The NRI Aunty

Year end, and like many Indians abroad I can’t wait to get back to India to meet family and friends.  I want to take small tokens for loved ones back home and as I began planning the gifts, I felt the beginnings of a terrible headache. This year, I am going to be the NRI aunty and from personal experience I know how brutal that scrutiny can be.

Back in the days when liberalization had still not hit India, when Indian roads were dominated by Ambassadors and Fiats, when  there were no supermarkets, McDonalds or even 24 hour television channels, and you had to wait for years for  telephone and gas connections,  the NRI aunty’s visit was eagerly awaited. Unlike desi mothers, the NRI aunty wore jeans, make up and lots of costume jewelry. She came from the land of the rich and oozed confidence and condescension  in equal measure. 

The NRI aunty aka the desi Santa Claus brought  with her goodies that one saw only  in glossy foreign magazines. She came with  fantastical stories of the hallowed land with 24 hours running water, clean, wide streets , fancy cars , big houses and huge portions of food. The NRI cousins spoke with an American or British twang, wore fancy shoes, chewed gum, carried their soft toilet paper and looked disdainfully at the fried aloo bun patty that passed off as a desi burger. 

When the NRI aunty opened her bags it was a ceremony akin to looking at the dowry the newly wed bride had brought with her. The whole family would crowd around the suitcases and the smorgasbord was delightful. Toblerone chocolates,Wrigley chewing gum, Wrangler jeans,  Staedtler or BIC pens, Avon lipsticks , fragrant and soft Camay soap, Head and Shoulders shampoo, Charlie perfume , China Silk or nylon sarees and dress materials, Corelle plates , watches and what not! If you were close family you also got some hand me down clothes and dry fruits that mom or grandmom would hoard up.  And if you were not close, you could get a body lotion, a folding umbrella, even a torch and that was a treasure too. 

Decades later things have changed. Now with McDonald’s pandering to the Indian palate with McAloo Tikki  and McSpicy chicken burgers, coveted brands like the Louis Vuitton, Valentino, Chanel and Ferragamos of the world indulging the Indian upwardly mobile and even Zara and H&M opening in India, what can I take that is not available in India?  Bath and Body Works/Body Shop  stuff - available.  Shampoos and lotions  - available. Clothes - available. Candy - available. Books - Flipkart delivers them cheaper. Coach bags or Calvin Klein wallets - traveling Indians know these can be sourced cheap from the outlet malls.

I draw up a checklist and then have to cancel it all. Not only should my gift have scarce availability in India, it should also not  negatively impact the sensibility of the recipient. Politeness will dictate that no one will tell me if they don’t like the gift,  but I don’t want to be the NRI aunty who buys cheap from Wal-Mart and doesn’t know what Indians have already. Some years ago a relative  got me a vanity set from the airline she flew  - it was full of preserves and butter that she got on the flight;  she made it a point to tell me how good the chapstick was. In addition she got me an ancient camera because she was not aware that India had digital cameras. I thanked her profusely and promptly gave it all to my household help (who must have passed it on further).  

When visiting India, there are numerous pitfalls I must avoid. I have to curb my temptation to  convert everything into dollars. It does not matter to anyone that a glass of tea at Rs20 is less than 50 cents or  an antacid is a hundred times cheaper than its US equivalent. On the other hand, I may think it is a lot of money, but gifting children in the family Rs500 will not go down well - it is easy to figure that it is less than $10 . I cannot be caught with an accent or there will be eyes rolling up all around me. I must not seem fazed by the traffic, the crowds, the heat, the cold and complain about the food and water impacting my digestive system. I cannot talk about how easy life is in the US, the car I drive, how good the school might be or the fact that my children go for Gita or dance or classical music lessons. I must not praise doctors abroad, given that India is fast becoming the hospital hub in Asia and beyond. I must not claim ignorance of Indian politics, Bollywood movies or the latest music and I must refrain from offering a strong opinion on anything, because I don’t stay in India any more. I shall not ooh and aah when I see the very upmarket Starbucks  at every corner in the metros. I shall not presume that Indians don’t understand wines or cheeses or other cuisines. I cannot wear loud clothes, obvious foundation, bright lipstick and definitely no flashy jewelry. 

In the post liberalization and digital world, I seem to have lost my favored status as an NRI Indian. With higher disposable incomes, Indians from India are traveling abroad a lot more and are consummate consumers of everything.  They know what to eat, what to buy and where to go. They know everything and that makes life so difficult. 

When I go to India, my family and friends ‘know’ my plight. They know my ABCD status - I am the Ayah, Bearer, Cook and Driver for the whole family. They know I cringe when I pay $20 an hour for indifferent cleaning and that I make tea and feed my cleaning lady so she may have the energy to clean up;  I balk at massages at $100 an hour and even time my haircuts  with India visits so I don’t have to pay scores of greenbucks for that as well! They know that the big pack sizes from Costco are cheaper. My nephews know the prices of everything on Amazon.com and are categorical that Gap or Aeropostale will not make the cut - original Abercrombie and Hollister are welcome.

I can posture all I want, but my people in India know that what I really crave in my trip (apart from family, food and shopping) is copious amounts of indulgence. While they have to pitch in and help me when they visit the US, in India, I will sit back and be pampered ! To be served bed-tea in the morning, to have clothes laundered and ironed, to eat food cooked by someone else and to not clean up after one’s meal - these are things that make up enchanted lives. 

While I was stuck in the dilemma of appropriate gifts,  my mother happened to call me. I had a bright idea and said,‘ Mom I can gift Pledge to make the wood shinier or awesome disposable crockery and cutlery for parties.‘

There was silence on the other side. Then my Mother said gently, ‘Beta, we have household help and they manage just fine without all these things. We don’t need them in India.’

That hurt!

Maybe the age-old gifts  still hold meaning? Bottles of scotch for men and perfumes for women from the Duty-Free shops.  Or new age ones like Amazon gift vouchers for all. 

This NRI aunty is out of ideas.

