I am so glad that the Youtube algorithm targeted me last week with something beyond the usual street food videos from Thailand or old MadTV comedy clips (my latest obsession).. and I am equally glad that I did not ignore it!
Yesterday when I casually clicked on this black and white Youtube video, I did not realize what a goldmine I was unearthing! Yes.. I landed on videos of debates and unrehearsed discussions (sometimes labeled “The world we want”) between International “High School Exchange Students” in New York City, in the 1950s. The students, one representing each country were invited to the US for 3 months, to stay with 3 different host families and attend multiple high schools during that period. They were all selected by their respective Ministries of Education via a nationwide competition in their countries.
This is the first one that I watched – about religion, featuring high school kids from Pakistan, India , Brazil and UK. The candor with which these high schoolers discussed this topic while being totally respectful to each other’s differences was mind blowing. When I grow up, I want to be just like these kids… 😊
These teenagers back in 1950s discussing a multitude of topics ranging from School uniforms, popular dances and dating to serious concepts like religion, prejudice, colonialism, Communism and Education systems so maturely just warmed up my heart! Such clarity of thought by the youngsters is so inspiring! These kids could teach a masterclass in polite debate and discussion to all our TV pundits. They are extremely honest and held nothing back. The moderator Mrs. Waller does a brilliant job by providing just the right amount of fuel for the discussion to thrive among the youngsters and jumping in as necessary to guide it along. One striking thing I observed was that most of these kids look much more mature (both physically and mentally) than their age.
I later found a total of 85 such clips (each ~27 mins long) in this archive, which I have already started binging (Yes.. they are very addictive. So, be forewarned!). The kids were slightly younger than my parents would have been at that time, and would have had a front row seat to – World war II, Colonialism, Independence to India and Malaya, formation of Israel, racial segregation, Communism and Cold war, etc. It’s like opening an amazing time capsule!
Scan through the entire list below and pick one that you would like to sample and see (with the gift of hind sight) if those kids managed to get the “World they wanted”!
The park is the midway point on my morning walk. It was actually supposed to be a “morning run”, but most of the days it is no more than a stroll – as I slow down to admire the landscaping or flowers in people’s yards along the way. I had captured some amazing photos on this route – blue skies, bright colored flowers and sun peeking through varieties of Maple.
Today was a different kind of beauty. The thick fog that cloaked the trees in the park would be a wonderful backdrop for a selfie, I thought. I positioned myself such that I would get the trees in the background with enough light on my face. I was getting quite good at this selfie thing (for a guy my age, of course). I was engrossed in appreciating my face on the iPhone while framing the photo.
Me : 💭 Let me capture from a lower angle.. No point highlighting my bald spot. I am glad I shaved before the walk. I don’t want to look shabby in this selfie. I wonder if I should post it on Facebook or maybe just our family group on Whatsapp? How about Nextdoor? The neighborhood folks really liked my photos the last time I posted them. 💭
Being so absorbed I did not notice the lady with her dog who was directly in front of me about 20 feet or so away.
Lady :💭 I wish Buddy (dog) would hurry up and do his thing. I should get back to breakfast and get the kids ready for the summer camp. It’s going to be a crazy day at work, with Jack being out and I’ll have to cover for him.. and .. wait!! What’s this creepy guy doing? Why is he recording me? Dammit! I was warned about such people. It’s too quiet here. There’s nobody else around. I should start carrying my pepper spray on these walks 💭
Me : 💭 Calm down… don’t worry about the dog. I know it’s coming at me but “if you ignore them they will go away” – is what I was told. After all these years of being married to Uma, looks like I might have picked up traces of her dog phobia! 💭
Lady : “Hey! hey! What are you doing?”
Me : 💭 Oh good… looks like she is going to stop the dog from attacking me! That’s really nice of her. I should be wrapping up my selfie masterpiece and get out of here!💭
The dog is now so close that it could lick my ankle.. (or take a bite of my juicy calf… it could go either way), so I stayed frozen. The lady walked up… hopefully to get the dog away from me, right?
Lady : “What are you doing? Why are you recording my dog?”
