AquaRant

There aren't just tourists in Midtown...

2008-07-31T17:25:00.002-04:00

I was standing at southwest corner of 35th Street and 5th Avenue, heading north after picking up some delectable Maui Tacos. The signal to cross appeared, but before I stepped down from the curb I heard an approaching "Aap kahaan sey hain?...."

So I look up, and a tall broad shouldered "uncle", wearing a light gray turban complementing his deep mahogany complexion was walking right towards me. This time his request was bolder and clearly directed my way..."Aap kahaan sey hain?....Punjab??'

I shyly muttered a "nahi", then he asked where I was from. I said "Hyderabad, Andhra Pradesh", and his face popped into an "Ohhhh" expression as he rattles off a list of A.P. cities and towns - all I remember is that he ended with Vijayawada. Random indeed.

He then asked me many more questions in a blend of Hindi and Punjabi, which I had to gently interrupt to inform him that I don't understand very much. So he quickly reverted to English and the conversation proceeded..

Man from Punjab (MFP): You know, I see good luck around you?

Me: Huh?

MFP: There is much good luck surrounding you, it is on your path. What is your name?

Me: (hesitantly shared) Hima.

MFP: Ok. Are you married?

Me: No.

MFP: Ok. You will be married very soon. You will find a good boy and get married. This year.

Me: (smiling and gently shaking head) OK. When this year? (figured if he's going to make such claims, he may as well give specifics!)

MFP: (jumps to another subject by unzipping a dusty leather portfolio with papers packed in) Let me show you, I come from Haridwar. This is where I stay, with these people (he shows me what seems to be a class picture, but at a temple).

He pulls something out of his pocket and opens his palm up..I see a marble sized, delicately -carved rich red bead strung, along bright orange threads..

MFP: Take this, it will bring you all of your good luck. Please can you give a donation to support, all of your good luck will come true.

Ah, there it is. But it didn't matter - although I was a bit intimidated at first, there was something about this man that was compassionate and endearing. As I pulled out my wallet, he explained to me what sounded like their fundraising goal, and rolled out a thin strip of white paper that had "Maha"-someting scribbled on it, with the number "101" jotten down below..

I gave him a ten dollar bill - if you consider that a lot, think about how much folks spend on palm readers, astrology readings, and similar good luck charms or other spiritual devices... - either way, it was the first bill I saw and it felt right..
'
He said thank you, and then immediately remarked "No fifty-one dollars?". I found that so random that I laughed, and said "That's what I can give you now". Didn't explain further.

I turned to depart and he called out again, saying "Hey, say golak". I asked him to repeat, but it sounded the same. On the third go it was clear "say good luck" - perhaps he was requesting positive energy from me, as he had imparted with his matrimonial prophecy?

Again I chuckled, and said "Good luck to you". His smile returned in full force and a resounding "Good luck!" came my way.

The signal to cross returned and I headed back up 5th Avenue towards my place, tacos in one hand, unexpected potential Hindu good luck charm in the other =)

The Dark Knight

2008-07-21T12:40:00.004-04:00

So I haven't written/blogged in what feels like eons. All it took was the lure of a Fandango "reward" for posting a review of my latest film experience, and I took the bait. I submitted what's below, and now I am the proud recipient of three magazine subscriptions at $2 a pop for a whole year. Rewards my *ss!! Oh well, at least it got me writing again =)

The Dark Knight IMAX was ridiculously awesome! I don't often use "ridiculous" to describe a move-going experience, since my definition of the word points to "beyond reality" or "unimaginable" as opposed to some humorous spin. From the moment the opening scene hit the screen (2am, early Sat morning) to the last of the closing credits, my eyes were wide open and my senses were taken for an amazing ride. The Joker (Heath Ledger) was one of the freakiest yet comic portrayals of a suphero-story villain I'd ever seen, and his rapport with Batman was played out with refreshing realism against the backdrop of Gotham City on the brink of irreparable rottenness. Harvey Dent (Aaron Eckhart) was surprisingly amusing & engaging I didn't recall the original comic book story line so I didn't know what to expect in the movie, my 16 year old bro helped fill in those blanks). Overall, a fantastic story told on a visual roller coaster. Dark as it was, it will shine bright in the minds of move-goers..

Made In India? by Deepti Paul

2006-10-10T12:42:00.000-04:00

This weekend I attended the South Asian International Film Festival in NYC, and saw a segment of documentaries by emerging directors. As fate would have it, the subways of all three of us who were convening for the event were running late, not in service, etc., and we didn’t get into the theater until thirty minutes into the presentation. We caught the last minutes of the 2^nd short film, and then began the main lengthier piece – A documentary called “Made in India?” by Deepti Paul.

My family hails from South India.
My parents had a “love marriage”
I am the eldest sibling. There are four of us, three girls with a boy as the youngest.
I have completed college, and I don’t want to be a doctor, therefore there lies no excuse for me not to get married ASAP.
And it seems that the most important wish of my parents and elder relatives in India is for me to get married to a good boy with a good job and bright future.