Uber - Everyone's Private Driver..Or Detective?

As a consumer I like Uber. I can order a cab, get the estimated time of arrival, the name of the driver and the car number immediately. In addition, I can track the movement of the car on the map and it gives me cheap thrills. Uber is a boon when my children want to be picked up and I am far away; they don’t need money because my credit card gets charged. I don’t mind the surge pricing either because in the Manhattan rush hours I never manage to hail down a cab. 

I have been following the backlash on Uber’s Emil Michael’s comments on negative publicity and his suggestion that the Company should spend a million dollars to discredit the journalists who speak out against them. Michael has since apologized  and Uber has chosen to distance itself from the comment as well. 

This is what I don’t get - Michael was not making a public speech or speaking in front of  a group of investors. He was not presenting a strategy plan to his superiors. Rather he was at a private dinner and made these comments informally to a group of people he trusted. If these comments were leaked to the world why should he be forced to apologize? Why should he resign?  After all his privacy was also being impacted!

We all indulge in the kind of talk that Michael is guilty of. At dinner with friends we vent about colleagues and superiors, we fantasize about scenarios where we have enough power to overcome problems and offer crazy solutions that will eliminate the trouble makers in our lives. Even if we claim otherwise, we do get upset with negative comments and publicity.  We have secret codes and petty nicknames for people we are bothered about, mimic them and gossip about them. All of us make racist, casteist, sexist and gender  comments when we are with our own. 

Sara Lacy was one of the journalists Michael mentioned and this is what she said ,"When you do opposition research on someone, particularly with a million-dollar budget and a six-person team, it's not going Googling someone's name. It's going through their trash. It's following their kids on the way to school. It's having vans parked outside their house, all because I said things the company didn't like."  Is this a reality? Atleast not yet, but it does paint a scary picture of Big Brother Uber watching over someone and intimidating them.

In my opinion, Michael’s comments have been blown out of context. It is simple to conjure up the  image of a monster firm that will use one’s data for nefarious activities, intimidate opposition and follow one around like the mafia.  Most of the times that is not true. Many firms are creating new products to make life easier for the consumer. And most of these firms have honest ethical people leading them who are simply trying to keep their heads above water. 

We need to keep a little faith! 

Modi in the US

On my MBA group chat yesterday there was a lively discussion on Jayalalitha and her arrest, and Modi’s US visit. Then someone mentioned that Modi and Amma were dominating the news in India, so Preeti, how does it look in NYC?

I quickly looked at the WSJ that I subscribe to, and saw only a picture of an Indian tattooing an American. It was captioned ‘As New Leader Arrives in U.S., Indians celebrate Art of Diplomacy.’ Modi’s visit was covered on the 16th page. Then I heard Modi’s speech in the UN and today at Madison Square Garden. 

I am a happy Indian today.

 It is just as well that we are not Page 1 news in the US. Page 1 news here is about terrorism in the Middle-east, conflict in Ukraine, the humanitarian crisis in Sudan, and other national news. News is about countries asking the US to intervene and set things right in their respective countries. News is about countries wanting aid because they can’t support the development efforts all by themselves. 

That’s all fine, and shows the power of the US, and its commitment to world peace and order. It is a tough crown to bear for the one country that everyone wants to migrate to!

I am proud that Modi did not come with a begging bowl to the US. He has come to contribute to the US economy - by striking deals worth $3 billion in U.S. Arms. India is a valuable  market for US companies whose growths are stagnant on their home turf and for them it is critical that Indo-US relations be amiable.  Modi came to meet those thousands of Indians who have made the US their home and are successful in their careers and businesses.Whether ABCDs or traditional , most of them are Indophiles at heart. Modi came to sell the  dream of India - with its educated youth, and an ancient culture and abundance of offerings. He made it clear that he wanted peace with his neighbors, but the hallowed halls of the UN was not where they were going to find it - Kashmir is  not up for discussion with the International community.

I am a fence sitter where Modi is concerned,  but so far away from home, Modi made me very proud. He does not mince his words. That alone speaks volumes for me. Yes India has huge problems, but we don’t need external help to resolve those. We don’t have to go with  hands stretched out for doles to other countries to support us. We don’t need anyone except for Pakistan to solve the Kashmir issue amicably, and we can deal with China all by ourselves. We have conflict in pockets but India, as a whole, is not a conflict zone - that is heartening. 

On my MBA group chat, we were discussing regional divides between North and South India, between Tamil Nadu and its neigbors, between Bengalis, Biharis and Punjabis, but everyone was unanimous...Modi is ours. Whether we like him or not, we were proud of him representing us at the UN and US. 

Sometimes we Indians forget how lucky we are. With limited resources and infrastructure, huge social, gender  and economic divides and scores of religions, we do just fine. We are fiercely proud of our cultural heritage but it is time we looked at the distance we have covered since Independence.Yes, there is much to be done, but lots has also been achieved. We need to celebrate those successes. 

Among the things I admire about the Americans, the one I like the most is their nationalistic pride. They are so proud to be called Americans - Everything flows from that pride - including civic sense, integrity at work, supporting local businesses and demanding better customer service. 

That sense of nationalism is the one thing we definitely need to import from the US and then, India will be truly India Shining. 

My 15 seconds of fame

Three weeks before Unravel was to release, I got an email from one of the leading newspapers in UK. They had picked up the “Preeti Singh or Pat Smith” article on talkingcranes.com  and wanted to interview me on it.

I was terribly delighted...this is one of the biggest, most respected newspapers in the UK. I never would have gained access to them so easily.  I believe that when you want something, the universe comes together to give it to you. The timing was impeccable.  Unravel was going to be launched in three weeks, and coverage in that newspaper would give me an instant boost. 

I sent in my responses to their queries. I told them what had happened, and how I had felt. 

I had sent the blog with a little note to those five literary agents who had responded to Pat Smith, not Preeti Singh, and four of them wrote back to me. Their responses bordered from the humble to incredible.