Me : “What? 😳 Oh no! I was just taking a selfie. See… here’s the one I just took”
She quickly realized her mistake and was visibly embarrassed and profusely apologetic. I mumbled “It’s Ok. Don’t worry about it”. As she walked away, she shook her head and said “This is funny… This could be written up as comedy.”
I am a big fan of the “put yourself in the other person’s shoes” philosophy. There is absolutely no reason for the lady to apologize. Think about it – What if I was actually a creep who is out on the prowl with a camera and capturing women walking around for whatever creepy reason. There was no possible way for her to know that I was indulging in some harmless self-admiration for the sake of social media. Both of our viewpoints are valid and harmless. You can see how something like this could spiral into an incident – if either (or both) of us was hot headed and confrontational.
Like she said… It could easily be the start of a sitcom scene or even a clever “Candid Camera” or “Just for Laughs” gag. 😀
On my way back, I captured this doe (a deer, a female deer 🎵), who posed fearlessly with quizzing looks.
Even the seasoned veterans of the Forest Department and the locals could not believe their eyes that we could have such a close encounter with the tiger for such a long time on that day! I had initially assumed that running into a tiger in the Nagarahole National Forest (Karnataka, India) was a fairly routine occurrence. But, based on the super exuberant salivating reactions of the Forest veterans, who kept clicking away to record this majestic beast during it’s most regal stroll, I realized how lucky we were to have a such a closeup darshan of this great Bengal Tiger!
In addition to the tiger, we also saw : herds of Spotted deer (Chital), Sambar deer, packs of wild dogs, Gaur (bison), Mongoose and Langur (monkeys), Spotted owl, Serpent eagle and Wild Fowl
I did not have a camera that weighed 20 pounds to capture extreme closeups of the tiger’s nose hairs from a distance, but my Iphone8 did a fairly decent job… and there’s no way I could have called or texted the kids using the 20 pound Nikon!
Here’s the rest of the wildlife that we encountered that day…
Later that day…
Me (calling my kids excitedly): Guess what? We had three sightings of a tiger today in the Nagarahole National Park! It was marking it’s territory and we followed it for almost an hour!!
Tiger (to its cubs):Guess what?? Today, I had 3 sightings of a Jeep full of dinner! Lucky for them that I was not in the mood for Indian today. Next time I will stick my tongue out and wink at them!! It will definitely go viral on YouTube/Facebook/Twitter!!
Tiger’s partner :Did you make sure to pee on the trees like I asked you to? They do seem to lose their sh*t when you do that, don’t they? Also, did you try roaring? That impresses them too! Although, the other animals don’t seem to care anymore!
Tiger (trying it’s best Rodney impression) :That’s right! No respect.. I get no respect at all.. I tell yeah! This sucks! We really should get the “King of the Jungle” title back from the Lions! BTW, all this whispering of the tourists is driving me crazy! I have a feeling that they are talking about me behind my back...
Tiger’s Partner :We should tell Forest department that we will not do these tourist appearances anymore, till they start increasing our food ration and also stop recording our love making! I hate doing these “Wild” Life videos. We need some privacy back in our lives!
There is a ton of cooking in “The Great Indian Kitchen” (TGIK) (on Amazon Prime), just as you would expect it. You will see repeated closeups of Dosa making as well as many other traditional Kerala favorites like Idiyappam, Puttu, fish, Sambar and stone ground coconut chutney etc. But this is not the movie for drooling over such. I can recommend several wonderful Mark Weins’ videos on YouTube for such material. The camera does focus on the stove and the minute details of the cooking as though it were a cooking show, but the focus is primarily on the lady who is cooking and the nuances in the expressions that mirror her emotions. The kitchen, the dining room or bedroom are mere backdrops for the interplay between the characters and a whole lot that is non-verbal as well.
TGIK poignantly depicts the rapid transformation of a new bride into a servile machine whose only purpose is to serve the men of this middle class household in Kerala, India. There is nothing uniquely Keralan about the theme itself. It could very well be anywhere in India – hence the title “The Great IndianKitchen”. It took me a few minutes into the movie to realize the sarcastic nature of the title.
I was blown away by the brilliant acting of every single actor. The lead actress – Nimisha Sajayan conveys so much of her angst without saying much! The sub-titles are done very well and there’s a lot more that is said through her vivid expressions than through the dialog. My wife was so taken in by the story and acting that she was screaming very specific instructions to the actress about what she should throw and at whom – just the way any average American would at the Quarterback, while watching Monday night football!
