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.