 One claimed that the blog had been sent in error to them because they had never received the Preeti Singh ms. The second one said that the error was committed by some junior intern who had sifted through the manuscripts at the time. A third charmingly wrote that the Preeti Singh ms got drowned in the deluge of manuscripts they typically receive in the end winter/spring season; the Pat Smith ms got noticed because it was sent in the summers, traditionally a slow period for them.

The fourth was polite and pretty upfront. They apologized that an error had been made, and these errors can happen sometimes because there is a certain comfort with names they are familiar with. 

We do know subtle racism, and everyone faces it at one time or another - because of the color of one’s skin or accent, country or religion, and even one’s name or traditional attire. I was not shocked , merely surprised because literature is all about stories and different voices. 

The editor was empathetic, and very professional. Just before they were to publish the story, she asked me to send her the email exchanges with the literary agents as proof that such an event had occurred. It is the newspaper’s policy to verify the authenticity of the event. I respect that - it shows the integrity of the newspaper, unlike the many tabloids that sensationalize news without finding out if it is true or not. 

As I put together the emails to send to the editor, something snapped in me. I took a step back from the whole situation. Did I really want to do this? Did I want to put my experience down to a case of racism, and did I want justice ? Did I want to put myself out there as a victim of discrimination? Was that the way I wanted to be known? Was there any wrong doing after all?

Perhaps there was wrong doing, perhaps there was none, but it was definitely not a life-changing event for me.

 I may be delusional, but I have never bothered with discrimination of any sort - I have shown the middle finger, literally and figuratively, to anyone who has tried to put me in my ‘place’ because of my gender, religion, community, country, education, blah blah blah. I have done whatever it is that I set out to do, and have found a measure of success. 

Eventually, I declined to send the emails from the literary agents to the editor.This meant that they would not mention my name or carry my story. I was letting go of a golden opportunity to get my 15 seconds of fame, and to promote Unravel. 

Surprisingly, I felt okay about that. The whole exercise had been a fun thing - not necessarily to prove a point to someone. I did not want to be at the centre of a debate that I had not wanted to start. I felt uncomfortable about it snowballing into something I had no control over. Importantly, I did not want to set this example for my children -  that they can blame their failure to things like racism, discrimination and so on. 

It is so easy to feel like a victim and to want the world to make it right for you. If I succumbed to that feeling, it would be criminal, almost a sin. I am incredibly blessed with great things and people in my life. Every day, I meet amazing people, strangers even, who are gracious and kind to me.They all help me realize my dreams - small and big, significant or unimportant. A person like me has no business complaining. 

I did feel a momentary pang of regret at passing up the opportunity. Had I sent the emails, I would have been part of a nice, engaging, incisive article on discrimination in literary circles - in one of the finest newspapers in the world.  That would have boosted sales of Unravel and I would have been famous, without even trying hard!!

But then, those 15 seconds of fame would never prove to me if I was indeed worthy of fame or had the talent to make a writing career. I am happier like this- letting it all unravel, one thread at a time!

Come September

Schools began early September, and I was reminded of this time a year ago….

We moved into Scarsdale at the end of August2013. Beautiful neighborhood, charming houses. Nice.

What we missed in Scarsdale were people. Those big houses must have people in them I thought, and there must be children in those too! After all, Scarsdale is supposed to be one of the best school districts in NY. And where there are children, there must be noise. But the neighborhood was quiet. Quiet as a mouse. The only sound was that of the lawnmovers and cicadas.

In those first few days, my ears hurt with the absence of noise.

Until the first day of school in September when Scarsdale seemed to wake up from its long summer. All of a sudden, much as in the Pied Piper of Hamelin, kids started to pour out of every house. I was astonished to see that my street had so many kids of different ages. They stood on the street waiting for their various school buses. The High School kids with their noses in their phones, unwilling to make eye contact with anyone else. The Middle Schoolers chatting away, and the Elementary ones with their grand parents or parents who were also making conversation.

The whole place buzzed with the kind of happy noise only children can make.

There was a sharp increase in traffic that day. More than five cars at the traffic signal seems like a jam on regular days, but that day there were scores of cars at every traffic signal. And just like everywhere in the world, people were breaking rules with impunity…zooming off at the orange light going red, cutting into the line to beat traffic, honking impatiently. And ofcourse, there was traffic police manning all important junctions, making sure children walking to school were safe.

That first day of school, people spilled out on to the roads. Mothers started their fitness regime after dropping kids to school, people caught up for coffee and breakfast in the little cafes at the Village.The Library was full of people, and toddlers were there for their day of singalong with the guitar man.

I was relieved to find out that Scarsdale did indeed have a fairly large population, and there were loads of children to fill up those beautiful school buildings! I was also amused that like a perfect school village,  Scarsdale springs into life primarily during school days and hours. After these spikes, Scarsdale folds back into its peace and quiet.

Over the next few days I got used to all the noise and traffic. I learnt that traffic spikes happen three times in the day. Mornings are the worst because various schools start between 8 and 8.15 am and the office goers make a beeline for the 8.18 or 8.32 train to make it to Manhattan on time. Afternoons when schools get over and then 6-7 pm when trains get officegoers back are not the ideal times to go for a walk ,grocery shopping or a Starbucks coffee! I learnt that there will always be that one driver who will edge his/her way into the traffic at the Middle School, oblivious to the danger to the kids . And Seniors in HS are young adults and will speed, play loud music and show off in their cars!

I find it charming. And so very different from Mumbai which is constantly buzzing – with traffic, with people, with everything on the go – all the time. Except ofcourse, when the local political party declares a shutdown and people are forced to be indoors, or when an important cricket match is on! Then the lack of noise outdoors hurts the ears there too!

Letting it Unravel

Unravel got launched this week...not with great pomp like a JK Rowling or  Ravi Subramaniam book. But it was BIG for me. To see the result of something that had consumed my mind go live on Amazon and other sites was , to say the least, overwhelming. 

