About a book

I recently read this book by a British-born Indian author, Meera Syal. I have to admit at this juncture, that I have never read any books by any Indian author, born Indian or born abroad, except for a book by Khushwant Singh, "The Train To Pakistan". That book was bought out of curiousity to see what an Indian author would write in a presumably foreign language, English. I was impressed by that book, which was based on the Indo-Pakistan border split in 1947. The book gave the impression that Indians and Pakistanis didn't like what their respective governments were doing. The Hindus and Muslims living together in a small border town eventually had to undergo a painful separation. The book was quite real.

Now, to come back to Meera Syal's "Life isn't all ha ha hee hee". I picked it up at random from the library so I had absolutely no idea what to expect out of a book written by an Indian; the being-born-british didn't really get to me in the beginning. Her name was Indian, and thats all I looked at before picking it up. It so happens my choice for reading wasn't a bad one. The book is about three punjabi women living in London, from which I am inclined to think there is a higher population of punjabi people there compared to any other Indian community. In the same lines, I think Halifax has a majority of a south-indian population, in general, as I was able to find a dosa place downtown quite easily.

Back to the book. Its about this three women, as I mentioned earlier. All three of them are different, awfully different, but together as friends. All of them are in their mid-30s, that stage of life where even if you are married, life is insecure for a while. If you lose whatever is holding you as one piece, you lose everything - your life, your marriage, your kids, your friends, your everything. Something like this happens to each one of them - think trust and betrayal... these two words should cover most of what happens between friends I guess. And there are the men, the men of each of their lives, the men who stayed, the men who cheated, the men who made a passing difference...

As I read the book, I marvelled at the way the author brought about the "male" part of Indian men; the usual "I-am-the-man-of-the-house-you-should-bow-down-to-me" attitude of Indian men, elevated mostly by the attitude of the women in the house; the "wife-should-be-at-home-and-reproduce-sons-and-keep-house" dream of Indian men; the "I-always-need-to-have-another-woman-apart-from-the-wife-for-everything-else" thoughts of Indian men. Though I had always known that 70% of Indian men adhere to these strict rules, reading about how they go about it was fascinating. Come to think of it, I think I should say that the men in India are not this bad... Its the ones abroad, the ones who left India to live as Indians elsewhere, that do such things.

I have always noticed that second-generation Indians living abroad, who have no chance of going back to the country they claim to be from, live in an indian time-zone that is twenty or thirty years behind. They would get the shock of their lives if they ever visit India... India has changed in a lot of ways. Yes, there are some places where people still stick to cultures and traditions and fear them, but elsewhere, people are changing to a new dimension, where the same cultures and traditions don't bother them anymore.

Though this blog never shaped up the way I wanted it to in the first place, I am still posting it coz my thoughts sort-of flowed off and I didn't want to waste them. If interested, this book is a good read... the author has a lovely sense of humor with which every word in the book comes to life. "Tussi great ho" Meera Syal. And yes, this book is surely a reality check, but mingles with comedy so much that you would laugh your heads off, thinking about the India in London and the India in India.

Paan............

I wrote an article about chat-eating in Ethiopia. Somebody who read it left a comment saying we have the same habit in India. Well, I have lived in India for 20 years to know that we don't have chat there...if there is, it is not a big problem to be of concern to the Indian community. But we do have an addictive habit, as well as it being cultural. The paan...betel leaf. I just wanted to write about that here [again, no offence meant against anything or anyone].

The betel leaf, as everyone knows, is a green leaf thing that people in India like to chew. I found this interesting article about the uses of betel leaf. I actually didn't think it would be in any way useful, but it seems to be anyway, which is good as long as it is not abused. As a cultural thing, the "paan" is served after lunch or dinner in traditional ceremonies, weddings and so on. Its a common sight to see people relaxing with paan in their mouths after a tiresome wedding or an important family function. It is mostly used as a mouth freshner. It is also said to aid in digestion, which is specially needed when you eat all sortsa spicy tasty yummy Indian food!

I found an article, an interesting little part of which is here.

"Betel nuts, so widely used in India, contain a drug called arecoline, a stimulant comparable to caffeine. The addition of a pinch of quicklime to the betel leaf appears to contribute to an increase in the potency of the leaf-nut combination. The exact role of betel leaf in a pan is unclear. For one, the leaf serves to wrap the contents in a nice little package. Secondly, the combination of quicklime and betel leaf appears to be responsible for the bright red juice just as the combination of quicklime and turmeric, the powder used for tilak, produces a similarly bright red color.) The nuisance value associated with excessive use of pan is that it first discolors the user's teeth and makes them ugly. Secondly, the way people spit the juice on public pavements is a national disgrace."

