Happy Birthday, India

Aug 15 - India's 62nd Independence Day, the 63rd year of independence begins. I no longer live there but I do think of the country often as my parents and close friends still live there. Contrary to what one would think, most of my generation did not leave India and the majority of my school and college friends still live there (they do travel extensively, though).

I am so glad, though, that I came here in the 1990s and not before. When I came to the United States, my identity as Indian had already been solidified. The India I grew up in was a simple place of often brutal contrasts, but I felt no embarrassment about it as Tunku Varadarajan may have done (I don't know his bio, so I don't know if he was raised in India or overseas). This was because my generation of Indians felt *Indian*, not reluctant members of an uneasy coalition of different ethnicities and religions, as perhaps the earlier emigrants did. Some of this sense of comfortableness may have come about through the inevitable process of nation-building but I like to think that at least part of this new self-confidence came from a thorough overhaul of the education system.

When I try to dredge up the memories of my school years and of the subjects I liked (English, History), I remember a vague disjuncture in the curriculum right around the age of 7. There are memories of something called Radiant Reader, with glossy pages and colors, full of stories about devotion and pluckiness in a land far away called England. There was the story of Greyfriars Bobby, the dog who stood guard over his dead master's grave until his own death. And then there was Grace Darling, the heroine of the Longstone Lighthouse who risked her own life in a maritime rescue in 1838. There was also George Macdonald's poem, "Baby". All nice, unobjectionable texts, but limited in both their geography and their themes. And very Victorian.

Fast forward to Class X (tenth grade to my American readers). The national curriculum had been overhauled and to my delight, I was reading extracts from the South African author Alan Paton's Cry the Beloved Country (available at Google Books) and short stories by H. H. Munro "Saki" who took apart Edwardian society as well as poems by the Indian Nissim Ezekiel and the American Odgen Nash. The pages of the books had deteriorated from glossy to full-blown socialist shabby. But I can never say that I found the subject matter boring, at least not in the CBSE English syllabus. Similarly in the Hindi curriculum, the new syllabus taught us a range of Hindi literature - the verses of the mystic poets Meerabai and Kabir and Surdas (which of us has not made jokes about "Meera key pad", punning on "pad" which in different contexts means either "verse" or "fart"), the poetry of the modernists like Harivansh Rai Bacchan and the prose of romantics like Mahadevi Verma.

Exposure at an early age to a wide variety of literary styles and approaches helped shape me and those of my friends who shared my interests into confident *Indians*, neither western wannabes nor chest-thumping traditionalists. We just were...Indian. And because we carried this serenity to our new lives in the west, I like to think that we adjusted well here too. We are neither compliant "model minorities" nor defiantly segregationist (well, most of us, anyway). We love the west and love the east, without being rootless in any context. We are the new globalists, anchored and optimistic without being pollyanna-ish about the country we left behind, nor disdaining where we are right now.

Recently, the National Council for Educational Research and Training (NCERT) has put many of its textbooks online. I am delighted to see that Indian students of CBSE curriculum are still being exposed to some interesting literature from around the world. How many American students have read poems by the Australian Robin Klein or extracts from the Scottish naturalist Gavin Maxwell and his otter, Mijbil, or even poems by the American John Berryman? Truth be told, I did not know John Berryman or Robin Klein till I read recently the Class X NCERT English textbook online. Even if most of the students reading these texts take up engineering or science later, the few who wish to remain in the humanities have, through these sort of readers, a solid grounding in literature both varied, interesing and challenging.

So happy Independence Day, India. 1947 was not only a day of political freedom but it was also the first day in the process of crafting a new Indian.

Electronic Distractions

Facebook has definitely cut into my e-time (i.e. time left over after daily life, etc. for internet browsing, bloghopping, emailing, blogging, etc.). Blogging now suddenly feels middle-aged, as opposed to Facebook where large numbers of pathetic, loser middle-aged facebookers try desperately to reach out to old girlfriends, etc, and to flirt clumsily in ridiculous efforts to capture lost opportunities.



Still, blogging retains a place in my e-life. For example, I can discuss in depth here - and only here - things that I think have been central to the formation of me-as-a-person. Bringing it up in conversation would make people smile politely, make them say "that's interesting" and then have them move on to other topics like the price of cabbages or the latest piece of gossip.



