For the love of two grandmas

Uttara spent time with grandparents all through her childhood. We wanted her to learn Tamil and know her roots. We also were both working full time and thought it a better option to have her spend her summer holidays in India than at day camps here. She was not always happy to go, but once there was always sad to leave. Her trips to India helped her bond with folks who were less fortunate and in some ways got her to become a little more humane. She always shared what she was given with my mother in law’s maid’s daughter who was her age and they were each others’ confidant. Their worlds were so far apart that the gap was somewhat insurmountable to amount to a greater friendship as they grew older. However, even now they pick up where they left off.

She was lucky to have both sets of grandparents dote on her all through her childhood. They would vie with each other to nourish her body and nurture her soul. Grandmas would cook her favourite foods and grandpas would read to her edifying books and regale her with stories from mythology. They were all wonderful role models and for that we are very grateful.

Every time she left India she would be showered gifts all of which she has still kept, however small. Old coins, jewellery, crafts and cards. She in turn would write them each a note expressing in child like language her gratitude and emotions of sadness to leave them. She would also include a drawing.

Now, all grown up, she visits surviving grandmas every year for about a week. She talks often to them, on the phone. She always spends her time exclusively with them and they appreciate it. Her Tamil improves and she is thrilled with that. This time, adult like, she took them out for lunch.

On this trip, her paternal grandmother gave her a project which she took seriously and completed. She transformed a faded Krishna sculpture into a lively one, with vibrant colours. On his bidding, she also drew a picture of Krishna with a cow for said grandmother’s brother. But nothing for my my mother who may have expressed her disappointment, saying “you did not have time to do anything for me”. It must have bothered Uttara that she had neglected to please my mother. However the eve of her trip had arrived. The Krishna had taken all evening to complete and by the time she got to Amma’s it was 9 pm. Then the last of her packing. Next day, she had to leave the house at 4:30 am for her 7:30 flight. However, when my mother woke up early to make her coffee before her flight, she saw a hand drawn Ganesha on her side table. Her eyes welling up with tears of joy and gratitude she saw her grand daughter off at the airport, bestowing her a hundred kisses. Utta had stayed up late to leave something for this grandma as well!

An Uber experience

We had just consumed a sumptuous lunch at the wedding we attended in Chennai and were eager to get home and rest before the evening reception. Both my sister and I got out our phones, but finally she ended up finding us an Uber ride. We made our elderly mom walk the distance to the gate since traffic was heavy and it was not clear how long the driver would take to pick us up from the driveway. When we got in his car outside the gate, he was full of remorse for having made an elderly woman walk and asked us why we had not insisted he pick us up closer to the Wedding hall. I liked him for his display of care and concern. He dropped us off without incident.

Next morning I could not find my phone. I called it and a man’s voice answered. I hung up confused. After a few moments, I was convinced it had fallen into the wrong hands. I called the number again. This time I enquired, in an accusing tone, how he had ended up with my phone. He immediately expressed relief for having found me. “I did not know how to contact you”, he said. “You were in my Uber and late yesterday afternoon somebody riding in my car found the phone and gave it to me. I had no clue who had dropped it and was hoping you would call before I took it to the Uber “lost and found”!”. Flustered, the words tumbling from his mouth, he continued, not letting me get a word in, “I did not want to give myself or Uber a bad name”. We then talked about how I would get my phone back. The address for his residence was very far as was the Uber “lost and found”. He then offered to drop it off at my mother’s (where he had dropped us the previous day), when he had a ride that brought him in the vicinity of her home. Then came the clincher. I asked him for his name and number. He said he went by Rajasekar although his name was Mohamed Riyaz. I knew instinctively why as an Uber driver he had chosen to go by a Hindu name. That also explained why he was particularly sensitive to not being thought off as dishonest. Over the next couple of days he called a few times to reassure us that my phone was on his mind and that he would try his best to return it. He acted as if it was his fault, when it clearly was mine. When he did come, I was changing and he dropped the phone with my mother and took off in a flash. I clumsily wrapped my saree, rushed out to catch him before he got in his car. I thanked him and pressed a note in his hand. He was clearly surprised and refused initially, but did take it, upon my insistance. I know that he was more grateful that I thought well of him than for the Rs.500 I gave him for his troubles. And it mattered, I think, given the present climate of polarization based on religious differences.

