The postings on this site are my own and don't necessarily represent IBM's positions, strategies or opinions.
Brooms Look Different in India
I left my computer's power-cord at work by mistake today, so this'll be quick:
A group of beautiful teenage witches showed up at our door to collect candy. I passed several costumed kids on the way back to our house tonight. It was surreal and totally believable a at once. The opportunity for free candy is a universal reason to celebrate, I understand now, if I didn't already.
Also, 60% of the community where we live are expatriate families; I saw more Indian than non-Indian kids out tonight, but possibly, they were Indian-American kids.
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
Why I Persist
The postings on this site are my own and don't necessarily represent IBM's positions, strategies or opinions.
Intermittent Reinforcement -- the Most Powerful Kind
Last night, we returned from vacation and I was in a sad mood at being done with extended leisure. I didn't feel awake or spirited enough to blog, and then saw e-mail from an Indian friend's mother, who told me that she liked my blog.
That's all I needed to re-engage me. We had an exchange about how at one time, she knew Jews only as literary characters. I was reminded of how much education I used to lack about Indians; I wrote:
Progress is important to recognize. I know more now than I knew in high school.
Intermittent Reinforcement -- the Most Powerful Kind
Last night, we returned from vacation and I was in a sad mood at being done with extended leisure. I didn't feel awake or spirited enough to blog, and then saw e-mail from an Indian friend's mother, who told me that she liked my blog.
That's all I needed to re-engage me. We had an exchange about how at one time, she knew Jews only as literary characters. I was reminded of how much education I used to lack about Indians; I wrote:
Before high school, the only Indians I knew were in Rudyard Kipling's novel, *Kim.*
I had gone to elementary and junior high only with Jewish kids and I grew up in Stamford, Connecticut, where at the time, there was no Indian community to speak of (I'm 42). There was one kid who hung out with us in high school, Jason Patel, and I'm not kidding: I did not know he was Indian. I thought he was Jewish. I didn't even know that Patel was an Indian name back then.
Progress is important to recognize. I know more now than I knew in high school.
Monday, October 29, 2007
Strangers on a Train
The postings on this site are my own and don’t necessarily represent IBM’s positions, strategies or opinions.
Bound for Delhi from Agra
Me, turning to the woman in the seat across the aisle: "I'm sorry that I don't speak Dutch, but would you like some walnuts?"
"I'm Swiss."
"Oh! I'm sorry. I thought that because of the CH sound --"
"Yes, we have the CH sound, too."
"I speak Hebrew, which also has a CH sound."
Anyhow, she doesn't want any walnuts, and I turn back to the package and scoop them into my yogurt sheepishly.
Pat returns from the bathroom and then I find a hair-ball in the walnut-package; Pat tries to soothe me that it must just be felt from the conveyer belt in the walnut factory, and then, sternly, "Sarah, rally!"
Very quietly, I tell Pat about the ignorant interchange I've just had, and Pat says, "When you said, 'I don't speak Dutch,' she should have said, 'Neither do I!'"
We burst into laughter. I don't want the women -- her friend has also now returned from the bathroom -- to think that we're laughing at them and so I turn to her with all the humility my face can express and tell her Pat's quip. She laughs and then explains what happened to her friend, who smiles.
I say, "I'm so embarrassed. I was trying to be sophisticated."
"I'm sure you are sophisticated, says the friend generously.
"Yeah, somewhere," chimes in Pat and we laugh some more.
"We're not the sort of Americans," I need to tell them, "who think it's fine that everyone speaks English."
"You wouldn't be travelling if you were," says the friend.
Bound for Delhi from Agra
Me, turning to the woman in the seat across the aisle: "I'm sorry that I don't speak Dutch, but would you like some walnuts?"
"I'm Swiss."
"Oh! I'm sorry. I thought that because of the CH sound --"
"Yes, we have the CH sound, too."
"I speak Hebrew, which also has a CH sound."
Anyhow, she doesn't want any walnuts, and I turn back to the package and scoop them into my yogurt sheepishly.
Pat returns from the bathroom and then I find a hair-ball in the walnut-package; Pat tries to soothe me that it must just be felt from the conveyer belt in the walnut factory, and then, sternly, "Sarah, rally!"
Very quietly, I tell Pat about the ignorant interchange I've just had, and Pat says, "When you said, 'I don't speak Dutch,' she should have said, 'Neither do I!'"
We burst into laughter. I don't want the women -- her friend has also now returned from the bathroom -- to think that we're laughing at them and so I turn to her with all the humility my face can express and tell her Pat's quip. She laughs and then explains what happened to her friend, who smiles.
I say, "I'm so embarrassed. I was trying to be sophisticated."
"I'm sure you are sophisticated, says the friend generously.
"Yeah, somewhere," chimes in Pat and we laugh some more.
"We're not the sort of Americans," I need to tell them, "who think it's fine that everyone speaks English."
"You wouldn't be travelling if you were," says the friend.
Sunday, October 28, 2007
An Anniversary I Never Wanted
The postings on this site are my own and don’t necessarily represent IBM’s positions, strategies or opinions.
Not a Jubilant Jubilee
This weekend marks the 25th yahrzeit of my father, may his memory be blessed.
This morning, I sat on the balcony of our hotel-room, facing the Taj Mahal not too far off in the distance, thinking about the ritually simple, pine box in which my father was buried compared to the bereaved Mughal emperor's monumental tomb for his favorite wife.
A herd of sheep proceeded across a hill just over the floral wall of the hotel and I recalled my dad teaching me a pop song from his era, which needed to be sung quickly for full effect: "Mares eat oats and does eat oats and little lambs eat ivy; a kid'll eat ivy, too, wouldn't you?"
My dad, who was a toy and game designer, earned his Bachelors in Industrial Design from the phenomenal Rhode Island School of Design. He taught me to honor my imagination before I lost him, which was fortunate, as I've been imagining a continuing, rich relationship with him ever since his death, when he was just 56 and I, 17.
Vision and a Calling
Many people think of imaginative people as having vision, or being visionary, and I don't relate to that version of imagination. More so, I relate to imaginative people being called to do something essential. I hear things, rather than see them, I think.
My sort of imagination has never worried me -- other than lately, when I keep thinking I'm hearing my cell phone when I'm not; I *must* download a new ring-tone. My imagination, I do feel, is more aural than visual, more so stimulated aurally than visually.
