SRISHTI Newsletter

SRISHTI Newsletter

Starting from October 2007, our Srishti Association will attempt a monthly (or quarterly) newsletter. Broadly, it will cover activities of the Association; the social, cultural, and religious events that keep Srishti residents bubble with enthusiasm; and the achievements, if any, of the Srishti children that make their parents proud of them primarily, and the other residents in addition. The purpose is thus to share information on the goings-on, in an effort to foster the already present feeling of oneness or, a composite Srishti family – Vasudeva Kutumbakam.

The inagural month, October, fortunately is replete with activities. We saw three of Srishti-ites bagging 10, 5 or 2 gms of gold coins from Shriram Properties in a competition that SPL had organized. I thought that Jayanthi Bhashyam’s affable disposition was a prerogative that I enjoyed exclusively, and had listed myself as one of the possible recipients of the yellow metal. No, that was not to be. The winners were Dr Smita of A-401 (10 gms), Mrs Priti Kankani of A-608 (5 gms) and Mrs Vijaya Srinivasan of A-305 (2 gms). So, it was a clean sweep by the A Wing. Congrats. As a gesture of Srishti’s active participation, SPL gave a token sponsorship amount of Rs 2000/- to the Association. Well appreciated.

It would appear that the Srishti ladies are better organized than their menfolk. Under the auspices of Asha-ji, there is a yoga class that is going on perhaps for more than a year, and is getting popular day by day. There is then the Sahasranama Mandali that is firmly rooted in the building. Every Friday the ladies chant Vishnu Sahasrnamam (in someone’s house by rotation) followed by bhajans and songs. Every Pournami they gather similarly and recite Lalitha Sahasranamam. As though to fine-tune their vocal chords in preparation for these events, they jointly attend a music class in Srishti. And on all the days of Navaratri, they busied themselves reciting Lalitha Sahasranamam in different apartments. Their popularity chart registered an all-time high when the Srishti group was invited to give a performance in Devanahalli. The hostess had sent a 22-seater to Srishti to pick and drop them back. I understand the credit for arranging this goes to Jayashree, of B-204. Good job, and keep it up.

These said, it is not a cakewalk for ladies. Men too have been contributing their mite - amidst their multiplicity of engagements, that is. Mr Kuruvilla (Kuru to his friends) of A Block had arranged screening of a documentary on global warming. It was timed so well that the very next day we heard of Al Gore and Dr Kachuria, the brain behind the movement, being awarded jointly the Nobel Prize. Normally, such a preview is reserved for the President of India in the private auditorium of Rashtrapati Bhavan. So, what a privilege it was for us all to have had such a preview before the Nobel Prize committee’s formal announcement. Could we have asked for more? Thanks Mr Kuruvilla. By the way, we are mobilizing ‘public’ opinion to request you to arrange for a repeat screening.

In another instance, Mr Govindarajan (B–502) served us an apt eye-opener and entertaining monkey-story in the wake of Sensex touching 20K and the haste of many to make the most of it. The host of Warren Buffets in the making in Srishti however defended their action that they did it just for the heck of it. That is perhaps what one says when the going is good, isn’t it?

Now, a bit of business. The Association held its bi-annual general body meeting on Sunday, 28 October. Coinciding with that it had tied up with Columbia Asia Hospital to do a heath check up for the interested residents. It was a daylong activity, with Columbia promising to take up the first 75 persons who would care to register. Many had predicted that hardly 15 would turn up. But, alas, there was a long queue, similar to what one sees in a municipal dispensary. Dr Selvi, the attending physician did a commendable job without showing signs of exhaustion.

Later, in the evening, Dr Meena, Consultant Psychiatrist at Columbia, gave a pep talk on lifestyle and stress management. This was followed by meaningful an interactive question-answer session. Dr Meena fielded the queries with felicity. But it was our Dr Sunder who stole the show. Examples of his son being bullied by seniors in school, the fact that any medicine having effect is bound to have a side effect as well, and any system of medicine that proclaims that their medicine does not produce side-effects is sure not to have any effect either, were all well received. (A latecomer whispered into my ears, “Who is the psychiatrist, Dr Sunder or Dr Meena?” “I first thought it was the lady, but now I am not sure,” I confessed.).

Our special thanks to Dr Sunder for initiating this. Not only that, he had organized with Columbia Asia to pay the Association a token sponsorship contribution of Rs 15000/-. Also, for subsequent consultations with any specialist, Columbia has offered 50% discount, and 30% discount for laboratory services, till the end of November 2007. I think, short of getting them to bequeath Columbia Asia in favour of Srishti we got everything, isn’t it? Good job, Janaki Ram Babu & Co.

Let’s revisit the deliberations of the bi-annual general body meeting and see what the office bearers have to say:

For the first half of the year, the expenses incurred by the Association under the various budget lines more or less tallied with their budgeted estimates under each head.

Thanks to increased sponsorship, levy of parking fees and a host of other measures, the Association generated more income which in turn rendered more Srishti get-togethers possible in the first half the year.

The Association achieved a break-through in its collection drive. Except for one resident (whose apartment is vacant and the Association has no clue to his whereabouts), it has collected the maintenance charges from all the others – or, to put it more appropriately from the occupants’ perspective, all residents have paid their dues.

If the Srishti premises in general, and the floor areas in particular look cleaner these days, it is because the Association has changed the agency. And, as one member pointed out, if the ‘skirtings’ on the floors are still far from clean, it is because that the old agency had not done its job well, and precisely why they were shown the door.