Online, it was heartening to see several comments from young men who recognized themselves and their households in the movie, which held up a mirror to highlight the chauvinistic, uncaring and oppressive system for women. If the movie brings about this realization even in a fraction of the viewers, then the director’s goal would be achieved. I can tell that this is a product of intense passion for the writer/director who felt strongly enough about this topic of chauvinism to highlight it in such a fashion, in spite of possible backlash from “traditionalists” who would love for the status quo to continue. You will notice that it is not just the men who oppress. There are women right there to enable this patriarchy, and in some cases even take the lead in the name of customs and traditions.
I loved this movie and strongly recommend it. It moved us and I can guarantee that it will do the same to you! TGIK obviously is not a date-night movie. I am sure you can find a whole lot of song and dance desi ones or even Hollywood ones for that. I am a brand new fan of Malayalam cinema. They seem to be at a totally different level of the craft. I just finished watching “Kumbalangi Nights” (superb acting by the ensemble cast) and “Ayyappanum Koshiyum”, and added a whole lot of other Malayalam movies to my watchlist. I will be busy for a while watching and writing reviews for these and so will not be available to help out with the chores around the house🤪
I am not embarrassed to admit that “Airplane” or “Naked Gun” or even “DieHard” are my favorite go-to movies (for the umpteenth time) rather than risk watching a complete dud. So, for me to fall in love with a drama series about an Ultra Orthodox Jewish extended family’s story was totally surprising. Thanks to the pandemic induced house-arrest over the past year, we finally started getting our money’s worth from the Netflix subscription. I loved the mini series “Unorthodox” on Netflix, which gave us a window into the lives of the Orthodox Jewish sect of Satmar in Brooklyn, New York. I found their coexistence with the rest of the secular world fascinating! Right after we got done with “Unorthodox”, the Netflix algorithm started pushing “Shtisel” on me. A few weeks ago I (thankfully) succumbed to it and started watching this series about yet another Ultra Orthodox Jewish sect (the Haredi) set in Jerusalem. I absolutely loved the show which beautifully covered the trials and tribulations of the Shtisel family. I got so obsessed with the show that I constantly talked about the story, the subplots and the characters at the dinner table which amused and possibly even annoyed my wife.
What is so special about this show? The crisp, intricate story and dialogs stand out along with the multi-dimensional colorful characters. Every single one of the characters is delightful in their own ways. The acting is nothing short of brilliant. The viewer is inexorably drawn into their day-to-day life and we get to feel their joys, anger, sorrows, subtle humor and even hints of unexpected mischief.
When grandma Shtisel gets addicted to soap operas at the nursing home, one of her grandsons sneakily cuts the cord (quite literally) of the TV! When Giti’s son wants to get married to a different girl (and not the one chosen by his parents), Giti screams – “Over my dead body!”. That seemed SO Indian! Every single Indian movie used to have this line, immediately followed by a version of “You will not get a penny of inheritance from me”. The constant teasing and belittling of Akiva’s interest in art by his dad and uncle also reminded me of similar attitudes of Indian parents towards their kids. Growing up in India, parents always looked down upon art and literature etc. as career choices. It always had to be medicine or engineering! One unique thing I noticed in the show is that there are no fixed good guys or bad guys for the entirety of the show (just like in real life). Who you see as a bad guy in an episode, turns out to be a good guy under other circumstances, as the show progresses. Of all the characters of the show – the one that left a very strong impression on me was that of Shulem (Dov Glickman) – the patriarch who is very quirky and resourceful. He is either helping solve the jams that his kids or grandkids find themselves in, or stringing along (inadvertently, perhaps even playfully) some old widows who hoped to marry him (even showing up at their doorstep at an odd hour with a “Brizel Cheesecake”). The series showcases brilliant acting by the entire team and especially outstanding performances by Dov Glickman (Shulem), Michael Aloni (Akiva), Neta Riskin (Giti) and Shira Haas (Ruchami). Shira was the lead actress in “Unorthodox”. Incidentally, none of the main actors are Orthodox and in fact they all had to learn the ways of the Haredi and the Yiddish language. BTW, after this show, I have expanded my vocabulary to add the Hebrew phrases “Baruch Hashem” and “todah rabah” to the previous list of Yiddish ones : goy, shiksa, putz, bubbe, klutz, kvetch, chutzpah, schtick schlep, schmutz, schmear and tuchus. You will definitely enjoy the interviews with the actors (on YouTube) after watching the show, as you will get to see how different the characters they portray are from the actors themselves.