An example of my sort of imagination would be my fairly keen recall of dialogue. Also, when I believe in a future state, I'm called to promote it, I think, rather than that I can see it, and want everyone else to see it, too.
Hearing and Seeing in Agra
No doubt, the Taj Mahal is wondrous, particularly in nearly-full moonlight, as Pat and I were privileged to see it last night. The chanting, apparently coming from the adjacent mosque, is what really intrigued me during our evening view of it, though.
Waiting for our half-hour slot for the evening view, we met Christine, a German tourist whose travel agent also did not know about the full-moonlight viewing opportunity. She had to educate her travel agent, as Pat did ours. And Pat wouldn't have known if our friend Lyn hadn't given us a book called something like 25 Things to See Before You Die.
Christine was from a town 100 km from Frankfurt and close to what had been the East German border; "I've been to Africa and the United States, but I had never been to East Germany," she said.
When we began speaking with Christine, we apologized that we needed to speak English. Pat said in German that she spoke just a little German and I said that I spoke just a little Yiddish.
"You might be interested to know, since you speak some Yiddish," she said while we discussed East and West Germany while the wall was still in place, "The wall came down on November 11th, which was the same day as Kristalnacht, and so our Independence Day is celebrated on October 3rd, rather than on November 11th."
In the bus, during the short ride back to our hotels, we established that Christine had lost both her parents nearly 30 years ago while I had lost my dad 25 years ago -- all to cancer. Pat had lost her dad nearly 20 years ago, too.
Here we were, three daughters, all of whom had lost at least one parent, visiting a 300+-year-old mausoleum of someone we never knew, honoring someone else's dead, from a religious tradition that differed from ours. And the Mughal emperor and the three of us had common ground.
Not a Jubilant Jubilee
This weekend marks the 25th yahrzeit of my father, may his memory be blessed.
This morning, I sat on the balcony of our hotel-room, facing the Taj Mahal not too far off in the distance, thinking about the ritually simple, pine box in which my father was buried compared to the bereaved Mughal emperor's monumental tomb for his favorite wife.
A herd of sheep proceeded across a hill just over the floral wall of the hotel and I recalled my dad teaching me a pop song from his era, which needed to be sung quickly for full effect: "Mares eat oats and does eat oats and little lambs eat ivy; a kid'll eat ivy, too, wouldn't you?"
My dad, who was a toy and game designer, earned his Bachelors in Industrial Design from the phenomenal Rhode Island School of Design. He taught me to honor my imagination before I lost him, which was fortunate, as I've been imagining a continuing, rich relationship with him ever since his death, when he was just 56 and I, 17.
Vision and a Calling
Many people think of imaginative people as having vision, or being visionary, and I don't relate to that version of imagination. More so, I relate to imaginative people being called to do something essential. I hear things, rather than see them, I think.
My sort of imagination has never worried me -- other than lately, when I keep thinking I'm hearing my cell phone when I'm not; I *must* download a new ring-tone. My imagination, I do feel, is more aural than visual, more so stimulated aurally than visually.
An example of my sort of imagination would be my fairly keen recall of dialogue. Also, when I believe in a future state, I'm called to promote it, I think, rather than that I can see it, and want everyone else to see it, too.
Hearing and Seeing in Agra
No doubt, the Taj Mahal is wondrous, particularly in nearly-full moonlight, as Pat and I were privileged to see it last night. The chanting, apparently coming from the adjacent mosque, is what really intrigued me during our evening view of it, though.
Waiting for our half-hour slot for the evening view, we met Christine, a German tourist whose travel agent also did not know about the full-moonlight viewing opportunity. She had to educate her travel agent, as Pat did ours. And Pat wouldn't have known if our friend Lyn hadn't given us a book called something like 25 Things to See Before You Die.
Christine was from a town 100 km from Frankfurt and close to what had been the East German border; "I've been to Africa and the United States, but I had never been to East Germany," she said.
When we began speaking with Christine, we apologized that we needed to speak English. Pat said in German that she spoke just a little German and I said that I spoke just a little Yiddish.
"You might be interested to know, since you speak some Yiddish," she said while we discussed East and West Germany while the wall was still in place, "The wall came down on November 11th, which was the same day as Kristalnacht, and so our Independence Day is celebrated on October 3rd, rather than on November 11th."
In the bus, during the short ride back to our hotels, we established that Christine had lost both her parents nearly 30 years ago while I had lost my dad 25 years ago -- all to cancer. Pat had lost her dad nearly 20 years ago, too.
Here we were, three daughters, all of whom had lost at least one parent, visiting a 300+-year-old mausoleum of someone we never knew, honoring someone else's dead, from a religious tradition that differed from ours. And the Mughal emperor and the three of us had common ground.
Friday, October 26, 2007
Prelude to the Taj...
The postings on this site are my own and don’t necessarily represent IBM’s positions, strategies or opinions.
Space Defense
"Don't touch me like that!" I said sharply, shoving a probably 15-year-old boy's red-shirted shoulder.
He looked at me with such a shocked expression that I had to remind myself of where his hand had just been while he stood behind me in line.
"The last person, who tried that got his arm broken, just fyi, Sweatpea!" growled Pat.
It's true that once, I knocked a drunk man to the ground for copping a feel as he walked by me.
He whimpered, "You broke my arm!" He couldn't get up. His friend stood there, gaping. I walked away.
That time was 16 years ago on a Saturday night, on Sheridan Road, when I lived in Chicago. This time, Pat and I were heading into one of the seven most peaceful place on earth...aside from our eruption; all of us were on line to enter the Bahai Lotus Temple in Delhi. (There are six other such temples worldwide.)
The boy was with his friend and they got ahead of us and one mimicked me to the rest, "Don't touch me!" and all of them laughed heartily. Then the boy and one of his friends held hands as they ascended the steps.
Everyone reading this entry who's not Indian needs to suspend his or her frame of reference. Here, male, teenaged friends often hold hands and it is a purely platonic gesture.
Seeing that he had a friend with whom he had a capacity for tenderness moved me. The imitation a moment prior inflamed me and then the hand-holding disarmed me.