When I held the first copy of Unravel in my hand, I was a bit stunned. I couldn’t believe I had written something that was over 200 pages long. I had always loved reading and tried to fathom how people wrote so much. I never thought I had it in me.

Perhaps, grief, anger, bitterness and other negative emotions have a way of worming themselves into one’s heart. As I learnt to cope with my own crises, I developed a greater sensitivity to what was happening around me. I realized that happy , calm faces hid great pain. Loads of money or success did not necessarily mean more happiness and peace. Couples that seemed to be so well put together, were actually putting up a facade, for the sake of their children, businesses or society. All that glitters was not gold and almost everyone was winging it. 

It is about love, and its absence or loss. Love for our children, spouses, families, friends ,lovers and work. We struggle with what we love, and who we fall in love with.  We place our loved ones on a pedestal and forgive them because of our love for them . We make sacrifices and sell our souls to make them happy.  We change to make ourselves lovable to them. We want them with us and we cling, hoping they will never leave . When they do go away, show their clay feet or betray us,  they carve out a piece of us...and in trying to repair that hole in the heart, we unravel. 

I figured - at some basic level, everyone unravels. Some hide it well or have better coping mechanisms. A few talk about it while others choke internally, trying to make method of their madness. Some take a higher moral ground and take no responsibility. Still others are angry enough to destroy themselves in order to destroy the person who betrayed them. Some get life threatening diseases because of what they are going through. 

Some unraveling has societal sanction, and others are worthy of disdain. And there are strange situations where everyone feels like a victim, and there is no way to put things right. At each point I wondered  - How did this person make it through? Is there a right or a wrong in anything? Can things be set right? Is forgiveness over-rated? Can you really judge anyone? Who are you finally answerable to? Is there Karma? Instant Karma?

I felt relief when I was done with Unravel. It is draining to tell a story that may or may not have a happy ending. 

Today though, I feel sad that the one person who would have been awfully proud of me, even though she could not read - my granny - did not live to see it. Unfortunately, her life ended at the point where Unravel begins....I so wish I had not begun the story like that.... 

Tomorrow I know, I will have a palate for another set of stories, but right now, the anxiety, bitterness, anger, pain, happiness and gratitude -  at all that made Unravel happen for me - makes it a very bittersweet end to this amazing journey. 

Preeti Singh or Pat Smith

When I moved to the US from Mumbai last year, I spent the first few months working on Unravel, a novel of linked short stories based in Mumbai. In NY, my writing workshop pals recommended that I explore the US market for the book, instead of focusing only on the Indian market. I thought it was worth a try. I took sessions to write an impressive query letter to reach out to literary agents. Based on the letter, the literary agents would decide if my book was worthy of representation! 

I got down to work - wrote a nice query letter , researched on what literary agents/agencies would be best suited for my book and sent it off to all of them. And sat down and waited. And waited. Not an email, not a word, for over three months, despite reminders in some cases.

Just for fun, one crazy day, I set up another email account - in the name of Pat Smith.Then I sent the same query letter, the blurb, the bio and the sample chapters of Unravel to the very same literary agents. I merely changed Preeti Singh to Pat Smith in the documents. 

What followed was amazing. Five of those literary agents responded within the space of 10 days. I was amused beyond belief!

 All things equal, what was so special about Pat Smith ? Why could Preeti Singh not elicit any response? 

I am still unraveling the mystery ofcourse, but here are some of the potential reasons I could come up with 

• Unravel by Preeti Singh is not an ‘immigrant’ story, therefore did not hold topical appeal. 
•  Unravel by Preeti Singh is not a story about persecuted Indian women - women burnt for dowry, women raped in broad daylight and so on. Things that happen to women in feudal societies. Who really wants to read about a of bunch of women on Pali Hill?
• Unravel by Pat Smith becomes exotic. Pat may be a Caucasian, a foreigner who was in India. She observed India closely, and wrote ‘insightfully‘ about Indian women.  She felt the pain of the common sisterhood of shared experiences between women across the world.
• Unravel by Pat Smith is a wonderful ‘commentary’ on ‘modern Indian women.’

(the words in the apostrophes were used by the literary agents.)

What could I have done better I thought? I could have changed the name to ‘Caged Bird’, ‘The Burnt Bride’, ‘Chained since Birth’ or some such name to show an ‘Indian’ woman’s trauma. Or I  could have written a terrible tale where the family and husband conspire to burn a  young bride to death; or a slum girl achieves her dreams despite being forced into prostitution.

Better still, I could have written about my immigrant experience in the US. Painted a sad picture subtle and outright racist behavior, how I lost my self esteem, and how I discovered myself through all the painful experiences!

Would that have worked I wonder? Is that what is expected when an ethnic sounding ‘Preeti Singh’ sends a query letter and sample chapters?

I don’t have an explanation  for this bizarre episode, but atleast I know this - my query letter was a well-crafted one,  and  Unravel is a good story. 

And ofcourse my work has increased. I have to wear two hats now. As Preeti Singh I have to figure what stories to write that will get accepted in the US. Or think as Pat Smith and create another Indian/exotic  experience! 

First things first though - I have to send this blog to those literary agents!!

What would you do?

The friday gone by, (18th July) , my 90 year old grandmother's health took a turn for the worse, and we were informed by the doctors that she would not last the weekend. My passport has been with BLS / Cox and Kings for the last three weeks for a simple booklet addition.On Friday, I called them - there was no one to take my call, and no one called back despite the innumerable voice mails I  left. I then rushed to the consulate in Manhattan, to try and figure if I could get my passport back, or some document that would enable me to leave for India that evening. 

And what transpired was a nightmare. 

The Consulate working hours at Manhattan are till 5.30 pm Monday through Friday, and I reached there to find the office shut from 3 to 4pm.  There was no one to explain what the reason was, and no officer available who I could speak with. Till 4.30 pm, no one came to the passport window where many people apart from me were also cooling their heels. 