This is me, and this is Deepti Paul. Our main difference is that the pressure my family exudes for my marital status to change is miniscule compared to what she has experienced, driving her to the point of acceptance of making a trip to India for the purpose of entertaining the thought of an “arranged” marriage.

Her documentary follows the history of her youth in America, starting with her family basics and flashing back to the story of her parents’ coming together. She comes back to the issues that many young Indian-Americans face in terms of balancing pressure to get married with their own self-induced pressure to figure out who they are. The film does an amazing job of educating the first generation immigrant parents and guardians of the plights of their children, and it does an equally amazing job of giving an illustrated view to which so many first generation offspring can relate.

There were so many moments where I thought, “That is so me/my family/my siblings/my opinion.” And there were other moments during which I respectfully admired the ability the director had in displaying what made her family the Paul family, and what made Deepti as Deepti could be best defined – two people with distinct minds held within one body, trying to sort out how to reach an internal compromise to achieve social symbiosis and overall peace of mind.

There is quite a bit more I’d like to say about certain scenes and characters in the film, but I don’t want to exploit its charm for future viewers. If every Indian-American community could view this film, I think it would be the first of many steps in the great stride to bridge the gap between generations, those that are clearly Made in India, and those that have yet to really know where their homes lie.

A Sense of India

2006-09-25T01:17:00.000-04:00

I've been back for a few weeks now, but wanted to share a sort of journal entry/blog from my trip. I think it conveys the part of India that you can't research on the web or document with camera and video.

Thursday, August 10, 12006 – A little after midnight

During the first 24 hours of this trip, I experienced serious doubts during certain moments as to whether I was really in India or not. It just didn’t feel like it, and in many ways it didn’t look like it. It sounded a bit like it, and it tasted a bit like it, but not enough to imprint upon my mind that I was really here, on the other side of the world, in the place where my family comes from and still lives. However, as one may recall from any biological studies, the sense of smell is what ties us most closely to memories and the reliving of experiences, and today brought proof of that several times over;

The musty dewy haze of scent that fills the house from the morning air; the crisp flowery breeze that passes among us as we savor our spicy warm soothing cups of chai; the traffic, as it builds with the base of petrol and diesel; smoke from tailpipes, and the many variety of scents that pour into the streets from stores opening for the day;

The sharp fibrous musk of racks of “Made in India” clothing that line the walls of the fanciest boutiques as well as the most local corner shops; the antique-y rich scent of crepe, silk, and georgette saris being unraveled one after the other, providing the most tangent ebb and flow of the “latest fashion Madame” chant; the return to traffic, now midday, with a huskier tone that is at times preferred to be received through the window against the chlorine-like emanation from the vehicle A.C.;

The rainbow of aromas wafting through the produce section of the crisp new supermarkets, with all of their exotic as well as commonplace origins; the warm toasty smell of Indian-Chinese cuisine, carrying sweet and spicy in perfect harmony; the gentle night breeze, which feels refreshing even when polluted with excessive traffic odors, because it has most likely come after a rain – perhaps brining us of to one the most unique scents of mid year in Hyderabad. The rain starts slow, possibly downpours, and leaves a fresh natural incense which pats all non-agreeable odiferous ness into the ground. But as the mud and roads dry, the scents, smells, aromas, odors and musks of every city dweller within a square mile are released, and a new cycle of olfactory delights begins. Every scent has a story, and every story taps a heartstring. This was the India that I remembered, and I am happy to know that there is much more of it to come.

The American Mechanic

2006-04-12T15:52:00.000-04:00

During a vent of an IM session, a fellow broad-thinker completed our political and social rant with the following:

He: and the average american on the street thinks their country is just so great, but has no clue about how their country works
He: so thats what annoys me
Me: you know what's really weird..when i just read that last thing you wrote..
Me: i thought you wrote "the average machine"
He: haha
Me: but really, i guess it's not that different
He: perhaps its not

So came to be a budding metaphor in my mind. And after seeing the awesome and inspiring film “V for Vendetta”, the illustration has come to form:

The American Mechanic

High tech conglomerations with glimmering parts
Innumerable pixels yet standing in blurry view of others
We are the American Machines
Born from the passion, creativity, and laborious efforts of
The American Mechanic

With shiny exteriors and the most desired fuels
Basic yet luxurious service and support no matter what the issue
Whether we sow the land for the masses
Or churn through the daily rat races
We love our name-brand display and user-friendly façade
And we blindly admire our maker who gave us such a visage

We rarely question this maker beyond a few petty doubts
Because we are smugly satisfied in our everyday bouts
Minor tune-ups and four-yearly checks, we don’t mind
At those moments we’ll openly show faults and attempt to fix the finds
But when those windows pass, when the next set of Mechanics comes to show
We revert back to our smug satisfaction of passively accepting each Mechanic,
and those before him, who
Gave us our home
Our jobs, our security, our seemingly bulletproof shield from the world
Our hedonistic pleasures, our culture, our educations, our hopes
To question the Mechanic would be to question ourselves
For the Mechanic is nothing without his creations, his constituents,
the extensions of himself
And to question ourselves on irregular checkup
Would be to recognize that the design is flawed, the parts not optimal,
the outlook possibly…grim
That great change may rest on the horizon for the next generation of machines

