October 2014

Bedtime Stories

by Anika Ayyar

Bollywood Music Controversy

by Teed Rockwell

On the Shanghai Bund

by Kalpana Mohan

D.C.Edition

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Mixed, Chopped and Stirred

october 2014 • vol. 28 , no .7 • www. indiacurrents.com

An Indian American comes to terms with her blended identity

By Radhika Dinesh

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I am an Indian American, a Democrat, a woman, a Hindu. These categorizations seem much too broad. So I attach adjectives to the nouns. I am a first-generation Indian American, a moderate Democrat, a liberal Hindu, a married woman. And still I find myself short. So I further narrow my scope and add my persuasions: women’s rights, gay rights, climate change ... Do these details really identify who I am?

Identity has become increasingly subcontextual. It’s less and less about the classifications of nation, religion, sex or ideology and more about our sub-national, sub-religious and sub-ideological similarities and differences.

This finds expression in the way we allege our loyalties across the globe from Scotland to Spain and Iraq to America.

In the Middle East, Sunni and Shia sentiments weigh more deeply than mere Muslim ones; India’s national resurgence is paying heed to its liberal and conservative Hindu profile; the Scottish referendum, even though defeated, exposes differences with the parent kingdom; linguistic and other sub-cultural individuations are driving Catalans to seek secession from Spain and, here in America, recent events in Ferguson, Missouri

show that the color-coded race category is still an important reference point.

As we individualize our group memberships, are we, in fact, disapproving of those excluded?

In an editorial on pluralism, Thomas Friedman asked the question, “can one be a good Spaniard, Catalan and European, all at once?” The question can be rephrased to ask, “can one be a good American, brownskinned and Hindu all at once?”

I believe that the answer is yes if we understand that these classifications do not come close to defining who we are as moral human beings. Nor do they identify our potential for participating in society.

Our identities are mere social markers.

It’s far too easy to allow these categories to limit our capabilities, so we must manage the expectations of our groups.

So who am I? I’m a woman with an Indian past and an American future. I vote Democrat, but have Republican friends. I seek Hinduism in order to understand my place in life. And I write to make sense of who I am.

Jaya Padmanabhan

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INDIA CURRENTS October 2014 • vol 28 • no 7

Washington, D.C. Edition www.indiacurrents.com

PERSPECTIVES

Find us on

1 | EDITORIAL Who Am I?

By Jaya Padmanabhan

27 | BOOKS Reviews of Ayya’s Accounts and Rogue Elephant

By Rajesh C. Oza, Vidya Pradhan

6 | FORUM Are Startups Solving Real Problems?

By Rangaprabhu Parthasarathy, Ash Murthy

32 | PROFILE A Storyteller’s Tale

By Kamala Thiagarajan

7 | A THOUSAND WORDS 57th and Maryland

By Ragini Tharoor Srinivasan 8 | HISTORY Debating the Indian-British Past

By Shashi Tharoor 10 | ANALYSIS My Experiment with Truth

By Swapnajit Mitra 16 | FICTION Kindness

By Sujatha Ramprasad 24 | YOUTH Bedtime Stories

By Anika Ayyar

34 | RECIPES Majestic Mangos

By Shanta Sacharoff

12 | Mixed, Chopped and Stirred

An Indian American searches for her identity blend

By Radhika Dinesh

43 | MUSIC Bollywood Music Controversy

By Teed Rockwell 44 | REFLECTIONS Butter Chicken, My Dad’s Way

By Monica Bhide

30 | Films Reviews of Mardaani and Mary Kom

By Aniruddh Chawda

DEPARTMENTS 4 | Voices 18 | About Town 47 | Viewfinder

46 | ON INGLISH On the Shanghai Bund

By Kalpana Mohan

36 | Travel 48 | MEDIA Status Insanity

By Sandip Roy

LIFESTYLE

The Lure of Croatia

WHAT’S CURRENT

By Prem Souri Kishore

40 | Cultural Calendar 42 | Spiritual Calendar

October 2014 | www.indiacurrents.com | 3

voices Hindus on Hinduism

Vamsee Juluri’s article on Hinduism (Who Is a Hindu?, India Currents, September 2014) is an honest view of the status of the religion today, as seen in print and broadcast media, and in the American education system. As a Hindu parent of a 6th grader in a California public school, I recently became aware of the misleading information about India and Hinduism depicted in 6th grade history textbooks, which leaves our children and their peers with a low opinion of Hinduism. The word “belief,” for example, appears 37 times in the Hinduism chapter of a history textbook followed in many SF Bay Area schools, as opposed to sections on Judaism or Christianity where God speaks and it is depicted as the truth, not a belief. Many details such as the Aryan invasion (which has been disproved by historians), explanations of rituals and artifacts found in archeological excavations have been clearly written without actual facts and with an intent to show Hinduism in a poor light.

I think that the article did not touch upon two key points: i) Hinduism is deeply rooted in study of the self (adhyatma) and liberation (moksha) as a way to unite with God, which has led many sincere seekers of God from the west to look towards India. Spiritual leaders such as Eckhart Tolle, Wayne Dyer, Deepak Chopra, Sri Sri Ravishankar, just to name a few, are influencing western thought today though it may not be apparent in the mainstream media. ii) Why have a majority of Indian Hindus not converted to Islam or Christianity after 1,000 years of Muslim and British rule and in spite of all the power and money poured into that effort? I feel that the answer lies in the deep rooted spirituality (I am not calling it a religion because Hinduism is not an institutionalized religion in the traditional sense of the word) based on the freedom to choose your deity or no deity, easy going rules, a sense of love and devotion created via stories, and through Indian art, music, dance, architecture, food and virtually every aspect of life. Like the author mentioned, what he learned at home could not be erased by history books.

So, I feel that Hinduism is here to stay.

The need of the hour though is for Hindus to take interest in their own religion and learn the truth about it.

Manisha Verma, website

Several thousand years of assimilating faiths from different parts of the world is 4 | INDIA CURRENTS | October 2014

what appears as Hinduism today—therefore occasionally it is hard to find a single answer to some basic questions. However, at the root of Hinduism are the Vedas which were intended to guide the faith (and life). Forms of Hinduism, such as Buddhism which exist outside India give a vivid snapshot of the process of evolution of Hinduism.

Historically extremism has never existed in Hinduism until very recently. What appears to be extremism is probably a mix of reaction, provocation and political selfishness!

Santosh, website The author, Vamsee Juluri, never answered the question, Who IS a Hindu? I call myself one, but my beliefs are not the same as what Juluri espouses. I practice advaitha and Rama and Krishna are irrelevant to my spiritual journey, or they are equal in my worship of Devi, Jesus, Buddha and Allah. I also reject that Hindus have not written about Hinduism. There are plenty in all languages available in any bookstore in India and also in the United States. One may have to put some effort into finding them, but it is not hard to find. Many books talk about the spiritual aspect and not the politicizing of Hinduism which is perhaps what the author seems to be interested in.

Anonymous, website I disagree with Vamsee Juluri in the September cover story. He asks why “movies depict Hindus as turbanned snake-charmers, beggars, or snake-eaters?” I challenge him to come up with three movies in the last 25 years with such a depiction.

Hinduism doesn't need a revival. It is too vibrant to require a revival. But I agree that it does need better representation in the west; its current representation indeed continues to suffer from the vestiges of colonization. But not with counter myths.

I believe Hindus dislike the Doniger book The Hindus because it has an a-religious (vs. anti-religious) treatment and they feel a book on Hinduism should be religious. The book is a socio-anthropological history of Hinduism. Is such a perspective of a religion anti-that religion? It is not. Doniger actually likes Hinduism—just not the way a Hindu likes Hinduism.

Anonymous, website

Passionate Vegetarians

I was intrigued by Gopi Kallayil’s article (The Practical Vegetarian, India Currents, September 2014,. He appears to be a welltraveled person considering the number of places in the world he has visited.

Why are vegetarians so passionate about vegetarianism? It may be the upbringing by vegetarian parents, Or it may be disgust

with the killing of animals and the sight of raw flesh.

Bottom line: One is either a vegetarian or one is not. There is no mid-way.

Vengrai Parthasarathy, San Diego, CA

A Historic Meeting

The United States President, the White House announcement stated, “looks forward to working with the Prime Minister to fulfill the promise of the US-India strategic partnership for the benefit of both our citizens and the world.” Dr. A.P.J. Kalam has said in his book that the real and fastest progress takes place when technology joins spirituality. By the time you read this letter the great joining would have happened. United State’s technology and India’s spirituality can make wonders in the world, and can make this world a much better, safer and peaceful place.

The challenges are tough but the commitment of both the leaders can overcome all problems. I wish both the leaders all success.

A. Bhatia, India

Taking Pot Shots

I am disappointed to read the article by Shashi Tharoor (Not Enough to Like Facebook, India Currents, August 2014). Where is the evidence for Tharoor’s claim that Prime Minister Modi asked Sheryl Sandberg of Facebook for advice on public sanitation? Shashi Tharoor is an old Congress party supporter and is not pleased that Narendra Modi has won the election fair and square and hence resorts to taking pot shots at him.

Most justifiably, Prime Minister Modi has placed public sanitation and hygiene at a priority level and his activity regarding that subject on his Facebook page has been welcome to most of us who care about a clean and tourist friendly India. His concerns and the power of his Facebook appeals has already produced results worth a two crore contribution of funds by the likes of Tatas and Bharti Industries for school toilets.

Doesn’t Shashi Tharoor know of this or does he see only what he wants to see?

Byravan Viswanathan, Gettysburg, PA

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October 2014 | www.indiacurrents.com | 5

forum

Are Startups Solving Real Problems?

Yes, real problems are being addressed

No, it’s a very limited, crowded space

By Rangaprabhu Parthasarathy

By Ash Murthy

oday’s startups are getting a bad rap. Especially the ones in the Silicon Valley. The common perception is that much of the work coming out of these startups are not engaged in the effort of solving real problems that need attention. Despite sky high valuations and huge acquisition premiums for some startups there are new ventures that are fundamentally altering how we approach and do many things. Here are some examples.

Uber was an upstart a few years ago. Today, they have completely shaken up the taxi industry. And the consumer now has many more choices at far more reasonable prices. Does this not help us save more money and use it for a rainy day? It also offers employment opportunities for people with a car and reasonable driving experience.

Airbnb, another recent startup was trying to disrupt the vacation rental space. Today, they offer meaningful and affordable alternatives to large hotels not only helping travelers but also people with homes looking to rent them out in the short term. Again, they added a new element to the sharing economy thus supporting the tourist and the host.

Kickstarter has completely changed how we There are new venfund our projects. It has helped entrepreneurs reach tures that are fundathe masses without havmentally altering how ing to look for corporate or venture funding. They we approach and do have helped raise over a billion dollars for everymany things. thing from lemonade stands to robotics projects.

Whatsapp, a spunky startup, allows people with phones to communicate across the world without having to pay steep messaging fees. They opened up the lines of communication and fundamentally disrupted the messaging business that was until recently under the cellular carrier’s control.

Twitter is now the quickest way to get breaking nows. Twitter is there wherever the action is. Yes, they are a big company now but they started with a 140 character messaging service that many dismissed as useless.

After the recent NSA scandal, startups have come forth with products to help consumers truly keep their secrets. Data analytics is a big deal these days and there are dozens of startups trying to crack the problem. It is easy to dismiss these efforts but better data analytics will help us optimize a multitude of problems ranging from reduced wastage to increased productivity. And all this will help the economy move forward and create jobs for many more.

It would be incredibly short sighted to dismiss startups today as trying to solve problems that don’t need solving. Some of them are trying to look at things before they become a headache. And we will thank them for that someday. n

he most coveted job in the SF Bay Area is that of an entrepreneur. Are entrepreneurs only those who create solutions to existing problems or can those who create problems also give themselves the coveted title of “Entrepreneur?” There’s been an influx of entrepreneurs in recent years and they all look pretty much the same: young people who create startup after startup, obtaining funding from wealthy investors to keep their businesses alive until they can be acquired by a larger company—hopefully Google or Facebook.

A vast majority of the startups are merely trying to solve problems using social networking or an iPhone App, because that is the trendiest area of problem solving, and the kind of problem solving that major tech companies will pay for.

You may wonder what if startups don’t find a problem that can be solved the social networking and phone app way? No problem! It is easy to invent a problem and sell it to investors.

Here is a partial list of startups that have invented problems to solve.

Couple—an intimate way to communicate with your significant other (whatever went wrong with Skype)?

Pinterest, Foursquare, ...Do we really need so Zerply, Dropcam, to many solutions that name a few, are social networking apps that confocus on finding a betnect users in ways ranging from photo sharing to ter way to locate a docinterest sharing to profestor or share a photo? sion sharing.

There are startups that are obsessed with the latest fad—Big Data— such as Relevvant, Trifacta, Bright.

Health based startups will make you believe that a phone app will magically solve all your health problems. In this category there are companies such as Glow(a better way to get pregnant (!)), Sirono (a better way to call your doctor), CaptureProof (a “revolutionary” way to communicate with your doctor), BetterDoctor, DocSpot, HealthGrades, ZocDoc, iTriage and many, many startups that will help you find a doctor.

No sane person will deny the impact of tech companies in our lives. Yelp, Dropbox, WhatsApp, AirBnB, Uber and other companies that were startups not too long ago have become an integral part of our lives.

But do we really need so many solutions that focus on finding a better way to locate a doctor or share a photo?

It is disappointing that the coolest tech companies in Silicon Valley are not those that computationally solve the most pressing problems—like better understanding the causes of cancer. Instead more and more companies are consumed with the problem of sharing status messages or optimizing the ability to follow 140 character feeds of celebrities. n

Rangaprabhu Parthasarathy is a tech enthusiast and blogs on topics from parenting to shopping: rangaprabhu.com.

Ash Murthy is a software engineer and writes as a hobby.

T

6 | INDIA CURRENTS | October 2014

T

a thousand words

57th and Maryland

By Ragini Tharoor Srinivasan

A

bad turkey sandwich. The taste of it. Teeth that haven’t been brushed. Pink pitchers of ice water. You ask them to hold the ice. Beeping. Tea-stained grout in the blue-tiled bathroom.

Going downstairs without your ID, again. A yellow constructionpaper visitor’s pass. But you are not a visitor. You live here. The family kitchen and its immaculate microwave. Thermocol plates. Forks wrapped in plastic. Making the couch into a twin bed, then sharing it.

Feeling cold. The awkward sociality of the 6th floor nurses’ station.

Room service macaroni, in little brown plastic bowls.

Cottage cheese. Coming back to life on a diet of cottage cheese.

Realizing that part of you did register the image of Jennie Garth on the TV playing in the lounge. Realizing you are the only one watching. Wheels rolling. Footsteps. Doors opening. Closing. Whirring.

The resident’s $1200 dollar pager. A siren. A metronome. An alarm.

Purell dispensers at every door.

Electrodes. The red glow of the monitor on her big toe. The nurse affixes it with tape. Perfusion. The year it takes for the thermometer to ding. The year it takes for the blood pressure cuff to make its reading.

Or rather, its best guess. Watching the numbers on the monitor like waiting for Sunday’s lottery. Heart rate in green. BP in blue. Perfusion, blue. Breaths, white.

Dial 4-3000 to place your order for mashed potatoes without salt.

Jello in a plastic cup. Strawberry yogurt. Apple juice. Milk. In a room littered with syringes. Lift and squeeze to release the side of the crib.

You squeeze, then lift: nothing.

Dregs in the bottom of the coffee, which is almost undrinkable.

You drink it. Regretting a sausage and egg breakfast sandwich, because the smell is everywhere. Sausage in your nose. Eating cold oatmeal.

Eating standing. Eating out of unmarked brown bags that appear in the room spontaneously, like life-giving weeds.

The numbers on your yellow wristband grow faint. It loosens and threatens to drop off. The elevator is talking to you: “Don’t forget to say hi to Remoc in the lobby. Going up.”

The worst headache you have ever had and ever will have. The most expensive room you will ever sleep in. The longest hour you will ever spend. Fear like a canker sore you worry with your tongue as it grows. Growing accustomed to the sting of it, so much so that you almost don’t remember it’s there. Hours pass. You’ve done nothing but wait. Days pass. A week. You have the idea of cutting your nails.

Accidentally calling the hospital “a hotel.” Moving in. Bringing friends: alpaca, flamingo. Bringing toys: shape sorter, My Learning Tablet, a shelf ’s worth of books. Mommy Mommy. Llama Llama Red Pajama. Go, Dog, Go. Pat the Bunny. Reading books aloud in the dark by heart. Singing, as much for you as for her. Realizing you are holding your breath and counting hers. Making deals with the Almighty and quoting Thomas Hardy’s “Hap:” “These purblined Doomsters had as readily strown / Blisses about my pilgrimage as pain.”

Then, tears. Then, adrenaline. Marveling daily that you are able simply to be and to bear it. “Rollercoaster.” That’s the word you use.

“Two steps forward, one step back.” That’s what you tell people. Removing her earrings in the sedation unit. Understanding clichés: heart stopping, skin crawling, stomach sick, a dagger in the heart.

Apologizing. Holding her swollen body pumped full of fluid, bolus after bolus. Not recognizing her face, her eyes puffed shut.

2 a.m. and the lights flipped on and eight unknowns rushing in to rush her down to the ICU. Confusion. The kind of calm that attends panic. Frozen and warm. Speaking slowly to delay the response. Asking “why” ten different ways, then asking again all over.

Quoting Sharon Olds to the neurologist: “Once you lose someone it is never exactly / the same person who comes back.” Googling the attending doctor. Reading César Aira by iPhone flashlight.

The worst night of your life, you hope. 2 a.m. and the lights flipped on and eight unknowns rushing in to rush her down to the ICU. Confusion. The kind of calm that attends panic. Frozen and warm. Speaking slowly to delay the response. Asking “why” ten different ways, then asking again all over. Asking for something with which to tie back your hair. An urgent ponytail. A life-saving one.

Dory, with the ponytail holder. Sarah, with the pearl earrings.

Liz, the smaller pearls. Allison, glasses. Annie, with the spray tan.

The ophthalmologist with his four eyes. The nephrologist pale as Pandu. Infectious diseases with a five o’clock shadow. When the masks come off, the lips don’t match the eyes. The mustaches surprise. The faces change, the cheeks twist and distort. Nobody’s face is symmetrical in this place.

Waking up when she’s woken up. They’re checking her vitals, again. A masked figure in yellow gauze and purple gloves. Contact precautions. A hundred masked figures in yellow gauze and purple gloves. Anybody’s nightmare. Bright lights and IVs. A bolus full of blood. Kilograms and milligrams. Thinking they should recycle the yellow gauze. Being told that you must withhold water and food in the interest of Precedex sedation.

EEG. EKG. MRI. MRA. CRP. ESR. CBC. IVIG. KDSS: Kawasaki Disease Shock Syndrome. “Difficult to diagnose.” “No known etiology.” “Systolic hypotension for age.” “More-severe laboratory markers of inflammation.” On a scale of 1-10, her condition is 11.

Infusion. Transfusion. Resuscitation. Quoting W.H. Auden: “About suffering they were never wrong, / The Old Masters: how well they understood / Its human position; how it takes place / While someone else is eating or opening a window or just walking dully along.”

