Food and the Global Indian Woman: Response to Criticism

Like most people, I read some blogs regularly, some once-in-a-while, and some just once. While bloghopping, I came across blogs featuring western women married to Indian men and I keep going back to follow these chronicles of culture shock, adaption, etc., involving not only the new Indian spouses but the usual drama of Indian families, in-laws, society, customs, etc.

Some things ring true, some seem plain silly. One commenter on a blog post stated that the blogger's Indian husband's habit of tasting food from the blogger's plate was either "controlling" or "opposite of our upbringing where were are taught never to 'snatch' from someone else's plate". Sheesh, western lady married to a desi man - after all this time with your man, did he not explain to you about food and closeness, whose "jhootha" you could eat, and whose you couldn't? Or were you just looking combatively for discipline issues when a simple cultural explanation would suffice?

Anyway, the one issue that struck a chord was the food one. You don't realize how much of your culture is what you put into your mouth on a daily basis, in fact three or four times a day. And how awful it is when you can't get what you took for granted in the kitchens and the fridges and the marketplaces of your native land. Uniformly, these western women turned desi bahus longed for the comfort of olive oil, cheeses, breads, and random junk food of their childhoods. Some who lived in bigger Indian metros could find what they needed, if not exactly at the same price. Others in smaller towns were just plain out of luck and had to bide their time till they went back to their native lands.

I feel for them. I really do. Having gone through the same thing in reverse, I understand the almost-physical longing for familiar aromas and textures and tastes. But I don't understand the criticism of Indian food as either "unhealthy" or not appetizing nor I do comprehend the dismissing of the morning bustle of Indian housewives as they prepare breakfast and lunch as a waste of energy. And the insistence of simpler western schedules and food preparation as the only way to live. Sure, Indian women are stressed. But isn't every woman on the planet? It's not as if the adoption of a "western" way of housekeeping or cooking has led to a miraculous cure for the stresses of women living in the west. You only have to look in the waiting halls of psychiatrists and counselors to see that the un-stressed women of the west who are supposedly living, breathing role models for the women of the developing world are a miniscule minority. The way to de-stress the overstretched Indian woman is not to tell her to start eating sandwiches or to stop cooking. [Hint: reduce her drudgery levels in the kitchen by *helping* rather than doing away with the cooking itself. It's a labor problem, folks, folded into a gender issue, an old, old story]

Here's why the attack on Indian cooking strikes me as a particularly unproductive criticism. First, cooking is an act of creation. A perfect way to de-stress oneself. Everyone should be taught to cook, boy or girl or grumpy old Gramps. Second, do away with Indian cooking or reduce it, as some western wives of Indian men suggest? Firangi bahus, are you for real?! Having observed both Indians and westerners in the kitchen, I can say that it's not without reason that Indian cuisine is considered one of the master cuisines of the world. Even the humblest everyday exponent of Indian cooking brings to the task a level of complexity that is really not seen in most American or Anglo-American kitchens. The simplest dals taste different with different seasonings, the smashing of ginger and garlic in a humble mortar adds a depth of flavor that can't be matched by the sturdy roasts and simple soups of the average British or English kitchen. And the most Haute Cuisine of frozen dinners doesn't cut it, sorry. When I lived in France years ago, I fell in love with the food but was sad to realize that good food is about expertise, about trained chefs, rather than a complex art that can be practiced by anybody with access to a stove and an oven. The closest thing I've seen in western culture that approximates the Indian relationship with food is the care that Mediterranean peoples lavish on their cuisines. No wonder, Italian food is also one of the master cuisines of the world.

My Indian culinary heritage is mine - handed down to me by word of mouth, scraps of yellowing, handwritten recipes, sometimes a fusion of European and Indian, but something to be recreated every day if I so wish. So why would this creative act be wrong? It is in fact a civilizational heritage to be cherished and kept alive as long as possible, with tweaks and helps from technology as and when required. Yes, the maintenance of this cuisine means that I must give up certain things. So, I regretfully decline the offers to come out and cavort in bars and restaurants every week. Going out is something I do perhaps once or twice a month. For the rest, I enjoy the chopping, the sauteing, the creation of something tasty and good for me and my family. If this is slavery, well, hand me the apron, baby.

And by the way, my family does help with cooking and cleaning.

The Parent Trap

Back after a long break. I was very busy with the book, editing, etc. The book is finally out but I am not going to blog about that here, as I rather like this little semi-private web journal where I can write about other things than the book or about my other writing. My friends and family know whose blog this is, anyway. And my literary blog (under construction) has a life of its own.

Anyway, Indian Homemaker, a blog I read regularly, had a post about parenting and setting limits on grown children. The comments section is a lively give-and-take about parenting in the west and in India, the need to let go of adult children and to set limits with them when they do share space. Below is the comment that I initially set out to write. I will post there too, but I thought I would post here too, since these are my observations, too. Here is what I wrote:
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Sometimes, in cross-cultural comparisons, we end up comparing apples to oranges. I need to blog about this at length but for starters, here's a couple of things that strike me as baseline differences so fundamental that we don't pay attention to it - money/housing and a safety-net. I'm not saying that Indian families are not controlling or manipulative but we do need to consider the material context of Indian lives too. In western cultures, not so long ago, grandparents lived with grown children and their offspring because there used to be no safety-net, no old age pension, etc. Once that was put in place, began the celebration of the great "nuclear family" and "individual freedom."  I don't see this in India at all at the present, despite some advances. The only social stratum that can afford to do all this is the wealthier section of society and even here most people cling to the clan/family for all sorts of reasons, given the precariousness of public networks,

From the kids' perspective, western countries (especially the US, to which this article refers) have a housing surplus situation. It is relatively EASY for youngsters to find a safe apartment in a half-way decent neighborhood and move out. How many Indian parents would tolerate their children having to set up independent living in unsafe conditions with unreliable security? In India, where rent can eat up a substantial amount of income, youngsters have no option but to stick it out in the parental nest. Also, rentals are not standardized as they are in the US. So, for example, how many Indian landlords are required to provide a stove and a refrigerator in even the humblest apartment? And what guarantee is there that the tenant won't simply rip those out and take it with them? Buying a house or building a house needs saving for a long, long time. Until housing becomes more affordable and available, most Indian children do tend to linger at home unless they have a government job with government housing or a job that allows one the financial wherewithal to live apart.