Since we fear what we don’t know, and embrace what we’ve been taught
We resist important updates and upgrades to our manners and thought
The first Mechanics were very crafty when establishing our freedoms
But I wonder if they foresaw this ultimate release of allegiance
The desire to shed responsibility, to blame without shame
To think that we are just singular compartments in a steadfast moving train
That no one machine can initiate change
Or even if, it would be on risky ground and a recall would be at stake.
In the end preferring to live our lives to their rusty ends
With only necessary body work and reminders of our impermanence
Instead of rewiring ourselves to make our marks on the world

And so with our glimmering parts and shiny exteriors,
We are the American Machines
But there are lucky ones among us whose defects now run deep
Because they’ve educated themselves beyond what the makers set for them to believe
With due respect they’ll question the Mechanics,
perhaps resist due force in their desires
And instead with due process bring new parts, new energies,
new dreams to the uncloaked masses.

The Donkey in the Tiger-Skin

2005-09-05T13:15:00.001-04:00

I recently came across a tiny book of Indian folk tales, costing only a buck, at a random thrift/antique shop. I just read through the first few tales and this third one caught my attention most, so thought I'd share. There's some saying that mentions "a nickel for your thoughts," but looks like a dollar can get you some advice as well:
In the city of Hastinapura there lived a washer by the name of Camphor-lover. Now Camphor had a donkey, a sickly feeble beast, nearer death than life from years of carrying cruelly crushing loads. So one day Camphor, in order to keep the old beast alive, covered him with the skin of a tiger so he would not be molested, and turned him loose in a forest near a lush field of grain. The owner of the field, seeing the tiger shape approaching his field turned and ran for his life. And thus it was that the old donkey settled down in the field to enjoy his finals days. Then one afternoon one of the guards of the field covered himself with a gray blanket and with his bow and arrows crept up to a concealed spot overlooking the field. From a distance the donkey saw the gray shape and thought, “Aha, a lady donkey.” And thinking this he made a cacophonous donkey bray and ran toward the fair object of his choice. When the guard heard the sound of the beast made he said, “Why it’s only a donkey!”, and with no trouble at all he crept up and killed it.
Thus I say: By keeping quiet even fools can become prosperous, but an ass, no matter how well-camouflaged, reveals himself as soon as he opens his mouth.

Donation Elation

2005-07-15T13:19:00.000-04:00

(Written September 7, 2005. Posting nearly a week later, but better late than never!)

$10.00 that I would have donated at the door. $13.50 that I would have spent on the train ride to and from the city. $4.00 I would have spent on roundtrip subway rides to and from the venue. A total of $10.00 to a non-specific although trustworthy group (my friend’s friend is hosting the benefit), as well as $17.50 spent on just transportation. I chose not to make the venture out to a benefit concert at the Knitting Factory this evening, so this is what I have finally set aside to donate, at least for today, for the Hurricane Katrina relief efforts.

Why did I wait so many days, instead of making a small almost automatic contribution like so many others? Because I feel like I have no money. Tilt? Well, given my unique job situation (advanced but not professional daytrader who is building capital in the account but not near spending it), I feel extra helpless at times like these because there is no clear cut slice of my “paycheck” to set aside and donate. Besides the basics of gas, groceries, and having decent clothing and a nominal social life, I think I mentally weigh many purchases and only make big ones that I feel I’ve really researched or really deserve.

So, in the strange way that my mind works, I had to find loopholes in my spending to start to find ways to contribute to Katrina recovery without feeling like I was being generous without due thought and planning. During the time of the tsunami in Asia, I had been saving up for a particular item and instead donated that lot and started re-saving. But this time around there was no specific purchase goal of which I could just divert the funds.

In addition, during the time of the tsunami I was so overwhelmed and so eager to help that I quickly gave my hundred-some-odd pot to the Red Cross. During the days after, I started to come across organizations that were just as noble yet were able to do things differently because of their smaller size. This is no dig at the Red Cross, it is great and has stood the test of time. I just realized that I should keep my eyes open because as much as these are monetary/physical donations, they are still parts of our hearts and consciences, elements which should be happy with the decisions made and not experience regret (or if you want to delve into marketing jargon, something like “cognitive dissonance”).

In the past few days I have come across two organizations which are smaller than the Red Cross and have very specific groups that they are targeting and assisting in the hurricane relief efforts. One is the OCA of Greater Houston, which I found out about in my Badmash weekly comic email today. The following part of the email is what caught my attention:

“Of course, you can donate to the Red Cross, but to assure that affected members of the pan-Asian community (including South Asians) who may have language and cultural barriers get the help they need, donate to OCA of Houston.”

The other organization that I am donating to is True Majority, which I’m sure many folks have heard of (especially if you lean more to the Democrat side!). The following information in the True Majority email is what really stirred me:

“We've all watched in horror as events unfolded in New Orleans, and one lesson is clear: The people left behind to suffer were left behind because they didn't have the power that richer and whiter Americans take for granted. People in shelters were treated like animals. Government officials separated families. Thousands were simply left to die in the floodwaters
….It is time to give voice to the community--now a diaspora--hardest hit by the hurricane. TrueMajority is working with Community Labor United (CLU), a coalition of community groups that for nine years has worked in what are now the hardest-hit neighborhoods of New Orleans….”