Broccoli and cranberries in pita bread with hummus. Mint chocolate red tea. Lying out under the trees on someone else’s university quad. Registering flowers. Breathing. Trying to pray. Knowing that this is the time for it. Forcing it. Coming up short. Begging an idol for mercy. Setting up a remover of obstacles next to her sippy cup.

Wanting her to wake up, to be happy to be awake, but fearing hearing her cry. The certainty of your inadequate response. Impotence: the feeling of it, the fact of it. You go to her. You take her in your arms. You offer immeasurable thanks. n Ragini Tharoor Srinivasan is a doctoral candidate in Rhetoric at UC Berkeley. Mrinalini is home from the hospital.

October 2014 | www.indiacurrents.com | 7

history

Debating the Indian-British Past

By Shashi Tharoor

O

n the very day that Scotland was deciding its future, six of us gathered in London to debate the past.

To commemorate the 400th anniversary of the British presence in India—King James I’s envoy, Sir Thomas Roe, arrived at the court of Emperor Jehangir in 1614—the Indo-British heritage Trust held a debate, in the chamber of the UK Supreme Court, on the motion “This House believes that the Indian subcontinent benefited more than it lost from the experience of British colonialism.” Needless to say, I spoke against, alongside two Indophile Brits, authors William Dalrymple and Nick Robins. The proposers were Pakistan’s Niloufer Bakhtyar, an editor, Martin Bell, former BBC war correspondent, and Kwasi Kwarteng, a Conservative Party MP of African descent.

It was a lively affair. As the debate began, its Chair, Labour MP Keith Vaz, called for an initial vote, which went 35 to 28 for the motion. When it was over, voting took place again, and the needle had moved dramatically: 26 to 42 against. The anti-colonialists had carried the day.

Why was our case so compelling? At the beginning of the 18th century India’s share of the world economy was 23%, as large as all of Europe put together. By the time we won independence, it had dropped to less than 4%. The reason was simple: India was governed for the benefit of Britain. Britain’s rise for 200 years was financed by its depredations in India.

Britain’s Industrial Revolution was built on the de-industrialisation of India—the destruction of Indian textiles and their replacement by manufacturing in England, using Indian raw material and exporting the finished products back to India and the rest of the world. The handloom weavers of Bengal had produced and exported some of the world’s most desirable fabrics, especially cheap but fine muslins, some light as “woven air.” Britain’s response was to cut off the thumbs of Bengali weavers, break their looms and impose duties and tariffs on Indian cloth, while flooding India and the world with cheaper fabric from the new satanic steam mills of Britain. Weavers became beggars, manufacturing collapsed; the population of Dhaka, which was once the great center of muslin production, fell by

8 | INDIA CURRENTS | October 2014

90%. So instead of a great exporter of finished products, India became an importer of British ones, while its share of world exports fell from 27% to 2%.

Colonialists like Robert Clive bought their “rotten boroughs” in England with the proceeds of their loot in India (loot, by the way, was a word they took into their dictionaries as well as their habits), while publicly marveling at their own self-restraint in not stealing even more than they did. And the British had the gall to call him “Clive of India,” as if he belonged to the country, when all he really did was to ensure that much of the country belonged to him.

By the end of the 19th century, India was Britain’s biggest cash-cow, the world’s biggest purchaser of British exports and the source of highly paid employment for British civil servants—all at India’s own expense. We literally paid for our own oppression.

As Britain ruthlessly exploited India, between 15 and 29 million Indians died tragically unnecessary deaths from starvation. The last large-scale famine to take place in India was under British rule; none has taken place since, since free democracies don’t let their people starve to death. Some four million Bengalis died in the Great Bengal Famine of 1943 after Winston Churchill deliberately ordered the diversion of food from starving Indian civilians to well-supplied Brit-

Victims of the Great Famine of 1876–78 in India; Photo Credit: Wikipedia Commons

ish soldiers and European stockpiles. “The starvation of anyway underfed Bengalis is less serious” than that of “sturdy Greeks,” he argued. When officers of conscience pointed out in a telegram to the Prime Minister the scale of the tragedy caused by his decisions, Churchill’s only response was to ask peevishly “why hasn’t Gandhi died yet?”

British imperialism had long justified itself with the pretense that it was enlightened despotism, conducted for the benefit of the governed. Churchill’s inhumane conduct in 1943 gave the lie to this myth. But it had been battered for two centuries already: British imperialism had triumphed not just by conquest and deception on a grand scale but by blowing rebels to bits from the mouths of cannons, massacring unarmed protestors at Jallianwallah Bagh and upholding iniquity through institutionalised racism. Whereas as late as the 1940s it was possible for a black African to say with pride, “moi, je suis francais,” no Indian in the colonial era was ever allowed to feel British; he was always a subject, never a citizen.

What are the arguments FOR British colonialism benefiting the subcontinent? It is often claimed that the British bequeathed India its political unity. But India had enjoyed cultural and geographical unity throughout the ages, going back to Emperor Ashoka in the 3rd century BC and Adi Shankara traveling from Kerala to Kashmir and from Dwarka to Puri in the 7th century AD, establishing his temples everywhere. As a result, the yearning for political unity existed throughout; warriors and kings tried to dominate the entire subcontinent, usually unsuccessfully. But with modern transport and communications, national unity would have been fulfilled without colonial rule, just as in equally fragmented 19th century Italy.

And what political unity can we celebrate when the horrors of the Partition (1 million dead, 13 million displaced, billions of rupees of property destroyed) were the direct result of deliberate British policies of “divide and rule” that fomented religious antagonisms?

The construction of the Indian Railways is often pointed to as a benefit of British rule, ignoring the obvious fact that many countries have built railways without having to be colonized to do so. Nor were the railways laid to serve the Indian public. They

were intended to help the British get around, and above all to carry Indian raw materials to the ports to be shipped to Britain. The movement of people was incidental except when it served colonial interests; no effort was made to ensure that the supply matched demand for mass transport.

In fact the Indian Railways were a big British colonial scam. British shareholders made absurd amounts of money by investing in the railways, where the government guaranteed extravagant returns on capital, paid for by Indian taxes. Thanks to British rapacity, a mile of Indian railways cost double that of a mile in Canada and Australia.

It was a splendid racket for the British, who made all the profits, controlled technology and supplied all the equipment, which meant once again that the benefits went out of India. It was a scheme described at the time as “private enterprise at public risk.”

Private British enterprise, public Indian risk.

The English language comes next on the credit list. It too was not a deliberate gift but an instrument of colonialism. As Macaulay explained the purpose of English education: “We must do our best to form a class who may be interpreters between us and the millions whom we govern; a class of persons, Indians in blood and colour, but English in taste, in opinions, in morals and in intellect.”

The language was taught to a few to serve as intermediaries between the rulers and the ruled. That we seized the English language and turned it into an instrument for our own liberation was to our credit, not by British design.

The day we defeated the motion, Scottish voters rejected the proposal to leave the United Kingdom. But it’s often forgotten what cemented the Union in the first place: the loaves and fishes available to Scots from participation in the exploits of the East India Company. Before 1707 the Scots had tried to colonize various parts of the world, but all had failed. After its Union with England, a disproportionate number of Scots were employed in the Indian colonial enterprise, as soldiers, sailors, merchants, agents and employees. Earnings from colonialism in India pulled Scotland out of poverty and helped make it prosperous. With India gone, no wonder the bonds are loosening ... dead ones. n

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October 2014 | www.indiacurrents.com | 9

analysis

My Experiment with Truth Debunking urban legends about Gandhi

By Swapnajit Mitra

W

hen Mahatma Gandhi was studying law at the University College of London (UCL), it is said that Peters, his English professor, disliked him intensely and frequently displayed prejudice and animosity towards him. One day, Peters was having lunch at the University dining room and Gandhi came along with his tray and sat down next to the professor.

The professor chided, “Mr. Gandhi, you do not understand. A pig and a bird do not sit together to eat.” Gandhi looked at him as a parent would a rude child and calmly replied, “Do not worry professor. I’ll fly away,” and he got up and sat at another table.

On another occasion, Peters, it is reported, asked Gandhi the following question.

“Mr Gandhi, if you were walking down the street and found a package, and within was a bag of wisdom and another bag with a lot of money, which one would you take?”

Without hesitation, Gandhi responded, “The one with the money, of course.”

Peters, smiling sarcastically said, “I, in your place, would have taken the wisdom.”

Upon which, Gandhi shrugged indifferently and responded, “Each one takes what he doesn’t have.”

So great was Peters’ resentment of Gandhi that he once wrote on Gandhi’s exam sheet the word “idiot” and returned it to Gandhi. Gandhi took the paper and sat down at his desk. A few minutes later he got up, went to the professor, and said in a dignified and polite tone, “Mr. Peters, you signed the sheet, but did not give me a grade.”

The above story, written by Liz Burton (not her real name), was emailed to me by one of my friends, who must have felt as warm and fuzzy as I did after reading it.

However, the story made me curious.

After a quarter century of all sorts of internet urban legends, folklores and trojans trying to pose as “click me” stories, you can’t blame me for suspecting whether this story belonged to one of those categories.

These days verifying an urban legend on the internet is, of course, as easy as creating one. There are numerous websites (such as www.snopes.com), which dutifully expose all urban legends, and some even explore the origins of these stories.

So imagine my surprise when all my 10 | INDIA CURRENTS | October 2014

quick searches on this story came back empty-handed except for the meme personal blogs that simply reprinted it. This made me even more curious.

I want to clarify here that I have no particular interest in Gandhi’s life or works. I have as much reverence for him as any other Indian, but I cannot say that I’m a Gandhienthusiast, much less a Gandhian.

Perhaps it was my failure to find the authenticity of the story that intrigued me.

The story refers to the University College of London. (The real name is University College London—no “of ” in the name.)

UCL is a familiar name in the academic world. From William Ramsey (who discovered helium, neon, argon, krypton and xenon) to Peter Higgs (of Higgs Boson fame)—UCL has been associated with celebrities and stars. Started in 1826, UCL is still is a venerable institution in London.

A quick search on Wikipedia and other sources yielded the fact that Gandhi was in UCL from 1888—1899. Is it possible that UCL may have retained some documents and evidence about its famous alumnus?

I contacted David Price, Vice-Provost of Research at UCL. I introduced myself as a researcher (checking out the authenticity of an internet-born story is research, right?).

He extended his help to me and hooked me up with Paul Ayris, CEO of UCL Press and Chief Library Officer of UCL History.

It turned out there is very little evidence of Gandhi’s ties to UCL. After a century only three of them have survived. (i) His student record card: This records his name as “Mahatma Karamchand GANDHI,” later amended to “Mohandas.” Since Rabindranath Tagore called Gandhi “Mahatma” only in 1915, evidently, this card was not written at the time Gandhi was acutally in London. To seal this argument, two addresses are given on the card, for 1927 and 1939, well after Gandhi left London. (b) Two entries in the Professors’ Fees Book for 1888-1889: Here Gandhi is listed under Henry Morley for classes in English. (c) An entry in the calendar for 1889-90 (which lists the students for the previous year): This gives his name as “Gaudhi.”

These facts are laid out in two articles.

The first appeared in the Camden New Journal in September 2009, the other is an item

by Andrew Lewis in the UCL Laws Newsletter for their Summer 2002 issue. Lewis points out that Gandhi’s name does not appear in any surviving class registers, and that the study of law at the university in the 1880s did little to advance a professional legal career in England. (In training administrators for the Empire, on the other hand, it was seen as essential.) Lewis concludes that Gandhi could well have arrived with the intention of studying for his degree here, but soon left to study for the Bar at Gray’s Inn, (a place where prospective law practitioners used to go at that time) presumably once he realized this was where he needed to be in order to qualify.

There is no known record of him studying under any Professor Peters at all, much less an exam paper with the word “idiot” scrawled on it. Thus another urban legend is busted!

I have no less reverence for Gandhi now after knowing the story is utterly false than when I started. If anything, I feel proud to have uncovered the truth about it. The Supreme Experimenter with Truth would probably have liked it this way.

Now who is this “Liz Burton” credited with writing this? I do not mention her real name here fearing that will give her more publicity. But she is not shy of publicity. This story turned out to be a post on her klout. com account (she might have copied it from elsewhere) where she introduces herself as “A delightfully clever Online Marketer, Website Developer, Graphic Designer, Social Media Addict, Entrepreneur, Blogger, Affiliate, Consultant, New Media Junkie!” So there.

There is one other thing I discovered while looking into UCL’s history that made me proud too. In its entire history of 188 years, UCL has several Nobel Laureates in physics, chemistry and so on, but only one in literature. And that person has an Indian connection. Who was that person? I leave it for your own research. n Swapnajit Mitra searches for humor in all places, sometimes with not-so-funny consequences.

His current search area is Santa Clara, CA.

October 2014 | www.indiacurrents.com | 11

cover

Mixed, Chopped and Stirred An Indian American finds her zen

By Radhika Dinesh

Radhika Dinesh with her mother, Vasanthi Kannan; inset Radhika’s baby daughter dressed in Indian finery

From generation to generation, and culture to culture, one common thread remains—the quest for zen, balance and a sense of identity. The grammar of immigration and ethnicity absorbs the ties and traditions of the settled and the unsettled. As newer immigrant generations come of age, the search for identity often follows a blend of the new with the old. Who we are and what we impart to our children becomes part of the mosaic of diversity that America stands for.

T

hough it was years ago, I can remember the conversation as if it were yesterday. We were both awkwardly sitting on a bench in a local park, where the only noise was the wind whipping through the trees. Our parents were more interested in our meeting than we were. After several minutes of silence, he finally broke the tension with the following question, “Do you know how to make sambar?” I timidly turned to him and uttered, “No.” Fast forward to twelve years later. Standing in a cramped kitchen, with sweat pouring out of every pore, in Chennai, India, my mother-in-law turned to me and asked, “Do you know how to make sambar?” This time, without hesitation, I boldly told her, “No.” Her eyes pierced, but she calmly asked me, “What has your mother taught you?”

12 | INDIA CURRENTS | October 2014

What have my parents taught me?

They taught me to be polite in public.

They made sure I showed respect to any adult who crossed my path. They continuously reminded me that a good education is the foundation for a successful life. But what things have I learned from them that were not specifically taught? As a second generation Indian American, what is my “zen—the attainment of enlightenment?”

In the late 60s President Lyndon B. Johnson signed the Immigration and Naturalization Act of 1965, which changed the face of America. “This bill that we will sign today is not a revolutionary bill. It does not affect the lives of millions,” Johnson said at the signing ceremony. Contrary to the President’s views, more than 18 million immigrants entered the United States over three decades following

the passage of this law.

My parents, like several Indian immigrants who came to this land in the late 60s, early 70s, seemed determined to build an India here that mimicked the one they left behind. This generation wanted to bring India to the United States during a time when Indian activities were few and scattered. I remember sitting in the car, struck with utter boredom, driving from Foster City to Berkeley, just to have a masala dosa at the only South Indian restaurant at the time, Pasand Madras Cuisine.

Enjoying a masala dosa there, I never imagined the influence Indian culture would have on American society.

As a second generation Indian American, I realize it is not necessarily beneficial to be part of only one culture, but to embrace asp-

ects of both cultures.

But how much, if any, of the Indian culture, tradition and language is lost as future generations assimilate more and more into the American lifestyle?

Although several of my friends and I enjoy various cuisines, wear dresses and jeans, and don’t necessarily speak any Indian language fluently, we continue to value our traditions and teach our children the important values and lessons that those traditions uphold. Will future generations have a well-balanced outlook on life, ethnicity and values, where they will be able to embrace any culture and proudly say that they have found their zen?

Temple Integration

“Radhika, you are going to be late for school!” “Put your shoes on and get in the car!” I remember my mom rushing me till I was buckled snugly into the car seat. As we screeched down the residential streets in order to save thirty seconds of time, a brightly dressed person caught my mom’s eye. Even though she rushed me through the house and sped down the quiet neighborhood streets, she stopped to meet this new Indian face in this foreign land.

Pretty soon, my parents found a few friends and created a tight circle that met almost every weekend. During one of their “dinner parties,” it was decided that the Bay Area needed a Hindu temple where everyone could gather, socialize and pray. Livermore, in California, was chosen as the central location and people from all over the Valley were to be involved in the construction and erection of this monumental establishment.

In July of 1986, the temple construction was finally completed. Thousands from all over the Bay Area witnessed the grand opening, or Kumbhabhishekam, of the temple.

Walking through the throngs of people, it was impossible not to ram into someone as we tried to catch a glimpse of the action.

My father flew overhead in a helicopter, from which bags of flowers showered over the temple. My mother and grandmother were on two different ends of the temple.

Hours went by without my seeing my parents. I was, essentially, a teenager all on my own. Despite the hours spent, I did not understand or care to understand the significance of the rituals.

The generation that built the ShivaVishnu temple did so hoping to teach their children the importance of the temple and its rituals. With Hinduism being not only a religion, but also a way of life, my parents’ generation turned to the temple and other religious activities to find their balance.

While many of them brought their children up with strong ties to religion, how

Radhika Dinesh makes sambar

much will be passed onto the next generation? I cannot help but wonder how many Indian Americans like me visit the temple these days? When I casually asked some friends if they go to the temple the most common response I got was, “Yeah, sometimes, with my parents.”

David Roche who writes on South Asian music and culture and was an arts columnist for India Currents writes that “The South Asian tradition of building these establishments in order to find definition may not continue with as much intensity when it is left up to the future generations.

They may integrate certain religious aspects into their lives and their childrens’ lives, but they may not frequent their local temple.”

Culture-making and tradition-defining are creative, messy processes. The establishment of temples, and cultural organizations are archetypically fissiparous behaviors typical of South Asian social tradition. There is not an efficiency quotient for passing down cultural legacy and no real Urtexts, despite the beloved and constant harkening back to the Vedas and Shastras as religous authorities.

Clothes Culture

The blue, faded pullover sweatshirt I was told to wear one cold winter morning barely fit over the long braids that were crisscrossed on the back of my head and attached to either side with a brightly colored ribbon. Sitting in admiration of those girls who had their hair hanging loose just below their shoulder blades, I wondered if they

chose to wear their hair loose. Why was I constantly told to tie my hair? Was it for sanitary reasons? Was it stylish? Or, was it for no concrete reason at all? Thoughts would constantly cross my mind of how it would be to choose how to dress, to choose how to wear my hair, to choose to wear a sweater or not …

“Hurry up, we are late,” my mom shouted from the kitchen. I stood staring at my closet for what seemed like decades, debating what to wear. I grabbed a pair of jeans and a pink V-neck sweater. I thought this would be ideal to wear to a dinner party at my mother’s friend’s house. I was finally ready and I walked down the hallway, trying to exude confidence. With my grandmother’s room behind me, a sense of overwhelming relief consumed me, for she would have, more than likely, frowned at my attire.

My mother turned to look at me and her smiling face turned into that of someone who had just eaten a lemon.

Without an utterance, I turned around, disappointed, and went back to my room to change my attire. It may have been fear of what other people might think of her or her daughter that prompted my mother’s reaction. There was a reputation to uphold for the family and it was hard for me, a teenager, to understand this.

With my own daughter, I would like to give her a choice when it comes to attire.

Some children love to dress up in the bright colors of Indian clothes, while others find it very uncomfortable and unforgiving.