Finally, the emotional part. I find both approaches strangely lacking in emotional warmth and empathy. The way that Indian parents detach from their daughters is weird and cruel enough. I know someone whose own parents refused to come and attend to her during a medical crisis because she was her in-laws' problem after marriage. Unthinkable to feel that way to one's own flesh-and-blood! Similarly, in western cultures, how does suddenly turn and tell one's own children that as soon as they reach 16/18 whatever, they are OUT! It's cruel, cold, and I would bet that creates all sorts of emotional issues between parents and children, even if the children need not fear for their material survival as they do in India. Grown children might claim in later years that it was the best thing for their parents to have done to them, but this is rather like middle-aged Indians looking back with nostalgia on the caning they received from their school teachers as having been good for them. One does not need to be cruel to build character  - or independence. Or, indeed, to set boundaries.

Short Notes to Myself 1: Britain's Pivot to Asia

Given the constraints of time it isn't always possible to write long blog posts. So from time to time, I'm going to write up short notes, to point out patterns and trends that I find interesting. This time: Britain's move away from Europe is in tandem with Britain's pivot to Asia. How are the two connected? Here is my take on recent British policy moves.

Always in copycat mode vis-a-vis the United States, Britain has decided to get on to the Asia bandwagon. But how to do this when not one of the British Isles has an Asian coastline? Well, time to dust off the old Commonwealth ties. My 2013-2014 prediction: there's going to be significantly greater British ties with Canada and Australia, the two countries with Pacific faces and a cultural inferiority complex vis-a-vis the mother country, who will be willing to reconstitute a British zone of influence in the Asia-Pacific. Other players in the British move to Asia will be Singapore and, I think, New Zealand. Basically, move out of Europe in which Britain sees no more potential and swivel via the Commonwealth to recreate some semblance of British power in the Pacific.

Cold and ruthless, but that's perfidious Albion for you, as no doubt the French are grumbling about. Recent indicators that might validate my observation: the appointment of a Canadian, Mark Carney, as the Bank of England  governor. Then, there is the recent move to strengthen defense ties between Australia and Britain, and the British logistics problem of doing business in Asia is beautifully solved by sharing embassies with Canada. Right now, William Hague, the British Foreign Secretary, is calling for Britain to once again pay attention to its neglected Commonwealth ties. What he really means is that Britain wants to enter the prosperous Asia trade zone by way of its pre-existing networks. Now, we all know that the stereotype of the Englishman is that he will try to get someone else to pay for his drink at the bar, so the question is how big a tab will the poor suckers Australia, New Zealand and Canada, be left holding? I bet Canada supplies the money for the embassies while Britain gets to have "access", and Australia does the bulk of the defence expenditure while Britain gets to "train." What can one say? Brilliant, old Blighty, just absolutely bloody brilliant!

Take Back the Night, Bring Back the State

I had intended my first post of 2013 to focus on the positive, the possible, but the horrors that December 2012 wreaked on innocents in two different parts of the world have stirred up a reflective mood in me and in everyone, it seems. Between Newtown and New Delhi, violent incidents provoked a rare outburst of collective outrage and concern among most thinking people. Did 26 blameless people , the vast majority children, have to die in Newtown, Connecticut to establish that military-style assault rifles should not be in civilian hands? Did  a young girl out to see a movie in Delhi have to be brutalized and left to a lingering death to shake up a sleeping government to its own lack of governance?

Let me leave to others the philosophy of gun rights or the psychology behind sexual violence. I have strong opinions about those but will tackle them later. Let me confine myself to just discussing pragmatics for today. First, guns. Just to be clear: I'm not talking about hunting rifles. You want to shoot your dinner? More power to you. Hey, I might even buy you a new rifle next holidays if you're a friend of mine. Just remember to give me some of that venison, OK? But assault rifles? They don't belong in your civilian hands, cold, dead as they may be. These kind of weapons only belong with the military and with law enforcement.

CAPS ALERT: Lots of caps coming!

Some background info here: I grew up with guns in the house. As the offspring of an army officer, this was inevitable. I saw guns being taken apart, cleaned, loaded, unloaded inside the house and sometimes at the firing ranges where families were invited on limited occasions to witness firing demonstrations. I've sat inside tanks, heck I've even driven a tank! And here's why I am a total snob about guns in the hands of civilians - no civilian will ever receive the amount of training one needs to handle military grade guns safely. See those two key words - "Training" and "safely"? Let me repeat them - TRAINING and SAFETY. The obsession with safety in military training when it comes to guns cannot, repeat cannot, be overstated. After a weapon was discharged, not only did it have to be reported but the empty casings had to also be picked up and brought back! Not only was my father obsessive about locking guns and ammunition separately, not only did he check and re-check the safe storage of weapons EVERY SINGLE DAY, it was his JOB to be that way!

No civilian will ever reach these levels of obsession with safety and responsibility because for the average civilian guns are not a JOB, they are a HOBBY! And assault weapons especially are not part of a civilian's professional responsibility. God willing, they will never have to be. So stick to hunting, civilians. If you want to shoot with assault weapons, then join the army or law enforcement. Oh wait, those organizations require psychological tests for aspiring entrants. See, what I said above about training and safety? I saw very few cowboys in the army when it came to weapons, in fact most of the murderous louts were those goons in the hinterlands with their sawed-off shotguns, firing in the air during weddings, and feeling macho talking about "kattas" and "gupti" . They felt macho because they hadn't had the training to be grown-up and responsible about guns. And now to the last point of this post which is...

....the State has to step in here. For too long in this country, the state has been receding from areas concerning the safety of its citizens. The diminishing role of the state in public safety has been concealed because as of today, the armed apparatus of the state retains, just barely, an advantage of firepower vis-a-vis the average citizen, as the Branch Dravidians in Waco, Texas, discovered to their cost in 1993. But the United States is now awash in small arms and this is a threat to public order and public safety. Did you known that 90 per cent of civilian casualties are caused by small arms? I fully support a gun law that will RESTRICT the rights of civilians to own or store assault-grade weapons in the home. And I look forward to the debate that is coming on this issue.

Next post on the horrible, horrible sexual assault and murder of the young woman in Delhi and on the role of the state in India. Oh, and Happy New Year!