I haven't tried Twitter yet. Part of me thinks - what's with all that tweeting? The other part thinks - why, that's so cool! It would be ideal for all the trivial things that catch my attention and that aren't worth the time blogging about, or facebooking. Things like this, that prove just how much I procrastinate. Twitter could become my e-procrastination log. I'm thinking about it....

The Right Thing to Do

David Letterman was right to apologize to Sarah Palin for the crude joke he cracked about her daughter. I don't care if Gov. Palin makes an exhibition of her family, I don't care if her daughter makes an exhibition of herself, I don't care if Sarah Palin as never apologized for the bile she spewed throughout the election campaign. There is no excuse for making young children (and an 18-year old is barely an adult) the target of lewd jokes. Come on, Letterman, there's lots of other material out there.

Pakistan On Edge

Far more than the hysterical hand-wringing of the western press on the future of Pakistan, I trust the judgement of this Pakistani scientist. It is reasoned, calm, cool, unflinchingly critical of the criminal elite of the Pakistan, and has a more realistic assessment of the short-term future of the Pakistani state. I am not one of those who is much enamored of the mess that is Pakistan, but I am relieved to find someone who can both articulate the problems of that country and can outline political scenarios that don't involve missing nuclear weapons and marauding jihadis swooping down from the hills into Lahore and Amritsar.

"You Sound Like a Girl" ----Grrrl!

I crack down on anyone who makes sexist remarks around me (unless they are senior citizens - you know, old dog, new tricks, etc.). But as my son gets older, I am finding it harder and harder to counter the kind of casual sexism that prevails in age groups as young as eight- or nine-year old boys. On a playdate, recently, as I did the mommy thing and popped corn and cut strawberries, I suddenly heard this cry, "You sound like a girl!" Aaargh! I almost dropped the knife and rushed out to reprimand the boys. What is wrong with sounding like a girl, eh? Don't your mothers and sisters sound like girls? Then, instead, I decided to talk to them while they ate their snacks, but as they played, the other mother came by and in the general conversation, the little episode was forgotten. And I know that somewhere in my son's brain there has been planted the lesson that girl=bad, inferior, laughable, silly. I need to be a more vigilant mommy.

Take That, Creepy Dinner Guest

In November, came the Barack wave. And now the progressive, and hopefully practical (for how effective can progressivism be without practicality?), center-left is back in India and in the USA. And we can breathe again, I hope.

About 14-15 years ago, the son of one of my father's colleagues contacted me in Chicago - you know, the Indian network - and invited me to dinner at his uncle's house in suburban Oakbrook. His uncle and aunt were wealthy physicians, very nice and hospitable people, and I attended a dinner party at their wonderful, elegant house. Great food, great drinks, a bunch of local Indians and one visting creep from Delhi.

Said creep was in the United States, visiting family (all of them solid supporters of the Hindutva parties), and was working the dinner party, talking tough about Muslims and "culture" and the need to stand tall and proud with one's "Hindu-ness", etc. And this when the shame of December 1992 was still a fresh wound. Of course, he was scoping the joint for potential big donors to his party. And of course, I, being younger and more ardent than my middle-aged hosts, argued with him then and there, to show him that not every one at the party was so easy to brainwash (actually, I don't think anyone there was getting brainwashed, they were just being polite to the visitor from desh).

The next ten years were highly frustating ones for people like me, your average liberal, constitutional democrat (with a small 'l' and a small 'd'), as creeps sprang up like mushrooms in the manure that was the Indian polity. It was as if the assassination of Indira Gandhi in 1984 and then of Rajiv Gandhi in 1991 had so shaken up politics in India that things fell apart and the center could not hold. Looking back, I think I know how 1960s-era Americans felt, when assassinations roiled their world and eliminated public figures like John F. Kennedy and Martin Luther King, Jr. The world suddenly seemed endlessly unstable and unpredictable. Only the brazen, the thick-skinned and the absolutely thuggish, could survive and thrive in the 1990s and early 2000s. The good ones kept their heads down and tried to keep going, one foot in front of the other.

It didn't help that during the 1990s America saw the rise of similar manure-y politics as in India (oh, Ken Starr, in how many ways do I despise thy sanctimonious ways?). My friends and I spent our time gnashing our teeth, shaking our heads, arguing with individual rightwing creeps at individual parties, and trying to make feeble jokes at the expense of our Hindutva or Christian fanatic or Muslim fundoo opponents. And we also got good at weathering new shocks, whether from Gujarat or from Baghdad.

