Life is always full of surprises.
As I walked towards my seat, I noticed that the business class was full. Not an empty seat. Maybe this is why I no longer get those free upgrades anymore--at least, I can console myself that way!
We left the gate on schedule. I decided to watch a movie even as the plane was taxiing. Enough Said. Turns out that the movie title was apt was for the rest of the journey too!
As we neared what should have been close to the takeoff stage, the pilot cleared his throat. I bet most of us in the plane immediately knew that we were not taking off. Some technical glitch, which required that we taxi back to a gate whenever one opened up.
No point fretting and fuming, I decided. Apparently that was the thought that the other 300-plus also had. Even the kids didn't make any noise. I had never before seen such a calm and disciplined crowd. Life is always full of surprises.
I continued on with the movie, about which the title says everything one needs to know. The engines revved, giving me hope. A few minutes later, the pilot's update--more time needed for repairs.
I was done with the movie, and walked about in the plane. Did some stretching routines. More than two hours had passed and it continued to be a quiet crowd, other than the occasional chattering, especially on the cellphones. Mighty impressive!
The pilot had good news and bad news. The good news was that all the repairs had been completed. The bad news was that the delay required a change of crew and we had to wait for the new personnel.
Thus, it was four hours after the scheduled time that we took off.
I would miss the connecting flight. And going home would be at the mercy of the air schedule gods.
After we landed and collected our bags, the voucher in hand, I waited for the ride to the hotel. Along with a whole crowd. The temperature display read 30 degrees. It was windy too. Most of us were shivering because we were not prepared for this. Life is always full of surprises..
A shuttle came and my suitcase was one of the many that was loaded up. As I was getting ready to board the bus, a woman approached. A gentleman that I like to be, I let her get in. When I boarded the bus, there was no seat--the woman had taken the last seat. I figured I would stand during the short ride to the hotel. A few others boarded after I did.
Life is always full of surprises.
The bus driver scanned the inside and asked the standees--including me--to get down because it was against the law to exceed the licensed capacity. So, it was back to the 30 degree cold and the wind.
Next time, no chivalry. No gentleman attitude. I should simply push grandma away and keep going.
Well, that is not me! I am a born loser; no surprise there! ;)
Showing posts with label India2013. Show all posts
Showing posts with label India2013. Show all posts
Thursday, January 09, 2014
Sunday, January 05, 2014
I hope Server Sundari does not have a drunk for a husband
After my day-long roaming about at Kanchipuram two years ago, I knew that I would not turn down any opportunity to go there again. The city is rich with history and art and architecture, and there is a lot of lost time I need to make up for, I suppose.
So, when father suggested that we drive down to Kanchipuram on Christmas day, I was all too happy to sign on--though my secular goals were very different from his religious reasons.
We were barely a few minutes into the drive a little after sunrise when we passed one of the strangest sights that reminded me that, well, it is very much India.
By the roadside in the thick of the city, and a few feet away from an ultra-low-income home, a woman, perhaps about thirty, was beating a man with a cane. He was sitting on the floor with his hands above his head to deflect the cane, and a few others--neighbors perhaps--were standing around witnessing the drama.
As we drove past, we commented in the car that this was perhaps yet another case of the husband coming home drunk after spending whatever little money that the family had, and the wife decided she had to do something, even if only to beat the crap out of him. Quite a gift for the drunk on Christmas morning!
I tell ya, we men are a disgrace and have no idea how and why the women put up with such deadbeats!
At Kanchipuram, the stone carvings on pillars were far too impressive even for the art-challenged person that I am. I wandered around and took photographs while the rest of the family headed into the temple core for the worship. My pilgrimages are different from theirs.
Believers or atheists, the human biology is the same and we were all famished. A young woman wearing a restaurant shirt over her outfit approached our table. "Anything to drink?" she asked with a wonderfully smiling face.
We told her that we were ready to order. "I am ready" she replied with a smile.
Which is when I noticed that all the wait-staff were women. All women. How fascinating! In a very traditional town of Kanchipuram! India is certainly changing, and changing quite fast.
She smiled with everything she said and did. All of us noticed her pleasant demeanor. As we got up after settling the bill, father asked her about her employment. She had come to this after undergoing a certificate training program--in nursing. I bet she has her own reasons for being a waitress as opposed to working as a nurse's aide.