When my in-laws arrived last September, they brought what seemed like an entire suitcase of Indian clothing for my now, twoyear old daughter. The pure silk outfits were colorful and really suited her complexion.

While my mother-in-law pulled out one expensive outfit after another from her overfilled suitcase, I began to wonder where she might wear all of these outfits. The freshly starched cotton and the prickly zari on each pavadai (long skirt) looked very uncomfortable and would probably not be used on a regular basis.

According to Smita, a resident of Fremont, and a mother of two girls, “My kids love wearing it [the sari]. The older one thinks that it is a princess outfit. The girls like wearing Indian clothes. Maybe because I don’t wear it, they like it.”

A high school friend Vishnu exclaims, “I don’t think anyone wears traditional clothes anymore, even in India. We wear what people wear in movies.”

Even as the eastern culture has been influenced by western styles, western culture has recently begun using styles and colors that imitate Indian designs. American deparOctober 2014 | www.indiacurrents.com | 13

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tment stores carry “kurti” tops for women in designs that are similar to those available in India. Will these trends alter the way people choose to dress in America? “The influence is naturally superficial, and therefore short-lived,” says Meera Mohan, a resident of Ohio, and a mother of three.

Sandhya Shah draws the line between cult and culture, “It is great that people are more cognitive of other cultures. I am annoyed when I see people wear bindis because they think that is a fashion statement.” Are people turning to other cultures to find a sense of zen?

Even as cultures in America seem to melt together, the distinct association of attire to culture remains strong. As young children grow up in this melting pot, they may adopt a variety of clothes and accessories that may not necessarily be associated with one particular culture. Maybe someday, people will combine the patterns of a sari border with the ever popular and comfortable blue jeans.

The Taste of Home

A few years ago, I decided that a change of pace and environment was important for me, and I moved to a village in rural Tamil Nadu and got a job as the Principal of a K-8 school, where I was served fresh meals regularly. For the first six months, the meals were welcome and I truly enjoyed the authentic flavors. But as time went on, I found myself craving foods that were never my favorites.

Lasagna with meat sauce. A burrito with the works. Fish and chips. And then white rice gradually became a late onset allergy, which no amount of Claritin or Allegra could alleviate.

One hot, humid day in the middle of Thottanaval Village, four volunteers and I crammed into a small Sumo car and headed out to Pondicherry. The extremely bumpy and uncomfortable ride was a minor price to pay for the major payout we were about to receive. One volunteer had mentioned a Pizza Hut located there and from that moment, our eyes and mouths had watered in anticipation.

The Pizza Hut situated in the heart of the French quarter of Pondicherry was the perfect remedy for our homesick cravings.

After arriving there, the five of us stood dumfounded at the corner as the brightest light shone down on the rundown, dull building. It seemed like the sun was particularly focused on the one building, much like a spotlight during a theater performance.

In fact, Pizza Hut was my least favorite brand of pizza, but that day, it was the most scrumptious meal I had ever eaten. When the oozing cheese and the over-sauced slice was

Pizza Hut, Pondicherry;

put on my napkin, I felt a sense of joy and relief. We enjoyed that pizza for what seemed like hours.

Why is it that we find some sort of comfort or zen in familiar foods?

Food is something that connects the world together. America is a place where a person can have several types of authentic cuisines within a 25-mile radius. For this reason, children born here have a palate that allows them to enjoy and relish different cuisines. “I think my kids will have to find out what works best for them. They do understand the idea of listening to their bodies and ... of mind control, which is central to vegetarianism,” says Vaidy from Virginia.

Asha Ranga from Fremont says, “I see them liking American food. I am hopeful that they will come back to the phase of liking Indian food. I think they will turn out similar to me.

They really like spicy food.”

Food is such an integral part of culture that parents will continue to accustom their children to Indian dishes. With Indian restaurants appearing like mushrooms on a well-watered lawn, newer generations may decide to order in when it comes to authentic Indian food, rather than spend hours in the kitchen preparing meals like our parents and grandparents did.

What is Your Mother Tongue?

How important is learning another language?

Several of my friends who grew up in Indian households understood other languages, but spoke very little. They were able to communicate with their parents, but were not really interested in learning the language completely, while others were forced to attend language classes once a week.

A short film, Tamil Ini by Mani Ram attempts to portray the state of the language in a foreign country three generations later. The grandfather in the film insists on speaking in Tamil to his grandson. The boy is not interested in learning the language and replies only in English. The grandfather is insistent that the family follows not only the cultural

events, but also speak the native language. The son is not as insistent and, eventually, the grandson not only does not understand Tamil, he eventually does not know how to say his own grandfather’s name.

“My grandparents speak to them in English. My children understand Malayalam. The ratio of what they hear is about 75% English and 25% Malayalam. All the third, fourth generation kids are going to want to join a class to learn a language that they could have easily learned at home,” Rupa, a mother of three from Fremont, is sad to say that her children are not picking up their native language as much as she did growing up.

My daughter hears three different languages at home (Tamil, Malayalam and English). She should be able to pick up all three languages fluently, if we are consistent. It is important to us that she understands the languages her parents and grandparents speak.

We plan to give her opportunities to speak these languages, but if she only speaks English, that would be fine too.

Amisha, a mother of three from Ohio claims, “Without a constant Gujarati presence in the home, it is a challenge to keep speaking it. My husband and I don’t speak it to one another, but I do speak it to the kids. This is another aspect of culture that has been difficult to maintain. I think, unless we put in a very strong effort to maintain the languages, we will lose them in this next generation.”

Although all aspects of our culture are rich, the acceptance and emphasis made will ensure the continuance of it for years to come. Whether children understand and embrace the language, diet, attire, or religion is not as important as them following the values that we, as parents, teach our children.

“I think it is a confluent, bi-culture that will be passed on to the next generation ...” says David Roche. In other words, bharatanatyam dancers with ballet and pilates training and Karnatik and Hindustani musicians adept with media technology.

The next time someone asks me whether I know how to cook sambar, I can confidently answer, “Yes, and I also know how to make, lemon chicken, vegetable lasagna, and enchiladas.” I am, like many Americans of Indian descent, a beautiful and elegant blend of several different cultures and traditions. n Radhika Dinesh is a teacher with over ten years of experience in the California public schools and as a Principal in India. She is the Artistic Director of Alarippu Dance School for bharatanatyam in the Bay Area. She is also a photographer at Dinesh Kumar Photography in San Jose.

October 2014 | www.indiacurrents.com | 15

Kindness

fiction

Katha Fiction Contest 2014 • Honorable Mention

By Sujatha Ramprasad

R

aji was looking forward to a long relaxing bath. She even took the day off to really savor it. With the kids off at school, the house was empty and quiet. She mentally fixed the time at which she would take her bath; at noon she would fill the bath tub with nice warm water and put a few drops of her favorite lavender oil. The birdie from the clock popped out—it was 9 a.m. There was enough time to go to the gym and maybe even get some bath essentials. Raji tried to remember the last time she had filled her bathtub. Was it three months ago? Since the water rationing started, all she could afford was a quick five-minute shower. As she pulled up her yoga pants she considered the book she would take to the tub. Casual Vacancy was a disaster but she was not ready to give up on Rowling. She downloaded Cuckoo’s Nest on her kindle. She had heard good reviews about it.

Raji really wanted to use the restroom.

“Flushing would waste 1.6 gallons of water, even with these water efficient toilets.” She decided to wait till she got to the gym.

She slipped into her neon orange sneakers and headed out. She started her Nissan Leaf and glided down the smooth road. As she checked her rear view mirror she wondered how the entire intelligentsia were so focused on finding a solution to the energy crisis that they completely missed another important resource crisis looming behind them. Her minds wandered to her childhood days in Chennai, the ones in which the city experienced severe water crisis. *** “Amma—thanni lorry,” the water lorry is here, she would scream. That would be a cue for her mom and older sister to rush out with buckets and pots in their hands.

After the city’s reservoirs dried up, the government decided to provide water to its residents using these water trucks. The water came from distant sources. Raji had heard adults talking about a portion of the water supply coming all the way from Andhra Pradesh, in goods trains.

The water tanker would stop at the intersection of the four streets. Before the 16 | INDIA CURRENTS | October 2014

A Creative Commons Image driver turned off the ignition, a long line would form. The colorful plastic pots soon snaked all the way to the end of the street.

Raji always thought of them as the lorry’s tail. Whenever her grandmother recounted the story of Hanuman’s tail growing larger and larger at Ravana’s court—she imagined it to be similar to the line of pots expanding faster and faster within seconds.

The lorry driver was the king. He would get down and saunter around the vehicle.

All eyes would be on him. He would lift the lower part of his lungi and tie it above his knees and leisurely light a beedi. Intense suspense would fill the air. Everyone waited for the moment the water would come gushing out of the green tube attached to the tanker.

Jayanthi’s mom always got two extra buckets of water. Jayanthi told Raji that her mom secretly gave the driver a tiffin box full of mutton curry every other day. *** The gym was fairly empty. Raji briskly walked towards the women’s room, put her stuff in a locker and used the restroom.

While washing her hands she noticed that only two water faucets were functional.

The rest of them had a bright yellow tape over them. The water stopped in exactly 15 seconds. She would have to wait one whole minute before the water turned on again.

Bubbles from the lather were popping on her hands. Frustrated, she quickly moved to other faucet and rinsed them off in a hurry.

All the showers were locked. The gym must have been running close to its allowed

water usage limit. She sighed! California—the land of milk, honey, gold and high-tech had changed drastically after going through a six-year drought. Its residents had to humbly accept water rationing as a way of life. A family of four, like hers, was allocated only 150 gallons of water per day. If the family exceeded the limit the water supply turned off automatically for the day. If you did that three times in a row within the period of a month you got a hefty ticket. Smart meters—she fumed angrily. Rumors were afloat that the rationing was going to become even stingier. Her family would probably get only hundred gallons a day. How does one run the dishwasher, laundry and sprinklers within that small quota she wondered?

Raji told herself to think happy thoughts.

After her workout she would soak herself in a wonderful bath. Her husband was travelling on business for the past four days, so she had this nice water usage credit built up.

She would use every drop of it for a wonderful bath.

She pulled out her Beats headphones and started listening to Sudha Ragunathan’s rendition of “Jagadanadakaraka.” Her footsteps on the treadmill were in sync with the mridangam beats. Karnatik music filled her soul, but her thoughts drifted. *** Little Raji was aghast when she saw people rushing with their buckets. It was only 2 p.m. On Saturdays the water lorry was not supposed to come until 5 p.m. Her mother had taken her sister to a store in Mount Road to buy Resnick and Halliday. Her sister was always the smarter one.

The line was getter longer by the minute.

A very crowded bus stopped on the other side of the road. Raji looked at it hopefully.

Unfortunately, her mother and sister were not among the passengers alighting from the bus. Neighbors were all returning with pots full of water. Raji panicked. What would her mother do, without the tanker water? The well water was brown and muddy but her mother had a method to make the water passable for washing. Empty buckets were

covered with her father’s old veshti and well water would be poured through them for filtration. But her family relied on the tanker water for cooking and drinking. Raji was too intimidated to ask her neighbors for help. She decided that she would take matters in her hand. She rushed in and took two buckets and ran outside. Her grandmother was still taking her afternoon nap. Not that she could help if she were awake—her grandma could barely walk by herself around the house.

The crowd had dwindled. There were only two people ahead of her. The first was a fat man wearing a white kurta, and next in line was an older lady. Raji recognized the lady. She was Jayanthi’s servant maid. The flow of water from the green tube was starting to thin out. Raji fervently prayed for the water to last until it was her turn.

The water lorry loudly belched and took off. Raji was standing in the middle of the road with two buckets of water. The road was deserted except for Jayanthi’s maid making her way slowly with a plastic pot on her hips and a bucket full of water on her other arm.

Raji lifted the two buckets. They were really heavy. She quickly devised a plan; she would just walk five steps then put the buckets down to rest her hands. Her house down the road seemed miles and miles away. She started walking—slowly at first. But in her hurry to get home, her pace quickened, her Hawaii slippers flipped and she fell on the tar road. The water from the buckets spilled and flowed onto the dry parched street.

Raji started crying. She had never felt so humiliated and miserable in her life. The sorrow at the sight of wasted water grew as a huge lump in her throat. Ashamed, she sat on the ground with her shoulders slouched and her head hung between her knees. Her sister was right, Raji thought, “I am good for nothing.”

A shadow fell on her. Raji looked up. It was Jayanthi’s maid.

“Azuvatha papa” (Don’t cry) the maid consoled. The maid put her own bucket and pot on the road and pulled Raji up. Then in the ultimate act of kindness poured some water in both of Raji’s buckets. Raji was touched by the maid’s compassion. “What a huge heart she has,” Raji marveled. That benevolent act left an indelible imprint on her. Later in life Raji would replay this event again and again. In moments of despair she would recall this incident and conclude that there was a modicum of hope for humanity. ***

Raji’s cell-phone timer vibrated. Her time on the treadmill was over. She contemplated doing some weights and decided against it.

Cool breeze hit her face as she walked out of the gym. She then walked into the store next-door and bought lavender oil and Epsom salt. She carefully placed the items in her trunk and drove home.

Raji stopped on her driveway. She was about to open the garage door when she saw someone from the corner of her eye.

It was Jamie, a Pleasant High School senior from next door. Raji liked her. Jamie was usually well dressed, though that day Jamie was wearing a baggy sports jersey and running shorts. Raji had hired her as a babysitter for her kids on several occasions. Jamie was polite, intelligent and was always at the top of her class.

“Mrs. Raghavan, I have a late start today and just came back from my jog,” Jamie anxiously rattled off as she tried to wipe off her profusely sweaty forehead with her jersey.

“My sister must have used up more water than she should have” Jamie said in the politest tone she could muster. Her furrowed eyebrows gave away her anger towards her sibling. “Now they have turned off the water.”

“Mrs. Raghavan, I have a college interviewer from Yale meeting me today. My mom is at work and is not picking up her phone.”

Jamie was almost in tears. “Would it be terribly inconvenient if I took a quick shower at your place?”

Jamie’s pleading, melted Raji’s heart.

She hesitated a bit.

“That is awful Jamie! So sorry! Our water was turned off today, too! Rohan must have left some tap running in the morning.

I, myself just went to the gym to see if there were any showers operational.”

Jamie thanked her and walked away.

Raji drove inside; she made sure she closed the garage door before picking up her bath essentials.

She filled the tub with water. When it was halfway full she splashed the water with the fingers and checked it to see that it was at the temperature she liked. She put ten drops of lavender oil and Epsom salt. She hopped in and comfortably stretched herself in lukewarm water and started browsing her kindle.

“Jamie is a smart girl. She will be fine.

Yale is not going to turn her down just because she showed up to the interview without showering. ” A little pang of guilt gnawed her stomach. She swept those thoughts away and focused on enjoying herself. n Sujatha Ramprasad is a computer engineer with great love for philosophy and literature.

The judges were Indu Sundaresan and A.X. Ahmad.

Judges’ Comments: Indu Sundaresan: There’s irony in this excellent story about a commonplace yearning—a tub of water, that reveals itself in the very apt title—Kindness. In that one word is a wealth of meaning, not disclosed until the very end, by which time this accomplished writer makes you well vested in the protagonist.

A.X. Ahmad: An ambitious story that cuts between the present in California and memories of India, using a water shortage as the connection. The author weaves the two time periods together skillfully, and raises moral questions about sharing and community.

Indu Sundaresan was born and brought up in India and came to the United States for graduate school. She’s the author of five novels and a collection of short stories. The Twentieth Wife (book #1 of the Taj trilogy) won the Washington State Book Award. Her latest novel, The Mountain of Light, is based on the Kohinoor diamond and its last Indian owners. More at:www.indusundaresan.com A.X. Ahmad is the author of The Caretaker, the first in a trilogy featuring ex-Indian Army Captain Ranjit Singh. His second book, The Last Taxi Ride, will be published in June 2014.

A former international architect, he lives in Washington, D.C. and teaches writing. www. axahmad.com

Katha 2014 Results

award $300): FIRST PLACE (cash A PRADHAN DY VI Blood and Guts by Fremont, California sh award $200): SECOND PLACE (ca BALA VI RA A Bag of Ashes by nois Illi e, vill per Na SHENOY award $100): THIRD PLACE (cash MARWAH, TU RI Rivers of Time by Cupertino, California ION: HONORABLE MENT ANI SH RO by Memory Metric Georgia h, ug no Do Mc I, CHOKSH ION: HONORABLE MENT MPRASAD RA A TH JA Kindness by SU San Jose, California October 2014 | www.indiacurrents.com | 17

US-India Joint Statement

T

he Prime Minister of India Narendra Modi and the President of the United States of America Barack Obama met on Sept. 30. Marking their first bilateral summit, the President recognized the Prime Minister’s historic election victory in the largest democratic election ever held.

The two leaders extolled the broad strategic and global partnership between the United States and India, which will continue to generate greater prosperity and security for their citizens and the world. Prime Minister Modi emphasized the priority India accords to its partnership with the United States, a principal partner in the realization of India’s rise as a responsible, influential world power. Given the shared values, people-topeople ties, and pluralistic traditions, President Obama recognized that India’s rise as a friend and partner is in the United States’ interest. They endorsed the first “Vision Statement for the Strategic Partnership” as a guide to strengthen and deepen cooperation in every sector for the benefit of global stability and people’s livelihoods over the next ten years. They committed to a new mantra for the relationship, “Chalein Saath Saath: Forward Together We Go.” The two leaders recognized that the bilateral relationship enjoys strong support in both countries, which has allowed the strategic partnership to flourish even as the governments change. Welcoming the wide range of collaborative activities undertaken to improve their citizens’ lives, both leaders agreed to revitalize the existing partnership and find new areas for collaboration and mutual benefit.

Economic Growth

Noting that two-way trade has increased fivefold since 2001 to nearly $100 billion, President Obama and Prime Minister Modi committed to facilitate the actions necessary to increase trade another fivefold. President Obama and Prime Minister Modi recognized that U.S. and Indian businesses have a critical role to play in sustainable, inclusive, and job-led growth and development.

In order to raise investment by institu-

18 | INDIA CURRENTS | October 2014

tional investors and corporate entities, the leaders pledged to establish an Indo-U.S. Investment Initiative led by the Ministry of Finance and the Department of Treasury, with special focus on capital market development and financing of infrastructure.

They pledged to establish an Infrastructure Collaboration Platform convened by the Ministry of Finance and the Department of Commerce to enhance participation of U.S. companies in infrastructure projects in India.

Energy and Climate Change

The two leaders reaffirmed their commitment to implement fully the U.S.-India civil nuclear cooperation agreement. They established a Contact Group on advancing the implementation of civil nuclear energy cooperation in order to realize early their shared goal of delivering electricity from U.S.-built nuclear power plants in India. They looked forward to advancing the dialogue to discuss all implementation issues, including but not limited to administrative issues, liability, technical issues, and licensing to facilitate the establishment of nuclear parks, including power plants with Westinghouse and GEHitachi technology.

Defense and Homeland Security Cooperation

The Prime Minister and the President stated their intention to expand defense cooperation to bolster national, regional, and global security. The two leaders reaffirmed that India and the United States would build an enduring partnership in which both sides treat each other at the same level as their closest partners, including defense technology transfers, trade, research, co-production, and co-development.