The fire safety measures are in full swing and should be in place by mid November. (So postpone any hazardous attempts for a later date)

The maintenance of our lifts is being taken up on a warfooting and sooner than later the lifts should be turning user-friendly. A gentle pat, punch, kick or a final stare at it in anguish, may no longer be necessary.

All maids, drivers and other regular workforce entering our premises have been provided with ID cards. (That is for the security staff. But you will have to devise your own ingenious methods to distinguish a resident-community from the other as the number game is getting neck to neck.)

Car-owning residents have been successfully persuaded to affix Car Parking stickers in their cars.

The cables of the BESCOM transformer have been changed. They were found wanting.

The Axis Bank sponsored distribution of token gifts to children in recognition of their contribution to the recent awareness campaign on Water Conservation.

The meeting ended with snacks, chow chow bath and badam milk. Many strongly supported continuing with this caterer. Earlier the meeting could not start on time for want of quorum. But judging by the remarkable attendance at the refreshments session, one member quipped, “Maybe hereafter we should shift Refreshments to the top of the agenda and solve the quorum problem once and for all.”

They say ‘Life is beautiful’, but we modify that: “Life in Srishti is beautiful”.

(Posted: 29 October 2910)

Materializing Documents for Green Card

India Currents

December 2008

Everything has a price. The effort entailed in materializing supporting documents for a Green Card is no exception. The US Administration’s policy per se to include US citizens’ parents to be eligible for green card, sans the restrictive visa-quota, is simply matchless. Many countries do offer permanent-residence facilities covering spouse and children, but how many extend this privilege to parents as well? It is this deep commitment to the family-bond concept that makes the country head and shoulders above the rest.

It is equally sensitive to the nostalgia of such parents who have spent the best part of their lives in the country of their origin – the universal home sweet home, wherever that is. All that it expects therefore is to stay in US for six months in a 365-day time frame, and feel free to live in a country of one's choice for the same length of time. A fifty-fifty deal or, the best of both worlds, for the asking.

However, the uphill task of these sexagenarians or septuagenarians in compiling the requisite documents to establish their credentials can sometimes hold them back, if our own experience is anything to go by.

Birth certificate. In the days of yore, many births went unregistered. Of the few that got recorded most did not bear the name. It is reserved for the Nama Karanam ceremony. The pattern, inscribed on stone for our tribe, starts with name of your village, father's name and that of one of the grandparents, the last one becoming your name. A foolproof method to stay tuned to one’s roots. I can’t guess why the nearest railway station, platform number or bus stop got omitted.

Once birth is registered, one never bothers to add the baptized name, let alone collect the certificate for posterity. Word of mouth, not proof, rules the roost thereafter.

Now, nearly seventy years later, I visit the office of the Registrar of Births and Deaths, Palghat, now Palakkad, to verify if the birth has been registered and, if so, to hand me a certificate. “Did you say birth?” the clerk re-ascertains.

For a nominal processing fee, they give you a date depending on the era in which you were born - post-Independence, British, Moghul or pre-historic - to enable them excavate records. My birth stays recorded, but without the name. To overcome that your paternal and maternal relatives affirm, in an affidavit, their relationship with you, personal knowledge of your place, date, month and year of birth, and the fact that you have been named thus at a ceremony.

We travel to Varkala, for my wife’s certificate. Unfortunately, hers had not been registered. We are directed to another desk. “To register birth, at 60?” the assistant asks in disbelief. Apart from legal declarations and undertakings, he insists on us to furnish a personal authentication from an elderly person known to us in the locality. Fortunately, a relative of hers still resides there. He is 89 and kicking. (Longevity runs in both our families and they can give the Japanese, record holders in lifespan, a run for their lives). He stands testimony, though speaking a little more than needed. “That is the problem when octogenarians get a listener,” mumbles the Registrar, probably taking it out on at someone at home.

The verification report in hand, we are directed to the District Magistrate in Trivandrum. After scrutiny, the latter authorizes the Registrar of Births and Deaths to record my wife's birth, 60 years later. I ask the assistant how come they are so much procedure-bound. “That is a good question,’ he says, which means he knows the answer well. “Sir, I don’t mean you (I bet he did), but just assume that an applicant comes to us in the guise of a green card seeker. But in reality he has a court case pending against him where if only he proves this town as his birthplace, the verdict will turn in his favor. He will walk away with the benefits of the judgment, and I will take his place in the witness box for the rest of my life,” he concludes and hands over the birth certificate with my wife’s name appearing on it. “One up on mine,” I hasten, before my wife does that for the rest of the day.

Marriage Certificate. We move on to that task. Nowadays one can obtain it from any city and not necessarily from the place of marriage. We return to our residence in Bangalore. Armed with proofs such as the Wedding invitation, our marriage album (moths having made a sumptuous meal of most parts of our body, leaving a final assault on our face for a later occasion) and helping to climb stairs the two family friends we managed to hunt, who attended our marriage nearly forty years ago, we walk into the office of the Registrar of Marriages. He goes through the papers and the album, and says, “You look the same, sir.” “Either I am not supposed to, or that I manage to look this old that long back?” I conclude. But on all such occasions, an artificial smile, more than countering bureaucrats' observations, makes matters move. I precisely do that.