Well, I did think that spitting the juice on public pavements was a habit left in India alone. Apparently, when Indians go abroad, they carry their habits with them as well. I recently went to an Indian place close to Chicago. There was a whole big lane of Indian stores, from clothing stores to grocery stores to eat-outs. It seemed so much like India, except for a lot of traffic lights, street signs and sidewalks. I would have thought Indian people would have kept the place cleaner, this being a foreign country. But no, I was wrong. I saw red patches on the sidewalks and on areas around lamp-posts and street signs - red patches of betel juice, spit by good old Indians. Spitting betel juice on the ground is now an international disgrace, I bet. I wonder why people cannot stop doing that anywhere they go. I remember the sight of special spit stands at railway stations in India, filled with sand for people to spit into but still, not many use them.

Long time use of betel leaf and nut chewing leads to mouth cancer. Here's more on paan. It is kindof an addictive habit, once you start chewing it regularly. I read this article that quoted that withdrawal from chewing paan is diffcult, in that you get this sensation of chewing paan first thing in the morning. That is as bad as addictive alcoholism. Not many people really bother about oral cancer in India, because visibly, the only bad thing that shows of betel chewing is the redness of the mouth. On the long run, it can prove a dangerous habit, just as smoking is to the lungs.

Life at Periyaar...

My year at Grade 6 and 7 were disastrous. I always failed in Tamil or Biology, even though I went for tutions. I never studied, nor made an effort to do so. My Tamil was awful!!!!!! If I tried to study to get a pass in Tamil, I flunked in Biology. There were other problems too, at which end I pleaded with my parents to get me out of there. There was a time when I kept telling people I will be in the same school till I finish Grade 12. I started off kindergarten here, and my parents never thought of shifting us out of that school. Then this crisis came and they took me out and put me and my sister in a Matriculation School run by the Periyar Institutions.

[Note: Again, No offence meant to anyone. This is just a real-life experience. I write with the point of view of an Grade 8 student - must have been 12 years old].

Periyar Educational Complex is a big complex of lots of institutions run inside a big campus. It is run by the non-political DK group (Dravidar Kazhagam). It was founded by Periyar. He's dead now, and the whole group and the institutions associated with it is run by the DK group chairman, name forgotten right now. They do a lot of charity work and fight for the rights of women and so on. A majority of the institutions they run are for girls - an all-girl engineering college, a pharmacy college and so on. They are weird, though.

I studied in their matriculation school for a year - my Grade 8 year. The list of their weirdness is as follows.

1. All their institutions open by morning 8am. This is because the chairman is so impressed by the American system of early starts...and he wants his brood of chickens to do the same as well. For an Indian scenario, this really doesn't work. My mom worked in their pharmacy college, so all three of us getting ready by 7:30am was a nightmare.

2. All the schools got over by 2:30pm. The colleges and other organisations closed at regular times, like any other place, around 4 or 5pm. We school kids had a hard time, coz we go home and no one is there, a scenario when both parents are working. As is natural with all kids, we wreacked havoc at home, and what with our sibling fights, we wasted time.

3. As is common in any private management organisation, this one had its own rituals as well. Whenever the chairman visited the school, we students had to line up to welcome him. I didn't mind that, but the worst part were the chants we had to do when he walked by. We had to chant "God doesn't exist", "Long live Periyar" (who happens to be long dead anyway), "Long live his goals". Believe me, this was the dumbest thing that ever happened to me.

4. Public holidays were only for Christmas, Ramzan and Diwali. Oh, but we did get holidays for Periyar's birthday and death day, his wife's birthday and death day. No holidays for the countless ritualistic celebrations that the hindus have. They celebrated Pongal because it was a Tamil festival, not necessarily specific of any God.

5. 24th December is the day Periyar died. There is a statue of Periyar in Trichy, at the center of the city, where the bus station is. All staff (lucky students!) have to compulsorily attend a gathering around the statue, where the chairman and a whole bunch of people garland his statue, and then attend a meeting held at their headquarters in Trichy, which incidentally was just opposite to where we lived. This is weird because the staff have to dress in the official Periyar dress...a death dress of black and white, which isn't quite interesting when the next day is Christmas. The staff had to compulsorily attend because if not, the gathering would not be as crowded as it is with them.