Everywhere I went, I sensed a certain insecurity among Muslim vendors and wherever I could I went all out to patronize their business, over others. Everywhere they made an effort to find common ground in their conversations with me and I responded by making an effort to normalize their experiences as Muslims in India, asking where they said namaz and also enquiring whether they experienced greater discrimination now more than before. None of them openly admitted to it, either because they were fearful, in denial, or did not know me well enough to trust me.

Diverse communities which have cohabited in relative harmony are being pitted against each other for political gain and I could not help feeling a sense of unease over the tensions that are simmering. I fear for the irreparable harm it will continue to cause to the composite but fragile and beautiful tapestry that is India today.

A beautiful home, a solemn realization

Anish was uncharacteristically quiet. A precocious 8 year old he loves all things electronic. So when he quickly lost interest in my iPhone I was surprised. We were there 2 days after the house warming of their new home. Anish’s dad Ezhil, despite his humble earnings as a driver, had gathered up his savings, availed of government housing loan programs and borrowed from well wishers to build a 1000 square feet independent home with a terrace and front yard. About 2 hours by car from Chennai, the house overlooks acres of green fields as far as the eye can see, in a lush village in Tamil Nadu. Since he wanted my moms (mother, mother’s sister and mother in law), my sister and me to “grace” his new home, we rented a car and drove down. It was a balmy day and the drive along the shores of the Bay of Bengal, lined with palm trees, was magical. Midway we stopped for coffee and then quickly reached a point where Ezhil met us on his bike to lead us through to his village, set 8 km in-shore. It is a beautiful part of the country and I could see why Ezhil rode his bike every weekend from Chennai, to this paradise on earth. As we neared the home, we noticed a large group comforting a wailing woman. Her profound sorrow was palpable. There was a manic quality to her tone and demeanour as though she had lost her mind. She was not conscious of her surroundings. There, in the middle of the road, surrounded by what appeared to be a helpless crowd she stood screaming out in pain. My immediate thought was that this was a domestic situation gone wrong. She had been abandoned or worse yet, abused. My instinct told me to reach out to this woman in distress. However, since she had several people around her, we decided not intrude unless we were asked to help.

Two minutes later, we reached Ezhil’s home which was just down the lane. We were impressed by the vision and care with which he had built it. Windows all around streaming in natural light, a high ceiling, a large hall, kitchen and pantry and 1 bedroom with attached bathroom, it appeared bigger than it was, all shiny with wall to wall marble design tiles, multi coloured walls, kitchen with granite counter top and an impressive back splash with a generous sprinkling of pineapples for a bountiful aura. The fully tiled bathroom had a western commode and shower. The steps and stainless steel railing leading up to the open terrace overlooking the fields were both solid and strong. Ezhil who has no formal education is in his late 30s. He came to work for my sister over 10 years ago. He was then newly married. Now he has two bright young boys Anish and Nishant. We educate his boys, take care of the family’s healthcare needs and generally relate to them as family members. He in turn has reciprocated as driver, elder escort, carer, and handyman.

Largely because of the respect and care with which my sister’s family and mother treat him, he has grown in confidence to aim higher than the rest of his family. Evidence the thought, detail and effort he has put into his charming home. He has browsed the internet and scoured stores for ideas and deals, personally done all the electrical work, and supervised closely every aspect of the construction, as much as his free time would permit.