He signs the papers, not before raising a query. “But, why do you require this certificate, sir? Must be writing your will?” “Not exactly,” I clarify, “we need proof that my wife and I were married before our son was born. He is now a US citizen and is sponsoring our permanent residence there.” “You mean l e a v i n g India?” he asks, reopening the topic we just managed to get over.

Police clearance. This is required from all those places where you stayed continuously for six months in the last five years. We needed one from Bangalore and another from a European city. On remittance of about $100 to the latter authorities, we got the certificate, 'no crime recorded' - $33 per word. For the Indian report, the constable from the Police Station visits our home when we are not around, makes discreet inquiries from a cross section of residents in the apartment complex. Fortunately, we are still projecting the best of ourselves, being new to the place. He leaves a word for us to appear before him at the Police Station, which we do. Standing behind us is a dozen ruffians rounded up during the day and, in front, the police officer himself - a very tall and hefty guy with more hairs on his eyebrows, handlebar moustache and chest than on his head. He surveys us from head to feet. “I have been here for years, but I don’t particularly seem to have spotted you any time,’ he says giving the impression of making a field day of us. “Sir, we try to keep away from three people: the police, an advocate and a doctor, in that order,’ I am about to say, but check myself. Instead I say, “Sir, we shifted to this city recently.” “Ah, so I am right,’ he says triumphantly. “You see, we police officials have an elephant’s memory and a snake’s photosensitive eyes,” he corroborates his case further, as though he expects me to appraise him for his next promotion. I keep mum. “You people seem nice. Your neighbors gave a very good report, which is a rare feat these days,’ he says as he signs our papers in the file. “Next,” he calls, as though we were part of the lot behind.

Meanwhile, we collect yet another report, this one called, Police Verification Report, from the Passport Control Office that their own enquiries of our antecedents have failed to elicit anything incriminating against us. I must say escape route begins with police force.

“If winter comes, can spring be far behind?” To me, this piling up of documents represents the tough exterior of the green card exercise. Once we pieced them together, filled up applications and submitted them to CIS, the tender interior begins to unfold itself. In three months on the dot we receive letters conveying CIS’ approval and welcoming us to US as permanent residents.

V.V. Sundaram, retired from publishing services in a UN organization, is based in Bay Area – vvsundaram40@gmail.com

(Posted: 29 October 2010)

Heralding Grandchild’s Birth

Joie de vivre is how we would describe our feelings as we landed at the San Francisco airport. Never mind, the aircraft took off from Bangalore two hours later, we missed the connecting flight, were loaded on to a circuitous route, and had to improvise a bunch of chocolates and dessert for Asian Vegetarian Meals in the changed flight. Past is past, we said to ourselves and looked forward to meeting our son and, more important, our daughter in law who was all set to deliver a baby a month later.

Finally arrived the day - no, the night, to be precise. It was around three at night when our daughter in law felt uneasy. My wife suddenly rushed to the kitchen. “Must be getting some hot water ready,” I guessed. No, she was browsing through the New York temple calendar hung there to ascertain the auspicious and not so auspicious times, and the stars of the day. The star that was reigning that moment was not among the most sought after, but she felt happy that it was on its way out.

The hospital authorities suggested us to bring the patient along. Back in India, my wife would not have let our daughter in law leave home for the event till a cow, lady or a child passed by as a good omen. But she is reconciled that US cows don’t enjoy the same freedom of movement, or the right to rest on roads, as their counterparts in India. Equally, she is fair not to expect a lady or child to pass by at the mid of night. She hurried to the car-park basement, and came back just as my son and daughter-in-law were just stepping out to the hospital. She said that she went to check if the car seat for the newborn-to-be had been fixed. I knew for sure that this could be the last item that would strike her. After they left, when confronted, she confided that it was a ploy for a makeshift omen.

An hour or so later the telephone rang. “The baby is born, Amma. It is a boy. A normal delivery, and a very quick one at that,” my son beamed to my wife. Overjoyed, she raised her point of concern: “And what is the exact time of the baby's birth?”

After some calculations - from New York time to California time, etc. - she galloped the stairs: “I say, the baby is of the same star as mine”, she announced still gasping for breath. “Doesn’t matter, we will consult the astrologer for an atonement,” would have been my usual unguarded answer, but not on this occasion.

These said, the happiness shared by me was no less considering the circumstances that conspired to bring about this culmination.

Yes, it was four years since this son got married. One full year is the upper limit my wife can wait for news of a possible addition to the family. Restlessness is the name of the game thereafter. During their subsequent weekend calls her one-point agenda was to elicit a response on this.

“Thus far, no further,” exasperated she said one day. “You buy tickets for Palghat, we will see Panikkar,” she ordered me, as she hung the telephone once last year.

“Who? The ‘atonement’ astrologer?“ I quipped, knowing that all his predictions accompany matching prescriptions of atonements to mitigate, minimize, or overcome hurdles and obstacles. Often one felt the remedy is worse than the disease.

“You don’t have to be sarcastic. What about the accurate predictions that he makes?” she shot back in his defense, disarming me totally. “I wonder when some people would learn to look at the brighter side,” she rubbed it in, finding the going good.

“We will consult Panikkar as to what is in store for them,” she asserted, in no mood to give in.

“That is a fair concern, dear, but should we not first ask them if it is not part of their planning, since both are working?” I persisted, trying to carry conviction to my argument.