The President and Prime Minister looked forward to easing travel between their two countries, as India introduces visa-on-arrival for U.S. citizens in 2015 and works toward meeting the requirements to make the United States’ Global Entry Program available to Indian citizens.

High Technology, Space and Health Cooperation

Fundamental science and high technology cooperation has been a critical pillar of the strategic partnership, the two leaders confirmed, and they looked forward to renewing the Science and Technology Agreement in order to expand joint activities in innovative technology. The Prime Minister welcomed the United States as a partner country, for the first time, at India’s annual Technology Summit in November 2014.

In addition, they committed to convene the ninth High Technology Cooperation Group (HTCG). They plan to launch new partnerships to source and scale innovation for the benefit of citizens in both countries and to harness innovation to solve global development challenges.

The President welcomed India’s contribution and cooperation on high-energy physics and accelerator research and development with the U.S. Department of Energy.

The President thanked the Prime Minister for his offer to have U.S. institutions partner with a new Indian Institute of Technology.

Global Issues and Regional Consultations

Highlighting their shared democratic values, the President and Prime Minister recognized the critical role that women play in India and the United States, as shown by India’s “Beti Bachao, Beti Padhao” (“Save Daughters, Celebrate Daughters, Educate Daughters”) initiative. They looked forward to holding a Women Empowerment Dialogue in order to exchange best practices to enhance the role of women in their countries, and they asserted zero tolerance for violence against women.

The President thanked the Prime Minister for the gracious invitation to return to the great nation of India. In conclusion, the two leaders affirmed their long-term vision for a resilient and ambitious partnership through the first “Vision Statement for the Strategic Partnership,” which they will hold up as the guiding framework for their governments and people. n

DC Film Fest

C

hittagong, a historical film directed by Bedabrata Pain, set in the backdrop of a 1930 armed uprising against the British Raj in the eponymous city, won the Best Feature Film award at the third Washington, DC South Asian Film Festival (DCSAFF).

The festival, hosted by Ceasar Productions, was held at AMC Loews Rio Cinemas 18 in Gaithersburg, MD, from September 12 to 14. The film, starring Manoj Bajpai, had won a National Film Award in the “Best Debut Film of a Director” category in 2013.

“It would not have happened without [Bajpai],” Pain said, while receiving the award. Pain, a scientist-turned-filmmaker also won the Best Director award for Chittagong.

The Best Actor award went to Indian American actor Sendhil Ramamurthy, whose film Brahmin Bulls was one of the more popular films at the festival. To the US television audience, the 40-year-old actor is known for his role as Mohinder Suresh in the NBC drama Heroes.

Monali Thakur was chosen Best Actress for her role in Nagesh Kukunoor’s Lakshmi.

Bedabrata Pain receiving the Best Director award from Debbie Dreisman and Frank Islam.

Pakistani filmmaker Iram Parveen Bilal’s thriller Josh was selected the best story by the jury.

Receiving the award, a teary-eyed Bilal said she was honored to be in the company of accomplished directors such as veteran filmmaker Prakash Jha, who was present in the audience and whose films were screened as part of a retrospective.

“Seventeen years ago, I saw Mrityudand—at a very emotional time in my life, and I never thought I will be standing across from Prakash Jha and be a filmmaker,” she said.

Josh also won the Best Film People’s Choice award.

The Best Short Film in the People’s Choice category was The Ring by US-based director Vandana Narang.

The award ceremony was preceded by a discussion on films by the various filmmakers who screened their movies in the festival.

The three-day festival screened some two-dozen features, short films and documentaries in various South Asian languages and in English, as well as Q&A sessions with filmmakers and actors, and workshops. n

DCSAFF 2014 kick off with a fashion show

Nandita Das walking the red carpet with her son Vihaan

Chittagong star Manoj Bajpai during the screening of a film

Filmmaker Prakash Jha October 2014 | www.indiacurrents.com | 19

Indian Prime Minister

Prime Minister arrives in Washington on his visit to the United States, September 29.

Prime Minister pays homage to the victims of 9/11 at the 9/11 Memorial in New York, September 27.

Prime Minister addresses the Global Citizen Festival at the Great Lawn, Central Park in New York, September 27.

Photo courtesy M. Asokan Photo Division 20 | INDIA CURRENTS | October 2014

Prime Minister arrives in Washington on his visit to the United States, September 29.

Prime Minister addresses the 69th Session of the United Nations General Assembly, September 27. Photo courtesy M. Asokan Photo Division

Prime Minister addresses the gathering at the Indian Community Event at Madison Square Garden in New York, September 28.

Photo courtesy Shivraj Photo Division

Narendra Modi’s U.S. Visit

Former US President Bill Clinton and former US Secretary of State Hillary Clinton call on Prime Minister Narendra Modi in his hotel in New York, September 29.

Prime Minister addresses the Global Citizen Festival at the Great Lawn, Central Park in New York, September 27. Photo courtesy M.

Asokan Photo Division

Prime Minister Modi with American CEOs at a breakfast meet in New York, September 29. Photo courtesy Shivraj Photo Division

Prime Minister meeting President Obama, at a private dinner in his honor at the White House, September 30. Photo courtesy Shivraj Photo

Division

Prime Minister meeting the US Secretary of State, John Kerry, at a private dinner in his honor at the White House, September 30. Photo courtesy Shivraj

Photo Division

October 2014 | www.indiacurrents.com | 21

Gautam Raghavan Leaves White House

T

he first openly gay Indian American official in the Obama administration, Gautam Raghavan, has quit his position as White House’s liaison to the LGBT community, to take on a position as Policy Director of the Gill Foundation, based in Denver, Colorado.

The LGBT White House Liaison advocates gay issues within the administration, lets people know where the President stands on LGBT issues and progress on equality legislation.

The Gill Foundation is one of the nation’s largest funders and organizers of lesbian, gay, bisexual, and transgender civil rights work. Incidentally, Raghavan, who was born in India, is the second high profile Indian American to work for the Foundation. Earlier, prominent LGBT rights activist Urvashi Vaid, who was born in India, but came to the United States at a young age, served as a Board member.

According to The Washand the signing of an exington Blade, Raghavan’s ecutive order barring LGBT last day was September 5. discrimination among fedRaghavan announced his eral contractors. decision in an email to colPrior to his job as leagues, “As I make this White House LGBT liaison, transition, I find myself Raghavan worked as the more hopeful than ever that Deputy White House Liaibig change (yes, the kind son to the Pentagon. In that we can believe in!) is posrole, he facilitated commuGautam Raghavan sible—because I’ve seen it nications between LGBT happen. This kind of change can sometimes advocates, the White House and the Defense be slow, challenging, and frustrating. But Department during the process for “Don’t when fierce advocates, unyielding activists, Ask, Don’t Tell” repeal and implementation dedicated public servants, and strong allies of open service. In total, Raghavan served work together, we can, and will, bend the arc within the administration for five-and-a-half of the moral universe towards justice.” years, said The Blade.

During his three-year tenure at the White Raghavan, who was raised in Seattle, and House, Raghavan oversaw major changes is a graduate of Stanford University, used to within the administration, including the live with his husband, Andrew, in Washingimplementation of the U.S. Supreme Court ton, DC. n decision against the Defense of Marriage Act

Vibrant Gujarat Delegation Feted

T

InfoCity. of Gujarat State Petroleum Corporation, he Gujarati Samaj of Metropolitan Members of the delegation invited the Ltd.; Umesh Pandit, assistant general manWashington hosted a meet and greet local Gujarati and Indian American commuager at the Industrial Extension Bureau, event on September 8 for a delegation nity members to attend Vibrant Gujarat and or iNDEXTb, a government organization that is visiting North America to promote the Pravasi Bharatiya Divas. tasked with the accelerating Gujarat’s industhe Vibrant Gujarat Summit 2015, schedSamaj President Prashant “Paul” Patel, trial development; Prashant Mehta, company uled to be held in January. community leader Kirit Udeshi, Rajan Nasecretary, Gujarat Venture Finance Limited; The 14-member delegation, which contarajan, the Maryland Deputy Secretary of Jagat Shah, foreign representative of the sists of senior Gujarat government officials State for Policy and External Affairs, and Dr. Government of Manitoba, Canada, in India; and business leaders, arrived in the United Raj S. Dave, a partner with Pillsbury, spoke and Suvas Barot, managing director of The States on September 4, after visiting the Caon the occasion. nadian cities of Montreal and Toronto. They The same day, the delegation flew to Washington from Chicago made a sales pitch to a select auwhere it held a number of meetings. dience of Untied States business Vibrant Gujarat will take place and thought leaders at a downtown at Mahatma Mandir in Gandhinagar Washington, DC, hotel. That event from January 11 to 13 next year. was co-hosted by the Confederation The same venue will also be hosting of Indian Industries and the USanother mega event three-day Pravasi India Business Council. Gujarat’s Bharatiya Divas, during January 7-9.

Resident Commissioner Bharat Delegation members who attendLal and Indian Ambassador to the ed the Gujarat Samaj event in College Members of the delegation with Gujarati Samaj membersUnited States S. Jaishankar spoke at Park, MD, included A.K. Vijay KuPhoto credit: Sirmukh Singh Manku the event.n mar, special commissioner for Investment Promotion and special director

22 | INDIA CURRENTS | October 2014

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youth

Bedtime Stories

By Anika Ayyar

“T

ell me a story,” I pleaded, and she sat on one end of my bed as her hands sank into a gentle rhythm between my shoulders. In crisp Tamil, Anapati, my maternal grandmother, transported me to the land of gods, kings, and demons before I eventually settled into sleep. Her depictions danced through my dreams and colored my imagination, creating a world that existed only for the two of us.

My grandmother knew how to spin a fairytale. Her “princesses” wore mundane clothes and wielded such an enchanting goodness that they were able to make extraordinary things happen around them. The happy endings to her stories didn’t rely on magic, but on the more invaluable forces of goodwill, generosity, and righteousness.

A few days after she spun a tale about a child who was rewarded for his honesty, my cousin Sonali was pulled over on the highway on our way to dinner. My eight-year-old heart raced in the backseat as the officer approached our car and signaled for her to roll down the window.

“Ma’am, do you know what the speed limit on this highway is?” he asked her after the usual formalities. Yes, she knew the speed limit was 65, she responded, and she was extremely sorry that she was driving at 70, but she would make sure to be more ...

“No Sonali, you were going at 75!” I blurted from the backseat. “I saw on your screen, you were going at 75, not 70.”

The stunned silence that followed was broken by my cousin’s pronounced scowl in the mirror, and an emphatic chuckle from the officer, who ended up letting Sonali off the hook with only a warning, thanks to “the youngster in the backseat who knows how to tell the truth.”

It is evident to me now that through the moral groundwork of her tales, my grandmother sought to make me a better person.

She never once told me to “tell the truth” or to “respect my elders,” but then, she never needed to; her bedtime stories ingrained those values more powerfully than simple reminders ever could have. Many nights at Exeter, far from life at home and overwhelmed by the task of navigating foreign straits, I yearned for the steady cadence of my grandmother’s voice at night. It is not her stories alone, though, that I have come to crave; hers were only one of four spiels that colored my childhood nights.

24 | INDIA CURRENTS | October 2014

My grandmother became my connection to faith, the reason why I carried a small idol of the Hindu god Ganesha with me to my dorm room each September, and the reason why I capitalized the “G” in God. My maternal grandfather’s stories were a little different. When Anathatha, as I called him, came to tuck me in at night, he would lean, dejected, on my bedside table and look at me apologetically.

“Sorry Anix, I just can’t remember any of my stories right now. I don’t know what happens every time I come in here at night, but they all just seem to run away somewhere!” he once exclaimed.

“How about you make one up right now?” I suggested between giggles.

“I’m not sure if I can do it by myself though,” he responded with a wink. I might need a little bit of your help.”

On some nights we would ramble about the adventures of strange creatures we concocted, limb by limb, and on others, we would jointly muse about what we would do if our house turned into a giant sailboat overnight and we found ourselves in the middle of the Pacific, or out near Alaska.

No matter the subject of our fictional tales, those nights with my grandfather were filled with peals of laughter that ricocheted off my lilac walls and cocooned my thoughts as I drifted to sleep. On days when I would arrive home from school downhearted, my grandfather would remind me of Scout, the half purple, half orange sea turtle whose birthday party we had narrated together five different times, or of the mysterious treasure we had decided that we would find off the coast of the Marshall Islands. We both came to realize that even the memories of these stories could conjure a broad grin on the grayest of days.

Oopati, my paternal grandmother, told me stories that were as mesmerizing and peaceful as Anathatha’s were enlivening. A devout Hindu, she carried a small, yellow copy of the Bhagvad Gita, a book of religious scriptures, with her when she came to my room, and often lulled me to sleep with

verses from the epic, sometimes reciting the muted Sanksrit vowels till long after I fell asleep. Many mornings, I would wake up to her ancient vedas, or chants, resounding throughout the house, as a sort of morning song to set my day’s rhythm from the moment I climbed out of bed.

My grandmother became my connection to faith, the reason why I carried a small idol of the Hindu god Ganesha with me to my dorm room each September, and the reason why I capitalized the “G” in God. Her nighttime explanations about the meanings of various chants, and the strength that they were meant to evoke have grown to make more and more sense over the years, and have led me to appreciate my place as part of the vast and powerful Hindu religion. Oopati may not have always told me stories when she put me to bed, but her words held a divine power that gradually made their mark.

The fourth and final piece of my bedtime mosaic is my paternal grandfather Oothatha, who is very much a morning person, and generally prepared to retire for the day at around eight p.m., a full half hour before my childhood bedtime. So when he told me stories, the crisp Saratoga sun was usually out to warm his childhood recollections and my sister and my bare feet.

Spring always looks good on the Northern Californian outdoors, and our backyard is no exception. Sunlight reaches through the live oaks, bathing my mother’s garden and tickling the man-made pond at our yard’s edge. Pockets of purple pop up across the vineyard, often luring my sister and I out to gather as many grapes as we can before the deer beat us to it. In spring we pull out the hammocks from the shed, and uncover the patio tables and chairs that were hidden under tarps all through the winter.

Every Sunday spring morning, my grandfather made us sandwiches. They were the farthest thing from healthy, usually loaded with pepper jack cheese, or Nutella, or marshmallow fluff, but my mom had given up trying to persuade him out of making them.

Around 9:30 on a Sunday morning, Oothatha marched into the kitchen wearing the “World’s Best Grandpa” apron my sister made him in second grade, and loaded his ingredients onto his workspace near the toaster. Within moments, he had created and cleared a war zone, of which all that remain-

ed were two identical china plates each housing a custom-made breakfast sandwich, complete with triangle cuts and small wooden toothpicks.

We sat outside, munching, as my grandfather took us back five or six decades in time, to the outskirts of his hometown in Malaysia. He invited us to join him as he fished for massive black groupers in the South China Sea, hacked his way through cabbage palms to reach the small coconut grove at the center of the Batu Dua Forest, and learned to play rugby with boys six years older, and five times heavier than himself. His vital propensity for adventure and excitement was sprinkled into these thrilling tales, and my sister and I glanced knowingly at each other during his thoughtful pauses, wondering if he might be wishing that he was fifteen years old and carefree again, out in the Malaysian wilderness.

“Once you hit a certain age, there a lot of things you just can’t do yourself. You have to live vicariously. And that’s why we have these things called grandchildren,” my grandfather reminded me as I left for my term abroad at Island School three summers ago. My fingers nestled in the ridges of his palms, Oothatha made me promise that even without internet access or my cell phone, I would still find a way to share my island experiences with him from time to time. My other three grandpar-

ents insisted the same.

So, two weeks into my term on Eleuthera, I found myself sitting in the communications office during my twenty minutes of weekly phone access, struggling to convey the past fourteen days of foreign foods, midnight snorkels, and marine ecology classes to the four pairs of eager ears on the other end of the line. Three minutes passed, then five, then eight, and with ten minutes left of my precious phone time, I sighed in frustration, realizing that I had only managed to convey a single day’s worth of experiences.

“I have so much to tell you and there’s only ten minutes left!” I yelled frantically.

“Anix, why don’t you just tell us a story,” my grandmother coaxed, and as I settled back into the comfort of her voice, the words, and excitement, and adventures, and emotions came tumbling out, with all the sand and sweat that they were made of.

At my grandfather’s suggestion, I kept a journal throughout my term on Eleuthera, and I began to tell my own stories every night. As much as I tried to convince myself that these daily accounts were meant for my own pleasure and remembrance, it was impossible not to narrate my early morning free-diving expeditions without adding in details I knew my grandfather would relish, or to describe the Bahamian cultural festival of Junkanoo without automatically

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thinking back to my grandmother’s narrations of Holi, the Hindu festival of color.

My journal entries quickly evolved into short vignettes that I tailored for each of my four grandparents, and those vignettes were soon transcribed onto loose sheets of paper (with cassava chip crumbs still lodged in the folds), sealed into envelopes, and sent out across the Caribbean, and then across the country to California. Where verbal communication fell short, these letters filled in the holes.

I had expected the perfect tone, and the perfect phrasing to cascade onto the pages of my place-book when I started writing each night, but it was clear that while my grandparents’ storytelling had seemed so effortless, it actually required great focus and persistence. I never knew exactly what words and images would resonate with each of them, but as Anathatha, who was adept at crafting tales ad lib, had suggested, I took my chances that something I wrote would move them, or strike some satisfying chord.

“After all, ‘a word, after a word, after a word is power,’” he quoted from one of his favorite poems, Spelling, by Margaret Atwood. n Anika Ayyar is a freshman at Duke University studying biomedical engineering and computer science.

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26 | INDIA CURRENTS | October 2014

books

An Uncommon Ordinariness: Their Story, Our Story, My Story

by Rajesh C. Oza

AYYA’S ACCOUNTS: A Ledger of Hope in Modern India. By Anand Pandian and M.P. Mariappan. Indiana University Press, 2014. 216 pages.

I

f you are of a certain age and you spent time reading Indian newspapers, you most likely came across R.K. Laxman’s “The Common Man.” This character in the comic strip “You Said It” began his run in The Times of India in 1951; he served for over half a century as a lens into independent India, as experienced by the “ordinary” Indian. This elderly, balding, Common Man, with bulbous nose, slight paunch, and bemused eyes announcing his arrival, gave witness to minor events of the day, as well as the political and social changes that shaped modern Indian life. As a satirist, Laxman gently poked fun at the high and mighty, while his Common Man held out hope for decency in the midst of daily challenges, and aspirations in the face of setbacks.

When I first saw the cover of Ayya’s Accounts, a scholarly and love-infused memoir by a grandson and his grandfather, I immediately thought of Laxman’s Common Man, and then I thought of my own father, whom I’ve always thought of as an exceptional man. Ayya, the grandfather who is the subject of the book, is photographed in stride and in situ—in the middle of a South Indian setting. The photo could just as easily be a cartoon of Laxman’s Common Man stepping around a pot hole in Mumbai’s streets or a snapshot of my father going for his daily walk in Morgan Hill.

This model of literary anthropology, coauthored by Anand Pandian and M.P. Mariappan, is not only their story, it is also our collective Indian story, and my own familial story. While we are not the Gandhis and the Nehrus that historians write about, this fine book gives evidence to the claim that our

ordinary voices need to be heard.