Shoe Shame
We had checked our shoes in a nylon-burlap bag and Pat dumped out the two pairs for us afterwards. On the bench, where people were putting their shoes back on, I saw a mountain of shoes next to ours -- large sizes down to tiny ones -- all of which had spilled out of a bag like ours. The smallest pair, multi-colored sandals, made me sad for a sec. I envied their full bag compared to Pat's and mine. which yielded just two, adult pairs.
Hidden Diplomacy
Walking back to meet the driver, a group of junior high school girls passed us, saying hello eagerly. Pat didn't notice at first. I just said hello cheerfully in return and had to acknowledge to myself that our sunglasses did nothing to hide our skin-tone.
"Why are they saying hello to us?" Pat asked.
"Because we're not Indian, which makes us celebrities."
On the way back to the hotel, we drove by gorgeous embassies. "All of them are on foreign soil," Pat reminded me, "Isn't that neat?"
We saw Mauitius', Palestine's, Qatar's, Pakistan's, Canada's, Sudan's, Italy's...the United States'. Seeing our flag, flying in India excited my patriotism.
"Can you find this address?" I asked the driver, pointing to #13 on the map in our Lonely Planet guide book, which didn't included the number of the street at which it stood -- the Israeli Embassy.
On the road, leaving the Delhi airport, we did see Hebrew printed in cautionary, red font on the back of a car, "Shmor merchako,"/"Keep [your] distance." Unwittingly, our driver heeded the command and we never caught up to the car to see who was inside, unfortunately.
A conference of mostly non-Indian McKinsey people was also meeting at our hotel and all of them wore exquisite, Indian silk outfits to dinner. How much more beautiful a world we'd live in if every one of us wore Indian fashions all the time.
Space Defense
"Don't touch me like that!" I said sharply, shoving a probably 15-year-old boy's red-shirted shoulder.
He looked at me with such a shocked expression that I had to remind myself of where his hand had just been while he stood behind me in line.
"The last person, who tried that got his arm broken, just fyi, Sweatpea!" growled Pat.
It's true that once, I knocked a drunk man to the ground for copping a feel as he walked by me.
He whimpered, "You broke my arm!" He couldn't get up. His friend stood there, gaping. I walked away.
That time was 16 years ago on a Saturday night, on Sheridan Road, when I lived in Chicago. This time, Pat and I were heading into one of the seven most peaceful place on earth...aside from our eruption; all of us were on line to enter the Bahai Lotus Temple in Delhi. (There are six other such temples worldwide.)
The boy was with his friend and they got ahead of us and one mimicked me to the rest, "Don't touch me!" and all of them laughed heartily. Then the boy and one of his friends held hands as they ascended the steps.
Everyone reading this entry who's not Indian needs to suspend his or her frame of reference. Here, male, teenaged friends often hold hands and it is a purely platonic gesture.
Seeing that he had a friend with whom he had a capacity for tenderness moved me. The imitation a moment prior inflamed me and then the hand-holding disarmed me.
Shoe Shame
We had checked our shoes in a nylon-burlap bag and Pat dumped out the two pairs for us afterwards. On the bench, where people were putting their shoes back on, I saw a mountain of shoes next to ours -- large sizes down to tiny ones -- all of which had spilled out of a bag like ours. The smallest pair, multi-colored sandals, made me sad for a sec. I envied their full bag compared to Pat's and mine. which yielded just two, adult pairs.
Hidden Diplomacy
Walking back to meet the driver, a group of junior high school girls passed us, saying hello eagerly. Pat didn't notice at first. I just said hello cheerfully in return and had to acknowledge to myself that our sunglasses did nothing to hide our skin-tone.
"Why are they saying hello to us?" Pat asked.
"Because we're not Indian, which makes us celebrities."
On the way back to the hotel, we drove by gorgeous embassies. "All of them are on foreign soil," Pat reminded me, "Isn't that neat?"
We saw Mauitius', Palestine's, Qatar's, Pakistan's, Canada's, Sudan's, Italy's...the United States'. Seeing our flag, flying in India excited my patriotism.
"Can you find this address?" I asked the driver, pointing to #13 on the map in our Lonely Planet guide book, which didn't included the number of the street at which it stood -- the Israeli Embassy.
On the road, leaving the Delhi airport, we did see Hebrew printed in cautionary, red font on the back of a car, "Shmor merchako,"/"Keep [your] distance." Unwittingly, our driver heeded the command and we never caught up to the car to see who was inside, unfortunately.
A conference of mostly non-Indian McKinsey people was also meeting at our hotel and all of them wore exquisite, Indian silk outfits to dinner. How much more beautiful a world we'd live in if every one of us wore Indian fashions all the time.
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
Would I Agree to Another Assignment?
The postings on this site are my own and don’t necessarily represent IBM’s positions, strategies or opinions.
More of a Home- than a World-citizen
A European colleague phoned me today to discuss my perspective on what it's like to be on assignment in India, as she's trying to come on assignment here herself.
"How well were you accepted?" she asked, and "Would you do it again?"
"In my experience, most Indians I've met are not so much interested in learning about my culture from me, but they're very interested in my interest in their culture....We were invited to a Ganesh festival event, for example, and were asked to bring a dish to share. 'It's right around the time of the Jewish New Year,' we responded, and, 'We can bring apples and honey, which is our tradition, to promote a sweet new year.'
"Would you bring soda? We actually need some soda," said the person who invited us, with zero response to our mention of the apples-and-honey tradition.
"By contrast, when I ask questions about Indian history, religion, art, literature, and culture at large, everyone lights up and I learn a wonderful amount," I told my colleague.
"That actually makes sense, since don't most people prefer to talk about themselves? Still, it's a good tip -- not to assume an interest in a cultural exchange."
At dinner tonight, Pat suggested another reason: "Sarah, they see it right and left -- American culture -- all over TV, everywhere. Why would they want to know more?"
It doesn't matter. I'd rather it were this way than the other way around, i.e., that they share their culture with me freely, rather than being coy or secretive about it and only asking me to teach them about mine. After all, I am the one who came here. Since I'm lucky enough to share one language in common with many Indians, why not learn as much as I can and not mope about the initial lack of mutual intellectual curiosity.
With anyone with whom I'm having any sort of deep conversation, actually, I volunteer parallels between our cultures that strike me (see Deck the Cars...), as I'm a common-ground hunter by nature.
