Do Not Chase Your Dreams@talkingcranes.com

http://www.talkingcranes.com/blog/do-not-chase-your-dreams

Mills and Boon - romance and love@talkingcranes.com

http://www.talkingcranes.com/blog/mills-boon-romance-and-love

Interview with Apurva Purohit

http://www.talkingcranes.com/blog/tc-enterprise-apurva-purohit-conversation-preeti-singh

Banning Nanak Shah Fakir@talkingcranes.com

http://www.talkingcranes.com/blog/ban-nanak-shah-fakir

Thirty Years on @talkingcranes.com

http://www.talkingcranes.com/blog/thirty-years

An Interview With Mitra Kalita @talkingcranes.com

http://www.talkingcranes.com/blog/tc-enterprise-s-mitra-kalita-conversation-preeti-singh

A Change is Coming @thetalkingcranes.com

A Change is Coming

Spring Awakening : Published in The Scarsdale Inquirer April 24th, 2015

The last anyone had seen the TV remote was a weekend in early January when friends of ours came visiting, and their son was toying with it. I was pretty certain the child had not taken it with him; it would have been extremely embarrassing to ask his parents about the missing object! I hunted for the remote everywhere - under the couches, between bedsheets, in the kitchen shelves and the laundry basket, but it was nowhere to be found. 

Until the snow began to melt.Then I found the remote sitting quietly in the backyard, buried under all that snow for three months! I also found socks and my son’s soccer ball, and my favorite coffee mug that I must have forgotten outside. And with that discovery, spring finally arrived for me! 

I love the four seasons that Scarsdale has. In each of these, Scarsdale transforms itself -  a white wonderland with snow and fairy lights in the winter; lush, wholesome and restful in the summer, and supremely radiant and crisp in autumn. But it is in spring when Scarsdale  repairs and renews itself. The sidewalks are clear of snow and ready to be walked on again, potholes are filled in and landscaping vans are parked everywhere. One can hear the birds chirping and see the bugs start to creep out of the woodwork. The bare trees sprout the first tentative buds. The days are longer, the temperatures kinder, the wind less bitter, and the sun shines with a little more cheer. The window displays on the village shops are bright and happy as well! 

The  Scarsdale seasons are a far cry from the ones in my my erstwhile home. Wikipedia may define them differently, but in Mumbai India, the four ‘seasons’ are as follows - hot and humid, monsoons, not so hot and humid, and moderately hot; the temperatures range from 70 degrees to 90 degrees fahrenheit. I love the monsoons in Mumbai - for three months, it rains almost non-stop; it causes flooding and water-logging, traffic jams and no school days, but Mumbai is at her prettiest and lushest at this time! There is no real need to change one’s wardrobe or house decorations - one can wear shorts and a t-shirt almost all year round, and when it gets a tad cold (at 70 degrees),  out come full sleeved t-shirts, jeans and even boots! Houses get a thorough deep-clean during Diwali, one of the major festivals in India; festivals are the times we decorate our homes with flowers and lights. In comparison, the way Scarsdale, its houses and people change their outward appearance with every changing season delights me! 

It does seem like Scarsdale has woken up from its long slumber and is springing back to life. Right now, the local markets are full of spring time flowers like pansies, hyacinths, daffodils, tulips, as well as herbs and vegetables that one can plant. The heavenly smells of pumpkin, cinnamon and apple spiced fragrances have made way for fresher smells of the sea and cotton candy; fruity cocktails and passionfruit drinks get preference over pumpkin spiced and gingerbread lattes. Heavy coats and boots have made way for lighter, vibrant colored sweatshirts and tops;  the warmer nail colors of maroon, deep blues and purples are being replaced with understated brights and pale pastels. The roads are more crowded - there are convertibles, children on bikes, walkers and runners. The fields are buzzing again with soccer, lacrosse and baseball teams gearing up for games. I may be wrong, but I think people are smiling a lot more as well;  perhaps because the wind is no longer bitter, one does not need caps and scarves and can actually pay attention to others! 

Soon, there will be complaints of pollen related allergies and long spells of rain. The crickets, chirping in earnest will compete with the noise of the lawnmowers! Soon, we will also moan that the sun is too strong, and wish for some respite from the heat. 

But for now, Spring is finally here. After months, I can finally open the windows again, and let  cool air come into the house without being frozen. I can forget the winter blues and soak in the Vitamin D. Till the trees get all their leaves back, I can peep into my neighbor’s backyards, salivate at the smell of their barbecues and hope for a piece of the meat! It is time to get a new haircut, donate old clothes and get new ones, get dirt under my fingernails by planting my herb garden, sit outside at one of the village cafe’s for a cup of coffee, decorate my house with daffodils and tulips, try cooking and eating fiddleheads, watch bumblebees in my garden, see the trees bud and get their leafy cover, and to get caught in a spring shower! 