As suggested in the book’s subtitle, the story that Pandian and Mariappan share with the reader is “a ledger of hope in modern India.” This hope—“a quality essential to the momentum of these times, to the immense and unimaginable movement of modern lives”—is Mariappan’s and it comes to be Pandian’s. Anthropologists have floated phrases such as “Sanskritization,” “Westernization,” and “Modernization” to explicate this movement; but perhaps there is no better word than “hope” to appreciate the progress made by the Mariappan/Pandian family, coming from the downtrodden Shanar/Nadar caste of “tree climbers” who

traded in palm toddy, and rising to respect in professions such as medicine, information technology, and academia.

A careful reading of Ayya’s Accounts enables one to extend this hope to India as a whole; an empathetic reading encourages one to internalize the hope within one’s own family. This is not the false hope peddled by Bollywood or Tollywood’s dream-weavers, but rather the hard-earned hope of men like Pandian’s grandfather (whom he refers to as “father”) who toiled for decades as a fruit merchant, and the hope of my father who worked multiple jobs to send his children and grandchildren to college. (It is also the hope of women like my mother who worked alongside my father to raise a prodigious progeny, but Pandian and Mariappan’s book has a distinctly patriarchal feel.).

Mariappan is the Ayya (Tamil for father) of the book’s title, and the book is his account of what took place in his life—a life lived in Indian spaces such as Britishcolonized Burma and post-Independent Madurai, as well as the far-flung South Asian diaspora.

Pandian, an anthropologist at Johns Hopkins University, suggests that “account” has layered meanings: “Any account, whether a business ledger or a story to tell, is far more than a recounting of something that has already happened.

An account is also an invitation to nurture a relationship—a way of making unfamiliar persons and things familiar to each other, a trail of transactions through a world of experience, an image of a possible world in common.”

In interwoven chapters, Pandian’s anthropologist voice (triggered by modestly interesting photographic artifacts) helpfully shares the backdrop of change and continuity during his grandfather’s nine decades.

October 2014 | www.indiacurrents.com | 27

R.K. Laxman’s The Common Man

Photo courtesy Times of India

The general ledger that Pandian takes into account is that of social, political, and economic forces that impact the ordinary man, privileging one group over another.

Even the upper-case Partition of India and Pakistan is considered in the context of the “other partition of British India in which [his] grandfather was caught, the geopolitical schemes that consolidated a Burmese state for Burmese people.”

But it is Mariappan’s voice that holds together the more substantial narrative; Ayya’s accounts truly carry the book. “I’m just an ordinary man. My children know me, and the friends I made through the business know me. The other traders who bought my goods also know me. Those who sent me goods also know me—they know something about my principles, my character ... There must be a thousand things to compare life to.

In business, we give and we take ... When someone trades with me, he becomes my customer. He comes to me for whatever he needs, and we develop a relationship.”

Throughout his life of “give and take,” Ayya kept a mental calculator running. Gifted in the art of arithmetic as a child, he discovered that he had an innate ability to see patterns of profit, eventually becoming a middle-man in the fruit business, giving to and taking from wholesalers, and giving to and taking from small-time retailers. Over the years, his instinct for price-inflation, credit-giving, and trust-building enabled him to educate his children, including two sons and a son-in-law who eventually practiced medicine abroad. Even Ayya’s recounting 28 | INDIA CURRENTS | October 2014

with pride his family’s accomplishments reads like an inventory of goods: “Gnanam, like Ganesan, went off to America. Senthi completed an MA in Tamil and joined me in the shop. Raji … married one of Ganesan’s classmates; they also went and settled in America ... Kannan got an M.Tech. degree at the Indian Institute of Technology in Delhi.

Each time he moved from one software company to another, his salary would increase ten times over.”

There is a charm to this deeply pragmatic worldview; indeed, this reader has sought to emulate Ayya’s disciplined counting of steps while walking as a form of mindful focus on the here and now. But rationalism displaces life’s losses that must be felt, not merely calculated. For Ayya, these losses might include people whom he knew in Burma and lost their lives when they were forced to walk through jungles to India as refugees; but the debit side of the ledger would certainly include the loss of his daughter—Rupavathi, who died an early death under mysterious circumstances and Chellammal, his wife of five decades who succumbed to breast cancer. While one can never judge another person’s response to the passing away of a loved one, Ayya’s stoic acceptance of Chellammal’s death (“What would come had come”) is heartbreaking, given the central role she played in keeping the family whole. Indeed, had his Paati (grandmother) survived, Pandian would have had a marvelous sequel to Ayya’s Accounts: Paati’s Accountability.

For by all accounts, it was Chellamal who raised her and Ayya’s children and held them accountable to higher learning. Without advanced education, the Mariappan/Pandian family’s upward mobility would have been constrained in an India which herself has inspired an uneven growth trajectory for all her billion-plus children.

Like Laxman’s wisp of a cartoon character, Pandian’s Ayya makes it possible to believe that the common can be uncommon.

In the hands of this gifted writer, the eyes of this careful observer, and the ears of this persistent listener, an uncommon ordinariness itself becomes extraordinary. Indeed, Anand Pandian’s loving dialogue with his Ayya is inspiration to all of us to listen, observe, and take note of our family histories. The little stories of our parents and grandparents are very much a part of the grand narrative of tradition and modernity. n For the extraordinary cultural inheritance RCO received from his grandparents: Bai, Dadosa, Bhau, and Babaji.

A Nation in Transition

by Vidya Pradhan

ROGUE ELEPHANT by Simon Denyer.

Bloomsbury Press. 440 Pages. Hardcover. $30.

I

ndia is … everything. Rich and poor, ancient and modern, conservative and progressive, capitalist and socialist. This country of contrasts, where we send rockets to the moon and offer it flowers, where we exalt women as goddesses and rape them, where helipads on skyscrapers cast shadows on slums, can be an emotional overload to those of us who are of it. Perhaps it requires an outsider to consider the nation dispassionately and thereby pick out seminal events that sometimes come roaring into public consciousness and sometimes make unobtrusive debuts that are inadequate indicators of their eventual influence.

Veteran journalist Simon Denyer moved to India before the 2004 elections and has been privileged to be in the country reporting for Reuters and, later the Washington Post, during one of its most tumultuous periods. Instead of trying to tackle the events of the next decade chronologically, he wisely picks themes that reflect the seismic rumblings of a nation in transition. It is a pity that the book ends just before the run-up to the 2014 elections, though Denyer devotes a whole chapter to Narendra Modi. (Denyer expresses his reservations with Modi’s autocratic style, though a 2011 poll, where only 1 in 5 Indians believe democracy is right for India, foreshadows the ascent of a charismatic king-like personality who promises to rule benevolently.)

The book begins with the brutal gang rape in 2012 of the young woman who came to be known as “Nirbhaya.” The horrific incident shook the nation, much as the chapter grabs the reader’s attention, but Denyer sug-

gests that the outrage that followed was a boil-over of simmering resentment towards decades of government mismanagement, corruption, and a near-total breakdown in the machinery of law and order.

As a Non Resident Indian who, I am ashamed to admit, gets most of her Indian news from status updates on Facebook, I found the chapters on the creation of the Right to Information Act (a landmark piece of legislation that has dealt the first significant blow to endemic corruption in India) and the development of shrill but influential anchors on 24-hour news networks (an unfortunate Western import) absorbing. What is even more fascinating is an inside look into the breakdown of the Congress party, which once held a seemingly unshakeable sway over Indian national politics. Observers who wonder how a respected economist like Manmohan Singh became a caricature of a politician will find some answers in the book. Others scratching their heads at prince-elect Rahul Gandhi’s bizarre behavior on the campaign trail and in parliament will gain, if not empathy, at least some understanding.

Ultimately, though, Rogue Elephant is about unsung heroes, and that is what elevates the book from yet another attempt to cash in on the prevailing interest in the turbulent and vibrant democracy that is India. There is Anil Bairwal, who left his comfortable job as a software engineer to become ADR’s National Coordinator; Shekhar Singh, a grassroots activist who is one of the leaders of the Right to Information movement; Sanjiv Chaturvedi, a bureaucratic whistleblower who accepted demotion after demotion because he would not corrupt his principles; and Irom Sharmila, who has been on a hunger fast for over a decade to rein in army abuse in her neglected north-eastern state of Manipur. These stories and these people rarely get heard in the ADD world of modern news and I am grateful to Denyer for giving them the attention they deserve.

If there is a flaw to be found, it is a slight Western-centrism in Denyer’s perspective, which often leads him to blindly support foreign investment, international trade agreements, and corporate funding of political campaigns. But when he writes “… I have come to love its freedom of speech, its secular DNA, and the checks and balances inherent in its democracy” you know that India has woven its magic around yet another visitor, who can see the mighty and resilient heart beating under bruised and battered skin. n Vidya Pradhan is a freelance writer and a published author of children’s books. She is currently working on a script for a television show for kids.

She was the editor of India Currents from June 2009 to February 2012.

October 2014 | www.indiacurrents.com | 29

films

Rage of Angels

By Aniruddh Chawda

MARDAANI. Director: Pradeep Sarkar.

Players: Rani Mukerji, Tahir Raj Bhasin, Jisshu Sengupta, Anil George, Priyanka Sharma. Hindi with Eng. Sub-tit.

Theatrical release (Yashraj).

R

ani Mukerji’s career-graph has spanned three decades, an unusually lengthy span in the limelight for an Indian female actor.

In part because of her association with Yashraj studio but mostly because of the meaty roles Mukerji is unafraid to tackle, the former hot-pants wearing tart from Kuch Kuch Hota Hai (1998) has matured into a full-throttle gifted performer that can stand up at the head of the class. Reuniting with Pradeep Sarkar after Lagaa Chunari Mein Daag, Mardaani finds the director and the actor in a lighteningcharged, no nonsense crime thriller that leaps to front of the pack.

A day’s work for inspector Shivani Roy (Mukerji) can start with tracking down an escaped jailbird, recruiting a tea-stall owner to become—surprisingly—a willing police informant and taking her niece to school. Inspector Roy’s cross-hairs make a jolt-landing on a very different target with the disappearance of Pyari (Sharma), a street urchin Inspector Roy’s family has befriended. Suspecting that Pyari could be in the hands of a notorious sex-trafficking network and sensitive to the political implications of getting wrong even one name or turncoat in a highly-connected megacity like New Delhi, Inspector Roy must use a light tread and cunning to confront a nearly-invisible foe with deadly tentacles.

Writer Gopi Puthran has scripted Inspector Shivani as a strong-armed, frequently foul-mouthed, pint size dynamo that can effectively emasculate mean men who are several times bigger, richer and better connected than her. Mukerji in a later inning, sans designer threads, mini-skirts or batting

30 | INDIA CURRENTS | October 2014

eye-lashes, is convincing as an avenging guardian angel who must remain within a make believe sandbox and yet manage to kick sand in the face of the biggest bully in that playpen for sick grownups.

There is not a shadow of fear in Inspector Shivani’s eyes, determination in her spirit or lack of compulsion to get the job done. The fact that she may have to head butt against her own chain of command while maintaining operational integrity again speaks to writer Gopi Puthran’s scripting an upstart cop who pushes the limits just at the right moment.

Supporting Mukerji is Bhasin’s Karan, the diabolical mastermind behind a gang that uses kidnapping and torture to “ship” kidnapped young South Asian women to untraceable destinations everywhere from the Far East to even the United States. Bhasin’s

twisted Karan also goes by “Walt”—a self-aggrandizing name taken from the character from the American TV megahit Breaking Bad. Behind his teenage face, Karan/Walt is one truly sick puppy.

With standout entries Queen, Highway, Mary Kom and now Mardaani, the year promises to figure prominently for witnessing some of Hindi cinema’s most noteworthy female lead movies in recent memory. These gals mean business and are not afraid to get dirty and (sometimes) bloody to achieve results.

Perhaps it is speculative that if the Mardaani script featured a male lead, say Akshay Kumar or Salman Khan, it would make about five times more money. But that movie would be for a different audience in an alternate dimension altogether.

The Hindi movie female law enforcement character has come a long way indeed. In Subhash Ghai’s Khalnayak (1993) Madhuri Dixit played a prison guard who went undercover to clear her boyfriend’s name and had to resort to massive hip gyrations, song and dance to get the job done. No such tactics needed in 2014. For an especially gritty role, even more so for the usually squeaky-clean Yashraj repertoire, Mardaani is a striking departure.

To her credit, Mukerji has proven viable at what her contemporaries Shilpa Shetty, Karishma Kapoor or Preity Zinta have been unable to do. Even at the height of her career Mukerji often had to settle for playing second fiddle to Kajol (Kuch Kuch Hota Hai, Kabhie Khushi Kabhie Gham) or Preity Zinta (Veer Zaara). With heavy roles such as Who Killed Jessica and now Mardaani, Mukerji may have the last laugh. While Sarkar and Company cannot resist turning the last 15 minutes into populist battle-cry verging on vigilantism, Mardaani still sails through. n EQ: A

Queen of the Ring MARY KOM. Director: Omung Kumar. Players: Priyanka Chopra, Darshan Kumaar, Sunil Thapa. Music: -Shashi-Shivam. Hindi with Eng. Sub-tit. Theatrical release (Viacom 18).

T

here are biopics and then there are standout biopics. Omung Kumar, supported by co-producer Sanjay Leela Bhansali, takes on the daunting task of etching out the life-story-to-date of an unknown yet determined young woman from the far reaches of India’s hinterlands. As the reels unspool, Kumar & Co. transform the life of Indian boxing champion Mary Kom for the big screen and achieve the seemingly impossible. Kumar takes a two-dimensional real life story and turns it into a vibrant multi-faceted portrayal that stands up to any great biopic.

Like any sports-crazed nation, India loves her sports heroes. As elsewhere, the choice few anointed first among equals when it comes to athletic prowess are exalted to virtually demi-god status with riches and fame across India and the diaspora. The sports stars make enormous amount of money from playing and also from fat endorsement fees.

Now the reality check: Almost all of those stars in India are almost exclusively male. For a woman to break that glass ceiling is akin to one or a few women in India winning a lottery amongst 1.2 billion players.

Mary Kom’s reality was no different. As a “tribal” from the remote Indian state of Manipur—which is closer to Thailand, Burma and Nepal than it is to New Delhi—the odds were stacked against her. Born Mangte Chungneijang Kom, later shortened to Mary Kom by her coach, Kom’s peasant upbringing and lack of family connections were formidable early obstacles.

With determination and poise, Kom initially had to overcome her father’s strong objection, which then cleared the way for her to enter the world of women’s boxing full-time. First winning at the local level and then going on to establish regional, state level, national and eventually international fame, Kom transformed the average Indian’s perception of women in boxing from that of odd curiosity to household recognition and respectability.

And that is only one half of the story. The other half is Kumar’s movie and Chopra’s portrayal of Kom, of getting into Kom’s onscreen persona and breathing fire into

a sporting legend in a whole different sphere.

Chopra’s hourglass supermodel contours are replaced by ill-fitting training sweatpants that showcase an awesome chiseled physique that may be the biggest personal physical transformation for a Hindi movie female lead to date.

The designer lip gloss is replaced by sweat and on more than one occasion, blood while Chopra’s bejeweled clutch purses are replaced by bamboo training poles required for doing calisthenics on barren rock on a bitter cold Himalayan mountain morning. Chopra’s Kom is a budding hungry tigress unaware of just how far her territory extends or just how far the hunt will take her.

Underneath the tough exterior there is a strong-willed woman trying not only to win in the ring but also managing being married to her husband Onler (Darshan Kumaar) and giving birth to twins. Kom’s personal struggles include an on-again offagain coaching arrangement with her old school Coach Singh (Sunil Thapa), which also parallel the stumbles and the high-fives in Kom’s life.

While Saiwyn Qadras’s screenplay can’t help resort to formulaic medical drama in part—a heart monitor ticking away in one frame juxtaposed against a key championship boxing match about to ring-ring-ring in the next frame—it is not enough to detract from director Kumar’s ability to make us root for Kom against any and all odds. The result is a movie that delivers immensely satisfying glimpses into the life of someone we knew about in passing—and now know about first hand.

In the background, another noteworthy element is the Shashi-Shivam score made up of motivating, exhilarating and winning tunes that are captivating. The score adds credibility to Kom’s journey from high school bully to Olympian. The movie also puts to rest any doubts about Chopra’s ability to deliver a figurative knock-out per-

formance to match her on-screen character’s many knock-outs in the boxing ring. In addition to Mary Kom’s amazing rags to riches real life trajectory, we will now have this amazing movie as an accompaniment to Kom’s story. Bravo! n EQ: A Globe trekker, aesthete, photographer, ski bum, film buff, and commentator, Aniruddh Chawda writes from Milwaukee.

L ATA’S

FLICK PICKS

inment Enterta Fanny Finding y Sharma ki Humpt ni Dulha a al Humshak

Kick il Deewaana D Lekar Hum ani Marda atwarlal Raja N Returns Singham undred-Foot H he T Journey

October 2014 | www.indiacurrents.com | 31

profile

A Storyteller’s Tale Eric Miller takes his passion for storytelling to India

By Kamala Thiagarajan

W

hether he’s setting up a living museum in coastal Chennai, arranging storytelling workshops across the state, or training executives in the art of public speaking, Eric Miller (originally from New York) is at the heart of the modern storytelling revival that is sweeping through India.

In a popular bookstore in Chennai, I find myself a part of a small gathering of eclectic people. It’s raining heavily outside but, despite the downpour, over a dozen of us are attending the storytelling session for children arranged by the World Storytelling Institute.

A young mother with a four-year-old son says she’s here on a mission—she wants to learn how to narrate bedtime stories properly. And then there’s a computer programmer who wants to sharpen his public speaking skills, and a corporate executive who wants to communicate better. Mostly, there are children who just love listening to a good story.

As the author begins to read from her book, I find myself as captivated as the children are. The hypnotic quality of the storyteller’s voice, the lyrical cadence of the story, the dramatic pauses in just the right places have a mesmeric effect. The narrative style draws us deeper into the tale and soon, reality merges seamlessly with a world of vibrant imagination.

An hour later, even as the storytelling session winds up, the magic lingers. I notice a tall unassuming man in the background who has been supervising the proceedings with quiet interest. And that is how I first meet Eric Miller, a Ph.D in Folklore from the University of Pennsylvania. As the director and co-founder of the World Storytelling Institute (WSI), headquartered in Chennai, he formally trains people from all over the globe in the art of storytelling. Parents, teachers, and business and media professionals have all benefitted from his guidance.

It’s obvious that for him, storytelling isn’t just an activity you indulge in, but a way of life that allows you to effectively communicate your thoughts and emotions.

“A story can be a powerful instrument of change. Various forms of storytelling aid personality development,” says Miller. “It’s 32 | INDIA CURRENTS | October 2014

Eric Miller conducting story-telling workshops

a social activity that helps even strangers forge a bond. Stories, when told just right, can engage and entertain; can help you heal and deal with grief, and can teach you a lesson in a less didactic fashion that could stay with you for life. While narrating a story to a mixed audience, how do you keep everyone’s interest alive? Also, storytelling develops plurality of thought and deed by allowing everyone, children included, to interpret the stories according to their own system of beliefs.”

