Ok, I try and follow American news while away, if only to see how this part of the world sees Americans. Right now, they are not impressed.
There are two major issues (in my mind, anyway) with this Florida pastor burning the Koran (which is how I will spell it, barring typos, for this post).
First, from a Christian perspective, I question how Christ's love is shown through this act, which seems to provide both provocation to the Muslim world, and maximum shock value for an enraptured international audience. I also see a weird irony in a church called "Dove World Outreach Center" inciting violence and protests. I mean seriously, "OUTREACH"? You mean like a punch? Because this is certainly not a helping-hand type outreach...
Secondly, I am a bit conflicted by his rights to do so - which I support - while observing the left-leaning types that are objecting and vilifying this pastor. Weren't these "Freedom of Speech" supporters the same ones who were pro-flag burning just a few years ago? So, it is OK to burn a symbol of a country, but not a symbol of a religion? Or am I missing some subtlety in the argument?
Where does our President land on this debate? I mean, a few short days ago, President Obama was supporting the "Ground Zero" mosque by defending the right of private citizens to build a mosque on private land. Then should I not expect the leader of our country to support the Constitution's First Amendment, and come out strongly supporting the pastor's Koran Bonfire? I mean, a few days later he could back peddle, and say he wasn't judging the WISDOM of the bonfire, but just supporting his RIGHT to do it. Of course, a few days later he could extricate himself from the discussion, and say it is a local matter - turning himself into a States-Rights supporter in the process.
I guess what I have reasoned through in my head is "Freedom is Messy". While he has the right to protest by provocation, that does not give those offended the right to retaliate by violence, or at least to have no consequences to their violence. When some anti-American protester would burn a flag, the witnesses did not have a right to stomp and kick him. If they chose to do so, they would be punished, charged with assault, and jailed. Now whether it was worth it would be up to the attacker.
So I won't be surprised to see bible burning in Muslim countries in protest. What I would be shocked to see, though, would be reporters, politicians, and regular people discussing the bible burning in the foreign country. Americans have always had the really important debates out in public, and this is one that needs to be talked through. What concerns me is the response. Could we see more suicidal terrorists on American soil? How, exactly, do you punish that?
Personally, I'd like to see the protest called off for this year. Not permanently, but just a delay. We need to have the debate. Let's have it, in time for the 10th anniversary of the Muslim Extremists attack on the US. Fear of retaliation should not be the reason for giving it up - that would make the Constitution a weak document, when intimidation can restrict Rights - but I'd like to see a discussion about the wisdom of the protest. Is there a better way to express outrage with Terrorists without angering the billions of non-terrorist Muslims?
The pastor may still burn the Koran, though.
That is his right.
Thursday, September 9, 2010
Sunday, August 22, 2010
A Hindu wedding
I had the opportunity to attend a friend's wedding in Chennai over the weekend.
Traditionally, Hindu wedding would last weeks, with multiple rituals, poojas (prayers), and ceremonies. This made sense when, in times long past, it might take weeks for relatives to travel from surrounding areas to witness the wedding, and they would stay as long as possible. Today, the weddings are cut short (at least of my small group of friends), and 2 days is the norm. The exact minute of the wedding is determined by the stars (choosing an auspicious time), so when a wedding falls on a weekend it is a rarity.
On Saturday morning, we set out for Chennai. Now, the trip is only about 350 km, or roughly 200 miles, and, since most of it is highway, in the US it would take 3 or 4 hours. In India, it was 7 hours. And it was a LONG 7 hours. Travel in India is not comfortable for this American, although if I were shorter or less round it might be a little easier.
We arrived at the hotel just before 6:00 PM, and the reception starts at 6:30. Yes, the reception is first. So, after attempting to shower (with no hot water), I shaved my face and head, and dressed. I was a bit annoyed, having forgotten my tie, but since I was expecting to be the ONLY person with a tie on, it didn't really matter. We walked the block or so to the marriage hall.
After some milling around, finding other co-workers, and listening to the band tune up, the ceremonies were ready to start. ALL Hindu ceremonies begin with a pooja to Ganesh, the Elephant god. This is called the Nicchiyadharatham, in case any reader cares. The brides parents conducted the ceremony, at little temple on the grounds of the marriage hall. The groom received his wedding attire, which was blessed, as were all the gifts given from the families. Each female relative then blessed the bridegroom, with the gifts (on a plate with a lump of burning something - sugar maybe) being waived in front of him while blessings are said.
When the couple returns to marriage hall, the reception begins, with each cluster of people approaching, giving their gift, having their picture taken with the happy couple, and then heading downstairs for a feast. Now, in the past my wife has described the Indian food as looking like cat food. I don't necessarily disagree, since its appearance is not an attractive one to the western eye. However, once you get past the looks, it is pretty darn good. There is plenty, and a variety of foods are presented.
Once the meal was over, we head back to the hotel to sleep. Unfortunately, my room was overlooking the street below - which meant incessant honking until after midnight, and the honking resumed just after 5:00 AM. So a little before six I got out of bed, showered in cold water again, and talked to the family via Skype. At 06:30, we met up in the lobby, and, after some discussion about whether to eat first or just go to the marriage hall, we decided to forgo breakfast knowing we would be fed anyway, and we set off for the hall.
