Wat Nadenken (Some Reflections)...

The face reflected in the window seemed to stare right at me, boring into my skull and reading my innermost thoughts. The distortion of the face by passing stations flowing through it did not reduce the intensity of its inquisitive gaze. Shadows cast by the flickering lights in the train and the occasional filtered city light from outside played games with the face giving it more life and form than it actually had. The face looked Indian. I kept staring at it wondering amusedly if the person it belonged to saw my reflection the same way, if he was thinking the same thoughts…

When I first landed in Norway on my cross-European course, I had some presupposed notions on life in Europe. A year in the continent has taught me something though. While some of those suppositions have been validated and others completely refuted, what’s most striking is the completely new perspective I got on India…and my Indian-ness. Read on to find out some of the allegories/ideas/questions the statement “I’m an Indian” gives rise to :)

The Crowds
Depending on which part of Europe you’re in the first image that pops into some one’s mind when he hears India varies. Norway is, well, slightly under-crowded. After all, with a population of 4 million the country’s got less people than Chennai has. Mention India to a Norwegian therefore, and watch him go into a trance as if watching a horror movie…picturing a sea of people, moving in all directions, all talking simultaneously, most of them even brushing against him all the time!! “Brrr…,” he shivers, lets out a sigh and drinks two beers in complete silence. Then comes the reaction. “It must be quite crowded, no?” “Yup,” I say, with a proud smirk on my face. In fact, one of my Norwegian friends visited Delhi airport en-route to Nepal and he still recounts his experience with a glazed look in his eyes. “Chaos, complete chaos! That’s what it was! Do you people actually handle planes there?!” “Yup,” says I, with a twitch of my lips.

The Heat
Once the topic of crowds is discussed thread-bare – which usually takes two hours – we naturally turn to the weather as it’s raining outside. Here all the Europeans stand united. While some of them can understand a crowded city what none of them can comprehend is 40 degrees Celsius at 95% humidity for weeks on end. “The Bible does not mention Hell as being on Earth!” “How many clothes can a guy remove? I go out in my shorts at 20 degrees!” Here though, I cannot smirk my usual smirk. Much to my consternation I find myself sweating on a walk at 20 degrees. The question arises – am I still a true Chennaiite? Scary, very scary.

These were the only comments I could get out of the Norwegians for they are a very shy people and have this wonderful principle (called Janteloven) that simply put, keeps them from talking to others.

Spiritualism
The Netherlands however, is a different story altogether. The Dutch, apart from being tall and perfectionist are a very amiable lot. While I love talking about my country, city and beliefs, sometimes this can be a mite frustrating. “Siddharth? Like the famous Siddhartha who invented Buddhism?” – Guys, come on Buddhism is NOT a technology… “So, are you enlightened? Can you levitate like those fellows with beards who sit in the mountains? Oh, but you said you were from the southern part of India…you don’t have mountains.” Mr. Smirk takes a walk. I indignantly refute allegations that South India does not have fellows with beards. Absence of snow does not imply absence of spiritualism.

Being Vegetarian
Talk of spiritualism naturally leads to religious investigations. For predominantly Christian Europe and Islamic-Christian Holland in particular, to be a vegetarian you either need to be mad or a Hindu. I patiently explain that Hinduism isn’t the only religion in India and even most Hindus are non-vegetarian. Then I go and make the mistake of saying that no strict Hindu would touch beef. I also, maybe willingly, make the mistake of saying we believe in reincarnation. It is here that the conversation reaches its climax. I have three people shouting at me at the same time like I’d just pick-pocketed someone. “So if a Hindu eats a cow, is he born as a beetle or a pig in his next life?” “Can you eat a cow that is not killed but is already dead – I heard they do it in Nepal” – Seriously, give me a break – why in the world would I eat a cow that died probably of lung infection?! “You eat cheese? But doesn’t that also come from cow?” – Explanation: "Cow" is not the same as "From cow." After two more hours of elaborate explanations of the concepts of cows, karma and reincarnation and how these topics are inextricably linked with our lives on earth I’m left in peace…until the word "movie" slips out of my all-too-active mouth.

Bollywood
One topic no Indian, Pakistani or Bangladeshi can get away from is that of Bollywood. I mention my country to my course-mates only to see two of them break into an impromptu aerobics lesson with palms upraised. “Ah, I know that ugly guy, some Shan or Rukhan or something. And and and…that girl…Aishrai…oh, everybody knows them man.” – Nice. The two people I don’t like are the international faces of Bollywood. Of course, I then have to firmly deny that I know dancing, especially Bollywood style. You-tube to the rescue…

There's a lot more, regarding politics, corruption, poverty (some believe the whole country is in rags) and the fact that I'm most often late for an appointment... but I feel I’ve bored you enough. One question though, that’s very clichéd but is still put to me an umpteen number of times – “How do you say Cheers in Indian, Sid?”