So these are my charitable organizations of choice for today. I do respect any donation made to any organization which helps any group of people. But I truly honor the folks who hone their unique abilities (like language translators) and get out in the trenches (like the poorest parts of New Orleans) in order to make a small difference each day! Hopefully my $13.50 times two will kick in Thursday morning, and we’ll see when there’s more where that came from.

Kid Talk

2005-05-11T13:13:00.000-04:00

Hangin' out with some teenagers this weekend, I realized how inquisitive and entertaining younger people are. Change is something they embrace so easily. But, surpassing teenagers, no one does it better than a spunky little kid. I found this documentary of sorts that I jotted after a BBQ at my house last summer, and I came across it just in time to remind me that no matter how stressful life can be, according to the young ones, I'm cool because I'm a big Kid. Here are my thoughts from that day:

I forgot how awesome little kids can be. My parents entertained friends for lunch today, and there were a couple of little girls that my brother and I were left to entertain. Some of the things that came from their mouths could only be expressed by such characters. “M” is the spunky 11 year old, eldest of three sisters. “L” is the adorable wide-eyed youngest, at age 6. “H” is yours truly.

M: How old are you?

H: Guess?

M: I dunno. 20?

H: Nope. L, what do you think?

L: 16.

H: Haha, no. I’m 25.

M: Oh, so you do know what champagne tastes like! How does it taste, do you like it?

H: Um no, it’s no big deal.

L and I go to sit out in the backyard on the canopied swing.

L: Can you come out here like whenever you want?

H: What do you mean? Yeah it’s our backyard, we own it.

L: No I mean like does your mom say you can’t come out?

H: Um, I don’t have to ask my mom, I’m a big girl. But I guess when I was little I did.

L: OK. So did she let you come out all the time, or did she say no once in a while?

H: Yeah, she said no sometimes. Like if it was too cold or we had to go somewhere. But all moms do that.

L: Yeah. Can you also eat whatever you want?

H: I guess I can. But that doesn’t mean I eat junk food all the time. I try to eat healthy food.

L: Oh. But if you want candy or something you don’t have to ask your mom, right?

H: Right, I don’t.

As the guests were getting ready to depart….

L: I don’t want to go home yet. I wish we could have a sleepover!

H: Well yeah not today, but maybe another time.

L: Yeah on Friday!

H: Uh well ask your mom, she’ll…

L: Oh wait no I can’t, I have Veda class.

H: What?! Wow, so what have you learned in your class?

L: Oh, you know, we learn slokas and stuff. And I know two Telugu poems.

H: OK, let me hear.

She rattled them off at super speed, back to back. I can’t even do the same with any English poem. I probably couldn’t even say the Pledge of Allegiance that fast! Just another reminder that kids learn so much so quickly, and they are so very in the moment. Inspiringly fearless at times. And best of all, they don’t overanalyze crap. Just take it for what it is, once explained. Kudos to kids!

2005-05-11T13:11:00.000-04:00

After a looong break from my creative outlets, I realized today that I have to take on a new motto in my quest to publish one day, and that is to aim for efficiency. It is not quite efficient to send random email excerpts of my writings to select friends for review. It is not quite efficient to have a blog that no one can cross in their daily websurfing. If I truly aspire to be a wordsmith, among other things, I must suck it up and show the masses what I have to offer. You, my Friendster friends, are among those masses. If you're smiling, keep reading and ponder or release, comment or critique -- I invite the Good, the Bad, and the Ugly to "look inside and see what's on my mind'" If you're confused, feel free to retreat to your orthodox Friendster ways, or simply take amusement in glancing over my rants. Better than nada!

The "It Wasn't Me" Phenomenon

2005-01-07T03:30:00.000-05:00

I wanted to stand up on the coffee table cluster and yell at the disrespectful crowd. I wanted to say "Hey, my aunt and uncle were visiting Pondicherry that morning..yeah that's right, the beaches..and that wave took them...parents of two young sons, only in their thirties..my younger cousin just turned 8, which means there is one more 8 year old orphan in this world...doesn't this affect you all? Are you just that cold and insensitive? My aunt and uncle DIED. People DIED. Thousands of innocent good people died...and all you can do is drink and talk into a stupor while selfless artists use their own time and energy to bring you the songs of their hearts?!"

Only I couldn't do it because I couldn't bring myself to lie. Yes, my aunt and uncle were visiting Pondicherry the morning that the tsunami devastated Asia. However, they got a late start with the kids and all, so they didn't get to the beach till about an hour later than planned. When they arrived there, there was some water in the streets, and objects and cars barricading, with police saying that there was a big flooding problem and that the beach is not open. My relatives had no idea of what they were almost victims of until they turned on a TV later that morning.

But really, would it take such an emotional showcase atop of coffee tables to command some respect at a fundraising event? I tried to suppress my frustration at first, as I appreciated the rising donation tally, the many folks who helped to organize and perform at the show, as well as the members of the audience who were acting as a proper audience should. When I tried to figure out why the rest of the venue was so ridiculously noisy and rude, I realized, it's because each one of those people is thinking "it wasn't me." IWM.