We were the first to arrive. I am of the opinion that, if you show up on time, you are already 10 minutes late. In India, the start time of an event is more or less a general suggestion. Meeting start an average of 15 minutes late, and some people will wander in 15 minutes after that. So I was not surprised to be there before the band had set up, but I really didn't want to miss anything.
On the stage was a mandapam, a four-column structure which the priest has consecrated with fire and jasmine for the ceremony. There are many blessings, and the groom is blessed by the bride's parents. Again, the groom is given clothes, which are blessed, and he departs to change into them. The bride then takes her place in the mandapam, and there are many blessing rituals for her. Eventually she is given a new saree, which is also blessed, and she goes to change as well.
But now the groom decides he has had enough of this, and he really doesn't want to be married. While my friend may have felt like running, this is the Kashi Yatra. Nothing against the bride, of course, it's not her that he rejects, it is all the worldly things. He declares he is running off to Kashi (a holy city also called Varanasi, in northern India, on the banks of the Ganges - and one of the oldest continuously inhabited cities in the world), and out of the hall he goes, hotly pursued by the bride's family, who will spend some time asking him to come back, to please take their daughter, and become a head of the household. Eventually he is persuaded, and his feet are washed and blessed, and a ring was placed on his toe. Back into the hall the procession goes, for the wedding to conclude exactly when the stars said they should.
Once the bride and groom are seated, there are many rituals and blessings, culminating with the groom placing a string of flowers around his bride's neck and, literally, tying the knot. There is much celebrating, and gifts and pictures, and of course food. After easting, we say our goodbyes, and head back to the hotel. We checkout at 10:30 or so, and, after a long but uneventful ride, end up in Bangalore around 5:30.
Now, since it is my blog, I have a question. How do they know that they were married at the right time? I mean, assuming that 8:46 really is the most auspicious time, who's watch are they following? Mine is set by my computer, which is set to NOAA, but even then it could be off - and the priest doesn't even wear a watch. The clocks in the wedding hall all say different times. So - were they married at a lucky time, or not?
Traditionally, Hindu wedding would last weeks, with multiple rituals, poojas (prayers), and ceremonies. This made sense when, in times long past, it might take weeks for relatives to travel from surrounding areas to witness the wedding, and they would stay as long as possible. Today, the weddings are cut short (at least of my small group of friends), and 2 days is the norm. The exact minute of the wedding is determined by the stars (choosing an auspicious time), so when a wedding falls on a weekend it is a rarity.
On Saturday morning, we set out for Chennai. Now, the trip is only about 350 km, or roughly 200 miles, and, since most of it is highway, in the US it would take 3 or 4 hours. In India, it was 7 hours. And it was a LONG 7 hours. Travel in India is not comfortable for this American, although if I were shorter or less round it might be a little easier.
We arrived at the hotel just before 6:00 PM, and the reception starts at 6:30. Yes, the reception is first. So, after attempting to shower (with no hot water), I shaved my face and head, and dressed. I was a bit annoyed, having forgotten my tie, but since I was expecting to be the ONLY person with a tie on, it didn't really matter. We walked the block or so to the marriage hall.
After some milling around, finding other co-workers, and listening to the band tune up, the ceremonies were ready to start. ALL Hindu ceremonies begin with a pooja to Ganesh, the Elephant god. This is called the Nicchiyadharatham, in case any reader cares. The brides parents conducted the ceremony, at little temple on the grounds of the marriage hall. The groom received his wedding attire, which was blessed, as were all the gifts given from the families. Each female relative then blessed the bridegroom, with the gifts (on a plate with a lump of burning something - sugar maybe) being waived in front of him while blessings are said.
When the couple returns to marriage hall, the reception begins, with each cluster of people approaching, giving their gift, having their picture taken with the happy couple, and then heading downstairs for a feast. Now, in the past my wife has described the Indian food as looking like cat food. I don't necessarily disagree, since its appearance is not an attractive one to the western eye. However, once you get past the looks, it is pretty darn good. There is plenty, and a variety of foods are presented.
Once the meal was over, we head back to the hotel to sleep. Unfortunately, my room was overlooking the street below - which meant incessant honking until after midnight, and the honking resumed just after 5:00 AM. So a little before six I got out of bed, showered in cold water again, and talked to the family via Skype. At 06:30, we met up in the lobby, and, after some discussion about whether to eat first or just go to the marriage hall, we decided to forgo breakfast knowing we would be fed anyway, and we set off for the hall.
We were the first to arrive. I am of the opinion that, if you show up on time, you are already 10 minutes late. In India, the start time of an event is more or less a general suggestion. Meeting start an average of 15 minutes late, and some people will wander in 15 minutes after that. So I was not surprised to be there before the band had set up, but I really didn't want to miss anything.