When we arrived, Ezhil, his wife and kids ran outside to greet us. But they were a bit subdued as though in a stupor. Everything appeared to move in slow motion. A couple of relatives came in to meet us, but not the stream we had expected. They offered us juice, some tender coconut and sweets. A young relative who has a photo studio came to take our pictures. Ezhil had made plans for this day and it appeared not to be panning out as he had hoped. Anish was moping. I immediately assumed it was because I had shown attention to a young cousin of his, over him. I hugged him close and asked him what the matter was. “Was it something someone had said?” He just refused to say. We spent about an hour and left laden with tender coconuts and some plants that he had given us as return gifts. They did not urge us to stay longer or eat - usually South Indian hospitality is such that they will ply you with food and drink.

Something definitely was off, but we could not put our finger on it. As we neared Chennai, Ezhil called us on the phone. His wife’s young first cousin, all of 17 had been in the house earlier, playing with his boys. He had then left to play cricket in a local league. The first ball from the batsman had got him on the left side of the chest, while he was fielding, and he had dropped dead. They had just rushed him to the hospital with a faint hope of reviving him, minutes before we reached. Those were the boy’s relatives we had seen on our way in. That night it was all over the news since the tournaments had been organized in connection with annual the birthday celebrations of late Prime Minister, Jayalalitha.

The loss of this boy under these circumstances was tragic. However, what was stunning was the reaction of Ezhil’s family towards all of us. They did not want to “spoil” our experience and so had demonstrated stoicism in the extreme. It symbolized for me how inequality manifests in Indian society. That even such grave tragedies of the poor must be kept private so they do not interfere with the enjoyment of the wealthier class. Even Anish who had been very close to the boy and had known what had happened, had been socialized into believing this. My heart broke when I realized that all of them, including Anish, had demonstrated such great restraint and resilience and had not to let their emotions show!

A trip down memory lane in Chennai

Appa and I had a special bond especially when it came to all matters spiritual. Throughout his life I sensed a desire in him to be meditative and self aware. He came from a family of atheists and so did not observe any rituals associated with his faith. His dad and brother were lawyers, rationalists and intellectuals who lived a lot in their minds. However, they were all humanists. They treated people of all creeds with respect and, for the most part, women as equal partners.

Though gregarious and fun loving, my dad had a melancholic streak in him. I could relate well to this. From very early on I wondered if this was all there was to life! Later in my teen years my brother formally introduced me to Vedanta through “The message of the Upanishads” by Atmananda. But my first experience of the mystical happened in my early teens. My father took me to listen to lectures by one J.Krishnamurthy (JK) delivered under a banyan tree in the open air ambience of Vasant Vihar, the Chennai home of the Krishnamurthy Foundation. I was his chosen one, to go on these jaunts. .
The wonderful dad that he was, he must have sensed that I would need these talks more than most, to get me through my choppy 20s.

I cannot say I experientially understood anything JK said. However, I was drawn to the idea of shedding my conditioned existence. I was also fascinated by his ethereal quality, his apparition like frame, white hair neatly combed over to cover the frontal bald spot, pale skin and pristine white clothes, his reference to himself as “the speaker” and the impatient tone he used when he admonished his audience with “are you able to see the truth behind what the speaker is saying, sirs?” He was advanced in years, so he spoke with effort and his hands shook as he wiped the drool off the sides of his mouth with his handkerchief. But his earnestness in trying to make one see through the shallow ego state we called life touched a deep chord. Even then I could see he had no agenda other than to make everyone see the folly of living as automatons, in thought projections, and as creatures of habit.

I remember hanging on his every word, etching the experience in my memory even though he wanted me to do the exact opposite. He wanted me to undo my conditioning and told me that meditation had to be the whole of my life - in every thought, activity and feeling, what I now understand as “presence”. But the phrase that stuck and that would bring about the most profound transformation and growth in me, a few years later, when I experienced my lowest point, was “the thought is not the thing described”. So simple and yet so profound.