“You don’t have to add ‘dear’ to continue your rebuff,” she cautioned me. “Our elder son and his wife were both employed. But she gave up her job as soon as she delivered a baby,” she retorted, evading a direct answer. She does that with aplomb.

Panikkar gave his views, which he does in writing to register his stamp of authority and authenticity, that by mid-2008 the couple would be blessed with their first child – and two more would join the bandwagon later.

My wife made sure that she picked up the next weekend call, to be the first to relay the prediction - all by herself;

I still am not sure whether the poor children revised their plans succumbing to her irrevocable mental make-up, or it was a natural turn of events. Months later, we received a call from them – this time unusually in the middle of a week - to say that our daughter in law was in the family way, and that the delivery was expected by, yes, mid 2008. With the birth of a child for the San Jose son too, my wife crossed yet another milestone.

Her focus has now shifted to our elder son in Phoenix. When he rang up to congratulate us on becoming grandparents yet again, she lost no time. “Your son is now four years. This is the time he should ideally have a companion, preferably a baby sister,” she launched her next project. “If necessary, we are prepared to stay back in US for some more months and help with that delivery too,” she added as bait. My elder son knows for sure that any talks with her hereafter will revolve around this topic. Equally so, he knows that given her simplicity, her small world consists of just three things: - our family, our family, and our family.

V.V. Sundaram retired from long years in the publishing line in a UN organization, is based in Bay Area.

18 August 2008 (Posted on 29 October 2010)

The VIP (Visiting Indian Parents) Meet

(Names changed)

The venue is a local park , and the time from 6 to 7 pm. The agenda covers anything under the sun, but mostly revolves around: to be or not to be (a permanent US resident). The meeting is held from Monday to Thursday. (We skip Friday to Sunday evenings just to stay on call to accompany our sons/daughters on a social visit, shopping, or an eat-out session at short notice.)

The age group of participants is 60-74, and consists of plain and simple visitors; those undecided on green card: others who have filed their papers, and naturalized citizens.

My wife and I are proactive when it comes to human relations. We do not believe in never speak unless spoken to. We reach out to people assuming they are equally eager but are hesitant to make the first move. So we greet them with a smile during the rounds of walk. In most cases the response is instantaneous.

I greeted a Sikh gentleman, “Sat Sri Akal,” during one of the rounds. He was so overwhelming that I feared I was in for a WWF embrace from the well-built 6’3”, and would get shrunk in the process. Fortunately I got away with a lighter one. He took my hand with both his hands and shook with more vigor and vitality than I could take. With my hand still inextricably interlocked into his hands, he led us to his wife who had completed her rounds and was resting on the cement bench. They introduced themselves as Mr and Mrs Harcharan Singh from Punjab.

“So, since how long have you been in the US?” we asked them to get a conversation started. “This is our 42^nd day and, our first and last visit to US,” said the 70-year old, already in a countdown mode. He soon amended it, not to sound critical, “No doubt, everything here is so organized, all facilities are available, no power cut, no water problem; one can buy everything under one roof. But the problem is we have to depend on our son and daughter in law for everything. And, above all, at this point it is difficult to change the lifestyle we are used to in India.” It reminded me of the words of Brutus in Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar: “Not that I love Caesar less, but that I love Rome more,”

Seeing the four of us engrossed in a conversation, a lady in her mid-sixties and her daughter felt eager to join us. They changed their outer circle route to the inner one to be sure to pass by our cement bench and get noticed. We greeted only to see them having already squeezed themselves. That got Harcharan and me, at the two edges of the bench, preoccupied with a balancing act to stay seated more than participating in the proceedings thereafter. This is the Kashyap family, from Delhi.

Mrs Vimla Kashyap’s son and daughter in law are in US for some years. Her daughter has work permit and is in US for the past four months. The mother has accompanied her daughter. In fact she is on a reconnaissance visit to decide whether she should shift here permanently or to stay alone in Delhi. (She lost her husband a few years ago.) The introductory interaction leaned heavily on her following the footsteps of the Harcharans.

Soon Jagir Singh and his wife joined us. They have been here for over a decade and have acquired US citizenship. His son is an engineer, daughter and daughter in law are doctors, and son in law an attorney. Jagir Singh is a safe bet for seeking advise on immigration, buying or renting a house, road maps, medicaments for common ailments, both modern and home remedies. Personally I would call him a walking encyclopedia, though the group calls him reverentially ‘Guru-ji’.

The next to be in our group are the Reddys from Andhra Pradesh. “Two more months,” they responded when asked since how long had they been here. Apparently another ‘countdown’ case, we said to ourselves. They have their priorities in place. They are looking for a suitable bride for their younger son in India. The marriage season starts in July. So they would like to rush to India by then, take up the short-listed cases and solemnize the marriage. While in US they are helping their elder son to buy a house in a good school district so that their grand daughter, now 15 months, can be going to a good public school. Meanwhile their welfare activities go unabated. They donated recently a big bagful of rice and some other items to Sri Satya Sai Baba centre for feeding the poor. They participated the other day in preparing huge quantities of sandwiches for a similar cause. They have been doing this in India.

They shared with us their personal experiences. On one occasion Baba materialized a gold ring for him and later a necklace for the lady. On the other, Baba unleashed to them, on his own volition, the girls they had mentally shortlisted for their elder son and advised them to select the Hyderabad girl though the Guntur girl, their first choice, was also good. Later, the Reddys introduced to the group their charming daughter in law, the girl Baba had recommended.