On the stage was a mandapam, a four-column structure which the priest has consecrated with fire and jasmine for the ceremony. There are many blessings, and the groom is blessed by the bride's parents. Again, the groom is given clothes, which are blessed, and he departs to change into them. The bride then takes her place in the mandapam, and there are many blessing rituals for her. Eventually she is given a new saree, which is also blessed, and she goes to change as well.
But now the groom decides he has had enough of this, and he really doesn't want to be married. While my friend may have felt like running, this is the Kashi Yatra. Nothing against the bride, of course, it's not her that he rejects, it is all the worldly things. He declares he is running off to Kashi (a holy city also called Varanasi, in northern India, on the banks of the Ganges - and one of the oldest continuously inhabited cities in the world), and out of the hall he goes, hotly pursued by the bride's family, who will spend some time asking him to come back, to please take their daughter, and become a head of the household. Eventually he is persuaded, and his feet are washed and blessed, and a ring was placed on his toe. Back into the hall the procession goes, for the wedding to conclude exactly when the stars said they should.
Once the bride and groom are seated, there are many rituals and blessings, culminating with the groom placing a string of flowers around his bride's neck and, literally, tying the knot. There is much celebrating, and gifts and pictures, and of course food. After easting, we say our goodbyes, and head back to the hotel. We checkout at 10:30 or so, and, after a long but uneventful ride, end up in Bangalore around 5:30.
Now, since it is my blog, I have a question. How do they know that they were married at the right time? I mean, assuming that 8:46 really is the most auspicious time, who's watch are they following? Mine is set by my computer, which is set to NOAA, but even then it could be off - and the priest doesn't even wear a watch. The clocks in the wedding hall all say different times. So - were they married at a lucky time, or not?
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
So Long, Farewell, Auf Wiedersehen, Good Night
Today my step-father, Ed, was laid to rest, and I am not sure how I feel about it.
On one hand, I am a little upset that I was unable to attend, being 8,000 miles away. On the other hand, I spent time with him while he was alive, and I think that counts for a lot more.
Counts. There's an interesting concept. Is there really some cosmic scale we are supposed to balance our time on? Did I spend enough time with him during his life to make up for missing the interment of his ashes? Did the joy I felt being with him during baseball games, childrens birthday parties, and shooting the breeze while waiting for the charcoal to be ready to grill on in some way make up for me being absent during a large chunk of his last year?
The word I have heard most from family about the burial were "closure". Now, I don't take from them whatever feelings they have, but I don't share them. Perhaps it was because I was not present that I don't share their sense of finality. The dictionary defines closure as "the resolution of a significant event or relationship in a person's life, or the sense of contentment experienced after such a resolution". That sounds good. Where can I get me some?
What I feel is conflicted. I know he is gone. I know he will never watch his grandkids grow up. I know he will never see my daughters marry, graduate, or have children of their own. I know all this. And it sucks. I want to rage at the heavens, and point out what I already know - it isn't fair. Life is too short, and death is too final.
Now, before all my Christian friends start sending me biblical passages of comfort, and assurances of Ed's salvation and life in heaven, let me cut you all off. I KNOW. But what I know to be true, and what I feel right now are two very different things. I know he is in a place with no suffering, where his fatigue and memory loss are gone, where his pain and immobility are taken away. And yet still I want him here, to share lunch with, to talk sports, and politics, and just watch the world go by. I don't think that makes me selfish. Just human. And doomed to disappointment. Ed isn't coming back.
Everyone knows the shortest verse in the Bible - "Jesus wept." But how many people know, or care, about the context? Jesus has just arrived in Bethany, and spoken with Martha. Lazarus has died. Jesus tells Martha that "I am the resurrection, and the life: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: And whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die." Martha then calls her sister, Mary. Mary gets up from where she was resting, and the family and friends follow her. And when Jesus sees Mary crying, and her friends and family crying with her, he "Groaned in the Spirit, and was troubled." Then Jesus weeps.
I love the story. First, it shows God has compassion on the heartbroken, and shares our grief. But to me, the more important part is Jesus claims to be "THE resurrection"... and then He raises Lazarus to prove his claim. Actions follow the words.
So do me a favor. Weep with me. Grieve with me, and my family. Say a prayer for our comfort. Don't give me promises of a better life, or words you think will comfort me. Please. "I am sorry. Is there anything you need?" are the most comforting words I have heard.
The Lord of creation realizes that, sometimes in the face of overwhelming grief, the best thing to do is cry with the grieving family.
I miss you, Ed. You are always in my thoughts.
On one hand, I am a little upset that I was unable to attend, being 8,000 miles away. On the other hand, I spent time with him while he was alive, and I think that counts for a lot more.
Counts. There's an interesting concept. Is there really some cosmic scale we are supposed to balance our time on? Did I spend enough time with him during his life to make up for missing the interment of his ashes? Did the joy I felt being with him during baseball games, childrens birthday parties, and shooting the breeze while waiting for the charcoal to be ready to grill on in some way make up for me being absent during a large chunk of his last year?
The word I have heard most from family about the burial were "closure". Now, I don't take from them whatever feelings they have, but I don't share them. Perhaps it was because I was not present that I don't share their sense of finality. The dictionary defines closure as "the resolution of a significant event or relationship in a person's life, or the sense of contentment experienced after such a resolution". That sounds good. Where can I get me some?