Finally, I managed to catch someone’s attention and explained the nature of the problem and the emergency. With a sour puss expression, the ‘gentleman’  told me that there was nothing that he could do. When I asked to speak to someone in the embassy, he told me I could go to anyone and they would not help. I asked to speak to the Consular or some official  and he said they could not be bothered. I asked him if he understood the urgency. His response was that it was night time in India, and there was no emergency. I told him I would lose my granny over the weekend, and was he telling me he could not help me get to India? He snapped at me and told me to not be rude and  scampered away. No other official appeared .  At 5, we were told the consulate was shut for the day.

My granny passed away on Monday morning, and the reason I had wanted to come to India did not exist anymore. It  angered me first, and then saddened me that I am an Indian citizen, with a valid passport and visa, and yet I was denied the opportunity to meet my grandmother one last time. 

I tried to process what had just happened!  I figured there was a failure on two counts.

1. A systemic process failure - It is actually bizarre that  a mere booklet addition should take more than 3 weeks. It is even scarier that the Ministry of External Affairs has  not planned for serious emergencies. There should have been some process that enabled me to get temporary documentation to travel back home. I asked the ‘gentleman’ who had deigned to talk to me if I could receive a one way document, and my husband would take the passport and courier it  to India  in the following week. To which I received a brusque no.

1. Incompetent and callous behavior - Perhaps what galled me even more was that there was no one to listen and help.Why is it that I could not access any of the officials who are supposed to be representing me in another country?  I can understand if they could not help, but the arrogance of officials in refusing to meet is unacceptable. An embassy conducts business on behalf of its country, but it is also responsible for the welfare of its citizens in a foreign land.  Or am I missing a point here?

So here is my contention - Why is it that we choose to send such arrogant people to represent our country abroad? Is it because the great bureaucratic machinery is so secure in itself that it chooses to be badly behaved? India is full of amazingly hard working , considerate people and we can’t recruit them?  In a country where the system fails us all the time, it is our people who rise up time and again to help and lend a shoulder. Surely our bureaucracy, and the people who are selected to represent us need to be of a higher calibre. And those people can make contingency plans that assist citizens far away from home. 

In the US, if I faced discrimination from US citizens, I would take it in my stride. After all, this is not my country, and these are not my people. I am here for a brief period and don’t really care for its citizenship because I love India and being Indian. But when, in an alien land,  my own country representatives choose to be callous and unhelpful, who can I turn to blame? Is it any wonder that Indians do not get the respect due to them in foreign countries? It is because we have no respect or regard for our own…and we have the audacity to want better from the rest of the world? 

I still remain a proud Indian. Except that I am ashamed that Incredible India chooses such shoddy representatives for itself.

That Friday evening, totally disconsolate and inconsolable, all  I could tell  my NRI, ABCD and American friends in NYC was this -  The Consulate is  NOT representative India. This is not what India is. This is not what Indian people are. Don’t think negatively about my India because of a wretched few souls. Mera Bharat is Mahan, and the Indian Consulate people are not true Indians. 

I never got to meet my granny, and could only 'see' her on Skype. But I hope that this does not happen to other proud , tax paying Indians, who  may not be there for their parents, children or loved ones,all because  Indian External Affairs failed them miserably. 

My Rockstar

I never thought it was the last time I was seeing her. Had I known that, I would have gathered her frail, small body in a hug and breathed her in one last time.   I would have held on to her - tight. I would have told her how much I loved her.

Instead, the last memory I have of my granny is her clutching on to the warm socks I had taken for her, as her chair was lifted to take her down the stairs.  

If it is difficult to see your strong parents grow old and become frail with age, it is even more distressing to see loved grandparents slide into old age,become sick , dependent and helpless.  Nani was full of boundless energy (Praneet often jokes that my restlessness comes from her) and yet, in the last few years, even if her mind and heart were willing, the body was not. When Rano was detected with  cancer, at the frail age of 88, Nani made the trip to Mumbai. She had to be with Rano, but the trip tired her out, and she was unwell most of the time. She stopped going out with my aunt on kitty parties because her body could not handle it. She was unhappy that we were moving to the US because it was so far away. Surrounded as she was by a family that loved and respected her, did she feel lonely, with few of her peers alive anymore? I often wondered what went on in my Nani’s mind. Did she think often of my grand-dad who passed away 25 years ago? Did she think of her family and her childhood? Did she miss her siblings? What did she think, when she tuned out of all conversation?

There is precious little I regret in my life - all my bad choices make for interesting stories. But the one thing I deeply regret is not spending enough time with Nani. In the last 10 years when I was in Mumbai, I made only fleeting visits to meet Nani in Delhi. I called her at irregular intervals. I did not go for her birthday last year...for the life of me , I can’t remember what was so important that I did not attend it!

I regret that I did not find the right pair of slip-ons for her in time. She loved my pair and wanted a similar one. But her foot was a baby sized one, and by the time I finally found her a pair, her toes had become too gnarled to wear them. I regret the fact that I did not spend enough time with her at the wedding last year. I watched her, felt horrible at seeing her so frail but did not ‘talk’ too much to her. I drew her attention to her earrings that Mom had passed on to me. She nodded and told me to not sell them, or use them to make another piece of jewelry because my grand-dad had given them to her. I kissed and hugged her and told her they were my precious memory of her and I would keep them forever. I had wanted to record her experience of partition, but she was so fragile that I decided against it. Even though she was mentally alert, Nani did not have the energy for conversations anymore. 

I regret that such a piece of my family history is lost to me. That I will never know ever, what she felt when my Grandfather went missing or when she lost her young daughter. I will never learn the secret of her amazing mutton curry and pickles. 

I regret that my passport had gone for additional leaflets, and I could not travel back to India to see her one last time. It was a weekend, and there was no way to get the passport from the horrid Indian Consulate.I fought hard but to no avail. All I could do was watch her on FT and Skype...and not be able to reach out my hand to touch her one last time.