The group has so far had nearly thirty sessions. Mr Jagir Singh took in his car one batch from the group to the San Jose Gurdwara temple. He will take the rest in the next round. Meanwhile he is organizing a day-long picnic, which would mean a ride in the bus, Cal train, boat, and visiting several places of interest.

Mr and Mrs Haracharan Singh have returned to India since, but not before confessing to us their changed plans - to visit US again definitely. Mrs Vimla is all set to obtain driver’s license and is enlisting as a member of the local Library, probably a precursor to her long-term plans. The Reddys are finalizing the flowers, which on their next visit to US, they would like blossomed in the front and backyards of their son’s house to be acquired soon. And, not to be left out, my wife and I have finally decided and submitted papers for a green card.

Posted on 29 October 2010

Making the Most of US Visit

Parents who are reasonably busy in India find practically very little to keep themselves occupied when they visit their children in US. At the same time they cannot resist the prospect of a family re-union.

Against this backdrop, we once again visit US. This time we did not make the customary announcement from rooftop: “certainly our last trip”, for two reasons. First, like a New Year resolve, we have been flouting it from left, right and centre these last twelve years. Second, our credibility is eroding - no one takes us seriously when we say so, and whisper to one another, “yeh to aise bolte rahte hai”.

The initial enthusiasm runs high in the first about ten days, once in US. But everything has an expiry date. The countdown syndrome, waiting on its wings, takes charge thereafter even though you still have five and a half months for return. We hold two things responsible for this - having to depend on someone to go places; and difficulty in spending time. “Come what may, we shall overcome these,” my wife and I swore this time before booking.

Backed by decades of varied driving experiences of Delhi (free for all) and Bangalore (bumper to bumper), we tackle the commuting problem, though initially we get disillusioned by the left-hand drive, gear-less transmission, wiper pressing into service when you command the signal, the unaccustomed need to match speed-limit signs with your speedometer needle, and the Sheriff’s car on the beat all the time. Now, we drive to the nearby Safeway, Indian stores, or to the Library, strictly by turn – one way she drives, and the other, I drive. The only time I am in total command is when I drive to the hairdressing salon. She can’t accompany me there. Then I drive singing with gay abandon, “I am the monarch of all I survey; my right there is none to dispute”, by Alexander Selkirk in “The Solitary Reaper”. (What a pity, these very lines, so distinct now, disowned me in my Secondary School Board examination denying me 10 marks.)

We know this kind of trips does not happen everyday, and we need other avenues to pass time. So we walk across to the nearby park and meet other members of the herd – Association of Parents Busy in India, Idle in America, if you would like to name it so. Yes, six or seven of us, senior citizens, squeeze on one side of the bench, and a matching number, our better halves, on the other, and spend nearly two hours every evening.

All are here for varying reasons, be it to welcome the arrival of a grandchild; sheer principles of economics (2 tickets for parent to come here versus 8 tickets for sons and their families to visit India); or to suit one’s own preoccupations in India.

In addition to regular members, there are ‘guest appearances’. One is a retired professor. Sometimes she mistakes the group for a geriatrics class, and dwells on the plant kingdom at Masters level, until she realizes its sedative effect on the innocent senior citizens. Others include an ex-Principal of a High School in Tamil Nadu; a retired High Court judge of Mumbai; the ‘singing’ couple from Bangalore...

All these are temporary fixtures at the park. Some have returned to India, others are on countdown status – from three-digit to single-digit days. But there is one who remains part of the bench every evening, a retired Indian Government official, now a septuagenarian and a US citizen. His favorite pastime? To meet such parents at the park, spend time with them, drive them in groups in his car, once unfailingly, to the San Jose Sikh temple and, whenever possible, to organize picnics. He shares with each new group his treasured photo albums, maintained by year, featuring earlier visitors - now lasting friends.

Members hail from various parts of India. The medium of communication is therefore Hindi, with a liberal sprinkle of regional flavour. A Mumbaikar might say ardha for aadha, bhaaji for subzi, or apun for hum. The Oriyya gentleman takes liberty to say dutto baar to mean do baar, or the Tamil lady channa for chana, gaya tha for gayi thi, or a Punjabi changga for achha, or the Keralite gaana gaake for khaana khake. The lady from Bangalore, not confident in Hindi, takes the floor in English: ' I sented it to my friend, or she saw the husband of a cow in front, meaning a bull. The bottom line is fun – may be at one another’s cost, but definitely not the hurting variety.

The agenda for discussions covers anything under the sun – whether finally it will be Obama or McCain, the Trust Vote on Nuclear deal with its attendant hullabaloo, the California wildfires on the West versus the floods at the Mid West, gasoline prices, foreclosures on the housing front and Government’s rescue operations to resurrect them, banking sector taking a beat, or gay and lesbian marriages. Who says news is juicy only in India?

These serious discussions shift to gastronomy when the aroma of a delicacy wafts from the barbecue at the adjoining benches where a Mexican-American or Caucasian-American picnic is in progress. We exchange our experiences at various eat-outs: “Order you own Pasta” at Macaroni Grill which permits one to choose ingredients to be included; Thai Chili Cuisine’s green curry prepared with coconut milk; the quite filling Senior Citizen’s omelet followed by Fudge ice cream at the American outlet, Denny's; the variety of Mexican foods at Taco Bell, the unlimited supply of Salsa from On the Border; or the mouth-watering dough nuts, at a nearby shop. Mention of the last item however backfired. The visitor’s son refused to take her to the shop as she was diabetic. She is now after my wife and me, the originators, to take her there. We are still at our wits’ end to wriggle out.