What I feel is conflicted. I know he is gone. I know he will never watch his grandkids grow up. I know he will never see my daughters marry, graduate, or have children of their own. I know all this. And it sucks. I want to rage at the heavens, and point out what I already know - it isn't fair. Life is too short, and death is too final.
Now, before all my Christian friends start sending me biblical passages of comfort, and assurances of Ed's salvation and life in heaven, let me cut you all off. I KNOW. But what I know to be true, and what I feel right now are two very different things. I know he is in a place with no suffering, where his fatigue and memory loss are gone, where his pain and immobility are taken away. And yet still I want him here, to share lunch with, to talk sports, and politics, and just watch the world go by. I don't think that makes me selfish. Just human. And doomed to disappointment. Ed isn't coming back.
Everyone knows the shortest verse in the Bible - "Jesus wept." But how many people know, or care, about the context? Jesus has just arrived in Bethany, and spoken with Martha. Lazarus has died. Jesus tells Martha that "I am the resurrection, and the life: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: And whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die." Martha then calls her sister, Mary. Mary gets up from where she was resting, and the family and friends follow her. And when Jesus sees Mary crying, and her friends and family crying with her, he "Groaned in the Spirit, and was troubled." Then Jesus weeps.
I love the story. First, it shows God has compassion on the heartbroken, and shares our grief. But to me, the more important part is Jesus claims to be "THE resurrection"... and then He raises Lazarus to prove his claim. Actions follow the words.
So do me a favor. Weep with me. Grieve with me, and my family. Say a prayer for our comfort. Don't give me promises of a better life, or words you think will comfort me. Please. "I am sorry. Is there anything you need?" are the most comforting words I have heard.
The Lord of creation realizes that, sometimes in the face of overwhelming grief, the best thing to do is cry with the grieving family.
I miss you, Ed. You are always in my thoughts.
Saturday, August 14, 2010
Living in "Uncertainty"
Uncertainty.
Somewhere, in some state or country somewhere, there has to be a place called "Uncertainty". Surely our forefathers had a sense of humor - we have "Monkey's Eyebrow, KY", "Toad Suck, AR", and "Sugar Tit, SC". Seriously.
So they must have been aware of irony. Why no "Uncertainty, IN"?
We all live there. ALL of us. No matter how well your life is ordered, or what fibs you tell yourself about how static and unchanging the things around you are, the one thing I can guarantee is that nothing is guaranteed. Every phone call could bring the joy of a coming niece, nephew, or grandchild, or the news of a lost love one, an offer of employment, or news of a layoff. Absolutely nothing is as solid and unchanging as we think.
Well, except for one thing. God is still in His heaven, and all is right with the world. Whatever happens on earth is temporary (even if it seems like a long time while we struggle through it). Paul absolutely nailed it in First Corinthians 13:12 - "Now we see but a poor reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known." (NIV, although I normally prefer KJV) All things are temporary. Our struggles, our cares, our homes, cars, and even friends.
Now, this is really not a depressing thought, because my fears are also temporary. So are my problems, mistakes, sins, and failures. Now, I freely admit looking to the "sweet by and by" is tough when you are living in the "nasty now and now". I have no answers, just some observations. I am a man just trying to do my best, provide for my family, be a good friend, and a faithful worker, and not hurt anybody (unless they REALLY REALLY deserve it). But as a fellow sojourner here on this world, I'd like to share one thing I have found that works - writing your problems out. Think how you will address each one. Then delete the list. In the old days, burning the paper worked so much better, but I seem to have lost the ability to write with paper and pencil for more than a few words at a stretch - and even then I go from cursive to printing and back, with neither form of writing legible.
This weekend I have watched a few episodes of Deadwood. Back in the 1880's, a man defended himself with guns, and without them, he was weak, or was viewed as such. But the only thing that did was leave a lot of dead young men, and a bunch of widows. There is always someone bigger, tougher, faster, or smarter, and if the law of the land IS the law of the jungle, there will be trouble, misery, and death.
Perhaps this is what "they" mean about "living in the moment" - do your best NOW, and deal with the consequences if and when they come. The Matthew 6:34 (again NIV) says "Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own."
On Monday, my step-father, Ed, will be laid to rest. He passed away in February. Since then, I find myself anxious about the future, and fretting about the past. But I find comfort in knowing that, while life is uncertain, the afterlife is.
Somewhere, in some state or country somewhere, there has to be a place called "Uncertainty". Surely our forefathers had a sense of humor - we have "Monkey's Eyebrow, KY", "Toad Suck, AR", and "Sugar Tit, SC". Seriously.
So they must have been aware of irony. Why no "Uncertainty, IN"?
We all live there. ALL of us. No matter how well your life is ordered, or what fibs you tell yourself about how static and unchanging the things around you are, the one thing I can guarantee is that nothing is guaranteed. Every phone call could bring the joy of a coming niece, nephew, or grandchild, or the news of a lost love one, an offer of employment, or news of a layoff. Absolutely nothing is as solid and unchanging as we think.