"Would you do it again?" she asked.
"Oh, well, that's a long answer. First, I need to explain that I didn't ask to come on this assignment; my VP recommended it to me as a great learning opportunity and offered either China or India. I picked India because of the special warmth of the participants in the management development program I facilitated here two years ago, plus I loved the food."
"I don't think I'm the world-citizen that you are [this colleague and I met seven years ago, when both of us worked at 590 Madison Ave. in New York City]. I'm less resilient. I get very homesick. It has been really hard at times.
"My mom will be 82 next month, God willing, and this weekend, I'm missing her receiving a lifetime achievement award from a Jewish women's organization with which she has worked for most of her life [Hadassah].
"*And* the work is more exciting than almost any I've ever done, and I will miss it, I know, upon my return. Everything's blooming here. It's marvelous work-wise."
At dinner, Pat said, "Well, we'd certainly do it differently next time -- like we'd know that the huge security deposit for our sublet was just business as usual, and how the Internet service provider plan worked, and the cell phone application process, and we'd pack better....I don't think I'm ready to go again for at least a year....And we couldn't expect Jeffrey, and Sam and Margaret [our neighbors] to do what they did for us this time [watching the house and keeping our mail]....A former boss who's on assignment in Shanghai for the next two years took me to dinner last week and said, "What you should do is come to China next."
"Oy!" said my mom when I told her, and then reassured her that I'm committed to completing my Masters and have already maxed out the allowance on the non-residency part. My mom was so brave and encouraging about this assignment. I think my mom misses me even more than she thought she would. I miss her as much as I knew I would, and the rest of my family, too.
The Full Moon's Coming
I really ought to have packed for our Taj Mahal trip, which begins at 5:15 am, already, and ought to have been in bed hours ago. Shoulda-woulda-coulda. I'm so wired and tired all at once.
Pat's all packed and snug in bed. I hate the thought of being more than arm's length from a blogging vehicle for the next four days. I am hoping and expecting that the hotels where we stay have web access, so that I don't have to be blogless.
A mentor of mine at work commented that blogging can't qualify as full relaxation, as it's still a form of work. Obviously, he's not a writer at heart...and then again, maybe it'll refresh my self-expression to have a hiatus. Pat needs to upload her photos and videos to her own machine, and so she really will be offline till our return, as she won't bring her laptop with her, which I agree makes sense.
During this vacation, I dream of reading in a bathtub, swimming, eating new foods in new places, seeing extraordinary sights, including the Bahai Lotus Temple in Delhi on Thursday, prior to going to Agra by train the next day, and of happy adventures I can't even anticipate....
For someone who talks about not really being able to relate to others' religions as comfortably as my own, this will be the third Bahai temple I've visited -- one in Haifa, Israel; one in Wilmette, Illinois; and tomorrow, one in Delhi.
Considering the number of Indians I've met who haven't wanted to trade notes initially on similarities and differences of our cultures, I thought about people I know who are less intellectually curious about other cultures and religions than I am, and so who gain zero cultural enrichment in that way. They don't try to share their culture with others, and they don't seek to learn about anyone else's. Maybe that's human nature...and where I go, too, during primitive, visceral moments.
Please, God, let there be nothing visceral about my behavior during this vacation.
More of a Home- than a World-citizen
A European colleague phoned me today to discuss my perspective on what it's like to be on assignment in India, as she's trying to come on assignment here herself.
"How well were you accepted?" she asked, and "Would you do it again?"
"In my experience, most Indians I've met are not so much interested in learning about my culture from me, but they're very interested in my interest in their culture....We were invited to a Ganesh festival event, for example, and were asked to bring a dish to share. 'It's right around the time of the Jewish New Year,' we responded, and, 'We can bring apples and honey, which is our tradition, to promote a sweet new year.'
"Would you bring soda? We actually need some soda," said the person who invited us, with zero response to our mention of the apples-and-honey tradition.
"By contrast, when I ask questions about Indian history, religion, art, literature, and culture at large, everyone lights up and I learn a wonderful amount," I told my colleague.
"That actually makes sense, since don't most people prefer to talk about themselves? Still, it's a good tip -- not to assume an interest in a cultural exchange."
At dinner tonight, Pat suggested another reason: "Sarah, they see it right and left -- American culture -- all over TV, everywhere. Why would they want to know more?"
It doesn't matter. I'd rather it were this way than the other way around, i.e., that they share their culture with me freely, rather than being coy or secretive about it and only asking me to teach them about mine. After all, I am the one who came here. Since I'm lucky enough to share one language in common with many Indians, why not learn as much as I can and not mope about the initial lack of mutual intellectual curiosity.
With anyone with whom I'm having any sort of deep conversation, actually, I volunteer parallels between our cultures that strike me (see Deck the Cars...), as I'm a common-ground hunter by nature.
"Would you do it again?" she asked.
"Oh, well, that's a long answer. First, I need to explain that I didn't ask to come on this assignment; my VP recommended it to me as a great learning opportunity and offered either China or India. I picked India because of the special warmth of the participants in the management development program I facilitated here two years ago, plus I loved the food."
"I don't think I'm the world-citizen that you are [this colleague and I met seven years ago, when both of us worked at 590 Madison Ave. in New York City]. I'm less resilient. I get very homesick. It has been really hard at times.
"My mom will be 82 next month, God willing, and this weekend, I'm missing her receiving a lifetime achievement award from a Jewish women's organization with which she has worked for most of her life [Hadassah].
"*And* the work is more exciting than almost any I've ever done, and I will miss it, I know, upon my return. Everything's blooming here. It's marvelous work-wise."
At dinner, Pat said, "Well, we'd certainly do it differently next time -- like we'd know that the huge security deposit for our sublet was just business as usual, and how the Internet service provider plan worked, and the cell phone application process, and we'd pack better....I don't think I'm ready to go again for at least a year....And we couldn't expect Jeffrey, and Sam and Margaret [our neighbors] to do what they did for us this time [watching the house and keeping our mail]....A former boss who's on assignment in Shanghai for the next two years took me to dinner last week and said, "What you should do is come to China next."
"Oy!" said my mom when I told her, and then reassured her that I'm committed to completing my Masters and have already maxed out the allowance on the non-residency part. My mom was so brave and encouraging about this assignment. I think my mom misses me even more than she thought she would. I miss her as much as I knew I would, and the rest of my family, too.