The topic moves on to the culinary delights of the different regions we come from. Unable to take any more of it just being talked about on vacant air, the menfolk on one occasion suggested that these dishes should instead manifest themselves at a picnic in which, apart from group members, their children and grandchildren should take part. It would be an opportunity for the younger generation to get acquainted with one another.

The result? On a Sunday noon we all met at the same park. An advance party of three arrived early in the morning to ‘reserve’ - better still, to take possession of - two table-cum-benches for the picnic. Two hours later another team reported for duty to relieve the first batch - a la change of guard at Buckingham Palace. We had a delicious lunch, the highlight of which was a healthy competition among ladies to outdo the others in their respective dishes. Then followed photo sessions, songs, word-building games, riddles, and Bingo game to cap it all.

Now parents are returning to India one by one. One duo will be back again early next year for their daughter-in-law’s delivery – or, more to rejoin the group? Meanwhile, back home they plan to retrieve their desktop from the attic, repair it from the shop round the corner and brush up their knowledge of computer operations solely to be able to stay in touch with the group. The other thoughtful parents who had found it difficult to pass time on their last visit became wiser this time. They had brought along with them the complete DVD set of the epic Mahabharata to view while here. Preoccupied with these evening meetings and updating sessions over the phone during the day, they now plan to watch the remaining 9-1/2 volumes back in India, having already viewed half of volume 1. A strange coincidence that the 8 or 10 John Grisham, Stephen King and Danielle Steel novels that we brought from India too await human contact.

We have shared our email IDs to exchange mail regularly. We are hopeful that this association doesn’t end like any other long-haul train travel in India where we meet people from all over India, become friends with some and exchange addresses, but never get to contact them. Should that happen, we are still happy that we are making the most of our US visit right now, this moment.

V.V. Sundaram, retired from publishing services in a UN organization, is based in the Bay Area – vvsundaram40@gmail.com.

29 October 2010

Alternatives All the Way

The downtown in Los Angeles has a unique way of dealing with the growing problem of grass and weeds sprouting upon overgrown vacant plots, reported ABC News, in one of its recent webcasts. Instead of using gas-powered machines and mow it down, the city officials are using more natural and cheaper solutions.

It was a delight to view a herd of 100 goats grazing on a hill against the backdrop of skyscraper glass towers and the neighborhood of Hollywood celebrities. The city’s re-development agency says that it costs them $3000 as against $ 7500 to deploy weed whackers. This step also provides the friendly animals breakfast, lunch and dinner for days at a stretch.

That indeed is a novel way of tackling a problem, and a viable alternative to manpower and machinery. Yes, from time immemorial it has been alternatives all the way, be it to bring about economy, efficiency, or effectiveness.

Alternative energy by far is probably the most talked about. To the conventional hydroelectric energy, we now have thermal, wind, solar, or nuclear fuel to provide alternatives or to supplement it.

It is in pursuit of nuclear power as a viable alternative to India’s much-needed energy that a confidence motion had to be passed at the Parliament before signing an agreement with the US government. As a consequence, the main constituent of the coalition, the Congress party, had to end its marriage of convenience with the Communist party and had to work for an alternative - an understanding with another party.

In the wake of shooting gas prices recently, the automobile sector is all set to provide an alternative – introduce an electrically operated car. General Motors is working on a proto type, and the final version is likely to roll out in 2010.

In India, Tata Motors are all set to come with an Indian alternative. In a couple of years they plan to produce an electric car for city use, with French collaboration. But we shall keep our fingers crossed on this, given the fate of their much publicized Nano car, at Rs 100 000 (say, $2200). Due for launch in October 2008, the project lies a hapless victim of political overtones.

In any case, should the electrically run automobiles take the world by storm, the oil-rich countries, the Middle East in essence, may have to look for alternatives to generate income, if their already accumulated huge wealth should stay untouched. Maybe, they could focus on promoting tourism what with Dubai boasting of the tallest skyscraper in the world, or its unparalleled housing complex where every house steps out straight to the seashore. Alternatively, these countries could gear themselves more to manufacturing, following the outstanding example of China. The other day it was reported that UAE was keen to buy out the SUV, Hummer, and shift the plant to that country, with several US automobile giants planning closure of their SUV segments one after the other.

‘Alternative medicine’ is one expression where the word ‘alternative’ irrevocably got prefixed to it. The origins of many of these systems – Ayurveda, Unani, or Siddha – can be traced to the BC era, and the modern medicine (also referred to as English medicine in India) made its foray much later. But it is an anomaly that the ones surfacing earlier have been reduced to the ‘alternative’ status.

While on a duty travel to a developed country during active service, some expressions that I added to my vocabulary included, ‘alternative settlement areas’, ‘alternative population market’, etc.

As I pen these lines, I received a video clipping from my doctor-friend, a nephrologist, featuring his interview in an important Asian channel. The subject was kidney transplant. At one stage, the interviewer asked a question to one of the panel members, “So, would you call it a ‘donation’, or ‘sale’ when one gives his kidney to the other for a consideration?” The doctor said, “Alternatively, I would call it reimbursement.”