The show is in Hebrew (modern and biblical) and Yiddish, but the subtitles are very well done and do not interfere with the experience. The “arranged marriage” meetings between the young Hasidic men and women (in a hotel/restaurant) are downright ultra-modern compared to my own “arranged marriage interview”. We got married after just one meeting at my in-laws’ place, under the watchful/prying eyes of the elders. 😊 I had covered this in an earlier blog here : “Are you happily married?”
It’s important to note that the Ultra orthodox Jewish life is the backdrop for the story and not the focus of it. The religion is an all-pervading part of their life. After watching a couple of episodes, I got used to the little prayers before every meal, every event and the touching of the mezuzah before entering any doorway. They routinely go through all these as if they are programmed to do so (because they are). The focus is on the intricate relationships between the various characters and the milestones they celebrate along the way – births, marriages and funerals! Surprisingly there were no Bar/Bat Mitzvahs in the show.
I strongly recommend this show! Although, I am afraid you may curse me for getting you hooked onto something so addictive. I would love to find similar such shows/movies – where the background is the religion (Islam, Hinduism, Christianity, Sikhism etc.). I feel that this is a wonderful way to learn about different cultures and lifestyles. I am not looking for the story to be about the religion itself or conflicts between religions (of which I am sure there are many). Please suggest/recommend in the comments section below.
I peeked into the barbershop. The shopping center seemed dead. Luckily, there was a barber in there. I did not recognize him. He was not my usual guy. I was trying to decide in that split-second to go ahead with it or come back later when the other guy comes back. I made a mental note to get his name next time. Referring to him as barber or Asian barber seems lame!
This new guy, also an Asian, seemed surprised that anyone showed up on this snowy Friday at 10:00AM and essentially conveyed “Are you here by mistake?” with his eyes. I said “haircut” and also mimed the two-fingered scissoring motion to reinforce what I just said.
This Asian barbershop has now become my “usual place” for a hair cut. My previous “usual place” was Great Clips, a popular franchise location that was not open during the pandemic when I desperately needed a cut.
Great Clips had my computerized records. They knew exactly what tools and techniques to use to make me look reasonable. Yes, “reasonable” is all I ever aspired for, as far as the hair is concerned. They never had to ask “how much to take off from the top or around the ears etc.”. It was all entered into the system, after that one mishap several years ago, when one of the stylists went nuts with a clipper (while I wasn’t paying attention). After that incident, no more clippers! “Only scissors!”– is probably the bolded and underscored note in their system.
So, when I first came across this barbershop in a strip mall (on my way to Trader Joe’s), I surprised myself by the way I just let him use whatever he wanted to, to get the job done. After all, I was very eager to shed ~7 months of hair growth and I didn’t care how he did it. He did declare at the very outset that he “would make me handsome”, which seemed like unnecessary hyperbole, given that even god could never accomplish that. In the end, he did an excellent job and so I have gone back couple more times. Today, when I hoped to get a hair cut while I was out grocery shopping, I was prepared that he might be closed (because of the snow). But here I am with me trusting my coiffure to another new guy! (My very first such experience in the US is covered here: Hairy Tales )
Once I was seated, he asked me what I wanted. “An inch off and around the ears..”. After a quick survey of my head, he pronounced the approach, “#2 here, #3 here and #4 here!”. That almost sounded like a surgeon announcing at the start of major surgery “I will start with an incision here with a scalpel, then use a retractor here and a clamp here”. He wasn’t asking me. He was telling me. Although, he really didn’t have to tell me as I had no clue about the implications of those combination of clippers on my scalp. That seemed like too much technical talk. The other guy just did it with a combination of one clipper and scissors.