More on the other side sometime later…till then, tot ziens, vanakkam.

Those days

I often think about the days when I was in school. Flashes of brilliantly clear images sometimes over power my mind, and then I am lost to the world for a while, thinking about days gone by.

My earliest memory of school is me sitting somewhere in the corner of a class room in lower kindergarten listening to the teacher call out names from her register. For some inexplicable reason, she used to ask a girl called Preeti to sign somewhere. I used to then fervently hope and pray that my turn never came, because, I hadn't the faintest idea how to wield a pen, least of all, affix my signature at a desired location on paper. It was many days later that I found out that the girl's name was Sai Preeti, which my nasal sounding teacher had pronounced 'sign'.

I remember frantically announcing at home once, that I needed money for a 'Tinders Match Box'. Although I did not know what it was, I had been convinced by my teacher that failure to cough up at school would have disastrous consequences, such as being made to kneel down the whole day. No amount of questioning or coercing by my exasperated parents could decipher what that cryptic phrase meant. It was later discovered that I was to take part in the School Sports Day's 'Toddlers March Past' and the matter was successfully resolved.

I was also the owner of a fiery temper, which albeit slow to rise, was explosive in nature. In the fifth standard, during morning assembly, a fellow classmate called Aravind, rather unwisely tried to insert his little finger into my right ear. I dont know why, but at that moment I was blinded by rage and remember lunging wildly at his face, restrained by several classmates. He clapped his hand to his mouth,spat out a bloodied front tooth and staggered off somewhere. I then found myself standing in front of the class teacher. Staring at me with barely concealed amazement, she tried her best to put her thoughts into words with an extremely inadequate "Why did you break Aravind's tooth?" I just stood there without answering, beacuse I realized that whatever I did say at that point, would almost certainly, be the wrong answer.

There were teachers who loved me and teachers who loathed the very sight of me. One particular English teacher unashamedly favoured me over every other student, solely because I was a fellow Malayalee. In her eyes, I could do no wrong, and this notion was extended to grading in tests, selection of the class leader and the greatest schoolteacher-extended honour, being the chosen one to carry the class work books to the staff room. At about the same time, there was a Hindi teacher who used every opportunity she had to beat me to within an inch of my life. I once forgot to bring my Hindi Workbook to school three days in a row. I still have nightmares about those three days.

There were many strange creatures who inhabited my world at that time. There was a boy who at the tender age of seven assured me that if i didn't believe in Jesus Christ I would go straight to hell. A classmate whose pastime of choice was to 'crack' the knuckles of other people's fingers. A fellow who refused to eat with me whenever I brought non vegetarian food in my luch box. A chap who insisted that the only other country in the world was France and every other country was a part of that (apparently) great nation. There were science teachers who refused to teach sex and evolution because it went against their religious principles. There was a history teacher ( I am not joking) who said the Prophet Muhammad's flight,'Hijra' was the name of the airline he flew in. A physics teacher who in eleventh standard warned me against talking to girls as it was a bad habit. A mathematics teacher who exclaimed when I was contemplating joining the commerce group 'Commerce! I thought you were good in studies!'


I do miss school very much. I miss the carefree innocence of our youth. I miss the fact that the worst thing which could happen in class was being made to go out. I miss the long corridors, the western classical music played at morning assembly, the tree tops outside the windows, the much awaited games periods, the excitement of new school bags and contents of lunch boxes, the science and history text books, winning prizes, field trips and friendly teachers. School was fun.

Somewhere I belong

This is a post about me. About something that has been rankling for sometime. Apologies to my readers (both of you), if the mood of this essay is not conformant with my previous pieces(both of them).

I belong to a Malayalee family, which, like millions of other families left Kerala in search of a new life elsewhere. My parents came to Chennai in the eighties,found their respective jobs and have remained in the city ever since. As a result, my sister and me have been brought up in a cross-cultural environment encompassing two states and four languages. I speak a combination of English and Malayalam at home. I spoke a combination of English and Tamil at school. I answered Hindi(my second language at school) answer papers in a combination of all three languages(which is probably why my Hindi teachers were not at their most polite best while in conversation with me).