Well, except for one thing. God is still in His heaven, and all is right with the world. Whatever happens on earth is temporary (even if it seems like a long time while we struggle through it). Paul absolutely nailed it in First Corinthians 13:12 - "Now we see but a poor reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known." (NIV, although I normally prefer KJV) All things are temporary. Our struggles, our cares, our homes, cars, and even friends.
Now, this is really not a depressing thought, because my fears are also temporary. So are my problems, mistakes, sins, and failures. Now, I freely admit looking to the "sweet by and by" is tough when you are living in the "nasty now and now". I have no answers, just some observations. I am a man just trying to do my best, provide for my family, be a good friend, and a faithful worker, and not hurt anybody (unless they REALLY REALLY deserve it). But as a fellow sojourner here on this world, I'd like to share one thing I have found that works - writing your problems out. Think how you will address each one. Then delete the list. In the old days, burning the paper worked so much better, but I seem to have lost the ability to write with paper and pencil for more than a few words at a stretch - and even then I go from cursive to printing and back, with neither form of writing legible.
This weekend I have watched a few episodes of Deadwood. Back in the 1880's, a man defended himself with guns, and without them, he was weak, or was viewed as such. But the only thing that did was leave a lot of dead young men, and a bunch of widows. There is always someone bigger, tougher, faster, or smarter, and if the law of the land IS the law of the jungle, there will be trouble, misery, and death.
Perhaps this is what "they" mean about "living in the moment" - do your best NOW, and deal with the consequences if and when they come. The Matthew 6:34 (again NIV) says "Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own."
On Monday, my step-father, Ed, will be laid to rest. He passed away in February. Since then, I find myself anxious about the future, and fretting about the past. But I find comfort in knowing that, while life is uncertain, the afterlife is.
Monday, August 2, 2010
Back in Bangalore
Ok, so I am back in Bangalore after a 7 week trip back to the States. And I am... what is the word I am searching for? Depressed? Oppressed? Anxious?
Alone.
That seems a bit odd in a city of 8 million people, give or take a few hundred thousand. But for this trip I am traveling by myself. It shouldn't be a problem - I spent all last year here, by myself, and never felt like this. But when I returned to Bangalore in March, I had my 9 year old daughter with me, and therein lies the problem. See, I managed to share my experiences with her. She didn't like being away from home and family, but I think she enjoyed some of the time here - although it may take her a few years to understand how much of an impact it has had on her. (Except for the Monkey-mugger - that had an immediate impact, but the story will get better with each telling.)
But I find that, having had a companion for a few months, my time now seems lonely. There is nobody to share this exotic location with. I stand out wherever I go in India (being 6'5" and 300+ lbs means I draw crowds), and that is something that is best shared. When I am with somebody else, it is funny. When I am alone, it just reminds me even more how much I feel like a stranger in a strange land.
So what can I do about it? At the moment, not a heck of a lot. But my buddy Max returns to India (alone) in a few weeks, so I will have a pal to eat dinner with, and to visit MG Road, Shivajinagar market, and Commercial street. Someone to share the crowd with. Someone to look at, and just say "what did we get ourselves into?"
Looking forward, though, I have to make a change. IF (and that is a big if, unknown and currently unknowable) I am to be back in India next year, it will be with my family. Being here alone is just not an option right now. Of course, like everything else, my views are subject to change at a moments notice. I am employed, which is a good thing. My bills get paid, mostly on time, which is a very good thing. As long as my company continues to want me here, I will do my utmost to satisfy my company, and keep my employment - but I will also try and balance that with my own sanity.
I read back through this blog entry and find that I haven't said anything, really - yet I somehow feel better. Perhaps it is the mere act of recording your thoughts that helps process them. Or perhaps it is the sharing, even though it is with the nameless, faceless people on Facebook, or those that stumble across my blog. Either way, there is something cathartic about recording my thoughts. Perhaps that is why so many people keep a diary (or a journal, if you are a manly-man).
I think this needs to become a more frequent event, recording my thoughts.
Feel free to ignore them - after all, they are recorded for me, not you.
Alone.
That seems a bit odd in a city of 8 million people, give or take a few hundred thousand. But for this trip I am traveling by myself. It shouldn't be a problem - I spent all last year here, by myself, and never felt like this. But when I returned to Bangalore in March, I had my 9 year old daughter with me, and therein lies the problem. See, I managed to share my experiences with her. She didn't like being away from home and family, but I think she enjoyed some of the time here - although it may take her a few years to understand how much of an impact it has had on her. (Except for the Monkey-mugger - that had an immediate impact, but the story will get better with each telling.)
But I find that, having had a companion for a few months, my time now seems lonely. There is nobody to share this exotic location with. I stand out wherever I go in India (being 6'5" and 300+ lbs means I draw crowds), and that is something that is best shared. When I am with somebody else, it is funny. When I am alone, it just reminds me even more how much I feel like a stranger in a strange land.