But now, our days of mourning are over. Take that, creepy dinner guest and go down to your dark, manure-filled hole with all the other mushrooms.

No More Jobs for the Boys

Oh no! I guess this means that there are going to be fewer jobs for the Minute Men. Recession sucks, doesn't it?

Japanese Maple Watch-Sunday, May 10, 2009

Mother's Day

Happy Mother's Day! May you have a beautiful day full of flowers and sunshine and your favorite drink and may your child/ren always be within hugging distance (I know, Maa, I know that it's not so for you, but I do send hugs your way telepathically).

Who Wants to be a Toff?

Just finished reading Sarah Lyall's book, The Anglo Files: A Field Guide to the British. Overall, what stayed with me were the characteristics she outlines of the British upper class, a status that everybody else in Britain aspires to reach, including the "aspirational middle class" so despised by the toffs. Here is what I understood: in order to be a member of the aristocratic upper class in Britain, one has to eat some very bad food and drink a lot of very good alcohol (no doubt to wash down the execrable food). Lyall writes about going for a picnic with an aristocrat of long lineage who served his guests canned soup, bad ham and white bread sandwiches, swilled down with good wine. Given these criteria, here is a list of peoples and nations who will never be upper class Englishmen or Englishwomen, and some who might be eligible:

1. Indians. No way, will the people who eat fragrant biryanis, pulaos, chutneys, dosas, sambhar, curries, spiced dals and fresh yogurt, ever belong to the world of mediocre food. Besides, Indian alcohol sucks. Except for Old Monk rum, when hidden inside a chilled glass of Coca Cola.
2. The French. They are disqualified on two counts. First, the wines of France are ambrosial. Second, why would any Frenchman or Frenchwoman in his or her right mind ever give up Confit de Canard, Coquilles Saint-Jacques and Pommes Duchesse in order to eat Wonderbread and canned soup? No, no, the food and the drink is too good to qualify them for the English aristocracy.
3. Italians, Greeks, Spaniards and Portuguese. See last sentence in previous paragraph.
4. South Americans. The alcohol probably sucks (I don't know, have only drunk Chilean wines which are pretty good) but the food is great. So sorry, amigos and amigas, you can't join the bad food club of the English upper classes.
5. Chinese, East Asians in general. Again, no alcohol, but the food - oh my God! So, no entry to them either.
6. Americans. Inspite of the best efforts of McDonald's and Burger King, a people that can invent things like Buffalo Chicken wings and gumbo, and peach cobbler and smothered pork chops, are barred from the English upper classes. Well, maybe the North East with their love of boiled dinners might qualify, except that their clam chowder might prevent them from enjoying full membership benefits.

So what does that leave us? I'm going to offend a lot of people here and offer up for full membership of the English aristocracy, based on the criteria of bad food and lots of alcohol - the Germans.* Any others who might qualify?

*I say this with great sadness. The nation of bratwurst and frankfurters, the land of bad food, how could that be?! Well, it was the boiled cabbage that decided it, for me.

Shubho Noboborsho and Happy Baisakhi

In honor of the Bengali New Year and the Punjabi Baisakhi, we went to eat at the Indian restaurant Bangalore in Fairfield. I was looking forward to this as I felt that finally M. was big enough to sit through a meal at a restaurant and so we could all enjoy our dinner at leisure. The restaurant is a pleasant place, the food is very good, but the service was very disappointingly hit-or-miss. Now this is not a hole-in-the-wall place so one is definitely expecting better than for one's dinner to arrive in fits and starts with long gaps between dishes. The waiters were quite sweet and very polite and you knew it wasn't their fault that the cooks were not producing the dishes in a timely way. But we all ate in a staggered way and needless to say, by the time my Rava Masala Dosa arrived, the kids were quite done and then it was all over for me. It was back to the bad old snarfing-down-my food ritual to the chorus of "can we go home now?" "are you done?" "I'm full" "I'm tired." Hmmm....maybe we will try this going out to eat business in two more years.