I was the last one to leave the table. I added twenty rupees to the tip that father had already left for her. "It is for your smiles" I told her.
She smiled once more.
So, when father suggested that we drive down to Kanchipuram on Christmas day, I was all too happy to sign on--though my secular goals were very different from his religious reasons.
We were barely a few minutes into the drive a little after sunrise when we passed one of the strangest sights that reminded me that, well, it is very much India.
By the roadside in the thick of the city, and a few feet away from an ultra-low-income home, a woman, perhaps about thirty, was beating a man with a cane. He was sitting on the floor with his hands above his head to deflect the cane, and a few others--neighbors perhaps--were standing around witnessing the drama.
As we drove past, we commented in the car that this was perhaps yet another case of the husband coming home drunk after spending whatever little money that the family had, and the wife decided she had to do something, even if only to beat the crap out of him. Quite a gift for the drunk on Christmas morning!
I tell ya, we men are a disgrace and have no idea how and why the women put up with such deadbeats!
At Kanchipuram, the stone carvings on pillars were far too impressive even for the art-challenged person that I am. I wandered around and took photographs while the rest of the family headed into the temple core for the worship. My pilgrimages are different from theirs.
Believers or atheists, the human biology is the same and we were all famished. A young woman wearing a restaurant shirt over her outfit approached our table. "Anything to drink?" she asked with a wonderfully smiling face.
We told her that we were ready to order. "I am ready" she replied with a smile.
Which is when I noticed that all the wait-staff were women. All women. How fascinating! In a very traditional town of Kanchipuram! India is certainly changing, and changing quite fast.
She smiled with everything she said and did. All of us noticed her pleasant demeanor. As we got up after settling the bill, father asked her about her employment. She had come to this after undergoing a certificate training program--in nursing. I bet she has her own reasons for being a waitress as opposed to working as a nurse's aide.
I was the last one to leave the table. I added twenty rupees to the tip that father had already left for her. "It is for your smiles" I told her.
She smiled once more.
Saturday, January 04, 2014
The road from Pattamadai to Vani Mahal runs via ... America?
A few months ago, a great aunt recalled her younger days and her interest in Carnatic music. With disappointment in her tone even after all these decades, she described how her folks poured water on her passions--after all, those were the days when women singing and dancing was often associated with the devadasis.
Even way back, the immediate and extended families had some serious interest in the music. Not a surprise, given some of the influential and popular musicians and entertainers of those days from that part of the world. Like Harikesanallur Muthiah Bhagavatar and SG Kittappa. When we were kids, the older folks at Sengottai often pointed to the home that once belonged to Kittappa and recalled their own stories about him, most of which perhaps were imagined than real.
Thus, during the visit to India--to Chennai--in December, which is the Carnatic music season--Carnatic music was always in the air, along with serious talk about the music and musicians. I, of course, ditched interest in that music a long time ago. But, having grown up with that means that following the discussions and understanding the excitement is no hassle. Further, there are plenty of intellectual aspects of that musical tradition that interest the nerd that I am.
As has been the case the past few Decembers, father's cousin and his family were also in town. Fellow Americans we are, but it is in India that we meet. The daughter from that branch of the family tree is a trained musician. Unlike my great-aunts whose talents and interests were tightly circumscribed by the mores of the past, this young woman lives and breathes in a world where the glass ceilings over many fields are being constantly shattered.
So, there I was, after many, many years, attending a formal kutcheri in Chennai's Vani Mahal.
The women in the generations that went before us would have been impressed with such developments where young women are physicians, engineers, scientists, and musicians, in addition to being mothers, daughters, sisters, aunts, and more.
 |
| TM Krishna discusses the devadasi dimension, and more, in his informative and polemical book. |
Even way back, the immediate and extended families had some serious interest in the music. Not a surprise, given some of the influential and popular musicians and entertainers of those days from that part of the world. Like Harikesanallur Muthiah Bhagavatar and SG Kittappa. When we were kids, the older folks at Sengottai often pointed to the home that once belonged to Kittappa and recalled their own stories about him, most of which perhaps were imagined than real.