And here is a recipe for a spring pie, courtesy Paul F Kortepeter - Enjoy it! 

“Would you like some warm Spring pie? 

Then, take a cup of clear blue sky. 

Stir in buzzes from a bee, 

Add the laughter of a tree. 

A dash of sunlight should suffice 

To give the dew a hint of spice. 

Mix with berries, plump and sweet. 

Top with fluffy clouds, and eat!”

The Society of Unknown Friends; published in The Scarsdale Inquirer - Friday the 13th,2015

In my decade long stay in Mumbai I was privileged to be part of many groups - I had my college and MBA school buddies, work colleagues, school moms, gym buddies and book club members. I led an active social life, and for the past few years had not felt the need to actively seek new friends.

When I moved to Scarsdale, I knew no one and did not know how to begin to make friends. As a fresh off the boat expat to the country, I did not want to commit social faux pas by saying irrelevant or out-of-context things either. In India, if you asked me how I was  doing, I would take it quite literally. So I might say that I had a headache that was killing me, or that I went grocery shopping and the price of onions was appallingly high! I didn’t know much but I did know that I could definitely not do that here in the US - I should only say ‘Fine, Thanks, and you?’

I was alone, but not lonely because I was busy working on my novel. I attended the PTA  breakfast mornings, said hello to some mothers and exchanged a few numbers. And I was on the web quite often, checking details of things I was writing about, when one day on my Facebook page, I happened to notice ‘suggested groups around you’. This listed some groups in Westchester. There was a ‘Westchester Community’, ‘Eastchester Moms’ , a postal code group and a ‘Scarsdale Moms’ group. I sent a request to this last one to join the group.

They say all good things come by serendipity. I don’t remember what I expected from the group, because the ‘Scarsdale Moms’ group turned out to be so different from anything I had imagined it to be.

With more than 1600 members, all of them women, the status updates beat Angie’s List or any other. Members post requests for almost anything and others graciously share their information. New to Scarsdale, I figured the restaurants for romantic dinners, birthday parties, even good Mexican and Italian food. I got names of reliable plumbers, handymen, housekeepers, cleaners and airport drops. Where to go for the best massages, manicures , eyebrows, and hair color and what dentist to avoid because he has a bad case of halitosis? Was I paying the right price for a service like snow shoveling, SAT prep classes and personal training at a gym? What were the best places for students to learn driving and does a particular chiropractor live up to his reputation? I also picked up a recipe for broccolini, the names of people who deliver home cooked meals (including Indian food), even places of worship!

One thing leads to another, and an enterprising member of the Scarsdale Moms group started the ‘Gentle Scarsdale Satire’ - a group for easygoing individuals who aren't afraid to laugh at themselves and at Scarsdale. This group puts a smile on my face every morning. With incredible wit, members gently skewer things they see around them. Have residents been kidnapped by Martians because their Christmas lights still shine bright and what kind of masochistic behavior might you see at a high intensity gym class? Laugh-out-loud Scarsdale specific lyrics set to the tune of Beyonce’s ‘All the Single Ladies‘ , the town’s obsession with salads, parking in the town square, snow days, early dismissals, even potholes get honorary mentions here. As does the best loved voice in Scarsdale !!

Do I know any of the mothers on these groups? I know some names, but I have no idea who these women are! I don’t know if their children are friends with mine, if we are in the same yoga class, if I cut one of them off at the traffic light,  or if they might be seated next to me at the Salzburg Patisserie.

These groups make Scarsdale my home. Online groups are criticized for their impersonal, transient nature and their ephemeral quality. Yet when you move into an unfamiliar environment where the social dynamic is different from the one you are used to, such groups are lifesavers. In Mumbai I knew the lay of the land like only a local can know - which place has the best home delivery, what movie theatre has the best samosas and how to dress for someone’s funeral - these are not details one finds in tourist books or even folders that moving companies give you to help you settle into a new place. Gathering all that data involves months, nay years of painstaking experiences! In these FB groups, there is always someone who has done the research and I don’t have to spend a lifetime re-inventing the wheel.

Online groups are not places to bare your soul; I do not share anything personal on the groups, yet I get lots of comfort, laughs and happiness from their chatter. The Society of Unknown Friends is a great one to be part of and who knows, one day we might all meet up for drinks, and become ‘known’ friends!!