The Full Moon's Coming
I really ought to have packed for our Taj Mahal trip, which begins at 5:15 am, already, and ought to have been in bed hours ago. Shoulda-woulda-coulda. I'm so wired and tired all at once.
Pat's all packed and snug in bed. I hate the thought of being more than arm's length from a blogging vehicle for the next four days. I am hoping and expecting that the hotels where we stay have web access, so that I don't have to be blogless.
A mentor of mine at work commented that blogging can't qualify as full relaxation, as it's still a form of work. Obviously, he's not a writer at heart...and then again, maybe it'll refresh my self-expression to have a hiatus. Pat needs to upload her photos and videos to her own machine, and so she really will be offline till our return, as she won't bring her laptop with her, which I agree makes sense.
During this vacation, I dream of reading in a bathtub, swimming, eating new foods in new places, seeing extraordinary sights, including the Bahai Lotus Temple in Delhi on Thursday, prior to going to Agra by train the next day, and of happy adventures I can't even anticipate....
For someone who talks about not really being able to relate to others' religions as comfortably as my own, this will be the third Bahai temple I've visited -- one in Haifa, Israel; one in Wilmette, Illinois; and tomorrow, one in Delhi.
Considering the number of Indians I've met who haven't wanted to trade notes initially on similarities and differences of our cultures, I thought about people I know who are less intellectually curious about other cultures and religions than I am, and so who gain zero cultural enrichment in that way. They don't try to share their culture with others, and they don't seek to learn about anyone else's. Maybe that's human nature...and where I go, too, during primitive, visceral moments.
Please, God, let there be nothing visceral about my behavior during this vacation.
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
Pop Tune Mystery
The postings on this site are my own and don’t necessarily represent IBM’s positions, strategies or opinions.
Who Was the Artist?
During today's morning commute, my driver Channa and I heard a song that reminded me of a faster version of classic Suzanne Vega music. Malwika, the R.J. (her term for D.J.) on Radio Indigo, 91.1 FM, the colour of music, announced it as "Drinking Champagne Through a Straw." I really, really liked it and cannot find it through Google.
On the way home, I heard a new song by James Blunt. I disliked "Beautiful," which everyone else I knew loved, but I enjoyed "1973" and this other new one, the name and words of which I can't recall.
As I've stated here before, music is the balm!
Who Was the Artist?
During today's morning commute, my driver Channa and I heard a song that reminded me of a faster version of classic Suzanne Vega music. Malwika, the R.J. (her term for D.J.) on Radio Indigo, 91.1 FM, the colour of music, announced it as "Drinking Champagne Through a Straw." I really, really liked it and cannot find it through Google.
On the way home, I heard a new song by James Blunt. I disliked "Beautiful," which everyone else I knew loved, but I enjoyed "1973" and this other new one, the name and words of which I can't recall.
As I've stated here before, music is the balm!
Sunday, October 21, 2007
Graphic Novels and Culture Klatsch
The postings on this site are my own and don’t necessarily represent IBM’s positions, strategies or opinions.
Book Lust
Last night at dinner, Pat said, "I put The Elephanta Suite on your night-table. I think you'll like it, and it has big print."
I frowned.
She smiled.
Pat's a super-fast reader. I am a slow reader.
Malgudi Days, which I'm loving, is right up my alley. Simple. Essential. Touching.
I've written here before that I'm a slow reader, but a relatively fast writer. Probably, that's why I prefer to write than to read.
Growing up, I was ashamed of my slow reading speed and I know it's why I majored in Comparative Literature. I needed to prove I could read and comprehend in not one, but two languages (English and Hebrew).
Also, it's probably why I like graphic novels. In our three-plus months here, I've read both of Sarnath Banerjee's, Corridor and The Barn Owl's Wondrous Capers.
When I was buying the ...Wondrous Capers book at Blossom Book House in Bangalore, a pretty woman looked at it in my hand and smiled, saying that she appreciated Banerjee's books, too. Pat was right there and enjoyed listening to the exchange, she told me later.
Also, later, Pat and I agreed that while at the bookstore, we felt in the thick of the society, like we did when we were with mostly Indians on that early-Sunday-morning Lal Bagh tour.
"Have you read Fun Home by Alison Bechdel?" I asked the woman, "It's actually a graphic memoir, and amazing!" (I wrote a bit about it previously here.)
"No."
"You'd love it! It's the most literary book of its kind you've ever seen! It's Fun Home, and Fun is short for Funeral, like, Funeral Home."
I like the manga Buddha series, she said, pointing to a daunting stack of titles. Wikipedia's great because now that I've scanned the info. on the Buddha books, I'm interested in going back to the bookstore and trying at least the first one.
Deathly Digression
The bookstore didn't have Fun Home, but said they could order it. I said, "That's OK. I own it already, and it's amazing." Later, it occurred to me that "funeral home" might be a bit of a foreign concept here, since most of the dead are cremated.
I must admit that I'm willing to be ignorant about this for now, as I don't feel like researching the Indian funeral home industry, or lack thereof. Ideally, one of the people who finds his or her way to this blog will know and will educate me.
Digging for Discrimination
The latest Banerjee novel is the closest I've come to meeting a Jewish, Indian immigrant, and the character's fictional(!) as well as multi-century and multi-geographical. The book is stranger than his first, and compelling.
As a non-fiction Jew myself, when I read about how the character is a merchant for the rich, I found myself digging for an anti-Semitic sub-text, mostly without any satisfaction...namely, I didn't really find one.
From experience, though, I became nervous, looking at cartoon depictions of Jews by a cartoon-artist who wasn't Jewish. Historically, and even currently, they were not typically flattering.
Still, even without anything overtly anti-, the character's role reminded me of a conversation I had a month ago with one of the otherwise smarter people in India.
"I wouldn't guess you were Jewish," she said.
"Why not?"
"Well, you don't seem like a bean-counter."
"What do you mean?"
"Jews are known for being careful with their money, though nothing compared to the Chinese!"
"Where did you learn that?"
"You just seem more fun --"
"I didn't think there were enough Jews in India for anyone to have an opinion about us. What have you read?"
At that point, another of the smarter people in India, who was listening, interjected, "Anyone here *would* have read."
