One Hand is Paler Than the Other

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Golfing at the Bangalore CC

As I type this blog entry, I'm noticing that my right hand is paler than my left; the golf glove has created an odd dearth of sun-tan. This is a case of hand-gazing, rather than navel-gazing. Maybe it's always navel-gazing, but this time, it's also hand-gazing.

This has been an anchoring weekend. Pat and I got to swim in the most wonderful pool ever, and also played golf. Both experiences have helped us feel marvelously more so at home. Wherever we get to do things we know and love, we feel more moored.

I'm thinking of the golfing, as it happened this afternoon. My caddie, Sriram, has worked at the Bangalore Country Club for 35 years.

How is Sriram still strong enough to carry around a golf bag for four hours/18 holes? I could barely walk the whole course -- and I had no more than a single club in my hand at any point.

Accident of Birth

Thinking about the golf round, I'm reminded of a "New York Times" article I read about a month ago, about a number of older black men, who have been caddies at a Westchester country club, if I remember the region correctly, for their entire careers. The last line of the article quotes one of the members saying that he and his caddie both are 6'2" tall and the only reason that he is the player and his caddie is the caddie is because he is white and the caddie is black.

How excellent Sriram is in his club advice and in suggestinng the side of the cup at which I ought to aim the ball, and at the same time, I'm struck that this man in his late-50s or early-60s, who has told me he is a grandfather, and who is so knowledgeable and smart about golf and about this course, is in the position of supporting me, who's just OK at the sport, playing only about once a year, since our move to metro-New York 11 years ago.

On Friday, I met a colleague who grew up in Bangalore, went to the India Institute of Technlogy (IIT) in Bangalore and has worked in Bangalore for her entire career, though she has traveled extensively for IBM.

"Would you ever be interested in taking a foreign-service assignment?" I asked her.

"No, I'm lucky to have been born and to have grown up in the center of where IT is happening, and now, everyone's coming here, so why would I?" She meant that she could have all of the intellectual stimulation she could ever want by people from everywhere without ever having to leave home.

"Yeah, it's a happy accident of birth, I guess," I said and she smiled in agreement.

Welcoming All Hands on Deck, Wherever They Were Born

The secret of being a good global citizen, I'm realizing, is treating every human being like a human being, particularly like a human being who might have something to teach me.

All should go unprecedentedly prosperously in all sorts of dimensions if I remember that I am not here in India -- or anywhere -- exclusively to impart my wisdom and experience, but also to make it a mutual exchange, where I can learn new best practices. Likewise, though it would be understandable due to the relatively recent history of British colonization, Indians and all human beings, I think, benefit from being open to new approaches and people from other cultures, including me, as long as people like me behave respectfully and never try to discount the local culture...and as long as the local people can assume good will until shown that they should feel otherwise and also trust that I don't mean to invade their culture, but rather to participate in it and maybe even enrich it a bit with my diverse presence.

A slip last night: Pat and I are being stealthy about our status as a couple beyond the walls/contextual conversations with colleagues of IBM here because we are aware that lesbianism is not accepted by Indian culture; last night, walking down our hotel hallway to our room, I put my arm around Pat's shoulder (which is not taboo at all in Indian culture), but then quickly kissed her golf-shirt-clad shoulder.

"Sarah, there's a camera right there," Pat said, pointing.

"Oy, don't point. Now, they know we know they're there," I said, feeling anxious and ashamed of my indiscretion, and upset that what, to me, is such a mild act could endanger us somehow.

We've been so conscious of avoiding any public displays of affection out of respect for the culture we're living in; we figure that if an American movie star could cause a stir here by displaying heterosexual affection, we can be more culturally sensitive than he. And until last night, we had been...and mostly, still are, really, since our affection was not broadcast on national TV, but at worst, on hotel security monitors.

One of my colleagues, who knows my partner is female, and who meant no offense, said to me last week, "I think that men will stop holding hands here soon due to western influence, and I think that's a shame because it's such a sign of innocence, their doing so. It has nothing to do with homosexuality."