I will never see her in that room of hers ever again. Or smell her unique fragrance laced with Surbex-T and Pears . I will never hear her voice call out,‘Ninoo, tu aa gayee?‘ and asking my aunt to cut fruits for us. Her hands will not press money into my hands again for ‘mithyayi’ as she called mithai. Her wiry hands will never touch my face in affection again. I will never hear the word ‘cutles’ for cutlets ever.  I will never be able to make fun of her watching TV serials and punctuating the unfolding drama with a ‘Hai’. I will never see her eyes light up with pleasure at any gift I took for her, and her fingers gently caressing the gift. No one will call me Moiyeah again! And ‘Lara Lappa’ will never sound the same. 

I bitterly regret that my book ‘Unravel’ begins where Nani’s journey ended...as a much loved matriarch in coma. 

The one time I hate saying RIP...you lived a full full life, but we were not prepared to lose you Mummyjee . You have taken a part of me with you . 

Letting It Go

It was an absolutely strange feeling to wake up one morning and feel a vacuum. I felt light and at peace. It took me sometime to figure what was different that morning.  I had finally let go. Let go of anger, hurt and bitterness that had been part of my life for some time. I am fundamentally an optimistic person, so these emotions were uncomfortably alien to me. I felt  relieved because I had wanted so much to not harbour negative feelings.  It was ironic because just when I had accepted that these feelings would stay with me for a lifetime, they quietly exited from my life -  without even saying goodbye! After staying rent-free in my head, you would think they would at least give me a fair warning of their departure!

I learnt this. 

• That healing takes its own time. You can’t rush it. You can’t stop the voices in your head or the anger flaring up at the slightest provocation. You can practice chanting, praying, offloading on friends,  black magic, pranic healing  - anything, but it won’ t work. Forgiveness will feel like an overrated virtue. So don’t try too hard to forgive/forget/move on....

• You can counsel people on their lives and experiences, but all objectivity is lost when it is your own life. And the more invested you are emotionally, the more unreasonable you become. It is the ego and the feeling that you let yourself down that rankle the most. You can hold long endless conversations with yourself on the whys of the world and not come to any resolution. 

• It is exhausting to be angry and bitter. For me it had benefits - I worked my anger  on two books - but the pain was brutally physical. I had headaches and somedays, a gloom that refused to lift.The bitterness left a sour taste in my mouth, and acid on my tongue. 

 I didn’t let go though -  the negativity finally disengaged itself from me. In extricating itself from me, the negativity  filled me with a lightness of being. I stopped questioning  the motives of other people or why they had behaved such with me. I no longer looked for an apology - infact I realised there was no need for an apology- people have their own journey that I may not understand but it was no longer of any consequence . I was filled with gratitude for all I had received, and surprisingly retained nothing negative about my experience. I felt only compassion and affection for those I had been angry with and truly wished them well - with no malice. 

If I have any words of advice from my own experience, it is this - trust the universe to make it right for you. Till then, accept the feelings. Be in tune with yourself and don’t be too harsh on your inability to cope, or regressing sometimes or being mean!  

As Mandela said,’ It always seems impossible until it’s done’. Till then - Keep the Faith. 

Of Bonds and Belonging

This August , it will be an year since we moved to the US. The move happened so quick and the events went by at such an alarming pace, that I did not get time to breathe. Among other things, it was a time of farewell parties...and thoughtful gifts that my lovely friends gave me. 

As I moved into my new home in Scarsdale this weekend,  I re-discovered some of the gifts I had received, and that were lost in the infinite number of bags  we got from India. Among them - a set of cushion covers by a famous artist, a ‘happiness’ jar, a poster of things people said about me, a quiz on ‘Knowing Preeti’ , CDs of all my favorite Bollywood numbers, a sequined stole and a saree that belonged to my friend’s granny that she passed on to me .And a lovely scroll by my bestie in Mumbai...that detailed all the B words that reminded her of me. Bitch, Bhel Puri, Beer, Bawling, Baubles, Building, Bully among others. Each word had a memory behind it. 

And it teared me up. Completely. 

This move to the US is a wonderful opportunity for the family. I feel blessed that my life has, at regular intervals, changed its course and taken me to entirely new places. It is always a great learning experience to move to a new place, and observe and understand how people live, what drives them and what their core values are. It is wonderful to roam the country as little more than a tourist in transit and really appreciate its beauty and the underbelly. To cook as the locals do, to enjoy the sports they enjoy, and to part of a multi-cultural global community - it can’t get any better!

And yet, I miss what I have left behind. I miss Mumbai- its incredible spirit and the amazing people that drive it. I miss the network I had created, not because I have awesome social skills, but purely on the strength of growing up, studying and working in India. To try and establish credibility in a new country is such an uphill task. And a little de-humanising as well, because of the sense of entitlement that comes from ‘belonging’ to a place or people. Clearly, there are some things I have to unlearn first.

Most of all, I miss my friends.Nothing quite fills up the gap that I feel because of the physical absence of my beloved friends. I say physical, because all of them are utterly gracious -  keeping me in the loop on what  happens in their lives, making me part of whatsapp groups for events, and facetiming or calling me when they are together to tell me I am being thought of and being missed. 

I have re-connected with old friends in the US, and am enjoying re-discovering them. I have met new lovely people as well. And I am possessive of my time with my family now. 

Yet, I miss the ease and simplicity of my relationships in Mumbai. Friendships that were defined by a mutual love of some sort- for food, books, movies, gossip, music, work , kids or bondings because of school, college or work. Of bonds created and strengthened over endless cups of tea, a Bollywood dance club, vodka shots, training for marathon, learning to cook  a new cuisine, plays, pedicures and manicures, arguments over books and movies, samosas and popcorn and walking on Pali Hill or Bandra together. Most of us were working, and yet always found time to meet, lend a shoulder, offer advice, or merely hang out together  for the sheer joy of being friends. 

When people tell me that I will end up staying for more than five years in the US, my heart cringes. When they tell me that this is the best place in the world, I don’t argue with them. They have not walked in my steps to know where my heart lies. And what I consider the best place in my life...