Thus, during the visit to India--to Chennai--in December, which is the Carnatic music season--Carnatic music was always in the air, along with serious talk about the music and musicians. I, of course, ditched interest in that music a long time ago. But, having grown up with that means that following the discussions and understanding the excitement is no hassle. Further, there are plenty of intellectual aspects of that musical tradition that interest the nerd that I am.
As has been the case the past few Decembers, father's cousin and his family were also in town. Fellow Americans we are, but it is in India that we meet. The daughter from that branch of the family tree is a trained musician. Unlike my great-aunts whose talents and interests were tightly circumscribed by the mores of the past, this young woman lives and breathes in a world where the glass ceilings over many fields are being constantly shattered.
So, there I was, after many, many years, attending a formal kutcheri in Chennai's Vani Mahal.
 |
| More here about Roopa Mahadevan |
The women in the generations that went before us would have been impressed with such developments where young women are physicians, engineers, scientists, and musicians, in addition to being mothers, daughters, sisters, aunts, and more.
 |
| The street in Pattamadai where our ancestral home (sold a few years ago) is located |
What's in a name? Well, how about Chellam?
"A rose by any other name would smell as sweet" wrote Shakespeare.
Yes. But, ...
Chellam is my mother's name. In Tamil, the word also means a favored child, a pet child, or a word used to mean something like "my dearest."
Of course, not everybody with the name Chellam is created equal.
My father's friend from his younger days went on to get his doctorate in chemistry and immigrated to the US when it was extremely rare to do so. His wife was also a Chellam. An affluent and luxurious life in America.
Another Chellam in the extended family, and in the same age cohort as my mother and the American Chellam, became a widow when she was young, with two sons. A rather tragic death it was of her husband, which I shall not discuss here out of respect for the fact that it is not my family's story after all. Her boys grew up to become professionals in their fields, but a very different personal life for this Chellam.
And then there is another--when I was in India, I read about Chellama in The Hindu.
A life that is very different from the other three Chellams:
The good thing is that changes are happening, and happening fast. But, not fast enough. Here is to hoping that every Chellam will have a wonderful life, and so will women with other names too.
Yes. But, ...
Chellam is my mother's name. In Tamil, the word also means a favored child, a pet child, or a word used to mean something like "my dearest."
Of course, not everybody with the name Chellam is created equal.
My father's friend from his younger days went on to get his doctorate in chemistry and immigrated to the US when it was extremely rare to do so. His wife was also a Chellam. An affluent and luxurious life in America.
Another Chellam in the extended family, and in the same age cohort as my mother and the American Chellam, became a widow when she was young, with two sons. A rather tragic death it was of her husband, which I shall not discuss here out of respect for the fact that it is not my family's story after all. Her boys grew up to become professionals in their fields, but a very different personal life for this Chellam.
And then there is another--when I was in India, I read about Chellama in The Hindu.
 |
| Source |
A life that is very different from the other three Chellams:
For nearly 30 years, she’s sold vegetables on the streets of Foreshore Estate, Santhome, and Mylapore (Loganathan Colony). “We came to Chennai when I was pregnant with my son. He’s now 29,” she says, sorting out chillies, and discarding the mouldy ones. In her village — Mahadevimangalam, near Thiruvannamalai — she and her husband were agricultural labourers.Making a life selling vegetables is hard work. Hard is an understatement, no doubt.
Chellama, now 60, works for more than 12 hours a day. She’s up well before 3 a.m.; and as soon as she’s returned from Koyambedu, she loads the vegetables on her vandi, and cycles around till 3 p.m., calling out to her regulars by name. Daily, she invests between Rs.2000 and Rs.2500 on just vegetables and fruits. She makes a small profit, one that is sufficient for her. When she runs out of working capital, she’s forced to borrow from moneylenders.Again, a "hard life" is an understatement. And makes me pause and wonder what is it that I complain about when my life hits a small snag!
The profit is often tied up with the leftover stock. “Look at this,” she says, pointing to her baskets, still half-filled with vegetables. “Sometimes, it takes three days to realise a profit. There is so much competition.” And then there are unforeseen expenses. Her eyes needed surgery. Padma and Swaminathan (the couple, in whose house she keeps her vandi and sleeps) pitched in for the surgery. “My son and daughter live nearby. (Her husband, an alcoholic, died four years ago).It is practically the story of every hardworking low-income woman--the husband is an alcoholic who drinks away the family's wealth, often does not work, and almost always beats up the wife and grabs her income as well. We men are a disgrace!