The outcome of this has been that I cannot, in all honesty, confidently say that I feel completely accepted by any of the above mentioned groups. My Tamil classmates although extremely friendly, know that somewhere, deep down I am a 'Mallu'. Any true-blue Malayalees who I chance upon, regard me suspiciously because of my fluent Tamil. In college, I have been called 'Peter' ( a slightly derogatory Chennai term used to describe an English speaking person).When a Malayalee introduces me to another Malayalee he always does so with a disclaimer - "This is Ashwat, he is a Malayalee, but has lived in Chennai all his life." The other Malayalee immediately starts talking to me in English, assuming that there is no way in hell a person who has lived in Chennai all his life can ever speak passable Malayalam.

Another disturbing aspect is the pride of position given to the colour of your skin. Disregarding the fact that all Indians are coloured varying shades of brown, we have a tendency to slot people into 'black', 'white' and for some obscure reason 'wheatish'. I, and some friends, have been called 'Vellakara'(white man) owing to a combination of our English skills and fair skin. When a friend of mine retaliated by calling the person who had given him this sobriquet a 'Karuppukaara'(black man), he was accused of being derogatory and insulting.
Funnily, several North Indians labour under the delusion that anybody who is fair skinned is from the North. Many of them come and address me in Hindi confident that I would reply in their language.

It is therefore no surprise that most of my closest friends are people who primariy speak English as well. This is often percieved as being elitist or snobbish. I beg to differ; although I speak good English, I belong to this country and perhaps have a greater understanding of its diversity than the people who stick to their vernacular.

So am I a true global citizen or do I belong nowhere? I prefer to believe the former.

Blogger's Block

Thoughts flash in and out. Some are rejected, some are stored, some referred to a higher compartment for approval. The hands itch to open Word, the fingers itch to traverse the keyboard. A brilliant spark is caught and examined. And thrown away. It shall remain just a spark. Brevity, they say is wit. Too much brevity, though and what we’ve got is not wit but Blogger’s Block. Why not? Genius begets gigantic goof-ups, mediocrity results in mediocre mishaps. If a genuine writer can have a block, why not a blogger? Downscale a writer’s block and what have you got? A very randomly mixed, preheated mixture of thoughts floating around in a soup made up of the need to write. Such are the times when readability is thrown to the winds. When Honesty rules one half of a kingdom, the other half ruled by Desire. You are now a visitor to the land in between – a land that exists due to these two halves, a land that exhibits neither of their qualities. The time is past midnight – that time of the night when most geniuses get their inspirations, when most bloggers, the insatiable desire to write. I knew it from the beginning. Knew the dangers of starting a blogspot. Meaningful articles followed by inspired ones followed by meaningless ones. The usual path, traversed by a person who fancies himself a writer, who discovers the difference between wanting to write and being able to. The result – a post from a blogger suffering his equivalent of what robs a columnist of his weekly trip to the movies. It’s a strange, dangerous, addictive thing, this blogging.

Chennai to Bangalore

I am one among the hordes of people who have moved to Bangalore upon graduation. Bangalore, being in close proximity to Chennai, makes it incumbent on me to duly travel home every weekend. I must impress upon my readers that these frequent trips home are solely because of the impassioned pleas of my family and friends and not due to home-sickness, loneliness, craving for home-food or a necessity to get my clothes ironed.

This post is about the people on the train home. They all fit into one type or the other. I shall now proceed to descibe the various types to you.

The IT Guy
This type of person, as you might have guessed, works in one of Bangalore's many software engineering firms. His main characteristic is the laptop which hangs from his left shoulder. A Deccan Airways tag will also faithfully adhere to his luggage. Every time he wants to visit the bathroom he will point at the laptop and say loudly"Please take care of my laptop, I will be back in a few minutes" This is in case he feels his fellow passengers have mistaken his laptop case for a shoe bag. This type of person also looks upon all non IT people as beneath contempt, unable to understand why someone would choose a profession that will not take them to the USA in three years of joining the company. When I inform him that I work in civil engineering, he expresses his condolences and sincerely hopes that I will be soon able to find an IT company to take me on.

The Maama/Maami
These are the standard issue elderly folk on the train. As soon as they enter the train, they request you for your lower berth. Upon the train leaving the station, they immediately open two Dabbas of curd rice which they then proceed to polish off with relish. Once this is done, they transfer their attention to me. Questions follow about my job, accomodation, salary, and address. All my answers will be compared with their son who usually is the above mentioned IT Guy, albeit living in the USA. When I tell them that I work in civil engineering they usually stop talking to me assuming that I did really badly in the Tamil Nadu State Board Examination.