The Oldest Reason in the World

This is a short post on the bizarre scandal to surface in the rarefied circles of policymaking - l'affaire Petraeus. And here is my take on it - FWIW, as they say.

The story is about old fools being taken in by legends of their own stud-liness. Not only is there no greater fool than an old fool, but there is no greater vanity than that of military top brass dazzled by the shine of their own medals. And I say this with full sympathy for the army as an institution, being as I've repeated many times, an army brat myself.

Being from the culture, so to speak, may I suggest that there are other factors at work here? At the highest level, there is a lot of socializing among army officers and local civilian circles. But, while there may be respect and even adulation aplenty for rank and pomp, military groupies have been largely drawn from the rather modestly middle class ranks of those who were either raised in the military culture or have married into it.You know, the kind who can speak with breathless assurance that Gen X was, didn't you know, the Commandant of the Army War College and therefore direct in line to upstage star rival Gen. Y, who had only been CG of Fort Lewis. Rarely, does one see a rush to court the top brass with as much determination and spendy zeal as did the now-notorious Tampa socialite, Jill Kelley. Thinking about this angle brought me to consider what is the point of this post. Dear reader, I submit to you that the root cause of this civil-military scandal is the oldest reason in the world...

.....Money! Follow the military contractor trail and you will see why Gen. Petraeus was courted not, as the old fool thought, for his dazzling good looks or his sparkling wit but rather for his ability to dole out the pork barrel projects by putting in a good word in the right ears for his friendly friends in  Tampa. Jill Kelley's ex-brother-in-law is in the business of military contracting and it looks like Jill Kelley herself was trying to get into that particular scam. The last ten years have been one of continuous warfare. This has been a tremendous strain on soldiers' personal lives undeniably. In the case of senior generals though, this has given them unprecedented authority in the disbursement of government, i.e. taxpayer, moolah to all and sundry in foreign theaters of war such as Iraq and Afghanistan. A substantial amount of money is spent by the Department of Defense (DOD) in these areas and auditory oversight is not always clear. The contractor disaster that was the Iraq War is no doubt replicated in Afghanistan as well with US-based military contractors soaking the taxpayer with all sorts of overpriced food and supplies items. Such is the vaunted efficiency of the private sector. Guaranteed to suck the blood out of the taxpayer in the most efficient way possible.

But another unpleasant truth illuminated by both areas of operation is that the military top brass in the field has been given immense financial authority without much of a financial education to enable them to think things through wisely. Someone please enroll these guys in a finance class so that they understand the enormity of the sums they are handling. And so that it dawns on them that the parties to which they are invited at the homes of contractors and their relatives are, um.... how to put it without making irresistible puns?.....are business meetings. And if they are not careful, they will be sold a bill of goods.

Bless 'Em All, The Long and the Short and the Tall....

Once again, we are in the era of violence unleashed by religious feelings being hurt by attacks on religion in the name of religion. I will say little about the obvious moron who is behind the so-called film about the supposed life of the Prophet Muhammad. Thinking about the whole thing from the vantage point of a late summer day in a pretty part of New England, I do reflect how attitudes to religion vary not just among cultures but even within cultures. Here in Fairfield County, CT, religion is not something people get very worked up about. I am sure there are frothing-at-the-mouth atheists and fundamentalists lurking about and but in general they are an eccentric minority. People in my little part of Connecticut go to temple, church, synagogue and mosque as they wish without much raving and ranting or self-righteousness. Like much else in the Northeast, religion is all about moderation. Which is possibly the reason why most Northeastern politicians, whether Democrats or Republicans, don't make it to the national scene. Clearly, moderation is not a virtue that goes down well in the battleground states.

That was brought home to me quite strongly during this car trip out West. While in Minnesota, I put little M. into a swim camp for a couple of weeks. I waited poolside along with the other moms and watched as the kids learned to float and put their faces in the water, etc. The first sign I got that I wasn't, ahem, in Kan...Connecticut anymore was when one of the moms whipped out a religious text and began to read it in frowning concentration. I am fine with this, having grown up with people playing with prayer beads, whispering mantras and chanting slokas sotto voce in public places.

Had it remained just a personal conversation with one's inner soul, no problem. But soon, the peaceful scene of head bent over holy book was replaced by another act in a play that ran every day of the week: a conversation between this lady and another mom who also waited while her kids learnt swimming. The dialogue would follow a similar pattern each time: first, a recounting of the benefits of some local religious school, next would follow a recital of the joys of homeschooling, the grand finale would be the denunciation of the evils of secular society and the siege that religious people were under. One particularly outstanding interchange involved the evils of doctors and medical education and how these two mothers would encourage their children to think of careers other than in medicine because of the irreligious ethics taught at medical school (this was a thinly-veiled criticism of birth control and of the abortion techniques that no doubt apprentice physicians have to be made aware of in order to intervene in an emergency situation).

To me, what stood out was the tone of victimhood. These home-schooling mothers of six and five children respectively felt victimized and persecuted despite the fact that secular society had not prevented them from having as many children as they wished, nor from home-schooling these children. Indeed, these women had benefited from the educated doctors who had delivered their babies. I'm waiting to hear if any of these ultra-religious women ever handed over their physical well-being to doctors who hadn't had a conventional medical education. Further, secular society never banned these women from expressing their views nor did they put them behind bars for grumbling about "secular society". Which brings me to the second point I noted about this loud opinionating: hypocrisy.

Hypocrisy is what allows such people to feel that they are above secular society even as they see no problems in extracting every last benefit it offers them. The swimming pool evangelicals were harmless, bored suburban women with more time on their hands than sense in their heads. In a different setting though that swirling mix of anger, perceived disempowerment and pious canting that defines fundamentalists of all faiths, can have devastating consequences. Combine victimhood and hypocrisy and place the combination in a lawless land like present-day Libya and you get to see how murderous bigots can not just slaughter a man who supported an oppressed people's fight for liberty but even celebrate the demise of the freedom for which he gave his life. RIP, Ambassador Stevens.