My daughter does housework. You know, when my son was born, I pulled her out of school, to look after him. Only then, could I go out and sell vegetables. How I wish she was educated!”Again, a typical story--the daughter's schooling gets interrupted and she is sent off to work as a maid at a couple of homes.
The good thing is that changes are happening, and happening fast. But, not fast enough. Here is to hoping that every Chellam will have a wonderful life, and so will women with other names too.
Friday, January 03, 2014
A Spaniard, a German, and an American walk into a plane ...
When I reached my seat, I was disappointed that despite my careful seat selection, I was at the row that I thought I had systematically avoided--the bulkhead row that is usually for families with infants and toddlers. They had changed the plane and retained the row/seat, which meant that I was now stuck with a toddler.
A beautiful and charming kid. But, I know enough that it only takes only a nanosecond for a sweet angel to become a devilish siren.
As we waited for the liftoff, I said hi to my seatmates. The one in the middle was a Spaniard doing her undergraduate studies in the US on a football scholarship. "Soccer" she clarified. A goalkeeper!
The mother of the child was at the window seat and was heading to Germany for a vacation. "If my parents want me to visit, then the deal is that they take care of the kid all the days that I am there" she said with a wide smile that suggested that she really meant it.
The kid was happy with the iPad. Flipping the screens, and selecting her favorite videos. I was mighty impressed that the kid was so much at ease with the device.
"How old is she?"
"Two months short of two years."
"And she is so fluent with the iPad!" I remarked.
"Oh, she happily Skypes with her grandparents" the mother added.
Kids these days!
The German and the Spaniard started talking football. Two women discussing the World Cup, the US' chances, and their favored teams. They knew the names of players in the different teams. I, the male, had nothing to contribute to the discussion and watched and listened to their comments with fascination. When given the opportunity that had been denied to women for the longest time, well, they can certainly kick the male butt!
The German seemed a tad uneasy as we taxied. "I am not a good flier" she explained. "And I am married to an air force pilot" she laughed. She added that the kid was a born flier. "She has her father's genes for flying."
I was in and out of sleep, almost always waking up with the sounds and smells of food. Perhaps I am getting older--I am rarely able to eat any of the airline food anymore. I finally woke up for good about an hour before landing time. The kid was watching a video on her iPad.
"Did she sleep at all?" I asked the mother.
"Maybe for one hour."
And I worried that the kid might not be an angel throughout.
Maybe the kid stayed awake worried about me!
A beautiful and charming kid. But, I know enough that it only takes only a nanosecond for a sweet angel to become a devilish siren.
As we waited for the liftoff, I said hi to my seatmates. The one in the middle was a Spaniard doing her undergraduate studies in the US on a football scholarship. "Soccer" she clarified. A goalkeeper!
The mother of the child was at the window seat and was heading to Germany for a vacation. "If my parents want me to visit, then the deal is that they take care of the kid all the days that I am there" she said with a wide smile that suggested that she really meant it.
The kid was happy with the iPad. Flipping the screens, and selecting her favorite videos. I was mighty impressed that the kid was so much at ease with the device.
"How old is she?"
"Two months short of two years."
"And she is so fluent with the iPad!" I remarked.
"Oh, she happily Skypes with her grandparents" the mother added.
Kids these days!
The German and the Spaniard started talking football. Two women discussing the World Cup, the US' chances, and their favored teams. They knew the names of players in the different teams. I, the male, had nothing to contribute to the discussion and watched and listened to their comments with fascination. When given the opportunity that had been denied to women for the longest time, well, they can certainly kick the male butt!
The German seemed a tad uneasy as we taxied. "I am not a good flier" she explained. "And I am married to an air force pilot" she laughed. She added that the kid was a born flier. "She has her father's genes for flying."
I was in and out of sleep, almost always waking up with the sounds and smells of food. Perhaps I am getting older--I am rarely able to eat any of the airline food anymore. I finally woke up for good about an hour before landing time. The kid was watching a video on her iPad.
"Did she sleep at all?" I asked the mother.
"Maybe for one hour."
And I worried that the kid might not be an angel throughout.