It's this IWM attitude that kept the attendees from converging into a single audience. It's the IWM attitude that keeps a room chock full of brown people completely unattuned to the tragedy that has hit many fellow brown people halfway across the world. And it's the IWM attitude that stereotypes us young Americans as ignorant, insensitive, and unhelpful to global issues.

Local demand: Please, please quiet down so that we can hear the poets speak. You, yeah you guys back near the bar, shut up already!

IWM response: I'm not talking loudly so I will continue my chatter without moving to the back of the room accordingly. I am doing nothing wrong.

Community demand: About 35 Americans are confirmed dead. Approximately 2500 American missing persons phone calls have been reported. Over 9,000 people in India have perished.

IWM response: Do I know any of the Americans? No. Do I know any of the missing vacationers, ambassadors, Peace Corp workers? Probably not. Do I know any of the Indians in India who have been hit? Only if my relatives are from a coastal village or city, which isn't the case. So I'm OK. I dont have a personal death to mourn.

Globabl demand: The aftermath of the Tsunami threatens to raise the death toll due to waterborne disease, unattended injuries, millions of homeless people, insufficient food and fresh water supplies.....

IWM response: I'm halfway across the world. What can I do? I donated what I could, there is nothing left for me to participate in.

There is an Arabic Proverb which states,

"If you have much, give of your wealth; if you have little, give of your heart."

I think the antithesis of the IWM mindset would be a variation on this:

"Regardless of how you give of your wealth, remember to continue giving of your heart."

Giving of the heart means showing respect, listening, paying attention, and most of all, attempting to put oneself in others' shoes. "It Wasn't Me" can only stand as a subconscious security blanket so long as one fears the unknown, or the unfathomable, and acts as if such events are taking place in another time, in another world. As soon as you attempt to step in that shoe, by feeling a rush of water into your lungs, or hear terrified childrem scream before their last gulps, or witness an elderly woman clutching the bodies of her son and daughter-in-law on a heap of her house leftovers...as soon as you really do this, I don't think it's a far jump to say that you would stop thinking it wasn't you, and realize that it is a part of your human nature to know the immense nature of that pain and loss.

And then maybe, after giving of your wealth, you would sincerely give of your heart.

Finally!

2004-12-20T16:03:00.000-05:00

Using Ebates.com while purchasing from Sephora.com (gotta love the web):

$2.85 saved.

Letting a pushy tourist at a bar pay for my beer (a rareity):

$6.00 saved.

Spending the extra effort to drive around a few more blocks for street parking instead of using a garage where I normally would:

$5.00 saved.

Opting for black and white labels while making office supplies purchase, though I really would have liked the color ones:

$6.00 saved

Getting my arse to a party by 10:30 p.m., therefore entering by 11 p.m. and avoiding cover charges:

$20.00 saved

Making a point to mention that I have a CVS card while making purchases, and pulling it out or rattling off my phone number for it:

$15.99 saved

Choosing to take the 59th Street Bridge as opposed to toll-collecting tunnels and such on 10 separate occasions:

$40.00 saved.

Inquiring about the deserved refund of the charge made on what was supposed to be a one month free trial of a certain trading software:

$59.99 saved.

Being able to buy a shiny new electric/acoustic guitar, knowing that I made a conscious effort to save up for it:

Priceless.

(The events above took place from September 10, 2004 through December 9, 2004. Yes, I was slightly inspired by clever MasterCard commercials, but mostly I was tired of talking about the supposed purchase of my guitar instead of actually making it. So now I have an envelope full of bills, therefore no excuses. How liberating!)

New York Cares Day 2004

2004-11-23T14:51:00.000-05:00

I met with the rest of the Indiana University Alumni Team at the New York Cares office in Midtown, bright and early on the sunny morning of Saturday, October 23. About 50 members of four different teams happily boarded yellow school buses for our trip to the Benjamin Franklin School for K-5 students. During the ride, I caught up with my old friends Jillian Gentry and Jillian Boeni (JG and Jill for short), sharing what we've been up to with work and school and life. After about 45 minutes, the bus pulled up to the mammoth 6-story school building. We all signed in and were greeted by our Site Manager, a girl named Kim, new to NY Cares this year. She was surprisingly bubbly for having been at the school since about 6 a.m., but I guess that's why she would make a good leader for our busy day. She explained the tasks that needed to be accomplished, and introduced us to the principal and several teachers of the school who were excited to have us there.

Then it was time to divvy up. I wanted to stick with my friends, and they were determined to work on mural painting, which is probably the most fun job and wouldn't require being outside on a chilly fall day. However, when Kim asked for volunteers for the gardening team, and I saw only three volunteers scoot over there, I figured I should help with that, I could always paint later. So I joined Cindy, our IU team leader, and some nice fellows named Josh, Rich, and Matt. All together, we were five people who didn't know a thing about gardening, and would try to "prettify" a school. This would be interesting.