How do these different pieces connect? No, I am not part of the "It's all America's fault" brigade. Neither am I reiterating what other people do - that America too has its fanatics and fundamentalists. Far from it. Quite the opposite, in fact. I am drawing on domestic examples and linking them to external developments precisely in order to dispel the bafflement that many Americans feel about the current upheaval in parts of the world that target America as a symbol and as a political enterprise. What I am pointing out,hopefully without the smug self-righteousness that characterizes so much analysis on America's global role,  is that religious fanaticism everywhere is rooted in anti-modernity and hypocrisy and is fueled by a false sense of victimhood. Its contours must be recognized, whether it comes in the shape of tracksuit-clad mothers or disheveled, raggedy teenage boys. America may not have been the force behind the Arab Spring, that laurel rightfully belongs to the young people who braved their own dictators. But neither were religious fanatics the creators of free societies in their countries. In fact, religious fanatics everywhere use the cloak of freedom to overthrow the revolutions that young activists launched and drove home to their logical conclusions.

Religious fanaticism is not the Revolution, nor is it the Arab Spring. Rather, it represents the counter-revolution, the absolutist vengeance on the Revolution. In every culture and every country, its goals are the same  - the overthrow of the secular, modern state of laws. And that state, however imperfect, must be preserved if Benghazis are not to be repeated elsewhere. I feel this last point especially strongly, as a minority immigrant. As a minority, I am very aware that a strong state with just laws (important to stress this as plenty of strong, unjust states have existed throughout history) is absolutely essential to my personal security. The breakdown of the state is inevitably followed by the law of the jungle, not the collective lovefest about which anarchists and hippies dream. That chaos is the vacuum in which fanatics seek to step in to create a strong and unjust state governed by the absolute power of tyranny.  I want to keep the modern constitutional state safe from the marauders who firebomb its ramparts, its symbols, and its culture of law. And modernity and constitutional law in its local variant is what I wish for the brave young men and women of the Arab Spring. That they may courageously undertake that most difficult of tasks: " to create a just state by just means." (Jawaharlal Nehru to Andre Malraux)

Reflections on a Road Trip: Part 1: Equality and Inequality

Where did May and June go? I know, work, wrapping up the kids' school, more work, etc. But here we are now, halfway through July, and I have been on a road trip en famille, visiting the Midwest and the Rocky Mountain West.

We meandered through Pennsylvania and Ohio, stopping to wander in the Firelands, and to visit little Ohio towns named after their counterparts in Fairfield County, Connecticut. It was great to stop in Norwalk, Ohio. It is home to the finest small town museum I have seen. In my opinion. The care and the effort that the curator and the town have lavished in showcasing the history of their little town are wonderful to behold. Ohio's landscape may be one of bleak de-industrialization but here and there there are these great flashes of determined cultural effort and striving. Long may those dolls, doilies and that awesome gun collection live on in the Firelands Museum.

Besides little delights like the afore-mentioned museum, one sociological pattern caught my eye: the further west you go, the less race-segregated work becomes. Let me clarify this: do I mean that racism lessens as you go into the Midwest? No, it doesn't. But when it comes to labor, especially in small towns, there are just as many whites doing menial jobs like cleaning bathrooms and sweeping out restaurants as there are minorities. That I was startled enough to notice this made me realize how differently race stratification works in the East Coast and in cities like Chicago, from upper Midwestern parts like Minnesota and South Dakota. For example, in the East house cleaning seems to be primarily a Hispanic and Polish monopoly, with some African American variation here and there. Poor whites in the midwest do exactly the same jobs as poor minorities in the East but comprise some of the first class racists of the country. Poor minorities perform menial labor everywhere and end up being despised anyway.  I wouldn't go so far as to call the mid-western pattern "equality" but it did make me stop to consider how complicated the politics of race are.

Next post: religiosity

What's in a Name?

Moving to a different country, especially when moving out of choice, means a ton of adjustments. In the United States, that means that you have to either learn English or change the way in which you already speak English. Not always easy to do, grumbles Tom Greaney, and the chances of making ghastly gaffes abound. Reading his article, I chuckled at some of the familiar unfamiliarities of my life, c. 1992. And enjoyed all the carping and criticism in the comments section.

As for me, after twenty years of living here, I have learned to change the manner in which I use English words and spell them. Really, is there any point in writing "candour", "colour" and "programme" when you know that if spellcheck does not catch them, a well-meaning colleague or friend will? And after all, if you are the one to move, then you are the one who has to adapt. En France, on parle français, n'est ce pas? And besides, unlike the commenters in the article cited above, I actually like America and enjoy my life here (and please note, this is not an either/or situation - I don't hate India in order to like America or vice versa). So, speaking as the natives speak not only makes my life easier, it is a gesture of accommodation and respect to the land I now call home.

There is one part of the original me that I refuse to give up, though - my name. While Englishmen like Tom Greaney see their native inflections as a point of identity, my sticking point is my multi-barrel, grand old Sanskrit name. And this refusal to change my name in the old tradition of American immigration history goes to a much deeper core than simply the ebbs and flows of immigrant acculturation.

I grew up as a Third Culture Kid, i.e. although Bengali, my army brat life ensured that my childhood and adolescence was outside Bengal, in Punjab, Sikkim, Maharashtra, and so on. Names like mine are common in middle-class Bengali circles that take great pride in the classical Sanskrit roots of Bengali culture. In other parts of India, more cheerfully middle-brow, I've had jolly secretaries suggest that "Chal, tujhe naa hum Sherry bulayengein." ("How about we just call you 'Sherry' "). I resisted all such name-changing. And so, I grew up hearing it mangled and mispronounced outside my home state, so much so that I gave up expecting to hear it pronounced the same way twice in a day. But there was another reason that I refused to change it. In the ever-changing kaleidoscope of my army childhood, against the backdrop of changing state languages and vehicle licence plates, my pure Sanskrit name was the one constant - it stood unchanged through all the moves, east to west, north to south, across nine schools, one college and one graduate school.

My dentist here in Fairfield County asked me once why I kept such a very long Indian name, as he peered over my account information in his office. "My grandparents were immigrants from Russia," he chuckled. "But we learned to change our names so we blended in better. You should do that too. Just pick a nice American name and you're on your way." How do I explain? My name and I have been "outsiders" well before my American sojourn. I'm used to faces turning pale when they hear my name, anyway. Besides, I'm proud of its epic roots, and the specific story behind it (sorry, can't share it but it's one of the oldest stories in the Mahabharata). I've assimilated in all the ways that matter to me - working, paying taxes, becoming a soccer mom.  And, I'm not turning myself into a Denise or a Stephanie or....a 'Sherry'.