I couldn’t help but be overwhelmed by Miller’s passion for storytelling, especially when you consider the fact that in 1988, it was a powerful story that brought him to the shores of Chennai in the first place—thousands of miles away from his hometown in New York.

When a visiting scholar narrated the story of Silappathikaram, he admits he was intrigued by the tragic tale of young Kannagi, whose husband Kovalan is infatuated with a beautiful young dancer. Kannagi bears his betrayal with stoic endurance, but the liaison leaves the couple penniless. Determined to

forge a new life, they leave their hometown of Poompuhar (the ancient capital of the Cholas) and arrive in Madurai, the capital city of the Pandya kingdom.

There they are in desperate need of money, so Kovalan hawks his wife’s golden anklet. In those days, anklets were filled with precious gems and this one had rubies. However, as the queen of the Pandya kingdom had just lost her own anklet filled with pearls, Kovalan is accused of theft and is executed.

An enraged Kannagi confronts the royal couple and proves her anklet is filled with rubies, not pearls. When he realizes that he has put an innocent man to death, the king is overcome with remorse and kills himself. His queen too dies, but Kannagi’s anger knows no bounds. She requests Agni, the God of Fire, to burn the city of Madurai (but to enable animals and good people to escape).

Agni burns the city, and Kannagi and some others wander to the western mountains, near (what is today) the border between Tamil Nadu and Kerala.

“I fell in love with the story, the characters—particularly the Pandyan king who

held himself so accountable, despite being in a position of unquestionable authority and who preferred to lose his life rather than live in dishonor. I longed to see the land in which this remarkable story was set,” says Miller.

Interestingly, Miller himself journeyed from Poompuhar to Madurai, and then from Madurai to the Western mountains—on foot —a journey of over 400 kms (approx 250 miles) through terrains including mountains and forests, just to trace the path of the main character of the story.

The stories told by one of the indigenous tribes who live in these western mountains—the Kani tribe—became the subject of his Ph.D thesis. He documented their nuanced ways of storytelling, especially the musical rhythm of their version of villupattu (bow song or musical storytelling). After his doctoral research was completed, fascinated with India’s colorful mythology and rich oral traditions, he decided to settle in Chennai. Together with his wife, Magdalene Jeyarathnam, a native of Chennai and a counselor who specializes in expressive art therapy (employing visual art, dance, music, storytelling and other art forms to effect healing), they co-founded the WSI. “I believe India is now seeing a storytelling revival, similar to the kind of revolution that first swept through the West in the late 60s

and 70s” he says.

Storytelling sessions, according to Miller are built on the premise that it is foremost an interactive activity. “As a storyteller, eye contact is important to draw our listeners into the tale. Engaging the listener is the primary goal. I train people in voice modulation and body language. Role playing and speaking as the characters in one’s story is important too. But in order to do this, one must analyze the story, choosing key moments or pivotal scenes, and exploring the characters whose situations we empathize with the most.

Some people are natural storytellers, but certainly, it is a skill that can be developed.”

“I often ask people to narrate an episode from an epic story that had the most impact on them, a life-changing experience, and even their life story (in just five minutes). Effective storytelling is all about remembering, selecting and presenting. There’s plenty of introspection and analysis involved and the material can come from our own lives, just as it would in a biography. After all, 90% of human communication is storytelling.”

And since the rapid erosion of the folk tales concerns him a great deal, Miller always asks his students to narrate their favorite raja-rani stories. “These folk tales involve a unique oral tradition of storytelling,” he says.

The need to preserve the legacy of these tales

has led to his establishing living museums (where the objects on display are in everyday use) with fisher folk in coastal Chennai, and with tribal people in the western mountains.

These living museums document the local people’s rich folk tales that often describe their deep knowledge of, and struggles with, nature. With the help of videoconferencing, people all around the world can participate in discussions with the local people about their cultures. This is a form of interactive cultural anthropology.

To make storytelling a meaningful activity, inseparable from the very fabric of our lives, seems to be the primary motivation.

“Sharing a story, especially of a traumatic personal event could be therapeutic and liberating,” says Miller. “It gives people a chance to re-visit the disturbing event with more objectivity and control. Helping them feel less vulnerable hastens healing and can be very empowering.” As modern India marches ahead, who would have thought that embracing its age-old stories while spinning new ones could be a most effective tool for social awakening. n Kamala Thiagarajan writes on travel, health and lifestyle topics for a global audience. She has been widely published in over ten countries.

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October 2014 | www.indiacurrents.com | 33

recipes

Majestic Mangos

By Shanta Nimbark Sacharoff

S

ome four thousand years ago, mangifera indica, a species of mango, was domesticated in India. The fruit was later introduced into East Asia and Africa, and brought to Mexico and parts of Central and South America. Throughout Asia, mangos are one of the most popular and cherished foods, often called the queen of fruits.

Indian art and literature is obsessed with images of the mango, which is considered a symbol of fertility and love. In one of the oldest poems in world literature, Shakuntala, the 4th century Sanskrit poet Kalidas describes the mango twig as an instrument to provoke a heroine’s love. The mango fruit is used in many religious rituals as an auspicious symbol, and mango leaves are traditionally used as decoration for the mandap, a ceremonial wedding space.

In textile arts a mango motif is the basis for the design that is known as “paisley” in the Western world. The tear-drop, mangolike shape often appears in borders of a shawl or at the decorated end of a sari, called the pallu, which drapes around the shoulders or covers the head. The motif originated in

34 | INDIA CURRENTS | October 2014

India where it was known as kairy, which means mango. It was often used in Kashmiri shawls that were imported to England, and was incorporated into textiles made in mills at Paisley, Scotland. Soon kairy became “paisley,” the popular pattern we know today.

Among the hundreds of varieties of mangos available today, the most popular in Asia, known for their flavor and sweetness, are Alphonso and Kesar of India, and Guimaras and Carabaos of the Philippines. Many of these popular varieties can be ordered online, but imported mangoes do not compare with fresh ones. You might travel to these countries during mango season to experience their real taste, but don’t pack them in your suitcase to bring back to the United State.

If you do, you will spend many hours in customs and at the end they will confiscate your mangos!

Luckily, tasty fresh organic mangos are available in the United States throughout the year. These are mostly two varieties: large ones with red, yellow and green skin and small yellow ones often called Manila mangos. Most of these are imported from Mexico

or grown in California. Canned mango pulp can be found in Indian import markets, but is usually sweetened with sugar.

The mango is rich in dietary fiber, vitamins A, B6, C and E, minerals and antioxidants. Mangos are an excellent source of vitamin A: a 100 gram fresh mango provides 25% of the recommended daily dietary requirement. Vitamin A promotes sound vision and healthy skin, and the beta-carotene in mango is known to protect the body from lung and oral-cavity cancers. Vitamins C, E and B6 in mangos are good for the heart and blood vessels, and mangos are a good source of potassium. 100 grams of fresh mango provides 156 mg of potassium, and just 2 mg of sodium. Potassium helps maintain a healthy heart rate and blood pressure. The antioxidants found in mangos help prevent colon, breast, and prostate cancers. Mango is a pleasing accompaniment to a spicy meal. n Shanta Nimbark Sacharoff, author of Flavors of India: Vegetarian Indian Cuisine, lives in San Francisco, where she is manager and coowner of Other Avenues, a health-food store.

Ripe Mango Recipes Mango Kachumber

Really ripe mangoes can often be found in the ‘sale’ corner of Chinese markets because they want to sell them quickly.

Roll the mango gently but thoroughly between your hands. Cut off the tip where the fruit comes to a point. With firm and steady pressure squeeze the juice of the mango into a mixing bowl. More juice can be extracted from around the pit by rubbing it with your fingers, but do not allow any fiber into the bowl. Combine the yogurt, mango pulp, sugar and water in the jar of a blender or a food processor and blend briefly. In India mangoes are so ripe and sweet you will not need to add any sugar, so go easy on the sugar at first and add more to taste. Place two ice cubes into a serving glass, pour the Lassi over the ice, and serve.

Kachumber is served as a side dish or a relish to accompany an Indian meal. It is usually made with a raw, peeled vegetable such as a cucumber or a fruit such as a mango, which is combined with other raw, spicy vegetables and lemon or lime juice.

Mango kachumber can be made with a sour green mango, but the recipe below calls for a sweet ripe mango to make a zesty sweet and sour side dish. This recipe should not be confused with a cooked mango chutney or an achar which is usually made from green mangos and preserved for days before serving.

Select firm mangos that smell ripe and have some softness to the touch. If they are very hard, leave them in a warm space in the kitchen for a few days until they soften and become fragrant.

Ingredients 2 fresh, ripe but firm mangos 3 tbsps finely chopped fresh cilantro, stems removed 3 tbsps finely chopped green onions 1 to 2 tbsps, or to taste, freshly squeezed lime or lemon juice 1 tsp or less, finely minced jalapeno or serrano pepper 2 tsps finely grated fresh ginger Salt to taste

Method Cut the fresh mangos as follows: Stand each mango on end on a cutting board, holding it with one hand along the long side.

With a sharp knife, cut the fruit away from the long pit in several large fleshy strips. You should get about six to eight strips with the skin still intact. Using a small knife, gently cut the fruit into small chunks, keeping the skin attached and being careful not to cut through the skin. Then, using a spoon, scoop away the chunks which will come off of the skin easily. If necessary, peel the skin with a paring knife and then cut the strips into chunks. Put the mango chunks into a mixing bowl.

Next, set the pit on the cutting board and use a paring knife to remove the chunks of flesh attached to the pit. Discard the pit and add the chunks to the bowl.

Add the rest of the ingredients to the mango chunks and mix well. Adjust the seasonings and serve with an Indian appetizer, a curry, and a flat bread or crackers.

Vegan Lassi A Creative Commons Image

Variations 1) Add chunks of fresh pineapple or fuyu persimmon when they are in season.

2) To make a refreshing Mango salsa, cut the fruit and mix with the above ingredients, omitting the fresh ginger.

Lassi

Lassi is everyone’s favorite drink in India.

Whether you are looking for an energizing liquid meal on a hot day, or relief after eating some spicy Indian food, Lassi is the perfect cooler. Lassi is made with yogurt and/or buttermilk, water and ice, and is often sweetened with a fruit such as mango or banana, and sugar. Mango lassi is my favorite.

Mango Lassi

Ingredients 2 large or 4 medium very ripe mangos to obtain 2 cups of mango pulp 2 cups of yogurt combined with 2 cups of cold water, or 1 cup of yogurt combined with 1 cup of buttermilk and 2 cups of water 2 tbsps sugar or any sweetener of your choice to taste ice cubes Method Select mangos that are so ripe that the skins are dimpled and they look a bit old.

Ingredients 2 large or 4 medium very ripe mangos to obtain 2 cups of mango pulp 2½ cups of soy yogurt mixed with 1½ cups of water or 1 cup of raw cashews soaked in 3 cups of warm water Juice of ½ lemon or lime 1 to 2 tbsps of sugar or sweetener of your choice to taste ice cubes If you are making Vegan Lassi using soy yogurt, follow the above recipe exactly, replacing the yogurt, or yogurt and buttermilk, with soy yogurt.

Method To make a Vegan Lassi with cashews, soak the nuts in warm water for 45 minutes to an hour. While the nuts are soaking prepare the mango pulp as described above.

After soaking, place the nuts and their water in the jar of an electric blender or food processor and pulse to a milky liquid. Add the mango, lemon or lime juice, desired sweetener and blend again briefly. Place two ice cubes in three tall serving glasses. Pour the Lassi over and serve.

Lazy Lassi

If you do not have fresh mangoes substitute 3 cups of mango puree, available in Asian markets. There is added sugar in the canned puree, so you may not want to add any sugar. n October 2014 | www.indiacurrents.com | 35

travel

The Lure of Croatia Travel leaves you speechless. At the end of it you become a story teller.

—Ibn Mattuta Moroccan explorer-13th century

By Prem Souri Kishore

E

very time I discussed travel destinations, someone would mention Croatia in euphoric delight. All I had known of Croatia came from history books describing invasions, civil wars, devastation and refugees. In short, a turbulent history.

But now Croatia has been an independent country since 1991.

I remember Anthony Bourdain, chef, traveler of the No Reservations series, had once produced a passionate piece on Croatia that had stayed in my mind. He ate oysters on the Adriatic ocean and marveled at his fortune at being on the “new Riviera!”

Whatever could that mean, I wondered at the time.

Romancing Italy

On the road to Croatia

Rushing Images

The lure was irresistible and my husband, daughter and son-in-law started at dawn on a 500 mile, eight and a half hour journey from Zurich. The streets were silent. The lake had never looked lovelier and I surprised myself as Wordsworth’s lyrical lines drifted up from memory surfacing from decades ago of literature classes.

This City now doth, like a garment, wear The beauty of the morning; silent, bare Ne’er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!

A quick series of tunnels erupted into the early morning sunlight, and we saw rushing images of cottages, forests, a boat on a winding river, a quiet train speeding round a bend, and a foamy waterfall in the crevice of a mountain. There were surprises at every swoop and turn. We did not speak.

The silence and beauty brought a deep sense of calm.

Then … whoosh we were in the legendary Gotthard Tunnel traveling through 17 kms (10.56 miles) of brightly lit space for 20 minutes! Two years from now, the world’s longest tunnel in the world will open—the Gotthard Base Tunnel—and will carry 300 trains and an estimated 3,000 heavy goods vehicles. I guess that will mean no more winding detours around stunning landscapes, sigh, sigh. 2,500 people worked on this tunnel, which claimed eight lives.

36 | INDIA CURRENTS | October 2014

Pula Arena

What is it about Italian cars that make them so exciting and sexy? Roll the names around on your tongue. Lamborghini, Bugati, Maserati, Alfa Romeo … mmm romantic.

We whizzed past Milano, soaring Italian cypresses, the airport named after the painter Carravagio, signs tempting us to cruise down to Venezia, and a couple of toll gates where the keeper took two euros and shouted out Arrevederci in an accent that sent my pulses racing. I have been a devotee of Italy after seeing Roman Holiday and Sophia Loren and Marcelllo Mastroianni movies.

The sun was blinding, and spread a delicious warmth and we had to peel off our coats and shawls. We marveled at the hundreds of trucks, almost two miles of them, rumbling along bearing signs of Bellafrut Verona, loaded with cars and other merchandise.

We soon caught our first glimpse of the Adriatic coast, a shimmering sapphire blue scimitar slicing through the grey mountains. Then came pink tiled houses and a winding pathway bordered by flowers and trees. We stopped for a quick passport check and then drove on. There were vineyards, fields and bridges swooping in and out of the mountains. To the left of us the road led to Zagreb, the capital of Croatia, and the right to Pula. We turned right.

Picturesque Pula

Fazana

We stopped at a very energized, spacious restaurant on the road. It was filled with American and British tourists shopping for souvenirs and chocolates. We fired up with hearty burgers, a delectable pastry and steaming coffee, while catching an incredible glimpse of our first snow on the Alps through the restaurant window.

We resumed our journey and the conversation turned to Italian cars which raced alongside as we entered the borders of Italy.

We chose to visit Pula, located on the coast, rich with history and mythology.

The foundation of Pula is mentioned in the mythical story of Jason and Medea who had stolen the golden fleece. The Colchians, who had pursued Jason into the northern Adriatic, could not capture him and ended up settling in a place they called Polai meaning “city of refuge.”

A long bloody tradition of wars and conflict defines Pula. The Venetians, Genoese, Habsburgs and Germans all played a violent and historical role until Pula became a part of Yugoslavia and finally the Socialist Republic

of Croatia. As a result of the churning political history, residents are commonly fluent in foreign languages especially Italian, German and English.

One amazing thing about travel is that it can take you away from the familiar. So here we were entering Croatia, rooted in relentless invasions, imperial rule, sieges, bombings, heroic resistances, plague, death, desolation and I felt the need to tread softly.

In the soft sheen of twilight we swung into the little town of Pula and into a welcoming boutique hotel quietly tucked away on a tiny street. Only four cars stood in the parking lot, one of which belonged to the owner and the other two to the waiter and cook! It was an elegant, comfortable place with friendly personnel who immediately took charge of the luggage and spoke English.

It was almost 9 p.m. and after having a bottle of wine at the hotel we walked into the heart of the city. It was off-tourist season. Every year 50,000 visitors storm the coastal cities of Croatia, camp out in tents in the forests, make merry every which way (as the locals quickly informed us with a shrug).

Many shops, cafes and restaurants open for the season and then close soon after. I put my zoom lens away and walked around the piazza, lit up by a full moon against the backdrop of ruins. I placed my hand on the stone that was still warm from the sun that had been standing there for 5,000 years.

We were hungry, and soon realized that except for three or four tables in the shadows of a restaurant where only wine was being served, there was nothing open for a hearty meal. As we wandered, our footsteps, the only sound on the cobbled stones, there appeared a soft light atop a small restaurant.

The owner was standing outside—a young woman. She looked curiously at us. My son -in-law asked if she had any fresh fish on the menu. “We are closed,” she said and smiled., “We can open again for you, though” and led us inside. A young Croatian chef emerged looking at us in astonishment. He was get-

Buying cheese at an outdoor market-Pula

Sailing into Fazana

ting on his bike to pedal home! Apprised of the situation, a big grin spread across his face, he entered the open kitchen, picked up his knives and we watched him slice, grill, and serve the most delicious salmon on a bed of herbs and vegetables while we sat around with flasks of wine and talked to the owner Julia and chef Martine.

The next morning, after a breakfast of toast, eggs, and fruit—one of those with the straight from the farm to the table freshness—we strolled through the streets and window-shopped. Seven kuna the local currency equals US $1.24. The dollar is accepted only in banks or exchange shops.

Everywhere people lounged under canopies of trees, drinking an aperitif or just coffee or hot chocolate. Friendly sales people tried to give my husband a makeover with trendy jeans and a snazzy coat. There were mothers with strollers, older people conversing with ice cream cones in their hands, and young men lighting up cigarettes.

I think we were the only Indians in the town at that time. So we garnered a lot of interest and curiosity and when they heard my husband and I were from California, in-

Chillies at the roadside

credulity spread over their faces. Hollywood! they exclaimed. One man repeated “California” and pointed at the sun and beamed.

Parking in the streets was tricky as the streets were narrow, so it was wonderful to just walk around.

The Pula Arena is a great example of Roman construction. An amphitheater built of local limestone, the Arena was constructed between 27 BCE and 68 CE with much of it still standing to this day. It was the scene of brutal gladiatorial combats watched by 20,000 spectators. Nowadays the amphitheater hosts opera performances, concerts, equestrian shows and Film Festivals.

The city is fortified with a wall with ten gates and 46 forts. A few of these magnificent gates still remain: the triumphal Arch of the Sergii, the Gate of Hercules (in which the names of the founders of the city are engraved) and the Twin Gates.

I learned an interesting snippet, gleaned from a brochure, that from 1904 to 1905, the famous Irish writer James Joyce taught English at the Berlitz School of Languages!

On the Adriatic

Author with cheese vendor October 2014 | www.indiacurrents.com | 37

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650

Exit 28B

495

650

Exit 28A

The next day, we rented a boat belonging to boatman Dean and sailed into the Adriatic Sea. The sea breeze, the cloudless blue sky, the soft swish of the waves together created a perfect day in Croatia. On the ocean, there was no sensory overload of flavors, smells, architecture, crowds. Instead we experienced Croatia’s ancient heartbeat.

