dan Ryan). Of course, if you’re among the fortunate few and are at the mercy of an agent, (unless you’re Oprah Winfrey) you needn’t worry about the latter, as the agent will do all the talking, wheedling, and deciding.

Let’s assume you aren’t among those privileged few, and are on your own. You begin by listing out all the criteria that will make a house best suited for your family. But clearly, compromise is the key word, as your husband’s longing for a jumbo garage or your yearning for roomy closets will not counterbalance a pint-sized den that won’t hold your baby’s two million toys. Then you make the calls, and it is suggested that you write every bit of information down, including the time and duration of the calls, the quotes, the offers, the works. Then you set out on the site seeing, and even if you inadvertently forget your coat, you won’t exactly freeze to death, as the prices might set your sweat glands working overtime. And then, you check out the neighborhood, (better Wiggles-Ville than Wrigley-Ville) scrutinize every nook and cranny, and generally take mental notes of anything interesting or uninteresting you might discern.

Finally, with all your stars aligned in the apposite places, and the assent of the inspectors (and carpenters, plumbers, electricians, and all their other kin) if you happen upon your near-perfect new haven, you move on to the next level - the sign up procedure. Now this requires extraordinary math skills, extra powerful vision, and legal parlance proficiency. Math skills for obvious reasons, and the effective vision coupled with a thorough grasp of legal dialect, might come in handy for conscientious interpretation of mysterious terms and clauses set conveniently in fine print. You also need to supply all documents that pertain to your existence, and endorse your motor skills, marital status, professional standing, wages, and, unless you’re eligible for a hundred-and-ten percent credit, some savings. Once the paper work is done and over with, you embark upon the mammoth mission of packing, cleaning, and moving (however, if you’re left with any dough at the end of it all or are benign enough to forsake a meal or two, you might consider hiring movers). And aside from unpacking, rearranging, and reorganizing, you’ll have to baby-proof all the outlets, cabinets, doors, drawers, and anything that holds assets and snaps open precariously. To be completely safe, you’ll also have to elevate the entire house up by a few feet, unless your little one takes Pooh’s invite to play very seriously, or actually lives on Sesame Street.

Hot Samosa, Cold Call?

2006-09-14T11:56:00.000-07:00

“Kamon achen, di?”1 he asked. Stumped, I mumbled, “Hmm?” (It could be some relative after all, I thought). Then he went on to tell me how deeply he cared for my homesickness. And how imperative his role was, in ridding me of it. Now before your heart goes all out for this alleged member-of-the-kinfolk-from-Kolkata, be warned that he was a complete stranger, and all he actually cared about was my money. He was calling from Kolkata all right (although he averred that his office was situated in Detroit, the caller-id revealed a “+91-33” number) but his only intent was to urge me to sign up for a long-distance telephone service that he claimed was the cheapest and the best.

Even when we were not on the Do-Not-Call list, we had our chance with winning, on occasion. We could ward pesky telemarketers off by using on them an indigenous dialect. And if they clung on and asked, “Do you speak English, ma’m?” one could say, in Tamil2, for instance, “Aama, teriyum,”3 snigger, and then, opportunely hang up. But in those days, these mavericks fell fundamentally into two categories - those who tried to woo you into a subscription for a tacky publication you had no use for except to blot the oil off ‘pooris,’4 unless you were obese, and the cheesy weight loss ad on its front-page occluded your consumption of fatty food; or those who persuaded you to go on vacation to a place that you’d either already seen, or were flat broke to afford.

The most eccentric experience I’ve had with telemarketers was when my knowledge of the English language was questioned, for the sheer lack of a certain twang in my vocalization. But I, my dears, do speak some English, and it definitely does not transcend the discerning powers of my American fellas. (Well, at least when I say ‘let’s make a move,’ they do, in all their dervish spirit, shake a leg or two). But these were the pre-outsourcing times.

Coming back to Bengali babu5, I could virtually picture a 20-something graduate in a swanky, air-conditioned office in Kolkata, biting into a sizzling singara6 at 2:45 am IST. The darndest thing is he hit home, and with a little more prodding in Bengali, or his perfected yankee spiel, he could’ve sold his service to me, or even a monk sworn to silence in the wilderness.

PATs, or Painstakingly Americanized Transcriptions:

1 “How’re you doing, sis?”
2 A South Indian language
3 “Yes, I do know English”
4 Deep-fried wheat-flour crepes
5 Dude from Bengal
6 A spicy, crisped vegetable dumpling

Missing Indi Mom in Windy Chicago

2006-09-14T11:54:00.000-07:00

That shrill wailing would’ve shaken even the comatose to life, so I just had to pay heed. My watch read 6:30 am (IST), and although I took a moment to estimate the CST equivalent of it, I instantly realized that my baby girl was only trying to execute her ‘morning’ duties, given that we had only returned the day before, and her sense of time was as obscure as Chicago’s winter. It was 7:00 pm in the windy city, but that mattered little to us - what did, mainly, was the intoxicating aroma of ma’s filter coffee, and, rather inadvertently, the clattering of ‘vessels’ by the maid, back at home in India. Anyhow, groggily rummaging through the diaper bag, I managed to ferret some wipes and a couple of diapers out (although I lost one of those in a brash scuffle with the cabin baggage tag). And then, thrusting the onus on my snoring husband, I snoozed off again.

I have almost unlearnt the art of diapering, as ma handled that, and everything else that encompasses taking care of a baby, and its haggard new mommy. Hence, during my stay at ma’s, I had conveniently relieved myself of all responsibilities; but now, jetlag aside, I have to cope with being a single mom for most part of the day (while the husband slogs to bring home the bread, and marmalade) as well as playing cook, Elmo, gardener, and maid - only, I can’t even clank the dishes to vent out my rage as that would wake the baby. No shopping sprees during the week; no luxury baths; no self-grooming binges; no fresh, piping hot food at every meal; no extra hours of beauty sleep; and specially, no ma. The most that “Patel’s” sells are “Mother’s Recipe” pickles, and even to fetch those in, we must brave storm and snow. But before I can even think of that, I need to refill my rupee-laden wallet with mighty dollar bills; and I may as well combine that with untying my tangled hair, doing the laundry, and rolling out the rotis. But first, I need to use the restroom.