Since all their official (and unofficial) meetings happen at the place opposite to our house, we sometimes used to go to our terrace to watch the people who give speeches and listen to them, just for the fun of it. They always end their speech with the chants I mentioned above. They always find any excuse a nice reason to critise any religion and any God. Most of their speeches are usually about how bad Hindu Gods are and the myths and reality of them. I agree India is a free country and everyone has a freedom of speech, but people do respect one another. They respect other's religion, and that is why people in India live with peace and harmony. The speeches and thoughts of the DK people can be bugging sometimes.

The DK organisation does a lot of work among the scheduled castes and tribes, uplifting them and fighting for their rights. They are not into politics, but prefer to reach out to the common people without the aid of them. My mom worked in their institution for a long long time. Through her, I have met a lot of people who have really benefitted from their help. Mom used to be proud of all the services they render to the common man. Weird is weird anyway!

I was there for a year, and the only thing that got better was my Tamil. That's because my friend was very good in Tamil and she made sure I atleast matched up a little bit for me being her friend. That was the first time I encountered somebody who really showed me what friendship was all about...helping out, reaching out, being there, admonishing you for your bad and praising you for your good. Life at Periyar wasn't so bad after all. Weird is weird anyway!!

Munchies!!!!!!!! From Home!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Got a long lost package today from an aunt of mine who had visited India in January this year. Dad and my Uncle and Aunt had sent me some stuff and you bet I am glad to have it. It was lost until yesterday and I was worried about it, partly because it had all the worldly jewels I ever possessed, and partly because it had some dosa mix. I didn't know about the rest of the stuff that was in and I was so surprised to see eats from the southernmost tip of India! Wow!!!!!!!!!!

Dad has special places spread all over Nagercoil and his contacts give him the best of what they have to offer...in food! He has a special connection with a bakery where they make the best plum cakes I have ever tasted so far. Forget JM Bakery from Coimbatore for its plum cakes. Its quality is so bad now that it is not even worth to pay half the price for a kilo of plum cake. (Again.. exclusive my opinion not meant to offend others - I really don't like those cakes anymore). Dad knows this particular bakery well, and when he tells them he needs cakes to take home, they make it specially for him. Same goes for a banana chips place and other goodies that are exclusive for Nagercoil. He's got a good place for cashews too.

Seeking places where they make good munchies come from the fact that his whole family likes to eat, and when it comes to sending it half-way across the globe so that his "beloved daughter" could have a taste of home, I bet the people who made it would have taken extra care. I say this because I have received it after more than a month of the cake's arrival to the States and it hasn't got a bit of fungus on it yet. Ofcourse, credit of packaging goes to my Dad and Uncle. No need for regular phone calls (not that they make them anyway), no need for emails and letters. In the depth of my heart I know both my parents always think of me and love me, and ofcourse, as long as I get stuff like this often, I will live happily ever after!

The next field trip

This is an experience that happened only once in my life (better that way). Now when I think about it, it all seems so unreal and weird to me, and funny too. I am referring to my first (and last) ever so-called field trip (or tour, rather) to my grandparents' village. These are my mother's parents, long dead anyway. My mom had never been to that village in a long long while and we had never been to any place called a village, so we all were very eager to go.

My idea of an ideal village goes like this. I always imagined a village to be lush green, with lots of paddy fields and little streams everywhere. I also thought about a village with a river, lots of ponds or lakes, and places where you can play in the water. I agree I am crazy about playing in water. To think I don't know to swim anyway. My imagination is typical of any Tamil movie that has a village scene in it. They do wonders with camera and photography; the villages always look lovely and fresh and beautiful.

The first biggest mistake we made when we set out for our village tour is that we went during our vacation in summer. Summer in villages mean no water. No water in villages mean no water in rivers, or streams or canals. And this means no paddy fields. We drove in our car, and as we got close to the village we were supposed to go, this point never sunk in my head. Everywhere I looked the land was barren, and there were lots of wild bushes and plants that normal fields don't have, and I was wondering what was wrong with the fields.

We had to cross a bridge built across a small river. The relatives with whom we went kept on saying that the river is usually full with water and every kid is out playing in the river. Since we came in summer, we are missing a lot of fun. When I looked at the river, it was dry....dry as in dry dry. I couldn't believe that the river could ever have seen water, except when it rains, if it ever rains, that is. That is when my enthusiasm of visiting a village dropped.

The second biggest mistake was that me and my sister were wearing shorts and t-shirts. Girls, never ever wear such clothes when you go to a village. We both were the "talk of the town", sorry, "village". Everywhere we went, a whole bunch of kids were there to gape at our clothes and I tell you, I was so scared I stuck like a blood-sucker to my mother.

