A Palace in the Old Village is about an immigrant approaching retirement. He is terrified of it. Retirement was not for him. He is worried sick about retirement, which he considers to be the doorway to death!
Like that fictional immigrant, I too have thought a lot about aging and retirement. However, unlike him, I had never been worried about it. I have always been against the idea of working until death comes knocking, and in favor of retiring from work well before the grim reaper rings the doorbell.
"You have a lot to contribute," a friendly neighbor remarked.
Maybe. But where will that contribution be?
"I will read anything that you write," he added. Before he retired, he said once that he would publish anything that I send his way. I know he means his words of appreciation.
A writer in retirement, when I have only been a wannabe writer?
Nobel laureate Steven Weinberg, a professor of physics and astronomy at The University of Texas at Austin, has died. He was 88.
Weinberg and Freeman Dyson were two of my favorites when it came to understanding the world through a scientific-humanistic perspective. Dyson is gone, and now so is Weinberg.
Weinberg knew how to get his ideas across to people like me who lack the intellectual training to understand the complex math and physics. He also considered that his responsibility:
“When we talk about science as part of the culture of our times, we’d better make it part of that culture by explaining what we’re doing,” Weinberg explained in a 2015 interview published by Third Way. “I think it’s very important not to write down to the public. You have to keep in mind that you’re writing for people who are not mathematically trained but are just as smart as you are.”
Weinberg provided me with ways to think about life without a god: "science doesn't make it impossible to believe in God, it just makes it possible to not believe in God." Even better was this:
Living without God isn’t easy. But its very difficulty offers one other consolation—that there is a certain honor, or perhaps just a grim satisfaction, in facing up to our condition without despair and without wishful thinking—with good humor, but without God.
Way back, when I lived in California and was regularly contributing to the local newspaper, I wrote a piece that was not published. It was about the bizarre practice in the US to address people by their political job titles even when they were no longer on the job. Like "Ambassador so-and-so" or "Senator so-and-so," as if those titles were lifelong.
I argued in that unpublished essay that in a democracy we should be able to address them by their first names, especially if they did not respond with Ms. so-and-so or Dr. so-and so. It always pissed me off when the reporters were addressed by the first names by those big chiefs!
Did I tell you already that the essay was not published?
As a university professor (the days are numbered!) I always gave students the option to address me by my first name. The logic was simple: In most work places, the supervisor is addressed by the first name.
Two professors have tacked this very topic in different ways. "Professor" Dan Drezner offers this thesis in arguing why an honorific is needed--because "the academy is a hierarchy":
in academia, as in many other social systems, of course there is hierarchy and an imbalance of power. My role is to educate and mentor students, to make them intellectually (but not personally) uncomfortable at times, and then to grade them based on their intellectual growth. No amount of “keeping it casual” eliminates that fundamental bargain. Power imbalances are inherent in the system.
Pretending hierarchy does not exist does not erase it; it merely obscures it for the uninitiated. One advantage of formality is that it makes the rules of the game more explicit for those who might otherwise have difficulty parsing everything out
As if hierarchy and power imbalance exists only between a professor and the student, and that there isn't any such structure in the vast world of employment outside higher education! Despite the power difference of the hierarchy in the office, even an intern addresses the boss by the first name. Why then the deferential "Professor" or "Doctor"?
"Professor" Tyler Cowen takes a position more like the one that I presented in the unpublished essay from more than two decades ago: "I don’t for instance think we should address senators as “Senator.” Just choose “Ben” or “Mr. Sasse,” depending on which is appropriate."
In the example that Cowen provides, I would rather refer to that senator as a spineless pontificater!
When we were kids, in a time that feels ancient and in a place that is far, far away, somebody gave us canned cheese. A tin, as we called it back then.
We had never tasted cheese, but we had read about this food item. Especially in Enid Blyton books. So, we were excited to finally get to have some cheese. We had arrived!
Appa opened the can.
We could not believe it. There it was. Cheese.
A second after our eyes feasted on it, it was the nose's turn.
We could not believe it. The stink of the cheese!
My memory is that we did not eat it, and dumped the whole damn thing.
But, I draw the line at stinkiness. Gorgonzola I can tolerate a bit. As for the rest of them, I would rather have a penicillin shot than eat those damn bacteria!