"What? The Protocols of the Elders of Zion? I heard that that was big elsewhere in Asia, actually."
They looked at me blankly, and so I inferred that the nutty rag didn't ring a bell. "What if I made a generalization about Indians?"
"We wouldn't mind. In fact, we're terrible to ourselves. If you walked into a restaurant here with a disabled Indian friend, who needed assistance, they'd help you first because you're white."
I've never felt so white as I do here. I've always thought of my skin as greenish and definitely not pink, like full-fledged white people (like white people who are not on the hate-list of the Ku Klux Klan). And yet in India, I feel like a white person.
At a glance in the United States, of course, I am registered as white. I do not feel as white there, though, both proportionally and culturally. That is, there are many more white people in the United States than here, and so there's a hierarchy of whiteness, I feel, that is absent here. Instead, there seems to be a hierarchy of brownness. It is definitely all relative.
To India-based Indians, in my experience, Jews are mostly literary characters or occasional figures in news from Israel; we're not part of their basic frame of reference, and so here, I'm just white and also assumed to be Christian.
I can't recall if I wrote this here or not, but during our first week, staying at the Windsor, we asked the concierge to see if there were a synagogue or anywhere for us to worship with other Jews during our Sabbath.
At the end of the week, she reported hopefully, "There is no synagogue, but I have the address of a Methodist church if you like."
Book Lust
Last night at dinner, Pat said, "I put The Elephanta Suite on your night-table. I think you'll like it, and it has big print."
I frowned.
She smiled.
Pat's a super-fast reader. I am a slow reader.
Malgudi Days, which I'm loving, is right up my alley. Simple. Essential. Touching.
I've written here before that I'm a slow reader, but a relatively fast writer. Probably, that's why I prefer to write than to read.
Growing up, I was ashamed of my slow reading speed and I know it's why I majored in Comparative Literature. I needed to prove I could read and comprehend in not one, but two languages (English and Hebrew).
Also, it's probably why I like graphic novels. In our three-plus months here, I've read both of Sarnath Banerjee's, Corridor and The Barn Owl's Wondrous Capers.
When I was buying the ...Wondrous Capers book at Blossom Book House in Bangalore, a pretty woman looked at it in my hand and smiled, saying that she appreciated Banerjee's books, too. Pat was right there and enjoyed listening to the exchange, she told me later.
Also, later, Pat and I agreed that while at the bookstore, we felt in the thick of the society, like we did when we were with mostly Indians on that early-Sunday-morning Lal Bagh tour.
"Have you read Fun Home by Alison Bechdel?" I asked the woman, "It's actually a graphic memoir, and amazing!" (I wrote a bit about it previously here.)
"No."
"You'd love it! It's the most literary book of its kind you've ever seen! It's Fun Home, and Fun is short for Funeral, like, Funeral Home."
I like the manga Buddha series, she said, pointing to a daunting stack of titles. Wikipedia's great because now that I've scanned the info. on the Buddha books, I'm interested in going back to the bookstore and trying at least the first one.
Deathly Digression
The bookstore didn't have Fun Home, but said they could order it. I said, "That's OK. I own it already, and it's amazing." Later, it occurred to me that "funeral home" might be a bit of a foreign concept here, since most of the dead are cremated.
I must admit that I'm willing to be ignorant about this for now, as I don't feel like researching the Indian funeral home industry, or lack thereof. Ideally, one of the people who finds his or her way to this blog will know and will educate me.
Digging for Discrimination
The latest Banerjee novel is the closest I've come to meeting a Jewish, Indian immigrant, and the character's fictional(!) as well as multi-century and multi-geographical. The book is stranger than his first, and compelling.
As a non-fiction Jew myself, when I read about how the character is a merchant for the rich, I found myself digging for an anti-Semitic sub-text, mostly without any satisfaction...namely, I didn't really find one.
From experience, though, I became nervous, looking at cartoon depictions of Jews by a cartoon-artist who wasn't Jewish. Historically, and even currently, they were not typically flattering.
Still, even without anything overtly anti-, the character's role reminded me of a conversation I had a month ago with one of the otherwise smarter people in India.
"I wouldn't guess you were Jewish," she said.
"Why not?"
"Well, you don't seem like a bean-counter."
"What do you mean?"
"Jews are known for being careful with their money, though nothing compared to the Chinese!"
"Where did you learn that?"
"You just seem more fun --"
"I didn't think there were enough Jews in India for anyone to have an opinion about us. What have you read?"
At that point, another of the smarter people in India, who was listening, interjected, "Anyone here *would* have read."
"What? The Protocols of the Elders of Zion? I heard that that was big elsewhere in Asia, actually."
They looked at me blankly, and so I inferred that the nutty rag didn't ring a bell. "What if I made a generalization about Indians?"
"We wouldn't mind. In fact, we're terrible to ourselves. If you walked into a restaurant here with a disabled Indian friend, who needed assistance, they'd help you first because you're white."
I've never felt so white as I do here. I've always thought of my skin as greenish and definitely not pink, like full-fledged white people (like white people who are not on the hate-list of the Ku Klux Klan). And yet in India, I feel like a white person.
At a glance in the United States, of course, I am registered as white. I do not feel as white there, though, both proportionally and culturally. That is, there are many more white people in the United States than here, and so there's a hierarchy of whiteness, I feel, that is absent here. Instead, there seems to be a hierarchy of brownness. It is definitely all relative.
To India-based Indians, in my experience, Jews are mostly literary characters or occasional figures in news from Israel; we're not part of their basic frame of reference, and so here, I'm just white and also assumed to be Christian.
I can't recall if I wrote this here or not, but during our first week, staying at the Windsor, we asked the concierge to see if there were a synagogue or anywhere for us to worship with other Jews during our Sabbath.
At the end of the week, she reported hopefully, "There is no synagogue, but I have the address of a Methodist church if you like."
Friday, October 19, 2007
Deck the Cars with Strings of Jasmine
The postings on this site are my own and don’t necessarily represent IBM’s positions, strategies or opinions.
Comparative Conversation with a Colleague
Yesterday, a colleague who typically works from home appeared as a pleasant surprise, wearing a rich, dark-and-light, pink-patterned, thick silk sari, looking elegant as always. She was coming in to the office to settle some expenses.