We quaffed wine, waved to other boats, and were entertained with fascinating stories.

Dean told us of Indira Gandhi gifting a tiger to Marshal Tito when he vacationed in the villa we passed by. The Yugoslav President was reported to have joined local fisherman in their work during his stays in Fazana. Fazana was also the playground of the President of Egypt Gamal Abdel Nasser and even India’s first Prime Minister, Jawaharlal Nehru, who had stopped by for a holiday, according to Dean.

He told us about the rental cruises to nearby islands including the one to popular Brijuni island and the National Safari Park.

Elephants donated by Indira Gandhi still reside there, he said, as well as exotic animals donated by diplomats from around the world. Buses, trains and cabs were available to take us on these journeys.

Then it was time to cast anchor at the charming village of Fazana, a quiet town known for its fishing boat industry. As we looked around we spied gentle hills, vineyards, olive groves, pine forests and orchards.

It was difficult to imagine that wars were fought in this peaceful strait.

Once a year Sardine Academy invites visitors to learn to salt fish, mend nets and taste seafood Fazana-style. Under sunlight-dappled trees at a restaurant, we dined on large plates of savory mussels and lobsters, and Rovinj, a coastal town

bolstered the food with wine and schnapps against the backdrop of the luminescent waters of the Adriatic coast.

Three hours later, we roused ourselves from a blissful stupor, to walk around the town and head for the boat where Dean was waiting along with his fishermen friends who were mending nets. They saw us, cast their nets aside, and assisted Dean with pulling the boat to the landing and helped us step into the boat, now bobbing excitedly.

Dean told us that the Croatian coast line is called the “New Riviera.” He urged us to return and cruise to Dubrovnik, Zagreb, Rijeka, Varazdin, Hvar. The names were hypnotic and tempting, but time was not in our favor. Maybe one day, we promised ourselves.

Back in the hotel where as “Grandmother” I was treated with deference and respect, meaning I was served first, the waiter bestowed the gift of a music disc only because we had told him we so enjoyed the recorded music we had heard throughout our stay at the hotel.

Two days later we were driving back to Zurich, but stopped at the fishing harbor of Rovinj, which means precious ruby stone.

Reminding me of Shakespeare describing England as “this precious stone set in the silver sea.”

Roving in Rovinj

A car-free town, Rovinj is a maze of cobbled streets, on a steep hill crested by the landmark St Euphemia’s Cathedral built in 1736. Saint Euphemia is honored in this baroque church for her steadfast faith and for dying as a martyr.

There were lots of pavement eateries,

where you are spoilt for choice, especially sea inspired delicacies. The region remains authentic despite the dizzying world of commerce and digitization. What’s not to like?

We found waiters coming out of restaurants and reciting the bill of fare to tempt us inside. Be sure to sit at tables and cushions arranged on rocks overlooking the sea. And it is always a sweet surrender when it comes to Croatian pastries. Especially wonderful are the fig fritter with chestnuts and mascarpone and cookies laced with honey, olive oil, carob and sherry.

Venetian Dreams

A funny thing happened on the way to the Grand Canal in Venice. My son-in-law was trying to find parking, an impossible task on a weekday, while the rest of us took off to the waterfront. A half hour later there was still no sign of him. After much texting and calling he finally arrived to tell us he had to park so far away that he had to walk a good length and take a train to finally catch up with us!

There was a water taxi strike on the Grand Canal so instead of the clamor of tourists and traffic, we experienced an ethereal tranquility and serenity. We sat on the steps and dreamed Venetian dreams, but not before gorging ourselves on pizza, (sitting cheek-by-jowl with a thicket of pedestrians) and wine. Venetian hand bags and brilliantly colored Murano glass were on display. Little Sri Lankan and Indian boys rushed up to us with Hindi and Tamil phrases and urged us to buy trinkets and magic balloons that soared into the sky like rockets. I wanted to hug them all and the city for giving us so much pleasure, history, and romance through the years.

We drove back through the sunset, stopping quickly to buy bottles of olive oil and a thick garland of red chillies by the roadside, and sped through the thickening darkness towards Switzerland. We passed shining tunnels, now even more brilliant at night.

Just as the early morning skies brought up a glow of gold and tender orange, we entered Zurich city in the softness and haze of another dawn.

It was only after my return that I discovered that National Geographic had named Croatia the destination of the year! n Prem Souri Kishore resides in Los Angeles, California. She is a food writer (India—A Culinary Journey), a radio producer with All India Radio and Dubai Radio and loves words.

She freelances for various papers and magazines, and her car licence plate reads WRDSTRKwordstruck!

October 2014 | www.indiacurrents.com | 39

events OCTOBER

California’s Best Guide to Indian Events Edited by: Mona Shah List your event for FREE! NOVEMBER issue deadline: Monday, October 20 To list your event in the Calendar, go to www.indiacurrents.com and fill out the Web form

Check us out on

special dates Gandhi’s B’day

Oct. 2

Navratri ends

Oct. 3

Dashera

Oct. 4

Idu’l Zuha

Oct. 5

Sharad Purnima

Oct. 11

Karva Chauth

Oct. 11

Dhan Teras

Oct. 21

Diwali

Oct. 23

Muharram

Oct. 24

Govardhan Puja

Oct. 24

Bhai Duj

Oct. 25

CULTURAL CALENDER

October

2 Thursday

Gandhi Jayanti. Music and dance offer-

ings as well as special remarks. Organized by Gandhi Memorial Center and Embassy of India. 7:30-9 p.m. Golden Lotus Temple, 4748 Western Ave., Bethesda, MD 20816. Free.

(301) 320-6871. info@gandhimemorialcenter. org. www.gandhimemorialcenter.org.

40 | INDIA CURRENTS | October 2014

Festival of Marriage and Love, Oct. 6

October

3 Friday

Eid Mela. Cultural show, kids activities.

Organized by Eid Mela Group, VA. 4 p.m. Embassy Suites, 44610 Waxpool Road, Ashburn, VA 20148. Free. (703) 332-5189. khabor24@gmail.com.

October

4 Saturday

Heritage India Diwali Festival. Ends Oct. 5. Organized by Rushhi Entertainment. 12 p.m. Dulles Expo Center (South), 4320 Chantilly Shopping Center, Chantilly, VA 20151. $5. (703) 462-9222.

Navratri Garba. With music by the

Swaaranjali group. Organized by Gujarati Samaj. 7:30 p.m. Nova Community College, 8333 Little River Turnpike, Annandale, VA 22003. $10, members $8.

October

6 Monday

The Festival of Marriage and Love,

or the Gods of Egypt. Kalanidhi Dance, a Bethesda based Indian classical dance company participates in Opera Lafayette’s 20th season with Les Fêtes de l’Hymen et de l’Amour, ou Les Dieux d’Égypte, the last of Rameau’s large-scale opéras-ballets to be revived and performed in recent times. Featuring an international cast on a mythical journey from conflict to unity though expressions of eternal love. Each act is directed by one of the production’s three contributing choreographers: Catherine Turocy of the New York Baroque Dance Company, Anuradha Nehru of Kalanidhi Dance, and Seán Curran of the Seán Curran Company, representing Egyptians, Amazons, and Gods of the Nile. Organized

by Opera La Fayette. 7:30-10:30 p.m. The John F. Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts, Concert Hall, 2700 F St NW, Washington, DC 20566. $20-$95. (202) 3613067. kalanidhi.dance@gmail.com. www. kennedy-center.org/events/?event=RPOLA, operalafayette.secure.force.com/ticket#details_ a0SE000000Gu280MAB.

October

10 Friday

events

California’s Best Guide to Indian Events

Dandiya Raas with Falguni Pathak.

Organized by Intense Entertainment. 7 p.m.

Gaylord National Resort and Convention Center, 201 Waterfront St, Oxon Hill, MD 20745. $35-$75. (202) 596-2784.

Anupama Bhagwat in a Sitar Performance. Accompanied on tabla by Rahul

Pophali. Organized by Gandhi Memorial Center. 7:30-9 p.m. Golden Lotus Temple, 4748 Western Ave., Bethesda, MD 20816. $20.

(301) 320-6871. info@gandhimemorialcenter. org. www.gandhimemorialcenter.org, www. anupama.org.

October

11 Saturday

Haridasa Day. Celebrating the contributions of Haridaasas to the Bhakti literature, music, the spiritual advancement of devotees and aspirants throughout the world. Aaradhana will be inaugurated by Vidyabhushana and the grand finale evening concert by Vidhyabhushana. Organized by Sri Siva Vishnu Temple, Cultural Committee. 8:30 a.m.-8 p.m. SSVT Auditorium, 6905 Cipriano Road, Lanham, MD 20706. Free. (301) 552-3335. haridaasa.ssvt@ssvt.org, Cultural.ssvt@ssvt. org. www.ssvt.org.

Diwali Mela. Cultural program and pooja. Organized by Udeshi Inc. 12 p.m.

FedEx Field, 1600 Fedex Way, Hyattsville, MD 20785. $5, $3. (571) 445-0123.

Red Baraat Fall Tour, Oct. 12

Maestro’s Mehfil—Hindustani Music Concert. Featuring sitar maestro Shahid

Parvez Khan and tabla maestro Anindo Chatterjee. Organized by D&A Enterprise and SPK Academy. 7-11 p.m. Universities at Shady Grove, 9630 Gudelsky Drive, Rockville, MD 20850. $30, $45, $70. (703) 795-3019, (417) 917-7962. debutablaguy@gmail.com, axdhya@yahoo.com. www.dcimc.com/maestros/, www.pragathi.com/a/MDConcert.

Navratri Garba. Organized by Gujarati Samaj. 7:30 p.m. Nova Community College, 8333 Little River Turnpike, Annandale, VA 22003. $10, members $8. (301) 674-7880.

October

12 Sunday

Red Baraat Fall Tour. Formed in 2008,

Red Baraat is a pioneering eight-piece band from Brooklyn, New York. Conceived by Sunny Jain, the group has drawn worldwide praise for its singular sound, a merging of hard driving North Indian bhangra rhythms with elements of jazz, go-go, brass funk, and hip-hop. 6:30 p.m.-12 a.m. The Hamilton, 600 14th St NW, Washington, DC 20005. $22-$25. live.thehamiltondc.com/ event/667699-red-baraat-washington/.

October

15 Wednesday

Rajasthani Folk Music By Lakha Khan. Lakha Khan is one of the last

remaining Manganiyars to have mastered the Sindhi sarangi and to carry forward the centuries-old musical tradition of Rajasthani folk and Sufi music. He will perform on the sarangi preceded by a photo exhibit and introduction by Shalini Ayyagari, an ethnomusicologist who specializes in the music of South Asia. 6:30 p.m. Gandhi Memorial Center, 4748 Western Ave., Bethesda, MD 20816. Contribution requested at the door.

(301) 320-6871. info@gandhimemorialcenter. org. www.gandhimemorialcenter.org.

October Sitar performance by Anupama Bhagwat, Oct. 10

17 Friday

Bollywod Disco. With a Live DJ and October 2014 | www.indiacurrents.com | 41

events

California’s Best Guide to Indian Events SPIRITUALITY & YOGA

free appetizers from 9-10 p.m. Organized

by Movida Entertainment. 9 p.m.-2 a.m.

Sitara Banquet Hall, 44260 Ice Rink Plaza, Ashburn, VA, 20147. (703) 717-3239. movidadmv@gmail.com. www.movidaentertainment.com.

October

22 Wednesday

Indian Roots of Tibetan Buddhism— Film Screening and Presentation by Benoy Behl. Behl is a Buddhist scholar, art-historian, film-maker, photographer and author. He is also the director and the narrator of this film. 6:30-8:30 p.m. Gandhi Memorial Center, 4748 Western Ave., Bethesda, MD 20816. (301) 320-6871. info@ gandhimemorialcenter.org. www.gandhimemorialcenter.org.

October

25 Thursday

Russell Peters World Tour—Almost Famous. Organized by India Weekly. 8

p.m. DAR Constitution Hall, 1776 D St. NW, Washington DC 20006. (800) 745-3000. www.ticketmaster.com.

Diwali Dhamaka 2014. Organized by

Shalabh Ent., Manan Singh Katohora and BollywoodNightsDC Meetup Group. 10 p.m. Club Eden, 1716 I St NW, Washington, DC 20006. $10, $15. (703) 635-4200.

October

26 Sunday

An Evening of Tagore Classics By Aditi Mohsin. Organized by Dhroopad.

4 p.m. Holiday Inn Express, Grand Ballroom, 6401 Brandon Ave, Springfield, VA 22150. $15, $25, $50. (571) 723-1809.

November

2 Sunday

Bihar Brothers Dhrupad Vocal Performance. Vocal Duet by Sanjeev and

Manish, students of the Gundecha Brothers, accompanied by Ramesh Joshi on pakhawaj.

Organized by Gandhi Memorial Center.

4:30 p.m. Golden Lotus Temple, 4748 Western Ave., Bethesda, MD 20816. $20. (301) 3206871. info@gandhimemorialcenter.org. www. gandhimemorialcenter.org.

42 | INDIA CURRENTS | October 2014

Saturdays Balaji Suprabhatha Seva. Group

chanting of Balaji Suprabhatam. Vishnu Sahasra Namam, Balaji Astothram, Lakshmi Astothram and Balaji Govinda Namam. Followed by prasad. 9:45-11 a.m.

Rajdhani Mandir, 4525 Pleasant Valley Road, Chantilly, VA 20151.

Yoga Classes. Self-guided and instructor assisted. 7-9 a.m (Self-Guided), 9-10 a.m. (instructor assisted). Rajdhani Mandir.

4525 Pleasant Valley Road, Chantilly, VA 20151. (703) 378-8401.

Balgokul. Help children learn and

appreciate Hindu values through participation in Hindu festivals held at the temple, yoga, games, bhajans and shlokas.

10:30 a.m. Sri Siva Vishnu Temple, 6905 Cipriano Road, Lanham, MD 20706. (703) 338-5637, (703) 732-4732. ssvt.balgokul@gmail.com. www.ssvt.org.

Organized by Rajdhani Mandir. $60. 3-4 p.m. 4525 Pleasant Valley Road, Chantilly, VA 20151.

Yoga Classes. Self-guided and instructor

assisted. Organized by Rajdhani Mandir.

7-9 a.m (Self-Guided), 9-10 a.m. 4525 Pleasant Valley Road, Chantilly, VA 20151. (703) 378-8401.

Prarthana, Satsand, Prabachan. Fol-

lowed by prasad and Priti Bhoj. Organized

by The Hindu Temple of Metropolitan Washington. 5 p.m.10001 Riggs Road, Adelphi, MD 20783. (301) 445-2165. http:// www.hindutemplemd.org.

Balagokulam. Learn and appreciate

Hindu values through games, shlokas, story-telling, music, and group discussions.

Organized by The Hindu Temple of Metropolitan Washington. 5:30 p.m. 10001 Riggs Road, Adelphi, MD 20783. rsdiwedi@ comcast.net. (301) 345-6090. http://www. hindutemplemd.org.

Yoga Classes. Organized by Dahn

Yoga. 10 a.m. 700 14th Street NW, Washington, DC 20005. (202)393-2440. washingtonDC@dahnyoga.com. http:// www.dahnyoga.com.

Sundays

Share your health stories with India Currents readers!

Bhajans. 6-7:30 p.m. Mangal Mandir, 17110 New Hampshire Avenue, Silver Spring, MD 20905. (301) 421-0985.

60+ Senior Citizens Club. 3 p.m. to 5:30 p.m. Mangal Mandir, 17110 New Hampshire Avenue, Silver Spring, MD 20905.

(301) 421-0985.

Geeta Discussion. Explanation of various chapters of Karma and Bhakti Yoga.

Organized by Rajdhani Mandir. 4:15-5:30 p.m. 4525 Pleasant Valley Road Chantilly, VA 20151.

We are accepting original submissions that focus on health and wellness.

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music

Bollywood Music Controversy Old is gold or new is hip?

By Teed Rockwell

W

hen I was a student at the Ali Akbar College of Music in Northern California, we were told that Indian film music was a cultural curse that prevented the majority of Indians from appreciating their country’s great classical music.

We western students were told to ignore it, and some of Ali Akbar Khansahib’s best students were proud of the fact that they had given up lucrative careers as film studio musicians. Of course, we westerners couldn’t ignore the fact that our Indian friends were always listening to this music in their homes and cars. But because the recording quality was thin and tinny, most of us paid no attention to it.

All that began to change when A.R. Rahman appeared.

For me, at least, Bollywood music went from being a crude curiosity to slick entertainment, and I began to experience it as a guilty pleasure. This was unquestionably pop music, but it was more tuneful and original than anything coming out of America or England. I began to try to play Rahman’s tunes simply because I liked them, and soon discovered that they were subtler and more complex than I had first thought. Even more importantly, I began to see connections to the Hindustani classical music I had studied, and I wanted my Indian friends to see those connections as well.

This inspired me to create the style I call Bollywood Gharana—an oxymoron rather like “Rock and Roll Symphony” designed to express my desire to be both classical and popular at the same time. If Art Tatum and John Coltrane could create serious chamber music by improvising on Broadway tunes, why couldn’t I do the same thing by improvising on Bollywood tunes? I could never have imagined doing this with old Bollywood tunes, but with Rahman’s music it seemed a natural, even inevitable, transition.

Imagine my surprise when I discovered that those old film songs are now being called “The Golden Age of Bollywood.” Not by everyone, of course. Those who grew up with Rahman’s style of Bollywood will often politely protest that they prefer the contemporary songs.

I will attempt to give a fair hearing to both sides of this controversy, and hope that my relatively new entry into the debate will give me something resembling objectivity.

Recently, I have been learning and enjoying a few of the older Bollywood songs that my clients and friends have recommended to me. Perhaps I can explain what I like about both styles without having to insist that one must be absolutely better than the other.

There is no denying that the engineering and the arrangement in new Bollywood music is technically superior to that of the old Bollywood.

Rahman studied orchestration at Oxford, and has access to high quality recording equipment that was not available to the old Bollywood composers. That is no guarantee of artistic excellence, however. It’s very easy for technical excellence to congeal into predictable commercial formula. This occasionally happens with Rahman’s music, and frequently happens with his many imitators.

Conversely, lack of training can actually be a virtue if the artist is disciplined enough to develop their own techniques in isolation from the mainstream. In painting, such artists are misleadingly called primitives, but it is often easier for these so-called primitives to be original, and originality is the thing that differentiates good art from great art.

The Burmans are now getting their music performed and recorded by the avant garde Chronos Quartette because they possess this kind of originality.

Nevertheless, in my opinion old Bollywood relies too heavily on a combination of styles that don’t blend together very well: European classical and Indian classical. Jazz musicians said that European classical music was “square”’ because it was always played square on the beat. This was largely because musicians trained in the European style never improvised, and it is very difficult to write syncopations in sheet music. A typical old Bollywood arrangement would often rely too heavily on a plodding symphonic string arrangement that flattened out the rhythmic nuances of the Indian-trained singers it accompanied.

There are exceptions to this, of course.