What stinks or smells divine is so much a personal preference and, more importantly, a reflection of how we are raised. Blue cheese and sea foods are alien to me and, well, they stink!
And then there is the durian from which Americans run away at speeds that will put Usain Bolt to shame.
How does a durian connoisseur describe the fruit? Sweet and creamy like custard. Ice-creamy. "Musky and fleshy, but with bright citrusy caramel undertones."
"I have been talking about retirement for a number of years," the neighbor said. He continued after a pause. "You have plenty to contribute."
The layoff compels me to wonder what exactly it is that I will contribute to this world. Job loss exposes the emperor with no clothes!
Living without a job is beyond most of our imaginations. In the years past, I have asked students to think about the possibility that automation becoming so efficient that millions of us could just do nothing and get some kind of a universal basic income that could take care of the basic needs. If one didn't want anything more than those basic needs, then there will be no pressure to work.
The response from students was always overwhelming--they didn't want lives without jobs. They were concerned about what they would do with all the time. Some even worried that free time might tempt people to engage in destructive acts.
Work apparently gives meaning to our lives--even for the true believers who find meaning in their faiths. Take away that work, and the existential question takes the stage, and we don't ever want to deal with that drama!
As the poet extraordinaire Kannadasan phrased it in this phenomenal song in Apoorva Ragangal: காலை எழுந்தவுடன் நாளைய கேள்வி, which roughly translates to "After waking up, one ponders about the day." A horrible translation on my part, but you get the drift.
Ever since I came to America, I have fighting against the usage "Indian food" and "Indian restaurant."
Because, there is no "Indian" food.
In order to paint a picture of the tremendous diversity in the Subcontinent, I have often countered people who ask me about Indian food by asking them whether they have ever had "European food." That often does the trick.
We not only do not make such a reference to the white people's food, we even show off our culinary knowledge by talking about food from northern Italy versus the delicacies from southern Italy.
Yet, we talk about Indian food!
It is the same way we think about Chinese or Mexican foods. The stereotypical and cliched idea of Mexican food does not allow for the incredible diversity in the traditional foods even in the country south of the border; how are we then going to imagine that there is nothing called "Indian food" in a land that is on the other side of the planet!
Even as confused as we are about all these, in multi-ethnic societies like the US, we tend to view that some "ethnics" cook and eat only their "ethnic food" and, we thereby render people one-dimensional. As if I don't enjoy other foods. Like the arepas that I loved in Venezuela. The simple rice/beans of Costa Rica. A well-made pasta fagioli. I am from India, yes, but the food that I eat is not always Indian. A food-blogger/author/chef in Canada but with Indian heritage writes about this:
It is an unavoidable truth, but the color of my skin is sometimes confused with the scope of my talent. The more I write on the foods of India, the greater the risk I will be limited to that focus in the jobs I am offered, even though Indian food is not my chosen specialty. And even if it were, getting pigeonholed would still be a liability.
We have a long way to go in order to get away from the old ways of thinking.
The author, Tara O'Brady, writes about why it "wasn’t a simple yes" to write about a "food I’ve loved for longer than I can remember to those who don’t know it, to explain the process, and the science of it all."
Writers of color are expected to make a living off of their skin, off our families’ private rituals.
That's a powerful line.
There is less interest for us to exist outside broad stereotypes. Our food is sold on conjured emotion rather than granting these dishes the same deferential study we allow “classical” cuisines of Europe, no matter if our traditions stretch back further.
The dosai. Or "dosa" as it is often referred to outside the Tamil world.
The dosai and its sibling dish--idli--are perfect foods for a simple reason: They include carbs and protein to get one going for the day. O'Brady highlights this:
Most dosas are naturally gluten-free (excluding the wheat varieties, of course), vegetarian, and vegan-friendly if cooked with oil instead of ghee. As a grain is paired with a legume in the batter, a dosa includes a complete form of protein. In short, they’re a practically perfect food.
Even with dosais, the restaurant versions are often different from the home-made ones.