Maybe the kid stayed awake worried about me!
Thursday, January 02, 2014
Fathers and sons.
At the boarding gate, in the chairs near me was a family of four. Indian-American. Tamil-American. Appa, amma, anna, thangai. The boy was perhaps ten and the girl looked two years younger.
The mother had had enough of sitting around. "I am going to look at the shops" she said and dragged the daughter also along.
The son asked the father something, and he mumbled a response. The kid laughed. I mean laughed.
When he got a control of his emotions, the son asked the father in the most dearest of tones, "how come you are so funny all the time, appa?"
"I went to a joke school. I have a PhD."
The son laughed again.
When we are kids, our parents are like amazing superstars. We are so easily impressed with what they can do and say. We respect them. Adore them. Brag about them.
And then we grow up.
We realize that they were not superstars, and that it was mostly the decades of head-start they had over us. But, we are mighty glad they did what they did. We thank them for that. Most of us turn around and repeat the same process with our children. Sometimes we even recall the tricks the our parents used to impress us and experience the joy of our children being equally impressed.
Listening to the father talk with his son, I found nothing hilarious. But the son did. And that is all that matters.
"But, appa, I have a question. How come amma is not funny like you?"
I wondered how the father would handle that question. I am convinced that there is within us men a biological urge to make jokes and impress. We are programmed that way. Mothers are not always full of jokes. Story tellers mothers might be, but fathers are the ones being comedians and comics and making fart-jokes that kids giggle at.
The sounds from the public address system drowned out the father's mumble. In any case, the son will figure things out on his own, and will go over similar routines with his kids.
It is a wonderful life!
The mother had had enough of sitting around. "I am going to look at the shops" she said and dragged the daughter also along.
The son asked the father something, and he mumbled a response. The kid laughed. I mean laughed.
When he got a control of his emotions, the son asked the father in the most dearest of tones, "how come you are so funny all the time, appa?"
"I went to a joke school. I have a PhD."
The son laughed again.
When we are kids, our parents are like amazing superstars. We are so easily impressed with what they can do and say. We respect them. Adore them. Brag about them.
And then we grow up.
We realize that they were not superstars, and that it was mostly the decades of head-start they had over us. But, we are mighty glad they did what they did. We thank them for that. Most of us turn around and repeat the same process with our children. Sometimes we even recall the tricks the our parents used to impress us and experience the joy of our children being equally impressed.
Listening to the father talk with his son, I found nothing hilarious. But the son did. And that is all that matters.
"But, appa, I have a question. How come amma is not funny like you?"
I wondered how the father would handle that question. I am convinced that there is within us men a biological urge to make jokes and impress. We are programmed that way. Mothers are not always full of jokes. Story tellers mothers might be, but fathers are the ones being comedians and comics and making fart-jokes that kids giggle at.
The sounds from the public address system drowned out the father's mumble. In any case, the son will figure things out on his own, and will go over similar routines with his kids.
It is a wonderful life!
Mother does not know that the panini I ate was amritham!
Five hours to kill at Frankfurt airport. Damn connections because I live in a small town in the remote Pacific Northwest.
As I passed the Business Class lounge that Ramesh perhaps frequented during his jetset-executive days, I thought it might be a wonderful way to spend the five hours there. Years past, when I was lucky with free upgrades to the premier class, I have gotten free entrances to those lounges. Tasty snacks, coffee, fruits, and--most importantly--showers. It seems I have lost whatever little charm I had and airline personnel no longer give me that free upgrade.
I went in through that door. The people before me in the line flashed their business class boarding passes and were shown the way to the lounge. It was my turn. "Is there a possibility for me to pay and use the services here?"
The answer was nothing but what I had expected anyway: "No, sir."
I continued to walk. I found a series of arty wooden benches. On one was a young man, lying flat with his eyes closed and his backpack by his feet. I went over to another bench, put my backpack down for use as a pillow, placed my glasses by my side, and fell asleep. Well, mostly asleep.
When I got up a little over an hour later, I was hungry. For a small guy that I am, I am often hungry. I suppose all the thinking and blogging burns up the calories! ;)
I continued on with the walking. An eatery promised authentic Italian food. The mozzarella cheese/tomato sandwich with pesto on focaccia bread looked way tempting. And so was the young woman behind the counter. About twenty-two she was, blonde and petite with youthful energy and a smile that was not the stereotypical German stern face.