When big clumps of hair started falling off from the sides, with the use of #2 clipper, I got nervous. It was beginning to look like that disaster haircut that Ted Cruz had recently. Maybe I should have waited for the regular guy to come back. Maybe I should have asked for more details when he rattled off a combinations of numbers.
Oh well.. the damage is done! I thought. Too late now. Also, the stakes are low. What do I have to lose? Who am I trying to impress? I hardly interact with anyone these days, except for those Zoom stand-up open-mics. But who is paying attention to my looks at those? He kept switching the attachments to the clipper like the professional that he was, while carrying on a conversation…
Him: “Off from work today?”
Me: “Are you Vietnamese?” I tried to show-off my ability to distinguish between different Asians.
Him: “Wow! How did you know?”. I told him about my association with Vietnamese friends over the years.
Me: “What’s a good Pho place around here?”. My standard go-to topic. It was good to note that his recommendation matched the other guys’ suggestion. I really should get better conversation pieces than this. I am no good at small talk that involves sports, and we had already waxed eloquent about the snow situation.
Him: “Are you a doctor?” Looks like he wanted to try his hand at this guessing game. My parents would be happy that I am exuding “doctor vibes”!
I wanted to say – “No, but I play one on TV” or “No, but I always wanted to be one” or “Yes, I am a WebMD and I am qualified to answer questions about COVID”.
Instead I said “No, I am an engineer”. He had a nod and a chuckle which seemed to say “that would have been my second guess”.
When he got done, he used the mirror to show off his handy work and said “There, you look handsome!”, just as I was getting upset with my growing bald spot in the back! He left the tuft of hair on the top mostly untouched and said that because of my thinning hair we should leave it like that. Oh well… He is the expert. This is his domain. Who am I to argue? I actually tipped him well, especially since he said I looked handsome! (-:
(My daughter Ramya wrote this piece in 2007, when she was in High School)
“There are places you can leave that will never truly leave you.”
I cannot remember who spoke these words, yet as I peer out the tiny window -at the house, the city, and the country I am rising above and leaving behind, they reverberate in my head. For the sweltering past month, I have made my paternal grandparents’ house in Hyderabad, India my home. Now, with henna tattoos on my hands and a schoolbag stuffed with homemade Indian sweets on my back, I am flying to my other home, halfway around the world in Pennsylvania.
This summer, my first summer visiting India as an adolescent, I saw my grandparents’ house as more than just my home base during whirlwind thrice-a-decade visits to India. On one level, with wide-eyed curiosity, I was mesmerized by the simple beauty and ingenuity of the house. Yet on a deeper level, I saw the house as a window into my family history and my cultural heritage. In the dank crevices of the kitchen, in the rare breeze rustling garments on the clothesline, even in the daunting old-fashioned bathroom, I saw clues to a foreign lifestyle and a history that is comfortingly my family’s own.
Nayanamma and Thatha, my paternal grandparents, had been the first in our direct family line to move from rural India to the city for education and employment, and by constructing this house in 1965, they had planted their roots firmly in a newly-independent, progressive India. In the 70’s and 80’s, relatives visiting from the villages used to stay for weeks and marvel at the rapid modernization that engulfed the city but left the villages untouched. In this house, my father had hastily done homework after afternoons spent playing cricket on the streets, studied computer engineering without a computer, clenched his fists in nervous anticipation through his engagement ceremony, and packed for a new life in America. Here, Nayanamma had juggled the responsibilities of a career and a family when it was groundbreaking for a woman to do so. And here, a seventy year old man who had grown up without electricity could phone his mother in her native village, e-mail his son in the States, and watch DVDs of his grandchildren’s first words. For my Nayanamma and Thatha, the house was a symbol of all they had accomplished in life, while for Nana, my father, it was a launching pad to a new continent of opportunities, opportunities which he in turn passed on to me and my sister.