At restaurants this type of dosa can reach impressive physical proportions, the batter spread thin, then coaxed into rolls that span the width of a table. Those shattering paper-thin dosas are ethereal and almost cracker-like, a vehicle for the main component of the meal—aloo masala (dry-fried potatoes with mustard seeds, turmeric, urad dal and asafoetida) being the most traditional.
Homemade dosas tend to be more diminutive and also sturdier, with distinct circles where the batter is left comparatively thick. The bands go lacy and translucent like restaurant dosas, while the mounded ribs fluff, all spongy and bouncy.
Yep, which is why when I visit India, I never ever order dosais at restaurants; my favorite breakfast at any restaurant when in Tamil Nadu--poori with potatoes, with a side of vadai and sambar ;)
We discovered that dosai goes well with chermoula! That combination is certainly not Indian food, is it? ;)
(For The Register-Guard, Appeared in print: Tuesday, Jun 8, 2010)
It is almost a non-story anymore when an Indian- American kid wins the Scripps National Spelling Bee.
Last Friday, for the third year in a row and the eighth time in the past 12 years, an Indian-American student won it all. This year’s champion, Anamika Veeramani, won after out-dueling another Indian-American, Shantanu Srivatsa.
The linkage between the spelling bee and Indian- Americans started back in 1985 when Balu Natarajan won the event. That “kid” is now Dr. Natarajan, a physician with a specialty in sports medicine, who notes on his Web site that “winning the ‘bee’ was definitely an important experience,” and adds that he is more proud of being a good doctor and the work he does with his patients.
Given Natarajan’s profession, and the career choices of quite of a few other past winners, it is not a surprise that this year’s champion also plans to go into medicine. Anamika wants to be a cardiovascular surgeon.
It is far more intriguing that these champion spellers do not seem to be keen on careers in English literature. It is not that these contestants lack an interest in literature, either — one, who is not even a teenager yet, lists “Gone With the Wind” as a favorite book.
Despite the rather jaded reaction to yet another Indian- American winning the bee, the champion’s first and last names caught my attention. There was a fantastic message in her first name being Anamika, a Sanskrit name that literally translates to “without a name.” Like “anonymous.”
One might wonder then why parents would name a child “anonymous.” Well, it’s because there is a much more profound and philosophical meaning behind that name. “Anamika” means that there are not enough words to describe the value, beauty and importance — the equivalent in English is when we say something like “there are no words to describe it.”
Thus, it is quite a linguistic irony that the Spelling Bee recognizes kids who are talented with words, while this year’s winner has a name that means there aren’t enough words to describe her preciousness!
The champion’s last name, Veeramani, suggested an origin in Tamil Nadu, a state in southern India. Tamil Nadu, or the “land of the Tamils,” is where most of India’s Tamil-speaking population is concentrated. A significant minority of neighboring Sri Lanka’s population is also Tamil.
Having been raised a Tamil, with immediate and extended families still living in Tamil Nadu, I naturally was curious about Anamika’s parents. I even checked with my father to find out whether we might know them, and was a tad disappointed at being unable to bridge the degrees of separation. But that’s understandable, given that there are an estimated 75 million Tamils worldwide.
Anamika’s parents’ names turn out to be equally cinematic of sorts. The father’s name is Alagaiya and the mother is Malar. In the Tamil language, “malar,” as a noun, means a flower. The same word also can be used as a verb to mean “to bloom.” The father’s name is derived from a Tamil word for beauty — “Alagu.”
Typically it is only in fictional worlds that someone named “flower” would marry one named “beauty” and then together they would have a child named “anonymous,” who would go on to win a championship that is all about words. Real life, yet again, is more exciting and dramatic than fiction.
The Indian-American dimension of the spelling bee is as much a story of immigration to the United States as it is a reflection of a common heritage of having been British colonies, which is the reason English is the lingua franca. America and India were once a part of the British Empire, where the sun never set.
One particular connection is quite poignant. Lord Cornwallis, who was the governor-general of British India from 1786 to 1793, previously had served the crown as an army officer during the American War of Independence. It is strange that after surrendering to George Washington and returning to England with Benedict Arnold, Cornwallis was rewarded with a powerful and influential posting in India.
To paraphrase Paul Harvey, now you know “the rest of the story” behind the non-story of yet another Indian-American winning the spelling bee.