So what can I do about it? At the moment, not a heck of a lot. But my buddy Max returns to India (alone) in a few weeks, so I will have a pal to eat dinner with, and to visit MG Road, Shivajinagar market, and Commercial street. Someone to share the crowd with. Someone to look at, and just say "what did we get ourselves into?"
Looking forward, though, I have to make a change. IF (and that is a big if, unknown and currently unknowable) I am to be back in India next year, it will be with my family. Being here alone is just not an option right now. Of course, like everything else, my views are subject to change at a moments notice. I am employed, which is a good thing. My bills get paid, mostly on time, which is a very good thing. As long as my company continues to want me here, I will do my utmost to satisfy my company, and keep my employment - but I will also try and balance that with my own sanity.
I read back through this blog entry and find that I haven't said anything, really - yet I somehow feel better. Perhaps it is the mere act of recording your thoughts that helps process them. Or perhaps it is the sharing, even though it is with the nameless, faceless people on Facebook, or those that stumble across my blog. Either way, there is something cathartic about recording my thoughts. Perhaps that is why so many people keep a diary (or a journal, if you are a manly-man).
I think this needs to become a more frequent event, recording my thoughts.
Feel free to ignore them - after all, they are recorded for me, not you.
Saturday, April 24, 2010
The Hindi lesson for today is.... Chalta Hai
I have spent more than 18 months total in Bangalore now, and I have come to understand a bit of the Indian culture and mindset. In the interest of enlightening my fellow westerners coming to this country for the first time, I'd like to share some of what I have learned about this exotic city and its people.
Judging from the number of Americans I am now seeing, the ex-pat numbers seem to be up to pre-recession counts. Using my friends' family as a fresh set of eyes, I am amazed at how "Indian" my own attitude has become. I am guilty of accepting the "Chalta Hai" attitude, even while I fight against it whenever possible.
First, a (very) brief Hindi lesson - "Chalta Hai" means, literally, "It goes on". Now, there is no exact meaning for what it conveys, but a close proximity in Jersey-ese would be "Close enough." It is the embracing of this attitude that leads to wiring jobs like this:
In other words, if it works (to ANY degree), it may be close enough - so why complain? After all - Chalta hai.
I hate the phrase, and even more, the attitude. In work I run interference for "young professionals", who fail to follow their own guidelines - because there is "so much" other work to be done. Which, taken to the logical conclusion, means that doing a little bit of a lot of jobs is better than thoroughly completing any one job. So a mechanic who almost fixes 10 cars would be worth more than a mechanic who actually fixes any car. Or something like that.
At my place, I am viewed as a tyrant by the delivery boys - because I expect the grocery store to delivery EVERYTHING I ordered, and I expect change. I expect the newspaper to be delivered EVERY DAY, not just when you happen to have enough papers to go around. If I tip, it is my decision, not theirs - even when they make up some bogus delivery charge to try and get an extra 20 rupees out of me. Of course, when challenged, they smile, and say words like "you can't blame me for trying". Chalta hai, dude.
More than anything I dislike the feeling that comes up in me - that I am not dealing with a group of adults, but some strange form of children in adult bodies, where lying is not so much a stretching of the truth as some elaborate form of fantasy - and not one to be punished, but to be joined. Everything is negotiable here - Autorick fares, purchases from vendors, everything - and with the prevailing attitude, apparently the truth is also negotiable.
When my friend moved in to his villa, he had no hot water for 3 days. For 3 days, plumbers came out. Still, they would leave without fixing the problem - after all, there was other work to be done. Yet companies are spending billions to send work over in India. So apparently the business management and the Indians share a common belief - something less than 100% is acceptable - as long as the price is right. In my mind, clearly a "Folie à Deux".
There are some bright spots. I occasionally see newspaper articles decrying the "chalta Hai" attitude. I run across some people in my work with an eye on quality, and a go-getter approach. But part of my anxiety comes from reading Rudyard Kipling. Kipling was born in Bombay (now Mumbai), India. In many of his stories, he describes how the Indians must be MADE to work, describing them as lazy and unwilling workers, while the British had a envious work ethic. Now, I don't train people to do coolie work - but I am starting to sympathize with his viewpoint. Where I once saw racism, I now see an understanding of an entire cultures mindset. I find myself ashamed of my views. And I want Indians to prove me wrong.
But I think things will just go on the way they are. Chalta hai, man, chalta hai.
Judging from the number of Americans I am now seeing, the ex-pat numbers seem to be up to pre-recession counts. Using my friends' family as a fresh set of eyes, I am amazed at how "Indian" my own attitude has become. I am guilty of accepting the "Chalta Hai" attitude, even while I fight against it whenever possible.
First, a (very) brief Hindi lesson - "Chalta Hai" means, literally, "It goes on". Now, there is no exact meaning for what it conveys, but a close proximity in Jersey-ese would be "Close enough." It is the embracing of this attitude that leads to wiring jobs like this:
In other words, if it works (to ANY degree), it may be close enough - so why complain? After all - Chalta hai.