I ordered the sandwich and a cappuccino and pretended not to be shocked at the Euros that I had to pay for it.
One bite was all it took. I was in heaven. As wonderful as my mother's cooking was, especially the erisheri for lunch on the day of departure, this panini was equally awesome in its own way. I ate slowly, consciously savoring every single bite. I didn't even leave behind the tiny stalk of parsley! The cappuccino was a glorious complement to the panini.
Indian food has come to be synonymous anymore with visits to India. Eating my mother's creations. Or any of my aunts'. I wonder where I will get Indian food after my mother and aunts are gone. As with anything in life, there is a time and place even for tasty Indian food, I suppose. "To everything, turn, turn, turn."
I sat for a few more minutes enjoying the taste of the panini and cappuccino that my brain was still imagining.
I looked across at the eatery. The young woman was carefully and systematically stocking the display shelves with the foods that were being prepared in the open kitchen in the back.
I paused at her counter as I started the walk back to the gate. She smiled.
"I wanted to tell you that you look pretty."
Apparently that was a lot of English for her.
"I ...?" she asked with a smile and seeking clarification, perhaps in simpler words. I was reminded of how I failed at conveying my appreciation of the smile that the Tica had at the bakery in Costa Rica. I went for a simpler sentence.
"You are very pretty."
She thanked me with a smile.
I continued to walk to the gate.
Mother will know about these when I send them a collection of my blog posts!
As I passed the Business Class lounge that Ramesh perhaps frequented during his jetset-executive days, I thought it might be a wonderful way to spend the five hours there. Years past, when I was lucky with free upgrades to the premier class, I have gotten free entrances to those lounges. Tasty snacks, coffee, fruits, and--most importantly--showers. It seems I have lost whatever little charm I had and airline personnel no longer give me that free upgrade.
I went in through that door. The people before me in the line flashed their business class boarding passes and were shown the way to the lounge. It was my turn. "Is there a possibility for me to pay and use the services here?"
The answer was nothing but what I had expected anyway: "No, sir."
I continued to walk. I found a series of arty wooden benches. On one was a young man, lying flat with his eyes closed and his backpack by his feet. I went over to another bench, put my backpack down for use as a pillow, placed my glasses by my side, and fell asleep. Well, mostly asleep.
When I got up a little over an hour later, I was hungry. For a small guy that I am, I am often hungry. I suppose all the thinking and blogging burns up the calories! ;)
I continued on with the walking. An eatery promised authentic Italian food. The mozzarella cheese/tomato sandwich with pesto on focaccia bread looked way tempting. And so was the young woman behind the counter. About twenty-two she was, blonde and petite with youthful energy and a smile that was not the stereotypical German stern face.
I ordered the sandwich and a cappuccino and pretended not to be shocked at the Euros that I had to pay for it.
One bite was all it took. I was in heaven. As wonderful as my mother's cooking was, especially the erisheri for lunch on the day of departure, this panini was equally awesome in its own way. I ate slowly, consciously savoring every single bite. I didn't even leave behind the tiny stalk of parsley! The cappuccino was a glorious complement to the panini.
Indian food has come to be synonymous anymore with visits to India. Eating my mother's creations. Or any of my aunts'. I wonder where I will get Indian food after my mother and aunts are gone. As with anything in life, there is a time and place even for tasty Indian food, I suppose. "To everything, turn, turn, turn."
I sat for a few more minutes enjoying the taste of the panini and cappuccino that my brain was still imagining.
I looked across at the eatery. The young woman was carefully and systematically stocking the display shelves with the foods that were being prepared in the open kitchen in the back.
I paused at her counter as I started the walk back to the gate. She smiled.
"I wanted to tell you that you look pretty."
Apparently that was a lot of English for her.
"I ...?" she asked with a smile and seeking clarification, perhaps in simpler words. I was reminded of how I failed at conveying my appreciation of the smile that the Tica had at the bakery in Costa Rica. I went for a simpler sentence.
"You are very pretty."
She thanked me with a smile.
I continued to walk to the gate.
Mother will know about these when I send them a collection of my blog posts!
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