Peeling Off the 50 Shades of Grey

Last week at the gym, when I overheard a couple of women discussing Fifty Shades and calling it mommy porn, I decided it was time to re-engage with the series. Years ago, I could not get through the Fifty Shades of Grey book.  Anastasia Steele’s neediness and masochism appalled me and Christian Grey was the devil incarnate! After groaning through the first hundred pages, I  skipped to the end of the book. Finally (I thought) good sense had prevailed and Anastasia walked away from this destructive relationship, but not before being brutally thrashed. I was never inspired to pick up the next two in the series, though the books made readers of people who had never read in their lives! An acquaintance who finds it difficult to go through a lengthy email actually read the book; his wife and he would discuss it every night!  I was invited to a Fifty Shades theme party and I found the idea appalling (ok, so I did not possess leather pants, handcuffs and other ‘bare’ necessities). No accounting for taste I thought!

Now, I had to see the movie alone (my teenage daughter was horrified that I wanted to take her, and the husband looked blank and the son - well he pretended to not hear me at all ). So armed with popcorn and soda, I settled into a theatre seat, surrounded by women - some who had come with friends - and some lone rangers like me!  

Can a movie ever be better than the book it is inspired from? Generally not, but I must confess, I loved the Fifty Shades of Grey movie. The movie is way superior to the tacky book. Call it mommy porn or whatever, but judging by their reactions, the women in the movie theatre enjoyed the movie as much as I did. Who would not want Christian Grey? Brought up on a diet of romantic novels (and an English Literature degree), Christian Grey comes closest to my idea of a  perfect boyfriend.  A good looking billionaire, he woos Anastasia with joy rides on the private plane, a laptop, a first edition copy of Tess and a car to replace her ancient one. He picks her up dead drunk from the pub and puts her to bed. He  buys her lovely clothes and takes her to meet his parents. He is possessive and jealous when other men eye her! He has a dark side that is begging to be unraveled and he is drool-worthy!

Ever since the movie released, there has been a spate of articles and television programs on how the movie is a blatant endorsement of sexual violence against women.Yes, Christian Grey is also a sadist. He has a playroom with sex toys and cables, ropes, handcuffs and whips. He wants Anastasia to be submissive and demands complete obedience. What starts (in her mind) as a playful thing becomes something quite degrading and humiliating and she begins to wonder if this is what she wants. Mom and parenting blogs denounce the character of Christian Grey and detail why they would not recommend their daughters to seek a boyfriend like this depraved character. Religious blogs state that Fifty Shades makes us lose our religion because lustful thoughts lead to lustful actions; that the movie sets you down a path of self-gratification and lust. 

Incidentally, most of this chastity focused  advice is directed towards women - I guess it is not so bad that online pornography has twice as many male viewers than women, and male erotica books and magazines are a large industry!

Fifty Shades of Grey is a story well-told (in the movie atleast). When you peel back the various shades of Grey, it is only a real-life love/lust/ambition story! The plot is very Harlequin/Mills and Boon-ish. Simple girl meets rich billionaire and is attracted to him. He pays her loads of attention, she feels intimidated yet overwhelmed, and wants him. Peel away the S&M sub-plot, and the story is what many ambitious girls aspire to. To find a rich, good-looking billionaire boyfriend who will set their hearts singing (trust me, a bankrupt, average looking boy is not any girl’s marriage aspiration) and offer marriage. Women are natural nurturers, yet they want nurturing too; then the desire to give up control to the one you trust can be terribly romantic! Besides, like Anastasia, most women think they can change the guy they want to be with - make him dress differently, wear a new perfume, stop smoking, start drinking, lose weight, stop womanizing, earn more money, be a better human being - whatever! 

So if Anastasia Steele has red, angry welts on her body, she has my empathy but no sympathy. She knows what she is getting into; she has seen the playroom and read up on submissives.  Like any woman in love, Anastasia puts Christian on a pedestal and does things that will please him and make him love her more. We all do that - sometimes we are rewarded, at other times betrayed or dumped but it is a risk we are willing to take. She chooses to stay and experiment, and attempts to change/understand Christian.  

In the end though it is Christian my heart goes out to. He is upfront about his expectations, lays down the rules of engagement for Anastasia and makes it clear that she can exit anytime she wants to. He struggles with his demons and the strong pull of the girl he is attracted to. He makes an attempt to be the kind of boyfriend Anastasia wants. Christian does things that he has not done with his 15 other submissives; he takes her out on dates and indulges her, and begins to confide in her. He may be damaged but he is not dishonest. 