Forgetting Friends

Praneet found a CD full of pictures of my birthday in 2008. Most were horrendous pictures really- of a plumper me with a shorter haircut ( killer ones that no blackmailer should ever get his/her hands on) .As I flipped through the pictures I saw many faces - of friends, and not friends anymore. There were a handful of people who, six years hence, are not in my life . Some that I threw out of my life by choice, some that chose to not be my close pals anymore .I looked at both of these groups and shrugged. I had gotten over the anger and mourned the loss in both these cases. What brought a strange feeling was another set of people. There were those in the pictures who are no longer part of my life...and I didn’t even realise when they had exited. They ceased to exist for me, and I didn’t even notice?

Just as the capacity of a human mind to not forget is great, so is the capacity to not remember. Else how do I explain how I forgot those friends? Forgot them so completely that it took a moment to register who they are. I mean - they were important enough for me once upon a time - that’s why they merited an invite to the party.We must have shared a few laughs, had a few drinks together, hung out for a while. And I have no clue, or rather, no memory of when we stopped being part of each other’s lives. Did we drift apart over a period of time? Or was there a moment when something went wrong? Did we move away because we befriended other people, or was it that our work schedules did not match anymore? Did we fight or not clear up a misunderstanding? For the life of me, I don’t know anymore. All I know is that if there was any pain , bitterness or anger  - I don’t remember it. I do remember some snatches of the good times I had with them - like walking in Jogger’s Park, ordering chinese and biryani from little known joints and some gossipy morning calls and ginger tea. It felt nice to see them again, but there was no urge to re-connect once more. 

The truth is - life moves on. And people come into our lives for a reason or a season. And then they leave. Some go in a blaze of anger or bitterness, and some ease off gently - so gently that one does not even realize it! You don’t miss them. You don’t think about them. It’s like they were never a part of your life. 

What was heart warming for me however was this - the very same friends who I considered my soul mates, my parachutes, my safety nets then - are still in my life. While there may have been conflicts between us and huge fights because we did not agree with choices that the other made, we have stuck together. They are still the ones I  call late night, hound on whatsapp  and whose inboxes I flood with emails. They are the ones I can get sozzled with, share all my intimate secrets with - and they will protect me much as my mother would! They have stood beside me through my worst crises,have lent me their shoulders to weep, and slapped me on my face to help me get a grip. We have the courage to say what needs to be said, with utmost confidence in the strong bond we share.  And even though we don’t stay in the same city anymore, and don’t talk on a daily basis, we are together.  I hope my best friends will outlive me, and party at  the Bollywood bash that Praneet will throw in gratitude of my earlier departure!

Now with this momentous cross continent shift, and the fact that I can’t hide anymore behind the pretext that I was busy settling us in and writing,  it is time to make more new friends. Will these be Indians? Or people from other races/nationalities as well? Will these be parents of my kids’ friends? Or people I will meet in the course of work? I don’t know!

Yet, in a few years,  I will get another reality check. On who will still be in my life, and who would have moved on. Except that now I know what to expect - and so will make sure that I master the art of posing for photo shoots so I look slim, sexy, beautiful….;-))

An 'Alone ' Holiday

Praneet is a  loving indulgent husband, but there are two things he is not happy gifting me - flowers and diamonds. So I negotiated that on my birthday he could gift me a holiday - all by myself- at a destination of my choice.  Prague it was this year , with the added incentive of running the Prague Half Marathon with my friend stationed in the city. 

The run was a nightmare-with a knee that gave up on me, and the timing chip being taken away  because I was not going to hobble to the finish line in under 3 hours. But the holiday was a dream come true!

 I am a good mom and a decentish wife, but  for those few days in Prague, I was simply me. And while I missed my kids, thought of what was happening back home, and shopped for them, I was pretty much at peace. I knew Praneet would schedule his work to spend more time with the kids, that they would cook together or order-in  and would have fun without me nagging them to clean up, study and do this and that!

Pure liberation.  I didn’t have to draw up a schedule to please the kids and husband. I ate wherever I felt like without worrying if the place was clean, or if the kids would like the food. I ventured to see things I want to - spending the whole day at the Castle, standing on Charles Bridge and unabashedly watching people , or merely sitting at a cafe on the road, sipping coffee or beer and reading on my Kindle. It took a bit of courage to walk up to people to request them to take a picture of me! 

I got lost while walking to places, and in the process discovered new offbeat things. I rode different trams to soak in the city.  I struck up conversations with random people - on the tram, at the bar, in the church, and just had fun listening to them. I ate all kinds of street food, browsed in local grocery stores to figure how the locals live,  and tried on clothes that looked horrendous on me! Took pictures of things that caught my attention. Got a massage, a haircut - stuff I would never do on a family holiday!

I unlearned a few things. Like habits that I have acquired because of co-dependency in a marriage. At the check-in counter, I had to remember to fill out all the immigration and custom forms, and ask for the boarding pass for the connecting flights.Or remember to buy and swipe the tickets in the tram. Withdraw or exchange currency.  Even pack my own bag because I am terrible at it and depend on Praneet to organise it for me. 

I did not ‘discover’ myself. Or find solutions to my ‘existential’ questions. Or find a story that fired my imagination.Hell, I did not even bother thinking about things that were stressful for me. Most of the times, my mind was a blissful blank. 

Traveling alone did not mean there were men lurking in bars, or on street corners, looking for a quickie.  I did not find handsome Czech men to hit on, and no one hit on me. Instead I found graciousness ,friendliness and loads of tips on what to do in the City. 

I came back happy, relaxed and refreshed. Delighted to walk into my home, and to be hugged by my daughter who said,‘Mom, we missed you. You make this a home!’ To be back in the fold of the ones who hold my heart, and reaffirm that this is my beautiful world- with the people I love the most. 

I think, every woman should take a holiday all by herself. It is refreshing and therapeutic.  In all that we do for our loved ones, we tend to forget ourselves and put our needs on the back-burner. There should be no guilt to spend time with ourselves, connect back with our own selves, and to be reminded that we can be happy in our own company. 