The village was a small one, might have had about 200 families or so. We saw a live show of the "panchayat", where elders of the village gather under a real banyan tree to discuss problems of the village. My dad attended the panchayat that gathered that day. We kids were not allowed to interfere, so we watched the whole show from someone's house's balcony. Incidently, that was the only house that we went to that had a proper toilet.

Speaking of toilets, I did mention that only one house had a proper toilet. We were put up in one of my mom's relatives' place for the night and they had another toilet...a toilet that was a corner of a tree, where a small room was made with walls, made from coconut leaves. I am not saying anything more.

I mentioned earlier that we went in the summer. Summer is no-water season. The river had dried and people in that village had to walk more than two kilometers to fetch water for use at home. It was really sad to see people walk such a long distance for a couple of times to get water daily. Mom was always watching us when we used water to wash our hands and stuff; she didn't want us to waste even a drop.

Sleeping that night was disaster. No fan, and the hand-fans weren't of much use to put us to sleep. The minute someone stopped fanning us, we woke up. Add to the fan problem, there were mosquitos! We left the next morning. We never went there again. I don't think I will ever want to go. Even if I did, I will surely look in here again to do make sure I don't make the same mistakes my parents did when they took me first time.

Disclaimer

This is just a short note to let everyone who reads my blogs know that I don't have any grudge or hatred against any person or persons or place known or unknown when I write my articles. Even if I do, I don't intend to express it because my feelings are exclusive and they stay put with me. When I write, I write my thoughts, not my personal feelings against anything or anyone. Whatever I write is meant to be laughed at, thought about (if you want to), commented upon (again, if you want to) and left at that.

Collector Office...

I remember the few visits we (as in me and my sister-with Dad) made to the collector office at Trichy to pretty much show that we exist and we are Canadians and ask will you please extend our visa (we don't actually do that though - the asking part I mean). The day we go is usually a week day, so we take a day off from school - yipeee! Going to the collector office was like a field trip. We dressed in our best, hair brushed up well and we looked like two pretty, cute, darling girls... We sure would have made good mannequins if anyone had such an idea. Of all the years we were there, we did the collector office trips two or three times only.

After we get ready, we go to the agent's office. There is a wait of a couple of hours there. We usually get ice-creams or juice coz the office is in a hotel complex so Dad takes us for a break - a break in waiting. Finally, the agent gets all the papers ready and sent his secretary with us. We have lunch inbetween as well.

We make it to the collector's office by lets say, around 1:30pm. There is a wait for a few hours until 5pm here. The collector's office is housed in a very old building. This building would have probably been built during the British Rule. The paint is peeling, the cemented floor is cracked up in many places and there are huge massive pillars everywhere. The main occupation of me and my sister is to try to hug one of the pillars, but they are so huge that we don't get to hug them fully. Oh, and there are bats as well sleeping on the ceiling. Watching them sleep is also a time pass for us while we wait to be escorted to his honor's presence. There are lots of ants too to watch - big black ones. We try to follow them sometimes and when they lead outside to the dumps, we stop coz its not safe to go inside thorn bushes.

Finally, the time comes for us to meet the Collector. The secretary asks us to speed up. We walk as though we are in a military parade. We step into the collector's office. Its got a nice red carpet, a very big wooden desk, strewn with papers and stationary, an Indian flag, a placard saying "Collector" and the collector's name which I dont remember, and a big cushioned chair behind the desk, on which sits the puny collector himself. The first thing I notice is, he's half-bald. The second thing I notice is, he wears glasses. The third thing I notice is, he's signing a lot of papers, so there is a secretary standing close by him and shifting the papers for him to sign. The fourth thing I notice is, he never raises his head as we walk by. All we do is march past him and go out again, and the guy doesn't even raise his head once. Maybe he may have had a glimpse of us when we left or something, I didn't notice anyway. The minute I realised that he is not going to look at us or talk to us or anything, I lost my interest in him. A whole day of waiting and all we get is to see the collector's half-bald head.

The minute we get out of the office, we start screaming to my Dad, "Daddy, he is sottai!*". The door to the collector's office hasn't closed fully yet so Dad and the secretary start to hush us up and try to get us out of the building. We are still excited and want to tell Dad everything. Once we get into the car, both me and my sister start talking simultaneously about what exactly happened inside and how the collector didn't even look at us - we both give a lot of complaints regarding this. We come back to the baldness of the collector as well. We get home and rush to Mom to tell the same thing we told Dad. The rest of the evening passes on with both of us chattering about our so-called "field trip to the collector's office". So much for a field trip... We got a day off from school so I guess I shouldn't complain now.

*"sottai" - means bald in Tamil.