I hate the phrase, and even more, the attitude. In work I run interference for "young professionals", who fail to follow their own guidelines - because there is "so much" other work to be done. Which, taken to the logical conclusion, means that doing a little bit of a lot of jobs is better than thoroughly completing any one job. So a mechanic who almost fixes 10 cars would be worth more than a mechanic who actually fixes any car. Or something like that.
At my place, I am viewed as a tyrant by the delivery boys - because I expect the grocery store to delivery EVERYTHING I ordered, and I expect change. I expect the newspaper to be delivered EVERY DAY, not just when you happen to have enough papers to go around. If I tip, it is my decision, not theirs - even when they make up some bogus delivery charge to try and get an extra 20 rupees out of me. Of course, when challenged, they smile, and say words like "you can't blame me for trying". Chalta hai, dude.
More than anything I dislike the feeling that comes up in me - that I am not dealing with a group of adults, but some strange form of children in adult bodies, where lying is not so much a stretching of the truth as some elaborate form of fantasy - and not one to be punished, but to be joined. Everything is negotiable here - Autorick fares, purchases from vendors, everything - and with the prevailing attitude, apparently the truth is also negotiable.
When my friend moved in to his villa, he had no hot water for 3 days. For 3 days, plumbers came out. Still, they would leave without fixing the problem - after all, there was other work to be done. Yet companies are spending billions to send work over in India. So apparently the business management and the Indians share a common belief - something less than 100% is acceptable - as long as the price is right. In my mind, clearly a "Folie à Deux".
There are some bright spots. I occasionally see newspaper articles decrying the "chalta Hai" attitude. I run across some people in my work with an eye on quality, and a go-getter approach. But part of my anxiety comes from reading Rudyard Kipling. Kipling was born in Bombay (now Mumbai), India. In many of his stories, he describes how the Indians must be MADE to work, describing them as lazy and unwilling workers, while the British had a envious work ethic. Now, I don't train people to do coolie work - but I am starting to sympathize with his viewpoint. Where I once saw racism, I now see an understanding of an entire cultures mindset. I find myself ashamed of my views. And I want Indians to prove me wrong.
But I think things will just go on the way they are. Chalta hai, man, chalta hai.
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Death of a Father Figure
On Wednesday, February 24th, I lost my step-dad, Ed. He was not my father, which is probably good. My "real" father died several years ago, alone, having pushed anyone who could care about him away. Ed married my mom 36 years ago, and, through all the turmoil of raising me as a son, managed to end up with a decent relationship with me.
Ed and I could not have been more different. He was 5'5", I am 6'5". He was normally around 190 lbs, I am about 100 lbs heavier. Ed avoided any conflict, for fear people might not like him. I am hyper-confrontational, and don't give a fat rats fanny what you think of me.
But Ed showed me something my "real" dad never could - how to be loyal to your family, how to support friends, the importance of a good work ethic. Ed was as non-mechanical as could be, but was always willing to help - even if helping meant sorting nuts and bolts looking for the right one.
During my youth, I spent a few years with the cub scouts. Ed came camping with us many times - always, it seemed, when it was raining, cold, snowing, icy, or generally too darn miserable to be outside. I can remember camping at Washington's crossing in Pennsylvania - and the temperature was -12 with the windchill, in a freezing rain and sleet. Ed never complained. (I, on the other hand, never stopped complaining.)
After the players strike on 1994, I never saw another major league game live, but Ed and I went to dozens of minor league games. He absolutely loved the game of baseball.
During the last year of his life, Ed's health began to deteriorate rapidly. First, he was diagnosed with "Cirrhosis of the liver, with alcohol not present". (Not sure what that means, except he had cirrhosis, and was not currently a drinker.) He began to lose weight.
Over the last few months he began suffering from dementia of some sort. Alzheimer's was the doc's opinion, but the disease seemed to be much more aggressive than that.
On December 18th, he took a drive 100 miles away, unintentionally, losing almost 8 hours of time somewhere along the line. That was a wake-up call, in more ways than one - 02:43 AM my phone rang, with my mom telling me the cops had him in Ohio. He had been parked, in the middle of the street, in front of a pizza place, with no recollection of why he was there. The doctors suggested he cease driving.
Around the middle of January he became unsteady on his feet, and began suffering falls periodically. The St. Vincent de Paul society provided him with a walker, which seemed to help.
By mid-February, the falls were becoming much more frequent, he was having a harder time moving around, and he was refusing to eat, sometimes for days. We began contemplating nursing homes.
By the morning of the 24th, he was unable to rise from bed. Mom called the ambulance, and the EMT's arrived. (While the EMT's at first wanted to leave him there, since he was talking and not complaining of any pain, eventually we persuaded them to have him examined at the hospital.)
The ambulance workers loaded him up, and off we went.
The ER was not crowded, he went right in to an examination room, and they began to check vitals. Blood pressure was low, but not low enough to panic. The doc ordered fluids, since he appeared dehydrated, and a bunch of tests, both blood and other. The EKG was the first one, and it looked decidedly not-normal.
The ER doc decided there was enough information to admit him, so that process began. Meanwhile, the cardiac group was notified, and the tech came down to do the echocardiogram.
He also did not seem pleased.