The Babe with the Cellphone.
This type of person is female and is usually good looking. A boyfriend usually drops her off at the railway station and. Upon the train leaving, she calls him up again. The conversation then lasts long into the night, neither too loud so as to enable eavesdropping and neither is it too soft to ignore. If this person happens to occupy the berth adjacent to yours, any chance of sleep will be disrupted by continuous giggles (if the relationship is in its infancy) or snarls (if it is a few months old). Does not usually care if I work in civil engineering.

The New Parents
These type of people are a young couple with a baby in their arms. Their immediate task upon entering the train will be to close the windows so as to protect their precious baby's ears from the wind. They will then look at you expectantly, waiting for you to comment on the baby's intelligence/cuteness/smile. In case you do not oblige, (or in my case scowl violently) they will affix you with murderous stares and the mother will hug her baby closer to her breast, making you feel like a child molester.

The No Ticket Guy
This type of person is one who has ommitted to book his ticket prudently in advance. He will give you a sycophantic smile and sit half his butt on your seat. He will then glance up and down the corridor nervously in anticipation of the ticket examiner. Upon the TE's arrival he will start talking to him in hushed tones, maintaining the oily grin with considerable difficulty. In case he is lucky, the TE will give him a seat. Once this happens he drops the grin immediately, becomes brusquely irritated with his fellow passengers and puts his feet up on his allotted seat and hums a tune.

These are the most common of the train travelling types on he Bangalore-Chennai route. More on living in Bangalore in further posts. Stay on the edge of your seats, readers.

When…

Random thoughts that resulted in a poem promptly penned down are herewith attached...
Comments and criticism appreciated - as always! :)

When the revving of a bike
Makes you yearn for that wind on your face
When the greening trees against a grey sky
Remind you of the view from your high terrace
When a ride in an intercity train brings back
Memories of all that noise, dust and those rust-brown tracks
When a foreign tongue starts sounding like a known dialect
And strange faces do familiar memories resurrect…

When the waves themselves seem to break
With a message from distant shores, hidden in a poem,
When an esoteric dish with some masala, does a familiar delicacy make
When Roman architecture brings to mind an Indo-Saracenic dome…
Then my friend, realize - and make no mistake -
That you must delay no more for sanity’s sake -
‘Tis time to pack your bags and Go Home.

One of His masterpieces...

First of all, Thanks to Him who put them up there. Second thanks to my "Northern Lights friend," simply, for sharing it with me. And third, thanks to Jiann Chyuan who unknowingly inspired me to write about something that deserves to be described.

It was a cold, clear night - In Norway the nights are mostly cold and the clearer they are, the colder they are - and we were both feeling a little bored and energetic -a perfect combination for going out for a walk...and so we did. We set off, on our usual trek route behind our flats in Steinan, up the narrow ice-covered trail to the power plant. It was a weekday and was therefore relatively quiet. With only the occasional rustle of a light breeze through the corn fields and the inky star-spangled canvass above we climbed up to the plant, planning to go on afterwards to our usual look-out post atop the hill. It was a lovely night and we were entranced, as we usually are, by the special beauty of this place that says so much, so simply, so silently. Nowhere else would I have dared to walk through a forest at 12 at night - but here...here it was different. Our only companions were the bushes and the trees and they did not seem to resent our intrusion too much! As we kept walking, we noticed, but chose to ignore for a while, a strange greyish-green cloud that had mysteriously appeared above us. When we reached the plant, however, we turned around and looked up...and were transfixed.

Imagine a dragon...a dragon of green that leaps across the sky, looking for all the world like a rainbow, that suddenly ducks and turns and tries to catch its own tail...all these maneouvres executed with a grace that defied the imagination. Imagine two more dragons like that appearing out of nowhere...chasing each other across the black canvass, appearing to flow from one brilliant star cluster to another and then just as mysteriously disappearing, only to reappear a few seconds later from the other direction as if having forgotten to visit a star! Yes...we were witnessing a masterpiece...created by an artist whose imagination knows no bounds and whose canvass is the very sky itself - the Aurora Borealis, commonly known as the Northern Lights.

We stood there, completely oblivious to the crick in our necks...and in those couple of minutes, I felt I could reach out and touch that dragon's head, thank it for having put on this show for me. As soon as we perceived a break in this phenomenal exhibition we hurried on to our look-out post and were just in time to catch the sight of a rainbow of green arching across the black fjord, across the town that in itself looked like the sky turned upside down, above our heads, and into the hills beyond. I tried to imagine what the first Vikings would have felt...knowing as they did, absolutely nothing about ions or any of the details that created these supernatural fireworks...and I am sure this indescribably beautiful work of art contributed, atleast partly, to their decision to settle down here in such inhospitable climes!