A Certain Light

I will be travelling again to India soon. Just as I had done on the trip in November, I will be going through Dubai. Mentioning the Middle East, of course, brings up anxiety and unease - the tense downward relationship spiral with Iran, the possibility of a surprise strike on that country, the bloodshed in Syria, and so on. But, today, I want to focus on something else - women's dress.

Dubai is a Mecca for the fashion forward. At Dubai Airport in November, M. and I wandered in a happy daze, absorbing all the upscale consumer goodies available for ogling in the luxury high-end airport stores. Finally, tiring of this spectator sport, we sat and waited at our gate for our connecting flight. Besides the usual clutch of impatient international travelers in their de rigueur sweat pants and/or business attire, Arab families strolled by, men in their traditional garb and women in the black abayas (cloaks) and shaylas (head scarves). Far from looking primitive and barbaric, the dresses struck me as graceful and fluid, both the men's clothing and the women's. I was surprised at my own reactions - the black covering for women always strike me as rather ugly and unbecoming when I see them in India or in New York or other cities. So how did they suddenly look rather attractive now?

Was I becoming an Orientalist in my early middle age? The natives must be dressed suitably native, and all that? On reflection, I decided that it was in fact about aesthetics and visual impressions. My impressions about Middle Eastern clothing have, in fact, much to do with the setting in which I see the garb. In the strong desert light (albeit filtered through airport glass windows) there is a pleasing visual contrast between the black, the white and natural illumination against a predominantly sandy background. The abaya, the shaylas and the men's galabiyyas look attractive in this sort of light. In the sub-tropical light of India, the white galabiyyas are acceptable but the women's black abayas,however, look stifling and funereal. In the muted light of the Northern hemisphere, the abayas, shaylas and niqabs just look jarring and ugly.

So much of beauty in costume, then, has to do with geography and the angle of the sun's rays. I, for one, rarely wear the saturated colors of India that look so beautiful in the South Asian light. I stick to pastels and soft shades here, when I need color and brightness. Occasionally, I'll break out an acid pink or gemstone green to celebrate summer flowers, but then it's back to the somber browns, blacks and greys for winter with whispery pinks, blues, and purples to liven up harsh days. And silver and gold glitter to reflect the sparkling snow - the sparkling snow that has given us the go-by so far this season, for the most part.

A Drop in an Ocean

This post is one among several hundreds of thousands of blogposts worldwide about New Year, and resolutions and 2012. Well, to add to the abundance of expression, here are my thoughts on the coming year - this year, I will set aside an hour a day for walking. I am fortunate to live in a part of the country where the winters are relatively mild and really there isn't much excuse for procrastrinating about exercise. On blog matters, I will write a post at least once a month, preferably on a weekend morning when the house is still quiet and I have the time to both savor my first cup of Darjeeling tea and to begin stringing my thoughts into words. 2012 I know will be a big year for me - I have completed a second novel, have submitted it to my overworked editor and am awaiting the verdict on its publishing fate. 'No' means that I pitch it to another publishing house, it might also mean looking seriously at self-publishing on Amazon. 'Yes' means I collect my weary thoughts and begin for the second time the process of reviewing and editing. It is a tedious process that drives both writer and editor nuts but is vital to the manuscript's transformation into limpid prose and handsome, bound copy. Whatever may be the editorial response, the completion of two book-length manuscripts means that I am a writer. I need to start thinking about a separate blog focused on the book/s. Or I may just go to Facebook.

That doesn't mean that this blog will head into any further neglect than necessary. I like having a space that is semi-anonymous and reserved for observations that are not strictly literary. After all, writers have lives outside books too. So, I intend to use this space for matters not directly related to my literary life, matters that I find take up a much larger area of my life than I had thought. Matters that this blog made evident to me over the last few years of its existence.

Aashi

Ashi, Kolkata. M. and I leave today after our brief visit. The afternoon sounds filter in through open windows - a crow cawing insistently, a car's engine turning, sparrows and mynahs chirping. Somewhere in the distance, a politician rides around in a cycle rickshaw with a megaphone, declaiming to his constituency. I've always loved this time of the day in Kolkata when the bright sunlight gets trapped in the mellow filters of my mother's curtains to make everything glow, even the grime of the city looks less obnoxious when viewed through this lens. The Kolkata light was captured best (albeit romantically) by Pradeep Sarkar in Parineeta (I've linked to the video, and if that video is removed, there's always Wikipedia).

So until next time, Kolkata. We enjoyed the weather this time - warm but not uncomfortably so, like late spring in Fairfield County, and the occasional need for a ceiling fan during the mandatory afternoon siesta. Next time we visit, the city will be in a different mood altogether, when the blazing heat and unsparing humidity of summer drives everyone indoors. And then we will lie gasping, breathless, reeling from the hard blows of a Kolkata summer, but lured back again, inevitably, to the City of Joy.

The Way We Walk

I'm back in Kolkata after a substantial amount of time. A short break, mainly family business that takes its own time and has its own dimensions. On the sidelines, I observe the changed contours of the old hometown.

Kolkata was not a place I ever lived in, properly. It was the city of my ancestors, to which I returned periodically, the mention of whose name evoked memories of a creepy, narrow, three-storeyed house in a very congested part of the city. Childhood routines involved travelling from farflung places in India - mainly border towns - to Kolkata for the inevitable summer holiday pilgrimage to visit elderly relatives and distant cousins. In those days, the city was a place of overwhelming sensation - people spilling out of crowded buses, walking on the broken streets, cars honking madly while belching dark petrol and diesel fumes. What saved these memories from becoming one of many cliched tales of Kolkata impressions was the sudden movement of detail in these mass frescoes of humanity - a man who found the time (and the energy) to wink at me despite hanging on for dear life to the outside of a lopsided bus, a fruitseller at New Market, so old that my mother stopped deliberately to buy his wares, despite not needing (or subsequently eating) his wilting jamuns. I still remember the faded checked bush shirt of the former man, and the grizzled white stubble of the latter.

Aeons later, I notice how the urban spaces here have shifted, as have their uses. First, the positives. There is no question that people in general look better-fed and are better-dressed Maybe they don't appear so to untrained foreign eyes, but those of us who grew up here know the extent of the changes for the better that have taken place. The absolutely destitute who crowded around our childish elbows in the 1970s and 1980s, have receded into the occasional beggar at the Topsia traffic light. And all of this is a good thing, despite its incompleteness and unevenness as a process.