After Anastasia tells Christian to punish her in the severest manner he can, so she can understand him better, she decides to walk out on him.  When it becomes difficult to find a reason to stay in a relationship, brave women walk out and leave. Yet to me Anastasia’s exit felt like a betrayal. I thought it was terribly unfair when she tells him that she loves him but does not want him anymore. What an awful burden to saddle someone else with! Additionally, you don’t ask someone to bare their soul to you, only to leave them feeling despondent and exposed. A person already damaged has less incentive to  trust and heal himself thereafter. 

Like me, even those who have not read the other two books know that Anastasia Steele gets Christian Grey in the end. Eventually, the unrelenting pressure of a woman’s love, and a man’s desire for her, can change him, and/or strike a more equitable balance. We love these fairytale endings!

I am all set for the next Fifty Shades movie!! My sincerest desire though is that Anastasia will stop biting her lip all the time - it was hardly a turn on, and by the end those silly red lips made me want to throw up!

A Shifting Perspective; published in The Scarsdale Inquirer on 20th Feb2015

I had my life all planned when we moved to Scarsdale from Mumbai, India last year. I would settle my 16 and 14 year olds in their new schools, set up our home and get a job in Manhattan. I had great references from my work place and a work permit; in a DKNY business suit I would live the corporate MBA American dream. I was 45, and excited to be in this land of opportunities.

In the midst of the job search I decided to explore my new home on foot and lose weight. I had piled on an additional ten pounds on my already plump self because of the endless farewell parties in Mumbai. All was well in my world till I realized that I was one of the few people walking in the village. Almost everyone else was running; around me were tight bodies and toned calves. I was inspired but soon ran into trouble. My lungs would scream for oxygen and the gently rolling Scarsdale roads (that make landscaping look so gorgeous) killed my legs. The doctor identified it as a tightening of the IT Band. He recommended I modify my diet to lose weight and join the gym to strengthen my legs.

Food had become a big problem here. While my children enjoy all cuisines, they began to crave an Indian meal everyday. I could bully my husband into eating take-out but couldn’t be unfair to the kids. In India, you don’t have to be super rich to have household staff. I had a live-in cook and my only culinary contribution was the daily menu I planned. Now I struggled to cook what I knew and make it palatable for the kids. I knifed my fingers every other day and stopped getting a manicure because it would not last. I hated the smell of Indian spices that seemed to cling to my hair and clothes and set aside a pair of sweats to cook in.

I joined an upmarket gym in Scarsdale and whatever little shred of positive body image I had melted away. There is nothing like seeing another woman’s naked body to get a perspective on what is wrong with your own. I saw perfect breasts of all sizes, flat muscular tummies that did not look like they had ever held babies in them, and toned limbs that fitted so well in a dress. I hated them and their bodies and hated my own. Nothing seemed to budge the fat from my body.

My unhappiness grew. Despite my experience in India no one was willing to offer me a position in the US. I went for many interviews, smiled and chatted over cups of coffee; in the feedback I was told that though I was intelligent, competent and capable, I did not understand the local market. I had never faced rejection and for the first time in my adult life, I was not earning my own money. My 16 year old consoled me, “You could go back to school and do a refresher MBA course.”

I balked. At $80000 and a GMAT test, this was not a viable option.

It was a bitter winter for me. I felt trapped, under-confident and pessimistic. I had never been lonelier and so friendless. I wanted to go home. To deal with my grief, I decided to write. There were stories brewing in my head since Mumbai but there had been no time to write them down. All through winter, I made the Scarsdale Library my home and poured my heart out into ‘Unravel’. I edited the copy and sent it out to publishers in India.

One day in spring when I was walking outdoors again, a lady ran up beside me. She said, “I have been watching you walk for some time. You look like you are having great fun. I like that.”

Before I could think of anything smart to say, she ran ahead. Something in me shifted that day. I finally felt at home. As I walked I thought. It was time to change my perspective. My ‘thin’ ship had sailed a long time ago and I may never be the typical slim, sexy Scarsdale mom. I might never experience the corporate American dream in a DKNY suit either. I had grown up in India and understood it well but the dynamics of my new home were different. I had to unlearn a few things and learn some afresh.

I joined a writing group, stepped out to make new friends and learnt to use zucchini, broccoli and kale in my Indian cooking. I decided to not go with the Indian publisher; instead I self-published my book ‘Unravel’, because my new friends in the US wanted to read it too.

Sometimes it takes a kind word at the appropriate moment to shift one’s perspective. I never encountered that woman again, but I hope she will read this and know how her act of kindness made me feel welcome!

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 .