My one lesson -I would prefer a holiday to diamonds -any given year now!! And methinks Praneet will rue being intransigent on not gifting me flowers - because flowers would be cheaper than the holiday he will end up sponsoring every year!!

When dirty politics came home….

What if Odisha was Delhi? What if it was not a far flung state that only sends 21 MPs to the Lok Sabha? Then, like Arvind Kejriwal and his AAP, PM Mohapatra and his OJM would also make headlines. 

I don’t know PM Mohaptra all that well, though is daughter is my best friend. Is he corrupt? I can’t say that, but what I have seen of the family over decades makes me think he is not. His kids got no benefits of their father being one of the most powerful people in Odisha - they have studied , got jobs and done well on their own accord. They all live lives that they have created from their own hard work. None of his children own vast tracts of land in Odisha or any businesses that would have made them billionaires (like many other politicians and their kids). 

When Biju Pattnaik died in 1997, his son Naveen Pattnaik took over as the CM of Odisha. A novice not comfortable speaking Oriya, and who was a connoisseur of finer things in life, Naveen’s first days in politics were not rosy. That was when his mother called PM, her husband Biju’s confidant and exhorted him to help Naveen.  For the first few years, PM was not part of BJD. He only functioned as Naveen’s mentor and guide. A sort of Chanakya you might say and he was instrumental in helping Naveen win the past three elections. 

In politics as in life, there are no permanent friends . And usually the people you trust the most are the ones who stab you in the back. On May 29th, 2012 PM received a call from  Naveen who was in London. Naveen asked him if he was preparing to overthrow him. PM remarked,’Do you believe that?’

Clearly Naveen did. He got edgy by vested interests whispering in his ears that PM wanted his job and would lead a coup.This because he was exhorting Naveen to make a real difference in Odisha so that it would move up from its abysmal position as the most backward Indian state. As PM remarks ,‘the difference between the father and son is stark. The real reason Biju Pattnaik trusted me was because I spoke the truth without fear. Naveen does not seem to have that strength of character’.

PM was suspended and then expelled from the party, and blamed for embezzlement of funds to the tune of Rs.500 crores. Distraught and angry as he was, PM refused overtures from national parties who wanted him onboard to wrest control from Naveen Pattnaik. I asked him once if he would speak to Naveen to clarify his position, because clearly he had been misinformed. His reaction was a resigned shrug,’I cannot explain anything to a person who is hellbent on misunderstanding me.’

It was quite incredible to watch political machinery in action. I have been amused, unnerved, angry and consumed with helplessness in equal measure.

 Overnight, PM’s house was surrounded by Naveen’s men. They watched closely to see who came to give him support. Then, systematically approached those people and threatened them to stay away from PM. The phone lines were tapped and every piece of information was relayed to Naveen Pattnaik. The family was unnerved because they did not know when or where they might be hurt. PM refused to move to Delhi despite the fact that he was also a Rajya Sabha member then.

I know PM this much - what he looked forward to most was spending time with his young grandkids, and that is what he planned to do. Perhaps, it was the threat to his family that changed his mind, but PM decided to start his own party and to not live in a state of constant fear. So came OJM into being.

The single agenda for Naveen and his chamchas has been to not let PM make inroads into Odisha. And when you rule a state , you can get away with murder. 

The first person to join the OJM was declared a Naxalite and jailed. As was the General Secretary of the new party on paperwork issues. 

 From stalling the registration of their party symbol, to creating roadblocks so that OJM could not hold rallies, to even coercing the local media from blacking out any OJM activity - Naveen Patnaik has done it all. The local media was allowed to attend PM’s rallies, but were not allowed to report anything. One TV channel owner who made the mistake to showing a balanced review of Naveen and PM was jailed, ostensibly because of his other businesses. 

Did that dissuade the 75 year old PM Mohapatra? No. He wore his bullet proof vest, took trains without an entourage and campaigned in Odisha interiors, and in the main cities. If there were road blocks, his people came on motorcycles. If TV and print gave into coercion, the social media was active. 

While most of us are horrified with the dirt that Mr Mohapatra and his supporters face on a daily basis, he has remained calm and unfazed. Any betrayal and loss of trust he feels is carefully hidden, as he goes through each day, intent on running the elections to make a difference to Odisha. 

When Naveen realised that PM had made inroads despite all the road blocks, it bothered him a lot more. So, he and his party reached out to every major industrial house in India, who have any business interest in Odisha and clearly communicated to them that they were free to donate, contribute to any political party other than OJM. If any funds were given to OJM, there would be trouble for the concerned company. And who wants to not have a stake in Odisha, with its rich resources? 

So the funds essential to run the elections dried up for OJM. One of the largest opinion poll firms refuse to add OJM to their list because they were not paid the Rs. One Crore that they demanded. 

I salute Mr Mohapatra. Any one else would have quit and withdrawn. He did not. Friends, family and well-wishers have  rallied to give funds to the party, and Mr Mohapatra mortgaged his ancestral house as well. We joke with him that he should have used the funds he had supposedly embezzled. 

Despite all the muck and carpet bombing and cornering PM, I am pretty sure he will win seats in the elections. Not enough to form the government or topple it. But I hope he will make an interested opposition to drive real change in the most backward state in India. 

Even if PM did not win any seats, he will not have lost.  Any person with courage and his heart in the right place can never be a loser. Through all this dirty politicking, Naveen Pattnaik and his party have not been able to question Mr Mohapatra’s integrity and honesty. To me, that stands for something. 

In a Utopian world, real democracy would exist. Voters would be an informed class who would choose the best people to become their representatives in the Parliament. These representatives would have a morally high calibre and they would work to ensure that the society benefited from their actions. There would be a worthy opposition that would maintain the requisite checks and balances.

But India is definitely not Utopia. Mr Mohapatra will not lose because he will have done his job in ensuring that democracy is not subverted. And I bet there are many more stories across India of people like PM Mohapatra! We should be proud of them!!