That reminds me of my British friend. He is by profession an editor, and as a hobby an interviewer and radio-jockey for a breakfast show in Europe. If ever he has to say that he hates a particular person, which is seldom the case, he would avail himself of the alternative, “He is not one of the persons whom I like the best.”

Back home (USA, I mean), the House of Representative having voted against President Bush’s $ 700 billion bailout plan, George Bush and his advisers gave it an alternative name, ‘buy out’, for consideration by the Senate. And the Congressional leaders bought it.

Of the dozens of email messages that get forwarded to me, one is about a millionaire with a severe eye pain. He consults hundreds of doctors, but with no improvement. Finally a monk suggests him to see things only in green. The millionaire buys tons of paint and colors in green whatever he was likely to see around. After a few months the monks visits him. The millionaire’s assistants hurry and pour buckets of green paint on the monk so that the millionaire sees him only in green. Upon this, the monk laughs and says, “Alternatively, if only he had put on a pair of specs in green, he could have solved all this labor.”

(V.V. Sundaram, retired from publishing services in a UN organization, is based in Bay Area – vvsundaram40@gmail.com)

Posted on 29 October 2010

Honeymoon at 70 in Hawaii

Honeymoon at 70 in Hawaii

“Amma-Appa, I have found a good a five-day-package deal to Honolulu. Shall I book it for you?” Uma sprung a surprise. We were both engaged in our respective post-dinner pursuits on our laptops – Amma with Bhagavatam discourse update, and I checking for the Nth time for a possible mail. It is at this session that both Sridhar and Uma catch up with their unfinished office tasks. So this quiet extraneous search by Uma came as a bolt from the blue.

The ‘Eveready’ that Amma is, she side-glanced me for my reaction to the offer. No less keen but only a little pretentious, I signaled my approval. “Go ahead Uma,“ Amma said, “but avoid 8 to 16 October for Navaratri and also the 17^th - Archana’s Seemantham”.

“Okay. Amma. But Sridhar leaves on the 18^th for China for a week; so shall I make it 3 to 7 October?” Uma asked, and before we could nod, she clicked the button and booked.

“Caprios, three-fourth lengths of pants, will be comfortable for long and beach walks, Amma,” suggested Uma moving on to the next task. “We will buy some tomorrow.”

“I too shall have a couple of them,” I said not to be left behind.

“Appa, men don’t wear them.”

“I know, I know,” I said, but I didn’t. “I meant knickers,” I added as a last straw.

“List Master’, as Amma nicknames me (not as a compliment but as a complaint), I readied a Hawaii List in a few minutes. The next morning we set about checking out the items, one by one.

We rang up Shankar and Sunita to inform them. Sunita picked up, “So your second honeymoon? Enjoy fully, Amma-Appa.” In the evening, driving back home Shankar rang us up. “So Appa, all set? “ “Yes, we bought Ready to Eat packets of Mutter Paneer, Aloo Gobi, Pineappla Curry, Upma, Maggi. . .”

“Wait a minute Appa. Aap khane keliye jaa rahe ho, or to see places?” he caught me off guard.

“No, no, I am coming to that. We have our IDs, printouts of air and hotel reservations, sufficient cash and clothes including our swim suits.”

“Appa, you don’t get to visit these places everyday. So spend liberally. Look at the product, not the price. Carry minimum cash. Use either of the add-on credit cards that Sridhar and I have given you both,” he reinforced what Sridhar had insisted on us separately. Sridhar’s briefing, inter alia, included a practical demonstration on how to focus, zoom and click the camera, so that at the end of the trip the snaps are not Appa, Appa and APPA all the way; Amma does feature in some of them.

In Honolulu, whenever we were free we walked to the beach, seven minutes from our hotel, and spent hours at waist deep water. And each time the tides swept us to the shore, Amma’s joy and excitement would beat hollow those of Ashwin, Rishi and Rohan had they been present. The tourist agency had drawn the schedule in such a way that they would take the group half-day every day, either forenoons or afternoons, so that the visitors had ample time to be on their own.

On the first day it was to Pearl Harbor. During the World War II, the Japanese army made an unprovoked air attack Pearl Harbor and destroyed many US warships. Japan’s original plan was to take over the Indo China region for their rich mines. But Japan knew that if they attached Indo China on its North, from the West the US would repel it with a heavy naval attack from Pearl Harbor. The US had a strong naval base there, including submarines. So the Japanese army chief convinced the powers that be to destroy first the US ships in Pearl Harbor, disable them totally, before mounting an attack on the Indo China side. And he did it in December 1941. A ship-shaped memorial has been erected close to the sunken ships USS Arizona and a few others where we could still see the remnants. This Japanese attack took about 2400 lives including civilians.

At the end of the day’s trip, Sam, the Guide, said that as a memento one should take from Hawaii not pineapples, papayas, or mangos that the island abounds in, but pearls and gems, and drove us to a designated Chinese shop with the photo of Jackie Chan with the owner decorating the entrance. About 6 to 7 from our group of 15 did buy. Unfortunately the guy attending on us mistook us for the uncle and aunt of the Ambani brothers. He showed us pieces in the range of $ 2500-3500. When he saw us move on, he announced impromptu a 50% discount. A small world, the same sales gimmicks.