While the house is significant, it is by no means extravagant. Its most memorable part, the back garden area, consists of a small cement bench surrounded by a wide array of vegetable plants and exotic trees. The area around the house is small and flows together, with the back and front doors of the house open to let in the non-existent wind and allow my free, restless movement. There is a constant smell of too many flowers mixing in the still air, and even though it isn’t like the overpriced perfumes in tiny glass bottles at the American department stores, I like it. Nayanamma sits on the bench, extracting pomegranate seeds from the magnificent fruit. She places the juicy kernels into a small metal bowl, a collection of rubies that accents her scarlet-bordered sari perfectly. Thatha sits beside her, cutting okra in his white banian shirt and lungi, a wrapped Indian cloth. Working outside whenever possible and in no obvious rush, Nayanamma and Thatha exemplify the pleasant pace of life in India.
A clothesline crisscrosses the right side of the small space. Draped on it is a fusion of garments: the trusty pair of blue jeans that had carried me from my doorstep in America through thirty-two hours of safety demonstrations and mealtimes and naptimes to this precious place; the one-meter-by-eight-meter turquoise cloth which takes form on my mother’s too-busy-to-exercise body and transforms it into its perfectly proportioned self; the faded lungis Thatha wraps around his waist while at home, alongside the Western pants he pulls on when going out to take care of business; the golden-yellow salwar my sister bought, which seems to reflect the blinding brilliance of the sun that bakes it.
The rear edge of the property is defined by a concrete wall that rises a few feet above our heads. Jagged pieces of brown glass are stuck into the cement on the compound wall, like the rotting teeth of a beast, to ward off thieves and trespassers. Dainty pink flowers creep boldly between the shards. Beyond the wall are high-rise apartments where the new and growing middle-class hang their saris outside their windows like flags and shout greetings up to their neighbors. At least five times a day, Thatha tells us how vast and empty the area behind their house used to be when they first moved to the city.
The left and right sides of the property are demarcated by the same concrete walls, but beyond these walls are houses similar to our own- small and built decades ago. The space between the house and this dividing wall is no more than three feet, so one could literally stand there and watch his neighbor’s TV or hear the scratches and gurgles of his neighbor brushing his teeth. As children, Nana and his friends used to climb over these compound walls to get to each other’s houses rather than enduring the more tedious process of walking in and out of front gates. All of these children have since grown up and moved out, leaving behind elderly neighbors who stand at these walls and gossip about whose daughter ranked highest on the college entrance exam or whose son was still unmarried. The thick walls between neighbors in India do not hinder communication in the slightest, while the invisible ones in the United States make neighbors strangers.
On the front step leading up to the house lay a heap of shoes. Black Old Navy flip-flops tossed beside worn, brown chappals underneath fancy Indian sandals greeted visitors to the house and hinted at who was inside. These piles of shoes are a comforting site to Indians everywhere and a sign of the sanctity of the home, according to Indian tradition. Arriving at this doorstep, not at the Rajiv Gandhi International Airport, always signified the commencement of a whirlwind vacation in India, the three weeks in which we were supposed to cram a lifetime of memories with some of our closest friends and relatives. The house served as our home base during our stays; from there, we set off on shopping excursions through the chaotic streets of Hyderabad, entertained guests who pinched our cheeks and asked if we got together on weekends with their sons and daughters in places like Seattle and Dallas, and ate unhealthy quantities of deep-fried delicacies. I had also stood on this doorstep so many times, surrounded by suitcases filled with a lifetime supply of homemade sweets and spices, saying tearful goodbyes and wondering when I would see my family again.
To the left of the paved area in front of the house is parked Thatha’s car, a small tan Maruti Suzuki which all three of his children constantly beg him to stop driving. Between darting around other vehicles, halting suddenly for pedestrians and cows, shooing away beggars whose outstretched hands seem to spontaneously appear in the windows whenever one is stalled in traffic, and honking constantly for no reason whatsoever, driving in India is a challenge that rivals the most intense car-racing video games. Yet Thatha continues to brush off his children’s concerns and honk and swerve his way through the streets of Hyderabad everyday, saying that Master will protect him.His car plays the catchy tune of “Saare Jahaan Se Accha,” a patriotic Indian song, each time he reverses, much to the delight of me and my sister and the annoyance of everyone else.
To the right of the house a narrow set of stairs leads to the flat rooftop, where I help the servant girl each week with the novel task of wringing out laundry and pinning it up to dry, despite protests from Nayanamma and Thatha.