"I thought about you during my commute today. I saw the same Aum symbol that you painted [in vermilion] over your doorway on several cars and buses." (In celebration of the final, pivotal days of Navrati, Channa, my driver, also strung yellow mums on the hood and across the grill of the car, and hung jasmine from the rear-view mirror.) "Remind me: What does Aum stand for?"
"It's really the idea of one god as compared with idol worship."
"And that's the worship you do, of the one god?"
"I do both. My mother worships idols, though her father was a member of Arya Samaj."
"Arya Samaj?"
"Yes, they were scholars of the Vedas and felt there should be no distinction among castes, and no idol worship.
"How is that possible, if your grandfather was against idol worship, that your mother was able to do it?"
"Because her mother did."
"So they're not far enough apart religiously that it caused problems in their marriage, I guess, since both of them were still Hindu --"
"Right."
"Sikhs are also monotheistic, aren't they?"
"Well, they don't believe in a human sort of god, but they do have nine gurus, including Gobind Singh. Sikhs used to be part of many families. Originally, a Sikh was just the first-born son of any Hindu family, whose function was to protect the family."
"First-born sons are special in Judaism, too." (If you click on the link in the previous sentence, among other details of the tradition, you'll learn, "According to the traditional rabbinic interpretation...the duties of a priest fell upon the eldest son of each family. The first-born was to be dedicated to God in order to perform this task.")
"And they really became separate only in the last century. Things became bad when the army entered the Golden Temple in 1984, to arrest a terrorist."
"Oh, that's awful that they defiled the temple --" I said, recalling the reason I'm forbidden, as a non-Hindu, to enter some temples. (Months ago, I told a colleague that I thought it was exclusive to be barred from entering some temples and he said that the exclusion resulted from the British, having desecrated a number of Hindu temples pre-independence.)
"Just as there is Pakistan, the Sikhs wanted their own state, Khalistan...."
"I'm most comfortable, talking about others' religions when I can find parallels or parts of them that remind me of mine. Then they don't seem so foreign...like the nine-day Navrati festival together with Diwali remind me of Chanukah, which is our eight-day festival of lights."
My colleague's eyes became wide and she said, "Wow!" smiling at the similarity.
"Yeah, I was a Comparative Literature major and I guess I always enjoy being comparative."
"I studied Child Psychology and was able to do some comparative work, too. A number of us lived with and studied the tribe in the east that speaks Ho --"
"Ho?"
"Yes, it's a really rural tribe, and also the Nairs of Kerala (in South India) and the Khasi of Central India, in Madhya Pradesh. They're all matrilineal.
"Neat."
"And we did some other work, comparing other parts of Asia with India."
"Like where?"
"Like China and Japan....I didn't like the clinical part of Psychology, though, as it made me so sad to meet with, for example, autistic children and --"
"My partner Pat got a Masters in Psych., but opted out; the clinical part upset her, too."
I could have kept talking with my colleague all afternoon, but I knew I needed to let her get her work done, so that she could get back to her holiday celebration, and I was also trying to leave early to work from home for the rest of the day, so that I could enable Channa to continue his holiday celebration with minimal interruption.
At 2 o'clock, when I sat down in the backseat, Channa reached over to the other front seat and handed me a package. "Sweets for the holiday, Ma'am."
"Oh, Channa, I should have known to do the same for you. Thank you! It's so kind of you!" It was a small, foil, heavy tray of something. The bag referred to "pure ghee." My doctor forbids me to eat sugar to help keep my blood sugar in check for my otosclerosis, but I knew to accept the candy in any case.
When I got it home, Pat and I opened it, to see if it might be of interest to her, and also because I was curious what candy made of pure, clarified butter (ghee) would look like. It looked like a tray of solidified butter and hardly smelled sweet.
It was a perfect example of how there's not necessarily a 1:1 translation or parallel between what I value and what people of other cultures value, but how there are still universal values we share, e.g., gift-giving/receiving.
One more comparison comes to mind: Last night, I was wired and couldn't fall asleep till 1:30 am. I started a book by R.K. Narayan, which my friend Chitra recommended to me, Malgudi Days. Could the author be the Indian Sholom Aleichem or I.B. Singer? I'll have to keep reading to see.
Comparative Conversation with a Colleague
Yesterday, a colleague who typically works from home appeared as a pleasant surprise, wearing a rich, dark-and-light, pink-patterned, thick silk sari, looking elegant as always. She was coming in to the office to settle some expenses.
"I thought about you during my commute today. I saw the same Aum symbol that you painted [in vermilion] over your doorway on several cars and buses." (In celebration of the final, pivotal days of Navrati, Channa, my driver, also strung yellow mums on the hood and across the grill of the car, and hung jasmine from the rear-view mirror.) "Remind me: What does Aum stand for?"
"It's really the idea of one god as compared with idol worship."
"And that's the worship you do, of the one god?"
"I do both. My mother worships idols, though her father was a member of Arya Samaj."
"Arya Samaj?"
"Yes, they were scholars of the Vedas and felt there should be no distinction among castes, and no idol worship.
"How is that possible, if your grandfather was against idol worship, that your mother was able to do it?"
"Because her mother did."
"So they're not far enough apart religiously that it caused problems in their marriage, I guess, since both of them were still Hindu --"
"Right."
"Sikhs are also monotheistic, aren't they?"
"Well, they don't believe in a human sort of god, but they do have nine gurus, including Gobind Singh. Sikhs used to be part of many families. Originally, a Sikh was just the first-born son of any Hindu family, whose function was to protect the family."
"First-born sons are special in Judaism, too." (If you click on the link in the previous sentence, among other details of the tradition, you'll learn, "According to the traditional rabbinic interpretation...the duties of a priest fell upon the eldest son of each family. The first-born was to be dedicated to God in order to perform this task.")
"And they really became separate only in the last century. Things became bad when the army entered the Golden Temple in 1984, to arrest a terrorist."
"Oh, that's awful that they defiled the temple --" I said, recalling the reason I'm forbidden, as a non-Hindu, to enter some temples. (Months ago, I told a colleague that I thought it was exclusive to be barred from entering some temples and he said that the exclusion resulted from the British, having desecrated a number of Hindu temples pre-independence.)
"Just as there is Pakistan, the Sikhs wanted their own state, Khalistan...."