I know what she means, now that I've seen at least 20 pairs of male friends on the streets, demonstrating their friendship in this way. Pat commented, "There's a boyishness about it," and that's true.

Today's issue of "The Hindu" includes an editorial by IIT Madras professor, Shreesh Chaudhary, "IIT model ought to be replicated...." He writes:

IITs could be permitted to recruit faculty worldwide, if enough suitable ones are not available at home. We will have to get out of the mindset of 'Saare jahan se achchhaa....' [A staffmember of the hotel where we're staying kindly translated the expression, explaining that it is from a song that became popular at the same time as India's national anthem, and it means essentially that India is superior to all other nations.] A world class institution, just as a world class nation, must draw from the world, must be its aggregate (p. 15).

I really like the way my colleague Dr. Julia Sloan thinks of culture:

I'm from Alaska and when I think of bringing, for example, a corporate culture that originated in one country to people who work for that corporation in another country, I think of it as additive, that is, like a snowball that gets bigger when you pack more snow on, and does not lose its essential self. People needn't give up their cultures, but rather, can just add on to them.

Birthday Traditions May Vary

On Friday, I had more fun on my birthday and felt more special on the day than I recall having had or felt since childhood. The night before, I found myself resentful that I had to bring candy in for my colleagues, according to Indian tradition. It's my birthday, I reasoned, and I should be receiving treats, not having to give them.

Nonetheless, I steeled myself and followed the custom and brought in a large bag of chocolate Eclair" hard candy that I bought from the hotel room's mini-bar. At the beginning of the day, I put it in a bowl and set it on the corner of my desk, where it would be most accessible. As people arrived, I said, "Please have some candy. It's my birthday today."

"Many happy returns of the day!" they said routinely, taking just one piece each and shaking my hand, and in the case of some of the women, even though they hardly knew me yet, they kissed both of my cheeks as they wished me all good things for the day and the coming year.

A custom I resented just less than 24 hours prior suddenly seemed like the most wonderful idea in the world. I love for people to know it's my birthday when it is....Maybe it's part of having grown up as the youngest and most spoiled of my parents' three daughters, but I'm always a little sad on my birthday if everyone I interact with doesn't know the significance of the day.

In American culture, there's no excuse for telling someone it's your birthday once you're an adult. In Indian culture, I had blanket permission, since I was offering a tiny bit of hospitality for the privilege of their knowing and wishing me well accordingly.

On Friday afternoon, I learned another Indian custom that at first, I mistook for the same as the American version; my colleagues had arranged a cake for me that read, "Happy Birthday Sarah" in blue letters on white frosting....Coincidentally, that was the color-scheme of the cake my U.S. colleagues arranged for me upon my departure for this assignment....That's where the commonality ended:

In Bangalore on Friday, I began to cut the cake and a colleague came over to help. She cut just a swipe of frosting, put it in her first two fingers and thumb and approached me, saying, "This is an Indian custom." Out came the camera-inclusive cell phones and giggles from everyone who would bear witness; she swiped the frosting all over my face as people snapped photos and I couldn't stop laughing.

"This is an Indian custom that you made up for me today, right?" I said, still smiling and figuring that it was just my initiation. They promised that it really is a custom here.

In the ladies room, I washed all but a bit of the sugar off my face apparently; later, I felt that a bit of my hair that had fallen near my jaw during the frosting ceremony was brittle with invisible sugar. I enjoyed discovering this in the middle of a business meeting, and petting it for a moment in fond reminiscence.

My colleagues also all signed a birthday card for me and gave me the gift of a curved, glass photo frame, imprinted with the visual identity of our Learning and Management Development organization.

And my friend and colleague whose daughter's blog is on my blogroll not only gave me three fantastic gifts -- two Indian memoir books and an Indian film on DVD -- but her daughter SMS'ed me to wish me a happy birthday.

Involuntarily, I said aloud, "This is the best birthday I've had since I was a child....And I'm so touched that all of you signed a card for me; you hardly even know me yet."

If every day here could be like my birthday, where I surrender to, and then embrace and revel in local customs, and am embraced by the people who grew up here readily and with full faith, what a rich, fun learning experience this will be for all of us!