The spaces between the haves and the have-nots have increased, however, quite literally. As M. and I look over the balcony each morning, I notice that the street in front of my parents' house is walked most often by the people who service the homes of this middle class residential neighborhood - maids, fruitsellers, fishmongers, lock-repairmen - and by stray dogs and crows who fight for territory. The Kolkata middle classes who made up such a large chunk of the flaneurs of the preceding era are less visible. Their preferred stroll now is within the more sanitized territory of the shopping malls where the unpredictabilities of the street are well-controlled. Women stroll, window shop, eat pastries and drink cold coffee in relative calm. Part of me sympathizes - the unruly streets outside are particularly hard for the female pedestrian. Who wants to deal not only with stray dogs but with other menacing predators who also hunt in pack - eve teasers? Still, the other part of me laments the separation and segregation of the classes. A middle class teenager now might not learn from her mother to stop out of compassion for a geriatric fruitseller. For such a girl these days, that fruitseller is not only invisible, he is a fellow citizen with whom she will never learn to interact. A pity, really.

The Outsider

Like many other viewers, I tuned in to CBS's 60 Minutes program to watch President Obama describe the most stressful 40 minutes of his presidency. I listened to him explain his decisions to CBS's Steve Kroft in the Roosevelt Room. There were many interesting things the President mentioned (carrying on with routine things like the White House Correspondents' Dinner and so on), but one thing stuck in my mind. It was this exchange, where President Obama explained witholding information about the operation from the Pakistani establishment.

KROFT: You didn't trust 'em?

PRESIDENT OBAMA: If I'm not revealing to some of my closest aides what we're doin', then I sure as heck am not gonna be revealing it to folks who I don't know.

And that summed up to me why it took an Obama to nail Osama. No, not because Obama is a superhuman or a saint or a god**mn tactical genius. Nor is it because he likes to shoot from the hip. Rather, it's because Barack Obama is an outsider. He has nothing invested in maintaining networks of spy contacts in Pakistan, he has no relationships built up over decades with the Pakistani military and intelligence outfits. Donald Rumsfeld (who still calls for the US-Pakistan relationship to be safeguarded), and Dick Cheney spent the 1970s cultivating the Pakistani establishment, and were reluctant to throw away all that history by breaking with those relationships. Instead, they hoped that coaxing and cajoling the Pakistani establishment with aid and armaments would both deliver Osama bin Laden and safeguard a relationship that had been fathered by the ideological necessities of the Cold War, i.e. anticommunism. This led predictably to the (greedy and corrupt) Pakistani establishment milking the relationship for all it was worth, while never delivering the top symbol of the War on Terror. If the Pakistani security outfits had delivered OBL rightaway, they would have lost their golden goose. So the War on Terror continued for years, while terror alerts in the US changed colors with the season, and bin Laden continued to remain a hidden force, emerging occasionally to lecture and harangue the world via videotapes.

Obama , when he took charge, was least concerned about hurting the feelings of the Pakistani High Command. He had not toured Pakistan as a government official but as a backpacking student. He had no links to the inner, twisted corridors of Pakistani power. In turn, the Pakistani High Command probably dismissed Obama as a lightweight, did not see the point in currying favor with him or his administration of political novices, and were keeping bin Laden safe, waiting out the four years until a Republican administration with familiar faces returned and picked up the threads of an old and familiar relationship.

Neither the Pakistanis or the American Old Guard (in which I include Democrats of a certain vintage) reckoned with the fact that Obama was an outsider who would break with the past in foreign policy. Unlike other outsiders like Sarah Palin or Mike Huckabee who are combative about domestic politics but quite unsure about foreign policy (and therefore dependent on the old guard for guidance), Obama is willing to think independently. Because a seriously-cheesed-off Pakistani military means absolutely nothing to him. He is an outsider.

On Gloating

I'm very satisfied with the outcome of the events that played out over last weekend. I have expressed this satisfaction numerous times to family, friends, and acquaintances, and even on my limited social media circle. As an Indian army brat, I am also having my "Told you so" moment now that OBL was found "hiding" in luxury 800 yards from the elite Pakistan Military Academy (that country's equivalent of West Point). I (like millions of others) am also impressed at the measured calm of President Obama's actions and pronouncements, so refreshingly different from the screeching high decibel noise that some other incumbent would have brought to the occasion.

Yet, I cannot bring myself to condone the street celebrations outside the White House or in New York City. I grant that these two places that were hit the hardest by the Sept 11 attacks, have the most to celebrate, but still....call it my middle class upbringing or whatever, but pouring into the streets to celebrate the death of someone, even a monster? I don't know...candlelight vigils would do, public meetings, too. Even as I was expressing my happiness that the monster was gone, I couldn't imagine rushing out or lighting firecrackers or anything like that. In my opinion, there was something unseemly and inappropriate about those images. Maybe it was the jarring contrast of so many young people celebrating something that they, hopefully, are far from - death.
Is there any appropriate way to gloat other than in private? I wonder.

News of the World - Or How Paywalls Can't Stop Me Getting the News

These days the New York Times has gone behind a paywall. I stop by every morning, with my nose pressed against the cyberglass, gazing at the tempting treats in the form of headlines and first lines. Surprisingly, I don't ache for the days when I could read the content for free. Or, perhaps, not so surprisingly, since the same news is available everywhere else and not just on American websites.

In fact, what has changed thoroughly is the automatic association of certain organizations with news. There was a time when news meant the BBC, and later CNN, for electronic news and the New York Times and the Washington Post for printed news. In India, it meant such creaky oldtimers such as The Times of India and The Statesman and The Hindustan Times. My first few years in the U.S. there were no other options and if I wanted news about India, I had to rely on snippets here and there. There were of course the now defunct soc.culture groups in the days before the Internet became the World Wide Web. My biggest grouse against the western media in those days was that I hungered for news from India and couldn't find any, except silly pieces here and there. And certainly none in an Indian voice. Even further back in the day, way, way way back in the day, I had an opposite grouse with the Indian news media. There was no coverage of the world outside. My connection to world news was BBC World Service on shortwave frequencies. The BBC may or may not have been objective. I realize now, that it was then and remains now the British Broadcasting Corporation, so yes, it was the broadcast arm of the British government. But it was also often the only radio act in town, the behemoth with a presence worldwide, with reporters and cameramen on the ground. So if I wanted to know what was going on in the Middle East, South Africa, Australia and Europe, I would tune in to the fuzzy, scratchy reception of the BBC World Service and listen to what was going on in the rest of the world. When we finally acquired a television in the late 1980s, it was CNN that brought home the vicarious experience of war via its 24-hour coverage of and reporting from Iraq in 1991. Even when the World Wide Web made news more available, I would go to the Indian websites such as rediff, for news about India only, rarely for foreign news.