Many songs have elements of salsa, jazz, and big band music, as well as the wonderful sliding string sections first developed by Tamil movie orchestras. C. Ramchandra’s

“Eena Meena Deeka” seamlessly combines Rockabilly and New Orleans Jazz in ways that would never have occurred to any American musician. I think it was because he never thought of the two styles as being separate—a good example of how being untrained can lead to artful originality. Because of the rhythmic similarities between Indian and American music, the Bollywood studio horn players captured more of the jazz phrasing than did their Anglo-American contemporaries.

However, these were first steps on a road that Rahman now navigates like a master.

The old Bollywood composers could evoke western styles. Rahman can write songs in those styles as good or better than the originals. He also adds elements from other nonwestern styles, including Latin American, Arabic, Persian, African etc. whose rhythms combine with Indian music much more effectively than did the symphonic styles.

Rahman’s eclecticism, however, is what probably bothers the fans of old Bollywood.

Because old Bollywood composers had a relatively shallow understanding of symphonic theory, it was inevitable that their music would sound unmistakably Indian, with only a few western elements added.

Rahman has such a command of so many different styles that he is now writing music for western movies. If this trend continued, Indian film music could vanish as a distinct art form, which would indeed require us to think of the old days as the Golden Age of Bollywood.

The only thing I can say to this is: If Rahman stopped composing music based on ragas and talas, I would stop playing his music. If old Bollywood fans would listen only to Rahman’s raga-inspired songs, I think they would be able to see him as the fulfillment of what they call the Golden Age.n Teed Rockwell studied with Ali Akbar Khan for many years, and is the only person in the world to play Indian classical and popular music on his customized touchstyle veena. You can see and hear videos of his musical performances at www. bollywoodgharana.com.

October 2014 | www.indiacurrents.com | 43

reflections

Butter Chicken, My Dad’s Way

By Monica Bhide

T

he prep work always began on Thursday night. It was 1980, we lived in the Middle East, and Thursday was the start of the weekend.

I’d huddle with Dad in our small galleystyle kitchen as he began making butter chicken—a glorious dish of chicken pieces marinated in yogurt, cumin, fenugreek, ginger, and garlic, oven-roasted and cooked in a sinful, creamy butter and tomato sauce.

“The first thing is the chicken,” he would say. “If the chicken is not of good quality, you can forget the dish. The frozen chicken on the market is no good.”

Working closely with his butcher—my father still has a closer relationship with his meat vendors than most people have with their doctors—he would pick out the best chicken and have it chopped up his way.

Dad began the marinade in a bowl filled with dollops of homemade yogurt in which he swirled his long, slender fingers to gently whip it. “Yogurt is the key.

It tenderizes the chicken, it makes it soft; people forget that,” he said.

My father is an engineer by trade.

When we were kids, he traveled constantly and was often gone for long periods of time. After spending my days at school, I’d wait for his return, rather irrationally, by the large windows of our cozy family room each night.

When he finally came home—from Beirut, Dubai, Alabama, Delhi, London, Kuwait, or Paris—he brought gifts of unusual foods like peanut butter, baked beans with bacon, Lindt chocolates, and dates stuffed with pistachios. But whenever he asked “What would you like to eat this weekend?” the answer was always the same...butter chicken.

After the yogurt came tablespoons of melted ghee and a large squeeze of lemon juice. Then a slathering of pureed tomatoes. “This is the real butter chicken,” he’d say. “I can tell you it tastes like the one from Moti Mahal restaurant in Delhi.

Did I ever tell you that this where this 44 | INDIA CURRENTS | October 2014

dish originated? Yes, the dal, the chicken, and the naan at Moti Mahal. I loved it. I will take you there when we are in Delhi next. We can eat and sit outside in the lawns and listen to beautiful ghazals.”

As the memories of Moti Mahal filled his mind, he would begin to recite poetry by Indian legends. I understood nothing, and yet his soothing, deep voice kept me entranced as he sang and cut slits into the chicken so the marinade would be absorbed. Then he added the chicken to the marinade, rubbing it until it seemed as though the chicken was born with the mixture on. The chicken needed to marinate overnight. And I needed to go to bed.

The next morning, I would be up with him at 8, ready to go to the market to buy tomatoes for the curry. Years later, when he visited me in the States, he was appalled I went to the grocery store once a week. “You buy tomatoes now for use on Friday? They won’t be fresh! What is the point?”

One time, after returning from London, Dad did not stop talking about chicken tikka masala—a British version of butter chicken.

“It had onions! Who puts onions in butter

chicken?…I found out that it was originally created using a can of tomato soup? Soup in making butter chicken? Who does that?” The rant took several years to die down.

His messy hands reached out to the spice cabinet for the treasures that made the dish sparkle. “Smell this methi, child, here smell,” he said. “When I was a kid, my mother would make it and it made the whole kitchen smell like paradise. Moti Mahal did not add this to their chicken dish. They should have.”

I leaned over and pretended to smell the dried herb, all the while reveling in the precious time with my father.

He’d place the chicken pieces single file on a foil-lined sheet to roast in the oven as we began preparing the sauce. And then he would fish out his ancient grinder. He would make me smell the pungent ginger and laugh as I scrunched my long nose at the garlic.

Both went in with fiery green chilies into the blender to make the paste.

Now it was time to cook. Butter would go into a really hot kadahi, a large steel wok-shaped pot, as he would regale me with stories of his college days or how he agreed to marry mom without even seeing her first.

Butter Chicken Recipe

Serves 4–5 Prep Time: 15 minutes and a couple of hours

to marinate Cook Time: 1 hour total This is my adapted version of my father’s fabulous dish. Serve this with hot, steamed rice or Indian breads like naan.

For the chicken: •1 cup full-fat Greek yogurt •1 tablespoon peeled, grated ginger •1 tablespoon peeled, minced garlic •2 tablespoons Indian tandoori masala (I recommend Shan brand) •¼ cup tomato puree, canned •2 tablespoons fresh lemon juice •2 tablespoons melted butter or ghee •8 skinless bone-in chicken thighs, (make slits in the chicken to allow the marinade to penetrate) •Table salt to taste For the sauce: •4 tablespoons butter •1 tablespoon peeled, grated ginger •1 tablespoon peeled, minced garlic •2 medium tomatoes, finely chopped •1 serrano pepper, finely minced •1 teaspoon dried fenugreek leaves •½ cup heavy cream •Table salt to taste In a large bowl, mix together the yogurt, ginger, garlic, Indian tandoori masala,

tomato puree, salt, lemon juice, and butter.

Add the chicken and mix well. Cover and refrigerate for at least an hour.

Preheat the oven to 400º. Place the chicken in a single layer in a roasting pan. Pour all remaining marinade over the chicken. Roast 20-30 minutes, or until the chicken is cooked and the juices run clear.

Remove the chicken from the oven, and place all the pieces on a platter. Reserve the cooked marinade in a bowl.

In a large skillet, heat the butter over medium heat. Add the ginger and the garlic.

Sauté for about 30 seconds.

Add the tomatoes and cook, stirring constantly. Use the back of your spatula to mash the tomatoes as you go. Continue until the tomatoes are completely mashed and soft, about 10 minutes.

Add the marinade you reserved earlier.

Add the salt, pepper, fenugreek leaves, and chicken, and mix well. Simmer covered for about 10 minutes.

Add the cream and simmer for another minute. Serve hot.

Monica Bhide is a food writer and cookbook author. Her work has appeared in Food and Wine, Bon Appetit, Eating Well, The Washington Post, and many other national and international publications. You can find her at: www.monicabhide.com.

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In went the paste and the fresh tomatoes.

He would stir, pause, analyze, stir and use the back of his spoon to mash the tomatoes.

And then, he stopped and pulled the roasted chicken from the oven.

“Now is the secret nobody knows.” He pointed to the pan. “This marinade has all the flavors from the spices and the chicken.

This is what makes the masala real.” He tilted the the marinade into the wok. I watched him smile, frown, and finally look at peace as the oil relented and the tomatoes slid down the sides of the wok. Then he added the chicken and cooked it until all the flavors melded.

My job came at the end. I gently cut the side of a plastic pouch of heavy cream and poured it into the chicken. The dish was complete. And it was time to invite everyone to eat.

One day, years later, my son asked me to make butter chicken for him. Reluctantly, I did. He tasted it and declared, “It is really good, Mom, but his is better.” Ah, the relief I felt. My childhood favorite was still my own.

I still needed my dad to show me how to make it. n

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On Inglish

On the Shanghai Bund

By Kalpana Mohan

bund [buhnd]: noun, (in Asian countries) an embankment or an embanked quay, often providing a promenade.

1805-15; < Hindi band < Persian: dam, levee; akin to bind, bond

W

hen my husband and I stood at the Bund in Shanghai a few weeks ago, it struck me that the word bund had to have been distilled from Hindi. A quick check on my iPhone after I walked into a WiFi hotspot got me my answer. The word bund was attributed to Hindi which had purloined it from Farsi. Bund refers to an embankment or a raised platform running along a harbor or a waterway.

I learned that Jews from British strongholds such as Baghdad and Bombay settled in Shanghai in the 19th century and built their businesses in banking, shipping and utilities by the Huangpu River. The term bund seems to have been a natural choice for a name along the lines of the bunds and levees in Baghdad by the Tigris River.

In Shanghai downtown today, the Bund refers to a waterfront area that stretches over a mile alongside the river. It is a dramatic, panoramic stage by day; it is a live and happening son et lumière by night.

On one side, beyond the waters, is the gleaming metal and glass of the new China. On the other side of the raised promenade, just abutting the road, is a distinguished sweep of consulate buildings, real estate firms, insurance offices and banking institutions that are maintained with deference to history and heritage. These old edifices with stunning mosaics, friezes, capitals and colonnades harbor tales of a China that once traded in opium, tea, silk and cotton. They evoke an epoch when Shanghai was one of the largest ports in the world.

When you stand on the Bund, and swivel around for a 360° degree view, you can feel a nation’s evolution. You almost understand why the government has squelched any literature on the 1989 Tiananmen Square student protests; you almost condone those moats around Google and Facebook; you begin to turn a blind eye to the frequent military drills in the heart of the city. Instead all you see is this: China has been on a 10% per annum growth in the last 34 years; its gross domestic product (GDP) is 9.3 trillion U.S. dollars making it the second largest economy in the world and in 2013 it contributed 28% to the GDP growth globally.

My husband and I were drawn to the Bund several times in a twoday period because it had a different appeal by day and by night. Still, I really could not see the need for more than a couple of terrific photographs. “Excuse me, the Oriental Pearl Tower looks just the same from a second ago,” I said to him. “It hasn’t moved. Can you please stop taking photos? And please may we leave?” He didn’t listen. I drifted off to a bench to rest my tired feet. Later, when he and I met again after a ten-minute interval and began walking back, he told me of having been propositioned, several times in my absence, by women and men, with the promise of a “massageeee.”

“Well, what did you expect?” I asked. This was China where you had to be savvy enough to not press the “massage” button on the hotel telephone pad unless you wanted service in your room, which, if and when you opened the door, could have far greater consequences than dialing room service for tea and cookies.

Perhaps that was why our host, Chen, preferred to never leave us alone. He made sure we had locals to guide us in Beijing and Shanghai. In Hangzhou, Chen escorted us on a public bus to a village 46 | INDIA CURRENTS | October 2014

where he then led us up an endless number of steps towards miles of terraced tea gardens growing Longjing tea. Later, after lunch, he ferried us to the lush Xixi Wetlands Park where, for two hours, we lounged on a shallow wooden boat. We listened to the call of birds. We sipped green tea. The only thing that knifed into the stillness: the cell phone trill of the boatwoman.

Like China, Chen was always on the go. During the week with us, he hosted several foreigners with different needs and plans, ordering elaborate meals for his guests of many dietary preferences, hovering over us with a bottle of maotai, juggling calls from his wife, planning the logistics for a tech conference, delegating his underlings to pick up visitors at the airport and spewing confidently to delegates double his age on technology, China and the world. No wonder he was a sweat factory: he was always wiping his face and dabbing his head and mopping his nose and blotting the dampness off his glasses and his brow.

A half-hour before we boarded our bullet train to Shanghai, we stood at the spanking railway station in the city of Hangzhou in Zhejiang province. Surely, this took some ten years to build, I said to Chen. “No way! This is China!” he proclaimed proudly, dabbing his forehead with a tissue. “That’s too long.

One year. 1.5 years at most! We have 1.3 billion people.”

I was computing by Indian standards. We had manpower in India too; but a two-line metro in Chennai had taken over four years and according to reports, its opening would be delayed.

We faced another challenge in India—that of maintenance of public facilities. Wherever we went in China, upkeep of the old and the new dominated the national psyche. Inside Hangzhou station, uniformed staff in blue walked behind me with broom and rake, gathering the dust exuded by my shoes. The station, with its thirty railway lines, was as grand as an airport in vision and implementation. In the far distance, eight uniformed staff clicked past us, spiffy in stiff skirts, formal blouses, bow ties, badges and polished black shoes.

Chen motioned for me to place my luggage on the conveyor for security check. “Yes, exactly like you would at the airport,” he said. “And go ahead, pull out your passport and ticket.” This was the China of intense scrutiny where everything was forbidden until sanctioned.

I scooted through the security gate. The alarms sounded. A security officer put up her hand and walked up towards me. She groped me in places that hadn’t seen light since the day I was born. I remembered that this too was China, the country with an anal disposition—in just about everything that it set out to do. n

Kalpana Mohan writes from Saratoga. To read more about her, go to http://kalpanamohan.org and http://saritorial.com.

viewfinder

Survival of the Fastest

By Kiran Ken Sampat

r

winne

D

uring a recent visit to a Tanzanian wildlife park, we saw a lioness chase a wildebeest. In fact there were two lionesses chasing the wildebeest. (My camera angle only captured one lionesss.) The wildebeest, though bigger and

heavier was faster and managed to get away. n Kiran Sampat is a Silicon Valley techie by profession and a photographer by passion. He can be reached at sampatkiran@gmail.com

India Currents invites readers to submit to this column. Send us a picture with caption and weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll pick the best entry every month. There will be a cash prize awarded to the lucky entrant. Entries will be judged on the originality and creativity of the visual and the clarity and storytelling of the caption. So pick up that camera and click away.

Send the picture as a jpeg image to editor@indiacurrents.com with Subject: A Picture That Tells a Story.

Deadline for entries: 10th of every month.

October 2014 | www.indiacurrents.com | 47

media

Status Insanity Why the iPhone is the perfect status symbol New America Media • Sandip Roy

I

In India the iPhone makes your life complicated before it makes it simpler.

A friend got an iPhone because she could not call Uber cabs on her Blackberry.

That solved a pressing problem—how to call a cab if she’s out for drinks and it’s rather late. Unfortunately now she is terrified she will leave her über-expensive golden phone in the cab in a tipsy haze. So she has to plan her social life very carefully. If there is any prospect of drinks on the horizon, she leaves her iPhone safely at home thereby defeating the whole point of getting it in the first place.

Smartphone, indeed.

I don’t have an iPhone and have never had one but it does not mean I will never get one. I have not avoided the iPhone because I disapprove of Apple’s labor practices in China or any such high-minded reason.

I do own a Mac and love it. And I have a Blackberry which I have no particular love for, and is not cheap either, but I stick with out of sheer inertia.

I am just a bit of a status symbol Luddite. By the time I finally get something cool it’s already well past its coolness expiry date.

Some people are just not early adopters. Oh, the iPhone is on Version 6? Where has the time flown!

I also refuse to use up my precious Internet bandwidth in India to watch the iPhone and iEverythingElse launch in far-off San Francisco live on my Safari browser. What other status symbol inspires that kind of insanity? I just don’t get it. Why are so many people watching the launch of a product that most of us cannot even afford, though Apple sales did go up 400 percent in India after it initiated its instalment and buyback schemes?

It goes without saying that the iPhone is a status symbol. But it’s a revolutionary status symbol. Unlike that Birkin bag, it’s a status symbol with really cool whiz bang upgrade-able features. That makes it a status symbol that actually does something instead of just sitting there, being a status symbol.

And while we might have to bluff as we pretend to appreciate the finer points of 15-year-old single malt versus 18-year-old single malt, everyone can actually enjoy an iPhone, if not for its features then just for its sheer aesthetics. “It’s not a status symbol to 48 | INDIA CURRENTS | October 2014

me,” says a friend who wants one. “It’s just quite nice-looking like the iPad. And it takes slow motion videos.”

In fact, Apple has made aesthetics a status symbol in itself.

“A Blackberry is far easier for office work,” admits a new iPhone user a bit sheepishly. But the iPhone is way prettier. “You flaunt an iPhone, but you don’t flaunt an Android,” the VP of a digital media company wisely told Bloomberg explaining why Apple could get away with pushing its older models in India counting on our appetite for brand “cachet at affordable prices.” “Affordable,” of course, being a relative term here.

Best of all, this is a status symbol you can carry everywhere. You do not have to awkwardly try to insert it into a conversation— like the name of the club you belong to or the American business school your child attends or the car you drive. You can just fish it out of your pocket and look at the time. Or like my friend, the new iPhone user, post a picture on Facebook and coyly say “Because I can now take selfies.” That is classy.

That’s what makes it a godsend for a status-obsessed society like India. It fuses what has become the ordinary Indian necessity aka a mobile phone with high-end luxury and in a way, strips it of any consumer vanity guilt in a country where, as stories constantly remind us, two-thirds of the population lives on less than $2 a day. If you routinely post photos of yourself on Facebook flying firstclass on international flights you are an insufferable show-off. But if you post photos with your new iPhone you are just on the cutting edge. It’s a status symbol that you can always justify—that Uber app, those Hyperlapse videos, and Instagram photos.

Of course, now you can take selfies and

Instagram photos on other smartphones too (except my rotten Blackberry). But the iPhone gives you that discreet extra stamp of authentication that smugly sets you apart.

No wonder in China, after the iPhone skyrocketed as a status symbol, a lucrative new side business emerged according to Minyanville.com: the selling of fake “has logged in via iPhone” signatures for users of the massively popular instant messaging program Tencent QQ. In China, writes Josh Wolonick, an iPhone transcends mere luxury becoming “symbol of wealth, but also of ability and of a kind of western independence that is taking hold, along with capitalism, in the People’s Republic of China.” And those fake iPhone signatures “allow China’s working class to share, however minutely, in the prestige of China’s new American status symbol.”

All this is happening in a society where I actually use the phone far less as a phone.

Most people who need to get a hold of me email, text, WhatsApp or BBM messenger.

Eight out of 10 times when my phone actually rings, it’s someone trying to sell me life insurance. And I ignore it. Soon we might come to an age where we wonder why an iPhone is even called a phone—just as some once wondered why a floppy disk was called floppy.

Technology was supposed to be in the service of man. But when, in a world of Google Glass and Apple’s Watch, technology becomes a status symbol, it quickly turns into an extension of our egos. The “i’” in iPhone is now the operative letter.

And soon we will have the cool new Watch with its dizzying array of icons and ability to tap-communicate with your Watch-ed loved one across the room. As comedian Ellen DeGeneres quipped: “So excited for the Apple Watch. For centuries, we’ve checked the time by looking at our phones. Having it on your wrist? Genius.”

There’s irony somewhere in this but until Apple comes up with a product called iRony, and livestreams its launch we won’t get it. n Sandip Roy is the Culture Editor for Firstpost. com. A version of this story appeared on Firstpost.com.