Terry was the Guide on day two; he was matter of fact in his English presentation, but regaled his audience in the Chinese (Mandarin) version. Later I requested him to make the English version also equally humorous. He did it with considerable success. But jokes in one’s own mother tongue carry a special flavour, after all.

Terry drove us past one beautiful beach after the other, asking us to guess how much the house facing these beaches would cost. Each one shouted his own price, as though bidding in an auction. But everyone was far off the mark. Pointing to a house that was a replica of a submarine he said that was owned by the person who manufactured submarines for the country – the filthy rich only could afford, in other words.

After a few miles, we were in the midst of volcanic mountains on one side, and natural sea beaches on the other. The lava remains still stood testimony to the volcanic havocs. The legend has it that bad luck would befall if one took these lavas home, Regardless of this warning, when we were let loose the Iranian lady collected lava stones from left, right and centre. When asked how she still dared, she said that if one went by Terry, all Iranian homes should be struck with bad luck, because to keep their heels soft all Iranian ladies used lava stone. Emboldened by this analogy, I handpicked two and asked Amma if we could carry them. She didn’t buy the argument.

“Do you wish to own a house and live near this natural beach?” Terry asked us as we passed through yet another breathtaking natural beach. “Yes,” many responded spontaneously, as though it was an offer. “I am afraid you can’t, because only those who have no income can stay in this vicinity, and the State provides subsidy to them,” he clarified.

“Because of poverty,” he continued, “there is a lot of stealing. Many tourists had lost their camcods, cameras or handbags.” Involuntarily everyone checked his belongings thoroughly, and held on to their backpacks a little more firmly and close to their chests. What an anomaly that only fifteen minutes earlier the Guide drove us past a beach where he said only the ultra rich could afford a house, and here the pre-condition was poverty.

Beach on one side, charcoal grey volcanic mountain on the other, we continued our journey. A turn to the left, two miles straight, and another left, and we were in a totally different world - two lush green forest-mountains on either side. These were responsible for a significant percentage of rainfall, he added. (In fact he specified the percentage, but I don’t remember it.)

The next day another Guide took charge. We couldn’t get his name. At our request he repeated it thrice, each time increasing the decibel. “It is better not to be dubbed a deaf, than persist with getting his name correct,” I mumbled. He was gold at heart, but somehow his voice and expression did not cooperate with him. None of us could benefit by his elaborate explanations on the way, and the tourists started talking among one other, having by now become ‘friends’ of a sort. Undaunted, he switched over from prose to verse, humming his favourite tunes as he drove.

He took us to the pineapple plantation where different varieties from almost all Polynesian countries were grown. It was founded in 1900 on a modest scale. Now his descendents own almost all of the vast areas around that we could see with our eyes. It reminded me of Alexander Selkirk’s poem that I studied in my higher secondary class, “I am the monarch of all I survey.” The visit included a mandatory visit to their Department Store. It was a surprise that one could open a full-fledged department store stocking so many different items all made from pineapple. This visit was followed by a drive to the Outlet malls – the last item on their itinerary. Here, for the first time we never felt we were away from either Phoenix or San Jose.

Every evening there was a Hawaiian song and dance programme at an open place in the shopping complex. To set the stage and to remind us of how the native Hawaii inhabitants enjoyed their late evenings in the good old days (pre-electricity to be precise), the streets were lit up with something similar to what we see during the temple-festival processions in Kerala where the big oil-soaked cloth balls burn stuck on top of long trident rods. (I don’t get the right word for it, but it is called “Thee Pandham” in Tamil or Malayalam, or both).

Back home, Sridhar and Uma got down to brass tacks. “Appa, I will be in China on the 22^nd, your birthday. And next weekend we will be busy with the last days of Navaratri. On Sunday we have to attend Archana’s Seemantham. So shall we celebrate your birthday this week? They took us to Bombay Gardens for a buffet lunch, which the restaurant claimed had 35-40 items. Amma and I, being first-timers to that restaurant, decided to taste, and not have a go at, all of those that was vegetarian. After a sumptuous lunch, Sridhar wanted to visualize his Dad sporting jeans (at 70, and all set to get past it next week), a plea that Shankar had been making for long, and Kannan Mama since our last visit to Bangalore.

All along I thought that Shankar, like his grandpa Murthy Thatha, is patience-incarnate. But Sridhar is no less. He and Uma together picked at least eight pairs of jeans for me to select from. He patiently watched me try them out one after the other, and some of them over and over again. I shortlisted two: one for its brand name and shade, and the other for its comfort. “Go for the comfortable one, forget the other piece,” he gave his verdict, and rushed out of the fitting room. I wondered why. Before I had put on my original trousers back, he came up with six T-shirts to select from, to go with the jeans. I sternly refused. They both insisted, and Amma was only happy to see me wear, for once, something that fitted me to a T, and not something loose that she was accustomed to see me wear. The one finally selected was a high-end variety, which only the professional golfers sport.

On reaching home, I rang up Phoenix. Sunita picked up. She lost no time add: “Appa, don’t buy sunglasses, postpone it for the Phoenix visit. She doesn’t probably recollect that I already have in Phoenix a pair of brand new, un-inaugurated, sturdy hiking shoes they bought a day or two before our departure to India.

At bed, sleep still eluding me, I told Amma, “I think our children, SSSU, are taking very good care of us, aren’t they? Although this particular purchase in no way added to her wardrobe, “Yes, no doubt about it,” she responded, the never-disagree lady that she is.

15 October 2010