How the times have changed! For the recent developments in the Middle East, I don't even miss the New York Times. In fact I turn not even to the standard chatter of the talking heads on CNN or MSNBC. Both their reporting and their analyis is at least 24 hours late and often just surface impressions. I find more timely reporting and more accurate analysis on Indian websites and television stations such as NDTV , Headlines Today, and on international news websites like Al-Jazeera English. Thanks to the Internet, they all stream live. I also found interesting and relevant analysis by Indian bloggers, one of whom is a defence journalist working for the TV channel Headlines Today. Shiv Aroor recently spent time in eastern Libya, in Ben-Ghazi, and both tweeted and blogged about the situation on the ground there.

When I stepped back to consider, I found this amazing: for perhaps the first time in my life, I was reading an Indian correspondent's reporting on a foreign war. This would have been unthinkable in the 1980s not because Indian reporters were not good enough but because back then, most Indian news organizations simply did not have the resources to send out reporters to cover foreign wars. So we had no other sources of information except the BBC and CNN. Now there is a variety of sources from which to get news, and in comparison with the competition, western news organizations are coming up short, both in quality and in terms of boots on the ground (or microphones on the ground).

This is because first, there is the undeniable fact that western news organizations are unable to staff bureaus worldwide. Funds are tight, western journalists represent a burden on expenditures, they have to be housed and fed expensively, unlike resourceful Indian and Qatari reporters who are willing to live more modestly in exchange for the excitement of reporting live from international troublespots. In light of this, western news organizations are simply cutting back operations and there are fewer reporters on the ground (with the notable exception of NPR).

However, there also still remains the problem of voice. Caught up in trying to keep in place the shredded lens of a world order that is irrefutably over, western news organizations simply cannot comprehend the sheer mindboggling changes that have taken place in the world. I find it embarrassing to read or watch western analysts struggle to make sense of the situation in Libya, Bahrain and Saudi Arabia. They try to fit it into a narrative that is fast unravelling - that of western political and economic dominance. As a result, many western journalists are perceived to be tied to western foreign policy, so much so that their stated objectiveness no longer carries weight, and they are often treated as agents of their countries' governments. It's particularly sad that really good journalists like Anthony Shadid have to bear the consequences of the deteriorating analytical standards of their colleagues. The recent brutal treatment of the four New York Times journalists who were roughed-up and molested by their captors before being, thankfully, released into safety, would not have happened in the heyday of Christiane Amanpour when western journalists were treated as protected celebrities covering important world affairs for the only news channels then available.

In my opinion, the far greater problem is that western foreign journalists are just too...foreign. So they neither seek out nor are they given access to places and people whose sights and voices need to be seen and heard in order for a truer picture to emerge (again with the notable exception of the exceptional Anthony Shadid of the New York Times). Often, it's locally-hired minions who do the bulk of the hard work and the actual reporting. And so the interesting perspectives these days are mostly non-western. Also, the non-western perspective does not, yet, present itself to the world as the voice of power and/or domination. Even though India is rising, it has not yet risen to the point where its journalists can head out into the world with the self-assurance of power, either military, economic or political. Their voices come through, therefore, as the voices of genuine observers and reporters, not as interlocutors or players in international politics. It's a new and very interesting development in the history of foreign correspondence.

And that's why I can live without access to the New York Times on the Internet.Sorry, NYT, whether or not you like it, content can no longer be hoarded or guarded. I suggest you hike your advertising rates to compensate for the free content and to pay your reporters and cover operational costs.

Writer's Block

Sitting down every morning in front of the computer, I move the mouse and the cursor clicks almost involuntarily on the Internet Explorer icon, rather than the Windows Explorer icon. Almost involuntarily, because it is, in fact, quite deliberate. I don't want to write, I'll read anything instead. Whether it's some starlet's new wardrobe malfunction, or the current revolutionary upheaval in the Middle East, or a new recipe that I tell myself I will try out soon - all this reading is just an excuse for me to avoid writing.

Having completed and submitted one manuscript, and now a hundred pages into the second, writer's block has struck in a terrible and paralysing blow. In its grip, I read about the commercial success of the Mommy blogger brigade, and tell myself that that's what I need to do. To break out of my current state I have to offer up more of my inner life. Maybe the thought of being able to single-handedly fund my children's college accounts will spur me onto writing more and completing this second manuscript. But, I already don't like this option. Although a creature of the era of mass communication, and completely embracing its technology, I am at best a cautious participant in the culture it has spawned, except in unavoidable ways through the cookies that websites install on my computer and through the terms I leave behind on search engines. I want to use the tools of my times, not be shaped by them (although that is not wholly possible, I understand).

I am not a confessional sort of person. I realized that neither is my son. In his elementary school, the local police department offers a prize for the best essay on alcohol and drugs and the harm they cause. Awareness-raising, early education and all that. S. wrote a great essay on the dangers of tobacco and alcohol advertising. When the best essays were read out, I discovered a common theme: all of them touched on either a family member or a close friend whose early death or substance-abuse had deeply affected the young essay-writer. Not that the essays were not good or powerful, but the judges went for the ones where the writers had offered themselves and their families up for evaluation. Perhaps this is a sign of the times? We like to read blogs where people write about themselves, watch TV shows where people reveal themselves (literally and metaphorically), and love to hear other people discuss their personal lives in agony aunt columns (I do, anyway, but that's the subject of another novel). When it comes to expression though, my son, like me, tends to draw on other sources of ideas, write about everything else except his family, unless he is asked specific questions.

So there remains the question of the writer's block. What to do, what to do? Well, they do say that writing through it, like working one's way through pain, is the way to go. And that's what this post has been about.

Inquilab Zindabad!