"I'm most comfortable, talking about others' religions when I can find parallels or parts of them that remind me of mine. Then they don't seem so foreign...like the nine-day Navrati festival together with Diwali remind me of Chanukah, which is our eight-day festival of lights."
My colleague's eyes became wide and she said, "Wow!" smiling at the similarity.
"Yeah, I was a Comparative Literature major and I guess I always enjoy being comparative."
"I studied Child Psychology and was able to do some comparative work, too. A number of us lived with and studied the tribe in the east that speaks Ho --"
"Ho?"
"Yes, it's a really rural tribe, and also the Nairs of Kerala (in South India) and the Khasi of Central India, in Madhya Pradesh. They're all matrilineal.
"Neat."
"And we did some other work, comparing other parts of Asia with India."
"Like where?"
"Like China and Japan....I didn't like the clinical part of Psychology, though, as it made me so sad to meet with, for example, autistic children and --"
"My partner Pat got a Masters in Psych., but opted out; the clinical part upset her, too."
I could have kept talking with my colleague all afternoon, but I knew I needed to let her get her work done, so that she could get back to her holiday celebration, and I was also trying to leave early to work from home for the rest of the day, so that I could enable Channa to continue his holiday celebration with minimal interruption.
At 2 o'clock, when I sat down in the backseat, Channa reached over to the other front seat and handed me a package. "Sweets for the holiday, Ma'am."
"Oh, Channa, I should have known to do the same for you. Thank you! It's so kind of you!" It was a small, foil, heavy tray of something. The bag referred to "pure ghee." My doctor forbids me to eat sugar to help keep my blood sugar in check for my otosclerosis, but I knew to accept the candy in any case.
When I got it home, Pat and I opened it, to see if it might be of interest to her, and also because I was curious what candy made of pure, clarified butter (ghee) would look like. It looked like a tray of solidified butter and hardly smelled sweet.
It was a perfect example of how there's not necessarily a 1:1 translation or parallel between what I value and what people of other cultures value, but how there are still universal values we share, e.g., gift-giving/receiving.
One more comparison comes to mind: Last night, I was wired and couldn't fall asleep till 1:30 am. I started a book by R.K. Narayan, which my friend Chitra recommended to me, Malgudi Days. Could the author be the Indian Sholom Aleichem or I.B. Singer? I'll have to keep reading to see.
Thursday, October 18, 2007
Blog Urge
The postings on this site are my own and don’t necessarily represent IBM’s positions, strategies or opinions.
Jonesing to Blog
I've been wanting to blog since I woke up this morning, and yet, here I am, 30 minutes past when I should be in bed with the lights off, if I wanted a good night's sleep. There isn't even a burning topic in my head -- simply, have missed spending time with the blog and the people I know and love, who kindly follow it, and the strangers, who show up via random search words.
Next week, Pat and I go to the Taj Mahal and we're talking about it often. "I figured you'd like it, since you like rocks so much," Pat said. I love that she gets its native, mineral appeal to me. And I get that she'll want to take photos and photos of it.
The Taj Mahal captures my imagination, as do the people behind the search words that land here, as does envisioning an India, where being gay, lesbian, bisexual or transgender is simply extraordinary, rather than at all taboo....I wish that for the United States, too.
I just added my friend Deepak's blog to my blog roll. He'll help both countries get there by his example, and now Holland further, since he's begun his MBA there.
What Else Captures My Imagination?
-- the magazine we bought for our niece at the small sundry shop in our neighborhood, "Muslim Girl: Enlighten. Celebrate. Inspire." There's a great fashion spread inside, "5 Key Pieces for Fall" along with "Eid Eats" a music review of Kate Fenner....I just went to see what Kate Fenner sounded like and was reminded of a mix of Carly Simon and Joan Armatrading.
What else? -- I'm intrigued, thinking about what people were like as children, and their favorite children's books. I asked the favorite children's book question on my Facebook profile and got some neat answers.
What else captures my imagination? -- anticipating the meal of Mughalai cuisine that we'll experience tomorrow evening during the Navrati food festival that the Rajgarh restaurant here is hosting for all nine of the fest's days. We've been to six of the seven nights so far -- missed last night's Bengali cuisine, but have enjoyed the Punjabi; Gujrathi; Chettinadu; Kashmiri; Goan and Rajastani food so far.
It has been months since I've tried ending a blog entry with a question to readers, but I'll try once more: What captures your imagination?
Jonesing to Blog
I've been wanting to blog since I woke up this morning, and yet, here I am, 30 minutes past when I should be in bed with the lights off, if I wanted a good night's sleep. There isn't even a burning topic in my head -- simply, have missed spending time with the blog and the people I know and love, who kindly follow it, and the strangers, who show up via random search words.
Next week, Pat and I go to the Taj Mahal and we're talking about it often. "I figured you'd like it, since you like rocks so much," Pat said. I love that she gets its native, mineral appeal to me. And I get that she'll want to take photos and photos of it.
The Taj Mahal captures my imagination, as do the people behind the search words that land here, as does envisioning an India, where being gay, lesbian, bisexual or transgender is simply extraordinary, rather than at all taboo....I wish that for the United States, too.
I just added my friend Deepak's blog to my blog roll. He'll help both countries get there by his example, and now Holland further, since he's begun his MBA there.
What Else Captures My Imagination?
-- the magazine we bought for our niece at the small sundry shop in our neighborhood, "Muslim Girl: Enlighten. Celebrate. Inspire." There's a great fashion spread inside, "5 Key Pieces for Fall" along with "Eid Eats" a music review of Kate Fenner....I just went to see what Kate Fenner sounded like and was reminded of a mix of Carly Simon and Joan Armatrading.
What else? -- I'm intrigued, thinking about what people were like as children, and their favorite children's books. I asked the favorite children's book question on my Facebook profile and got some neat answers.
What else captures my imagination? -- anticipating the meal of Mughalai cuisine that we'll experience tomorrow evening during the Navrati food festival that the Rajgarh restaurant here is hosting for all nine of the fest's days. We've been to six of the seven nights so far -- missed last night's Bengali cuisine, but have enjoyed the Punjabi; Gujrathi; Chettinadu; Kashmiri; Goan and Rajastani food so far.
It has been months since I've tried ending a blog entry with a question to readers, but I'll try once more: What captures your imagination?
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