Each room in the house flows seamlessly into the other, divided only by a diaphanous cloth that hangs in the doorway. In the family room, a long couch and a short couch run along two sides of the room, facing a small TV set in the opposite corner. Nayanamma sits here every Saturday morning and watches a program called Sakhi, in which beautiful ladies with mellifluous voices relay news stories, interview celebrities, and teach women how to cook novel delicacies. From Sakhi, Nayanamma learned how to make Spanish rice, French toast, Chinese noodles, and all kinds of wrapped and rolled versions of traditional Indian dishes.
When the house was first constructed, the only toilet of the house was little more than a hole in the ground. Only in the 1990s did Nayanamma and Thatha install a Western-style toilet, solely for the sake of their NRI (non-residential Indian) grandchildren. This toilet is small, flimsy, and pink, yet we are grateful for its presence. Each time we visit India, we bring several rolls of Charmin from the United States and use them frugally to ensure that they last the entire vacation. The sink, rather than being located in the bathroom, is in a wall cavity by the dining table. Because Indians traditionally eat with their hands, this is commonplace in India to facilitate frequent hand washing.
I loved peering through the front gate, observing children pass on bicycles and men on scooters. Boys with thin, dry, scratchy legs with feet in worn, brown sandals and girls wearing 1970s-style bell-bottoms with flowing peasant tops. Dogs, always emaciated and stray, trotting up and down the streets. On the roadside just a few feet to the front and left of the house was a dhobi, or ironing-man, who worked from a small shack-stand constructed from scraps of metal and cardboard. Women wearing vibrant saris rode by on bicycles, dropping off baskets of freshly cleaned saris. He ironed them with the most cumbersome-looking iron I’ve ever seen. It was a metal box filled with burning coals with a large handle on top, and with it, he meticulously ironed sari after sari late into the night, later than I could have possibly remained outside in that oppressive heat.
Now I’m on my way to a home with high ceilings, granite countertops, a washing machine and a dryer, four Western-style toilets, a spacious backyard with a wooden deck, and two Honda Accords parked in the garage. It has only been a few hours, but I already miss the comforts of my Indian home, my familial home.
Naming our houses, no matter how modest they are, is probably an “Indian” thing. Sure, in the west, fancy estates and plantations always did this, like, “Tara” the plantation in “Gone with the Wind”, or Elvis’s “Graceland”. We’ve always given fancy sounding names to our houses. This is not a substitute for the actual address, which continues to be a mind-boggling combination of numbers and letters (like – 6/3/596/32A/W, MIGH, Block C, J.P.Narayan Marg, Padmavathi Nagar Colony). These “house names” are typically based on our favorite deities, like, “Laxmi Nilayam”, “Ram Nivas” or “Sai Sannidhi” etc. These names are usually engraved on a plaque and installed at the entrance of the house or on the compound wall. Of course, the current-day naming style has been thoroughly influenced by globalization such that “Laxmi Nilayam” etc. gave way to “Laxmi Plaza”, “Sai Enclave” or “Balaji Avenue”.
When my parents built our house in 1965, my dad blended all 5 of our names to come up with “Yashorajasri” as the name for the house. This was the house I grew up in, till I moved to the US in 1983. As you can imagine, for us “Yashorajasri” is much more than brick, mortar and steel! It represents something much stronger and deeper, and has in return built us into who we are today. It housed fond memories that we all will go back to time and again.
It was a tiny piece of land to start with. After building the house we were just left with about 20 feet in the front and 15 feet in the back. Apparently that was plenty to work with. So, over the years we grew all kinds of fruits, vegetables, flowering plants and trees in it. We had Coconut, Papaya, Sapota, Gooseberry, Pomegranate, Passion fruit, Drumstick (Moringa) and Curry leaf trees. We had a bumper crop of Tindora in the backyard (growing up, I wasn’t a fan of this vegetable), along with other seasonal vegetables. We also grew potatoes and sugarcane in the front yard one year. A beautiful creeper with lovely orange flowers covered the entire front of the house for years. If I close my eyes and think of “Yashorajasri” even today, I get a heady mix of the fragrances of Sampangi – the green ones (Artabotrys Hexapetalus) and the orange ones (Magnolia Champaca), SannaJaaji (Jasmine) and Kanakambaram (Crossandra).