Need more be said - right now? Let the people who thronged Tahrir Square in Cairo celebrate themselves, let them enjoy their hardwon victory, let them savor the freedom they wrested from the old dictator. Allow them to congratulate themselves heartily. When the dust settles, we can analyze and add all the qualifiers. But for now, joy to you, Misris!

Walk Like An Egyptian

Yes, yes, the title's corny and it's been done to death this week, but the protests in the Middle East, all those walking Egyptians, Tunisians and Yemenis (and now Sudanese too, apparently), are worthy of commentary and analysis. So here is my two cents' worth, adding to the general cacophony of voices on the issue.

First, what strikes me is that all three countries where dissent has outstripped the state's ability to contain it, are not oil-rich ones. The lack of oil is an important factor, because it means that in tough economic times the state is not able to buy peace and time for itself. Over two years ago, protesters came out on the streets of Egypt to protest rising prices. That should have been a warning sign. Commodity prices have continued to rise over the past few years and for governments with no financial wiggle room, it means that their authoritarian character can now no longer be sugar-coated with dollops of subsidies.

How did these countries manage to limp along for so many years? I mean, Hosni Mubarak has been around for 30 years. His erstwhile counterpart in Tunisia, Zin el-Abedine Ben Ali, ruled for 23 years. And our man in Yemen, Ali Abdullah Saleh, has also been in power for more than 30 years. If one examines their finances, I wouldn't be surprised to find that American and Saudi subsidies probably kept these regimes going for the longest time as they were seen as pragmatic allies in a difficult region. Economics has again become crucial in 2011. The patrons of these client regimes are themselves undergoing a prolonged economic crisis and are cutting subsidies or are being stricter with how the money is spent. So, there is less money to trickle down to the public, as the corrupt elites in these countries are certainly not going to reduce their take from the coffers. And so protest, revolution, and change.

I think, though, that while all these protests have similar inspirations - a yearning for political change and a striking out against crippling corruption - how they will end depends upon the specific regional combination of domestic politics and foreign relations. Will Israel intervene to prop up a trusted partner, Mubarak? Will Saudi Arabia do the same for its Yemeni client? I don't think the United States has any leverage in this situation and should wait for the dust to settle before making any plans. But the folks at Foggy Bottom, the Pentagon and in the administration should take note - this truly marks the end of the Cold War in the Middle East, and the end of the useful idiots one appointed as allies to contain the Reds. And no, the Islamists are not just an extension of the Soviets. So back to the foreign policy drawing board for all of you in D.C.

A Suitable Reader

Now that the book is under contract and is awaiting its turn in the editorial queue to be tweaked, turned, printed and marketed, I think about the readers out there. I think of my book as a person and the future readers as future partners for my book with whom its life will be intermingled. I know, I know, such anthromorphism, tsk, tsk. And such possessiveness. I wouldn’t have thought it possible of myself either.

But the book is my baby, my third, silent baby. And who is its future partner, the reader of my book? The more partners, the more successful my offspring (such a wrong thought for a person, but so true for a book). I ask myself this in various settings.

This week, I was at a small lunch with other around-town moms. All of us were Indians from different states, speaking different languages, conversing in English and Hindi, discussing things. We sat around a well-lit suburban dining table, eating delicious food, and chit-chatting, and I was suddenly very aware that these women were not the readers of my book. Well, maybe two of them were, including the hostess. OK, three.

I judged them out of my own insecurity – would X be able to empathize with the dilemmas of I., an important character in my novel? Would Y be able to overcome her antipathy to people of a certain community? She would have to at least suspend it in order to respond sympathetically with some situations in the novel. Why is it that I disapprove of prejudice, but when it comes up in a drawing room situation, I am unable to do more than smile and change the subject? Would any of these beautiful women in their lovely clothes and styled hair really be able to imagine situations and lifestyles such as the one I describe in my book? Could such lives as I talk about even be believable to them? Perhaps not.

But perhaps, yes. After all, I am a suburban mom too, aren’t I? What right do I have to believe that these well-educated women could not reach out to another world and time? Ashamed of my own thoughts, I teetered between remorse and criticism. I talked too much, was too witty and too loud, too giggly, trying to find a balance between sociable and withdrawn. And I noticed that one of the other potential readers at the gathering was like me – somewhat insecure, trying too hard. I was awkward and out of place in this setting, even though I fit in so well, in terms of class and ethnicity. And even though all of those present, without exception, were thoroughly nice people. Thoroughly nice people, but not the readers of my book.

I’ll write more about other potential readers in the future. Or other potential non-readers.

In the meantime, as more snow heads our way here, stay dry.

Learning to Exhale

Christmas Eve! I picked up some things I need for my salad tomorrow – beets, pea shoots, extra virgin olive oil, Tuscan bread. The stores today were busy but not crazy, impatient busy. Or maybe it felt that way to me because I was more focused in my purchases this time and was not dashing about madly. While I’m not an overly last-minute kind of person, I have felt that my gift-purchasing technique leaves much to be desired. I make a list and then add things to it as I'm browsing the stores. I always wonder if I have enough for such-and-such person and then I buy another thing or two. Not only is this technique guaranteed to raise your anxiety levels sky-high, it also means that you will end up with bags of gifts in your closet from years past that were not given to the intended recipient, as it seemed like overkill when the time came to wrap it all up (pun intended). Some of the toys that I had bought for my kids are now past their age-appropriateness and will have to be given away as birthday presents.

To combat this unfortunate tendency, I made a list this year. And, although it was very hard, I stuck to it. It meant that I had to force myself to leave cosmetics stores having bought exactly one perfume and without the added brush and hair accessories that I would have thrown into my basket in previous years. When it came to buying a gift for X, I bought the sweater that I had noted down and regretfully left behind the cute little leather wristlet that I spied in the corner and that I thought went so well with it. When I had the Sticky Mosaics wrapped up, (the one that M. loves and the one that is not out till April but that my local toy store owner had managed to order), I stopped with that. No little dolls or stuffed candy cane shaped toys. Sticking to this strategy means that, for the first time in years, I have time to relax and read a book on Christmas Eve. The presents are ready, the cookies for Santa are baked (done by K. and the kids), the outstation gifts have been sent. So, this year it’s just me and my book – and my computer. And I can actually go to bed at a reasonable hour tonight. Merry Christmas!