We were handed a heavy bag of tulip bulbs, some hand shovels, a few pairs of scissors, and gardening gloves. It was about 50 degrees out, not too horrible, but definitely less welcoming than the warm building right behind us. We moved out to the front yard of the school and saw the masses of weeds that we had to clear, the seven giant pots to dig up, rework, and replant, and the mess of dirt and sand to clean up in between. It was a bit overwhelming, but I soon realized that although our group was small, it consisted of relaxed yet hard-working folks. Rich, Matt, and Cindy had all attended IU, and graduated a few years earlier than me. Josh had come to the project with another team, The Odd Angels, his friend's rock band. So we moved through our tasks sharing college anecdotes and music reviews, along with creative ways of dealing with weeds, and our guesses as to what these tulips would actually look like when they bloomed come spring.

After major cleanup and stacking overstuffed trash bags, we stood back and saw the fresh new front garden that we had renovated for two hours. We had managed to clean it out well, making room for the flowers that would grow, and rearranged the existing grasses and small plants to look more full and healthy. Bubbly Kim came out and commended us on a job well done. She said there was plenty for us to split up and continue to help out with, but first it was time for lunch.

We headed to the cafeteria and grabbed our sack lunches that New York Cares had provided. I felt like a kid during recess, enjoying a simple tuna sandwich with an apple and a cookie for dessert, while laughing at Matt and Rich who decided to instead play catch with their fruit. I found JG and Jill, and we decided we'd go join the mural painting squad when "recess" was over.

I contributed to painting a wall-to-wall orange bridge that was part of a type of fantasy world scene that was sketched in the back of the cafeteria. I was then upgraded to work on the Benjamin Franklin mural up in the auditorium. The artist had already sketched out a smiling, cartoon-y looking bust of Ben, one that would capture the spirit of the man and make him kid-friendly at the same time. JG and I got to the pick out all the colors, and worked meticulously to concoct a realistic flesh colored paint for old Ben, bringing him to life.

Just as we were starting to paint Mr. Franklin's glasses and attire, we heard that it was almost 3 p.m. and we needed to start cleaning up. It was a race to collect brushes, scoop up paint spills, remove tarps, clean hands with turpentine, all while letting the volunteers like Kim remain at their tasks. Some of us didn't mind staying a little longer to help out. But Kim and the organizing team made sure to get us ready to head out to the buses again, no matter how late they would have to stay back to finish the job.

As we cleaned and made our way to the front of the school, all of the changes of the day were evident. The cafeteria and auditorium murals were near completion, totally brightening up once bare rooms. The two staircases on either side of the entrance way were now decorated with painted images of children playing, learning, and laughing. Down the hallways were clean and spacious, and there were no longer piles of books and supplies that had been emptied out from dusty closets for reorganizing. On our way out the door, we received free mugs that were sent in by one of the sponsoring companies, Campbell I believe. It was a funny sight to see the mass of paint and dust covered volunteers trekking out, blue mugs in hand, and tired but smiling faces across the board.

And as with any school bus, the afternoon ride home was louder and more rambunctious than its 9 a.m. counterpart. JG, Jill, and I got to the buses first, so we got to sit in the back, we felt privileged. We laughed about our interesting day of meeting friendly new folks, displaying hidden talents, and all while doing something to improve the daily lives of deserving school kids. Our bus driver was a little rough with his steering, so we flew off our seats several times, once again experiencing poignant grade school nostalgia. The end of the ride was more quiet, with the sun hovering just over us as we came down the West Side Highway, and after pounding through some midday traffic we got back to New York Cares headquarters around 4:15 p.m.

We exploded off the buses, eager to get back to the rest of our weekends, yet a little sad that the day was over. I waved back to JG and Jill while heading down 7th Avenue to my car. I felt like people on the sidewalks were looking at me in a unique new way. I got ahead of myself, thinking that maybe they were recognizing the efforts of a volunteer team that had finished its duties. But then I realized it was more likely the fact that my five foot frame was wearing a ridiculously oversized New York Cares shirt, which happened to display the graphic of an apple that was about five times the size of my head. Or maybe it was the huge orange paint blob that found a permanent home on my sweatpants. Or maybe, just maybe, it’s because I was walking around with a cheery grin pasted on my face, and this is not the most natural sight on the streets of Manhattan.

Regardless, all’s well that ends well. I did my part and felt good about it, and I think the students of Benjamin Franklin P.S. were in for an even greater bout of joy when they would enter their school that Monday morning. That would definitely confirm this New York Cares Day as a success!

A Visit with Myself

2004-11-09T17:14:00.000-05:00

I sat on the familiar rugs, hands gently held together, knees neatly bent. I looked up at the white marble hall, the statue in the middle. The flowers, the fruits, all offerings in waiting. The occasional crack of the microphone changed my focus. Singing, chanting, whatever English translation you choose forl these bhajans. I liked the feeling they gave me, the comfort. Outside was cold, rainy, and dark. Inside here, bright and warm. The audience tonight was smaller than the usual crowd, but spirited nonetheless. Whenever a pause came after the end of the song, you could catch the man singing on the right side of the hall glancing at the woman with the microphone on the left, who would then look at the dholak player, lastly looking back over the entire crowd for the next voice to speak up. A little girl in front of me was given command of the microphone by her mother. She sang softly and in a shy manner at first, but after the first few verses were repeated by those around her, she picked up her force and pace while maintaining a good steady beat. She sang so confidently for such a young child, I was impressed. But then I remembered that this is not about displaying vocal talents, but singing with love and intention and purity. Who would be more capable of that than a child?