We went up to a room upstairs. Ed was shifted from one bed to another (and moaned, which he had started to do even when he was not hurting). My mom and I went down for lunch while the staff settled him in, only to be called back upstairs by the cardiologist 15 minutes later.
"He looks to have some pretty significant scarring, as well as a clot. His enzyme levels indicate that he is having a heart attack now, and may have been having it for several days." Well, that stunned us both. I mean, I never thought a heart attack would last hours, let alone days, and while he had complained of many ailments over the last few weeks, his chest was never one of them.
At this point, Ed was sent down to the ICU. His blood pressure continued to fall, and was now in the 50's over 30's range. The IV was still dripping, but his electrolytes were way out of whack. Multiple IV bags were hung, and more blood was drawn.
For the next hour or two my mom and myself sat there, giving him ice chips, watching with him, praying with - and for - him. Around 3:35 he entered cardiac arrest. He had been sleeping. His eyes opened, he glanced around the room, then shut them again. He was shocked with the defibrillator several times, but no sinus rhythm returned. His time of death was 3:45 PM, February 24th. He was 75 years, 7 days of age.
He was a Christian, and died in peace, without pain - all we can ever hope for.
Ed and I could not have been more different. He was 5'5", I am 6'5". He was normally around 190 lbs, I am about 100 lbs heavier. Ed avoided any conflict, for fear people might not like him. I am hyper-confrontational, and don't give a fat rats fanny what you think of me.
But Ed showed me something my "real" dad never could - how to be loyal to your family, how to support friends, the importance of a good work ethic. Ed was as non-mechanical as could be, but was always willing to help - even if helping meant sorting nuts and bolts looking for the right one.
During my youth, I spent a few years with the cub scouts. Ed came camping with us many times - always, it seemed, when it was raining, cold, snowing, icy, or generally too darn miserable to be outside. I can remember camping at Washington's crossing in Pennsylvania - and the temperature was -12 with the windchill, in a freezing rain and sleet. Ed never complained. (I, on the other hand, never stopped complaining.)
After the players strike on 1994, I never saw another major league game live, but Ed and I went to dozens of minor league games. He absolutely loved the game of baseball.
During the last year of his life, Ed's health began to deteriorate rapidly. First, he was diagnosed with "Cirrhosis of the liver, with alcohol not present". (Not sure what that means, except he had cirrhosis, and was not currently a drinker.) He began to lose weight.
Over the last few months he began suffering from dementia of some sort. Alzheimer's was the doc's opinion, but the disease seemed to be much more aggressive than that.
On December 18th, he took a drive 100 miles away, unintentionally, losing almost 8 hours of time somewhere along the line. That was a wake-up call, in more ways than one - 02:43 AM my phone rang, with my mom telling me the cops had him in Ohio. He had been parked, in the middle of the street, in front of a pizza place, with no recollection of why he was there. The doctors suggested he cease driving.
Around the middle of January he became unsteady on his feet, and began suffering falls periodically. The St. Vincent de Paul society provided him with a walker, which seemed to help.
By mid-February, the falls were becoming much more frequent, he was having a harder time moving around, and he was refusing to eat, sometimes for days. We began contemplating nursing homes.
By the morning of the 24th, he was unable to rise from bed. Mom called the ambulance, and the EMT's arrived. (While the EMT's at first wanted to leave him there, since he was talking and not complaining of any pain, eventually we persuaded them to have him examined at the hospital.)
The ambulance workers loaded him up, and off we went.
The ER was not crowded, he went right in to an examination room, and they began to check vitals. Blood pressure was low, but not low enough to panic. The doc ordered fluids, since he appeared dehydrated, and a bunch of tests, both blood and other. The EKG was the first one, and it looked decidedly not-normal.
The ER doc decided there was enough information to admit him, so that process began. Meanwhile, the cardiac group was notified, and the tech came down to do the echocardiogram.
He also did not seem pleased.
We went up to a room upstairs. Ed was shifted from one bed to another (and moaned, which he had started to do even when he was not hurting). My mom and I went down for lunch while the staff settled him in, only to be called back upstairs by the cardiologist 15 minutes later.
"He looks to have some pretty significant scarring, as well as a clot. His enzyme levels indicate that he is having a heart attack now, and may have been having it for several days." Well, that stunned us both. I mean, I never thought a heart attack would last hours, let alone days, and while he had complained of many ailments over the last few weeks, his chest was never one of them.
At this point, Ed was sent down to the ICU. His blood pressure continued to fall, and was now in the 50's over 30's range. The IV was still dripping, but his electrolytes were way out of whack. Multiple IV bags were hung, and more blood was drawn.
For the next hour or two my mom and myself sat there, giving him ice chips, watching with him, praying with - and for - him. Around 3:35 he entered cardiac arrest. He had been sleeping. His eyes opened, he glanced around the room, then shut them again. He was shocked with the defibrillator several times, but no sinus rhythm returned. His time of death was 3:45 PM, February 24th. He was 75 years, 7 days of age.
He was a Christian, and died in peace, without pain - all we can ever hope for.
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