In the City

Yesterday was Girls' Day Out in New York City which actually turned into Girls' Day and Night Out as we strolled from pleasant place to pleasant place until we finally headed for dinner. I am always amazed when I head into New York - it is so urban that rightfully the place should be setting one's teeth on edge, but it always ends up dazzling its visitors. It is, I think, the pulsating liveliness, combined with the sheer magnificence of the city's buildings - the highrises with their gleaming windows, the gorgeousness that is Grand Central Terminal, the stateliness of New York Public Library - that consistently wins one over. See, I told you that I am always amazed. This despite the heaps of garbage bags waiting to be picked up and the taxis driving like maniacs and darting in and out of lanes.

There are also so many young people there. I wonder how they manage to survive in one of the most expensive pieces of real estate in the world. Are they visiting like me or are they residents? Like the young man in the worn down Converse sneakers and faded corduroy pants riding the M-1 bus, blue eyes looking off into the middle distance like everybody else's eyes on crowded public transport. Or the woman with the bleached hair and the shocking orange tights worn under her short-short shorts. Or the teenager with the heavily embellished leather jacket. What a place to people-watch, this city. Not as pretty as Paris or as soft, but edgy and stylish and strong and just so, so diverse. As I walked I heard heavily-accented voices say things like, "In Italy, we..." or "In England, this..."

We headed down first to the little three-table Kati Roll Company on MacDougal St. that sells the most delicous kati rolls. I ordered a chicken and unda roll and we all shared an achari paneer roll. Then, we headed down to the lovely little organic Priti Spa, which sadly is being sold and will disappear, hopefully to be resurrected soon. I bought an organic nail polish for the sandal season coming up so soon. And got myself a much-needed pedicure from the efficient and pleasant Nadia who, I hope, will land on her feet.

More walking landed us first in NoLita for window shopping and then in Soho, browsing at Sur La Table, followed by a stop at Marie Belle where we lingered over iced cardomom chocolate (moi), guava tea (U.) and mocha European style (R.). Despite the snacks, the long walks had more than whetted our appetites for dinner at Grand Sichuan International (we went to the branch off 23rd St.). It was early enough that we only had a ten minute wait (otherwise on Friday nights, expect far longer wait times). I have heard mixed reviews about the service but one goes to these places for the food, not for the personableness or lack of it of the waitstaff. We ordered the pork soup dumplings, the excellent spicy Au Zhi (sp?) fresh chicken (poultry is slaughtered the same day as it is cooked, or so they claim), the so-so whole braised tilapia in hot bean sauce (not worth ordering a second time) and the really good beans with pork (we asked for more beans, less pork, which was an excellent idea as otherwise it would have been way too salty). Grand Sichuan is hearty eating, not fine dining, but it totally hit the spot.

As I took the 10:22 PM Metro North back to Fairfield County, I reflected on the day and came to this conclusion: life isn't half bad when you have kati rolls and organic spas and good chocolate and plentiful Chinese, a train ride away from the quiet backyards of suburbia.

A Revolution

We're living through a revolution. And nobody has any idea what to do. So we carry on with our everyday routines, the commutes to work, the school drop-offs, the soccer games on the weekend. What else is one to do? We are in uncharted waters here. I drive to my part-time gig and as I drive down the much-diminished (thank God!) traffic on I-95, I think to myself: "This is what a revolution looks like, this is what a revolution looks like." It looks like empty retail space, less inventory in the stores, fewer cars on the highways. Social peace hangs by the thin thread of cheap gasoline prices. If that thread breaks this summer (or, worse, this winter), what will happen?

"I'm in the Bathroom!"

Guess, that excuse won't cut it in these hotels. See, I could never go for these sort of places, with their exposed bathrooms. You mean, I can't get away for even those blessed ten minutes now?!!!

Chronicles of an Accidental Gourmet: The Imperfect Italian

Despite my bad introduction to Italian cuisine via White Hen Pantry Pizza, I have developed an affectionate relationship with Italian food over the years. In lieu of pizza I developed a strong bond with the pasta family. My favorite pasta dish was the shrimp fettucine at Rudi Fazuli's, a wonderful Italian restaurant that was a ten minute walk from our Chicago home in the Lakeview area. We used to eat there once in a while only, because the food was so good that you had to waddle out of the restaurant, stuffed to the gills. Then, other people got to know about this great little restaurant and Rudi Fazuli's moved down to the ritzy Lincoln Park neighborhood where I know not whether it still lives and thrives. Anyway, the awesome experience with Rudi Fazuli's convinced me not to give up on Italian food, that like all cuisines, it was about the cook, the spices and the location.
After I had children, I was really glad that I had given Italian cuisine a second chance, because what khichdi (a separate post on that later) is to Indian children, well, pasta is to American children. Pasta and meatballs, in particular. Not being a beefeater for cultural reasons, I have created my own version of Italian meatballs, using ground turkey. I call these my Imperfect Italian Meatballs because try as I might, they refuse to keep the cheese inside them (or maybe I'm just too lazy to get them perfect). Here is what you need:



1 lb ground turkey (not turkey breast)
1 small or medium onion, chopped
3 cloves garlic, chopped
1 medium zucchini, grated
1/4 cup feta cheese
2 tablespoons olive oil plus one more for oiling the cookie sheet
1 tablespoon Montreal Steak Seasoning
Zest of one lemon
Juice of one lemon
Fresh mozarella balls in water or oil (use small balls of cheese or chop large into smaller pieces)
1/2 cup chopped fresh parsley or 1 tbsp dried parsley

Heat oven to 400 degrees. Line cookie sheet or baking tray with aluminum foil (that's aluminium to Indians). Grease covered sheet with 1 tablespoon olive oil. In a large mixing bowl, combine ground turkey, chopped onion, garlic, grated zucchini, feta cheese, 2 tablespoons olive oil, Montreal Steak Seasoning, lemon zest, lemon juice and parsley. You shouldn't need salt after all the feta cheese and steak seasoning, but if you do, well go ahead and add a pinch. Mix well, but go easy on the meat. Roll a piece of mixture between your hands to make a small ball. Make a dent on the top. Insert a small mozarella ball. Cover dent with more mixture and roll to smooth it. Place meatball on prepared cookie sheet. Repeat till you have about 12-14 meatballs. Put the sheet into hot oven for 40 minutes. Check at 30 minutes for doneness as oven temperatures vary. You can also mix some chopped assorted vegetables (red peppers, zucchini, carrots, etc) with olive oil, salt and pepper and roast alongside meatballs as a side dish.

While meatballs are cooking, put water into pot to boil. Prepare linguini according to package directions. Drain, put spaghetti back into dish and coat with a splash of olive oil if desired. Open and heat your favorite prepared marinara sauce (what? You think I'm going to make everything from scratch?). My choice: Trader Joe's marinara.

When done, meatballs are golden brown and deliciously imperfect because some will have mozarella oozing out of them. Here is what they look like:

A Right Step

The announcement this morning that the White House had rejected the restructuring plan submitted by the automakers is, in my opinion, a good move. Again, I am not a trained economist but it doesn't take much training to know that there was a lot of wasteful practice in Detroit - does everyone really need to buy a new car every three years, especially if said car is clunky, fuel-inefficient and not an object of any particular beauty? An orderly - and I can't overemphasize 'orderly' - dismantling is the right thing to do.

Japanese Maple Watch - Monday, March 30, 2009

Spring Has Sprung!

Unlike my husband, I'm not much of a gardener. Oh, I love flowers and fruit trees and all the rest of that, but only to admire. When presented with a wonderful garden, I am never moved to wondering - "How do I get my garden to look like that?" Instead, I think, "Drat! Wish I had a nice glass of wine so that I could sit here amongst these beautiful flowers, in a comfy chair, with a nice book." But when the first buds and blossoms of springtime appear, even I am moved to write about them. My absolute favorite garden being in the whole yard is our mature Japanese Maple tree (yes, I consider it a being, with a benevolent personality all its own). It shades the backyard in summer and turns an awesome blood red in the fall. In fact, it is the last tree in our yard to shed its leaves. When the backyard is full of crimson leaves, I know that it's time to really put away the Halloween decorations and get out the heavy winter coats and the gloves. There are some buds on it now, and I am really excited.

Back Off!

Yes, it was wrong to give them taxpayer subsidized bonuses. Yes, it was wrong of them to have accepted the bonuses. But enough with the intimidation and the harassment!It is just plain wrong. These people have kids and families and I cannot fathom the anger that threatens the physical safety of children and dependents. So back off, ye self-righteous wrathful - go use the court system. That's what it is there for. Sheesh!

Signs of the Times

If there was a symbol of the roaring 1990s, it was the notice one saw in so many business windows: "Now Hiring." Today, the sign of our times is the ominous one seen on so many office buildings: "Now Leasing."