As the songs went on, I found myself getting closer to that quiet place I desired to reside within for a few moments at the least. I closed my eyes, still seeing the same images before me. However, my concerns, plans, thoughts, goals, and worries came to the forefront, and I subconsciously asked questions of the marble statue before me, knowing that I was really speaking to what the fixated material stood for, not its actual physical self. I opened this to many possible discussions, debates, and answers on a variety of issues. But when I was to open my eyes, I knew there was only going to be one answer, and more than likely it would be one that I could not actually see in front of me.

Accepting that notion, I brought myself out of my mental recluse and slowly opened my eyes. The reflective light of the hall hurt at first, but the sight of the devoted activity around me eased the transition. I looked into the eyes of that statue, and then I noticed something. A wisp of smoke that I had not seen before. Then another. I followed the trails of the wisp all the way down to one lit diya that sat at the front of the display. One diya, I thought, yet its flame creates enough smoke to distract me from the lifelike garland-laid figure. The smoke from the flame starts off so concentrated, so easy to outline and contain and examine. And in an instant the same smoke displaces in infinite directions, changing color, changing form. Within seconds, the smoke appears to be no more. You can not see it, and the farther it spreads thin, the harder it is to smell it or feel its light heat. Is it an illusion, this disappearance of the smoke, or is the illusion that the smoke was never there to begin with? That all we saw was the same fire of the flame, but transformed and sent out into its surroundings?

This took me a few minutes to watch and play through. I felt like this could be the answer that I came to the temple seeking, it just had to be. All I had to do was figure out what it meant. And then it hit me. I found myself smiling silently in the midst of a growing crowd of singers and visitors. What I knew was that the smoke is in fact there, but not only is the smoke there, there are endless other components to that fire than just what we are seeing. Our human eyes are well-adapted, but they are not limitless. When the smoke "disappears", it is just changing to a form that we can not recognize. And I believe this delineation is what I was meant to walk away with today. Everything - every idea, every love, every feeling, and every situation - has always presented itself in some form to us. At opportune times in our lives, our senses are able to recognize them, and we feel that they are "there". But even when they seem hopeless, frustrating, or totally lost, they are in fact still there, but in a new form. And our tasks becomes tuning our senses to reassess what is in front of us, and seize it and take it in a new direction.

My frustration about the election results. My confusion about the opposite sex. My concerns about how my trading is going. Politics, men, and work have always been around. Politics, men, and work will continue to stay. However their forms can and will change. I just have to be willing to open my eyes to the possibilities. And when that is done, action can be taken. Like Dan Millman says, "I care about what you do, but not how you feel." The ability to change beliefs about a situation and consequently change behavior -- this is the morsel of wisdom I extracted from a visit to the temple, a visit with myself.

The Power of Hollywood

2004-10-11T13:42:00.000-04:00

I sent a close version of this to a list serve that reaches actors, directors, etc. in the Indian-American realm. Don't know if it will get posted, but it will stay here for sure.

*********************

I was making breakfast this morning, watching Regis and Kelly as I usually do for a few pre-work laughs. I heard Regis say something along the lines of “tragic news..Christopher Reeves..actor who starred in the Superman movies..died yesterday..heart attack..age 52.” Fifty-two. That is ridiculously young, I thought. Even for someone who is paralyzed. I automatically stopped what I was doing, almost like a few involuntary moments of peace that this man more than deserved.

I think that this is the first time that I have ever welled up upon hearing news of an actor’s sudden death. Those actors were usually people whose entertainment value and talents I appreciated. I respected their jobs, their work, their contributions. But I never saw the heartfelt change that they made in the world.

Christopher Reeves, the actor. I love the Superman movies, the character, the myth. I loved how Chris Reeves portrayed the duality that every person deals with, and showed how Superman made a conscious effort to use his abilities for the benefit of society. I have loved every super-actor after that (Dean Cain, Tom Welling) who has filled those shoes. But Mr. Reeves was my first Superman.

Christopher Reeves, the activist. I always found it inspiring the way Chris Reeves turned his horse riding accident, and its repercussions, into a message for the world. He endured dark days and suicidal thoughts in the first few days of his paralysis. But the love and support of his wife, children, and millions of fans somehow lifted him up and gave him the courage to continue his life. It takes a great deal of strength to recover from the emotional trauma of such an injury, and probably especially more when you know that you are under the scrutiny of the media’s eye. However, I never sensed Mr. Reeves frustration with that, if he had any at all. Instead, he used it as a power source.

He used his influence to lobby Congress for health care causes. He made celebrity appearances, talking about the important spiritual lessons he had learned and to spread compassion and knowledge on the topic of paralysis. He also called upon Hollywood many times to use the influence of film in today’s society to tackle important issues.