We had always rented out the upstairs, and we lived on the ground floor. In fact, for several years the 5 of us managed in just a small portion of the ground floor, and let out half of the ground floor as well. All our tenants were friendly and we kept in touch with most of them over the years.
From the rooftop of our house we could see far and wide. We could see Hussainsagar (Tank Bund), Naubat Pahad, Birla Temple and the flights landing at Begumpet airport. On the backside, we could see up to Banjara Hills Road No 1, and the house of movie star Akkineni Nageswara Rao (popularly known as ANR). There were no tall structures to obstruct our line of sight. That changed pretty dramatically over the past two decades. All the old houses around ours were demolished to give way to tall complexes of flats (condominiums). “Yashorajasri” remained as an anachronistic leftover for folks like me to wistfully reminisce about our childhood.
“Remember when Padma fell off this wall and fractured her wrist?”
“Why did I have to get my hair cut in the front yard, where everyone walking by could see us! It was embarrassing!!”Hairy Tales
“or.. the time when dad almost got electrocuted when trying to trim the creeper on the power line!”
Circumstances conspired to gently encourage my parents to move out of this house in 2019. After much deliberation, it was sold to a neighbor at the beginning of 2020. We were there last year when this transaction took place and we helped clean out the last few memorabilia items. We had to brace ourselves to the fact that some day the physical entity “Yashorajasri” would be no more. It turns out that day is today. It seems that the demolition work has started. This too will now make way to another brand new tower of condos. The relations and fond memories that were nurtured in and around that house will live on forever.
Why are they called praying mantises? They seem to be known for killing and eating their own kind. Shouldn’t they be called cannibal mantises instead?
So, what exactly are they praying for? I am guessing that the male one is praying and hoping that its partner won’t be too hungry after mating (which is when the cannibalism is supposed to start). The female is thanking the lord for the meal it’s about to have.
This got me thinking about animals and their belief in a god. When an antelope is running away from a cheetah, is she praying to her almighty, to be saved (in a very physical sense, and not the Christian metaphorical way), and is the cheetah doing the same (praying for a sumptuous meal that is not too “gamey” 🙂 )? What are the odds that they are both praying to the same god – who could, technically, dodge both their prayers with a “free will” argument and go focus on something more important, like helping a specific horse win the Kentucky Derby! As you can see, I had assumed a dedicated god for the animals, thereby freeing up the god of humans to take care of our important issues… like war, famine, child abuse and ensuring an abundant supply of McRib and Popeyes chicken sandwich!
I am in no way unique in addressing this question about animals seeking help from deities. There are stories in ancient Hindu texts that cover this topic. There is one specific one where an elephant prays for (and gets) divine intervention when it is grabbed by a crocodile.
Coming back to praying mantises, here’s one that I captured with my iPhone, while it was in the midst of this sumptuous meal of dragonfly. I am sure the dragonfly would have appreciated it if its deity would have heard its prayers and gotten involved.
In over 33 yrs of marriage and being employed by various companies, not once was I asked to show proof that I was married, for any reason. But, now, with my new job – they are asking for my marriage certificate, in order to cover my wife as a dependent for health and other benefits.
We had not seen this certificate nor needed it in 33 years! I certainly could not have found it! The fact that Uma could locate it fairly quickly and handle it with the care that such a crumbling document needed is proof enough that we are married! What more proof do you need to realize that I am the true dependent, here! I am not sure if this document will satisfy the requirements of the company, because it does not have our social security numbers, signatures or anything relevant or meaningful! Everything on this certificate is barely legible. It looks ancient and feels like it belongs in a museum – along with the manuscripts of the Magna Carta and the Dead Sea Scrolls!
I wonder if, instead of the marriage certificate, I should just send out a couple of our wedding photos and a video clip of me trying to fix the toilet and her repeatedly asking me to “call someone who knows what they are doing”, or maybe show them the idiot-proof grocery lists that she gives me every week and how I, even after such detailed lists, come back missing a couple of items or bringing the wrong items. This will of course be followed by an amusing session (for one of us) of “How may times I have to tell you..”, “You always do this..”, “I knew it..” , “I told you so..” etc. Any of these, individually or collectively should definitely prove that we are seasoned veterans of holy matrimony!