I am not an actor, screenwriter, director, or in any way related to the entertainment field. But I know that most of you reading this are in fact in that realm. So I just wanted to bring to light the highlights of the amazing story of a great actor and activist, and remind you that your powers in the entertainment field can reach far beyond good laughs and box office numbers. You have the power to send life altering messages to millions of people. Make those messages count!

A fan of those who choose wisely,

Hima

The Wedding Itch That Stole Innocence

2004-09-09T16:18:00.000-04:00

A friend of mine got married last weekend. Our mothers are best friends, so I was basically part of the wedding household. During the events of the week, questions and comments once again ensued. This time around I'm older and wiser and not quite bitter, but still thought it due time to revive my creation from similar experiences last November:

The Wedding Itch That Stole Innocence

The experience for the single Indian young woman, versus the rest of the free world.

Simplified, Dr. Suess style (or at least my best attempt at it).

A wedding! Oh wedding!
A party, a feast, a ball
Dress up and join in the start of it all
Dance through the baraat
Mingle, meet and smile a lot
For even though there is one bride
The crowd smiles upon you with hope and pride.

"How old is she? What does she do?"
"Is she still single? She’s working for whom?"
The buzzing it starts, keeps turning your ears
During cocktails you’re asked, and approached, and you fear
Is there is a sign on my forehead?
Did I sport the “Marry me” cap?
Alas not, dear child, it’s just part of the pact

When you were born daughter to your parents
You unknowingly obliged
To a lifetime of freedom, but only 'till age twenty-five
At that mark, all is fair
In love and war, no unreasonable dare
Young gentlemen surround, glancing here, staring there
Lilies of the centerpiece wave like white flags in the air

Look at it as giving up
Look at is as being stuck
Or take it as a sign from above
“Your time is coming, get ready to shove”
Enjoy yourself, have fun for sure
There is no pain you must endure
Open minds and open hearts
Go long ways in parents’ thoughts

And when the questions do arise
Be ready so it's no surprise
You're at a wedding, a party galore
The world's on a mission to celebrate once more

Hima and Abhi Go To Subway

2004-08-12T17:24:00.000-04:00

Hima and Abhi go to Subway for some hand-crafted delights. Upon entering, Hima scans the front of the store and happily finds no shady Indian man working the register, which had too often been the case in the past. There seems to be a shady Mexican, but she is not concerned. Hima and Abhi proceed to the Sandwich Artist’s counter. The Seemingly Desi Girl working there shows a quick grin and waits for the order.

Hima: “Hi, still figuring out what we need.”
SDG: “That’s OK; I’ll put on my gloves while you decide.”
Hima: “OK, ready.”
SDG: “Will that be one or two sandwiches?”
Hima: “Actually three. A six-inch Wheat, six-inch of that Italian bread, and six-inch Honey Oat.”
SDG: “OK and what will you have on those?”
Hima: “Chicken breast on the Italian, a Chicken Teriyaki on the Wheat, and Turkey for the Honey Oat. Can I get extra turkey on that?”
SDG: “You want double meat you mean?”
Hima: “Yes.”
SDG: “Is the turkey sandwich yours?”
Hima: “Um, yeah.”
SDG: “I like turkey too! But I don’t know how you eat that Honey Oat bread, it’s too sweet. Where are you from?”
Hima: “Uh, we live in Baldwin. Oh, but my parents are from India.”
SDG: “Oh OK, you look Indian. What do you want on the plain chicken sandwich?”
Hima: “Just lettuce and mayo. Where are you from?”
SDG: (mumbled something)
Hima: “Mexican?”
SDG: Haha! You think I’m Mexican? Never got that one before. Jose, she thinks I’m Mexican!”
Hima: “Uh no, I thought maybe you were Indian, but didn’t want to assume. Then I thought I heard ‘Mexican’”
SDG: “I said ‘Pakistan’. But my grandparents, like my mom’s parents, they’re from India. From Gujarat, you know Gujarat?”
Hima: “Yes. Oh, you can add honey mustard to that Chicken Teriyaki.”
SDG: “So you were born here?”
Hima: “Yeah.”
SDG: “How old are you?”
Hima: “Twenty-five.”
SDG: “Wow! You don’t look that.”
Hima: “Yeah I get that, some people think I’m in high school.”
SDG: “Are you married?”
Hima: “Uh, no. See, no ring.”
SDG: “Yeah well I don’t wear my ring at work, gets messy.”
Hima: “So you’re married?”
SDG: “Yes. So, are you even thinking about marriage?”
Hima: “OK for the Turkey sandwich, can you add lettuce, tomato, onion…..”

I don’t know what inspired this woman to get to the point of asking my opinions on marriage while making my dinner. At first I thought she was just friendly, but then I realized that “Seemingly Desi Girl” and “friendly” is not a default match. Then I thought she wanted me to be her friend, and then for a second I thought she just plain wanted me. My final conclusion was that she has some male family member that everyone is trying to get married off, and she figures she might as well see if her store’s patrons fit the bill.

Harold and Kumar may have gone to White Castle, but I doubt they encountered anything like this!