Over the years JK has been my guiding light. He has helped me see what true meditation is. It was therefore fitting that I paid homage
to him on his 125th anniversary. I found myself in India and found out through a dear friend about the exhibition and musical tribute on the grounds of Vasant Vihar. It was an enchanted evening of mystical music. And his speeches were projected from under the banyan tree with a sign that said “Voice”. When I closed my eyes, I had the eerie experience of being transported back in time. His message is still relevant today since we all ride the treadmill of a conditioned life, afraid to jump off.

JK did not identify with the body mind mechanism or the ego self. He would have been amused by this deification of his physical presence. So even though it was a magical evening, tremendously pleasing to my senses, the irony of this commemoration was not lost on me!

First morning in Chennai

I always feel completely at home in India. Chennai, with all its so called modernity still has old world peace and charm. It is a city that has arrived at the present era kicking and screaming. There is a quiet feeling of timelessness underneath the chaos of traffic, which is not even that awful. The sky is still a nice blue and there is greenery all around. The buildings are shabby, the people unremarkable, not exactly preoccupied with the fashion of the day. The streets are not clean by any stretch, with leaves and debris strewn all over. There are stray dogs everywhere and there is dust and grime even in the glossiest of glass covered exteriors. And yet, it has a healthy aspect to it what with the moist ocean air, the bright sun, the lush greenery and a silence only broken by sounds of cawing birds and, in the distance, traffic horns and ocean winds.

When I woke up early this morning and sat to meditate, aware that the ocean was 100 yards away and the crematorium 50 yards over on the other side and I heard the cawing of the crows, I had a strange sense of oneness with something deep and primeval. There was a timeless quality to my breath as an expression of consciousness, and the spirit of my father appeared to be just in another realm in the multiverse. Everyone and everything appeared to co-exist in a suspended state, with no beginning or end. Alas my consciousness was still in the realm of the uni-verse but something in me felt part of all those other forms of existence! This place gives me access to the deepest recesses of my soul and I have dreams that feel so real the emotions from them linger and the tangible reality lends a psychedelic quality to my sensations that burst over to the brim. On my morning walk, I witnessed the beautiful sunrise on the beach and once again found my individuality completely subsumed in the larger drama of the universe that goes through its motions, as witnessed through the lens of my mind conditioned by time and space, but which otherwise has nothing to be calibrated against, and so, just is.

Etihad experiences

Dec and Feb

Experience flying Etihad

Best to arrive at the airport early. There are no kiosks for boarding passes and baggage tags and so it is a long and endless line. There were two lines, one for check in and the other for baggage drop. When the latter did not move, we switched to the former which appeared to move a little faster. After that it was a cinch. The carry on had a 7 kg limit so I had to take some stuff out for Suku to bring with him.

Boarding was at C35 which was a trek. However the lounges were in C33 just above it. And there were both KLM AirFrance and Priority lounges (2 of them - one was closed and the end there bifurcated to Bus Class and First Class). I went to the PL and to the Bus Class side though no one was noticing really.

The flight was alright. 33C was only 7 rows behind Premium Economy. The seats had leg room. Dinner was served after we boarded at 10. (Bindi masala, paneer, rice, cheese and crackers, bread and butter, kitkat, chocolate mousse). Then there was a snack (cream cheese sandwich after 5 hours). They came around for coffee and tea. Then there was ice cream. Before landing, dinner again (daal makhni, Gobi masala, roti and rice with fruit, bread and butter). Again drinks - at all times with coffee, tea options. Water was constantly served,

The entertainment was awesome with a wide selection. I watched - documentaries- Jane, the 250 million dollar cure, the Netscape story; movie based on the story of Tolkien and TV shows called The Good Doctor and Big Little Lies.

When I got off, I had go through security to Terminal 3, 44, which was a trek. I passed the lounges in a Terminal headed straight to my gate. There was just enough time. I had an hour and a half by the time I boarded.

The flight to India was unremarkable. It was in an old plane with no in-flight entertainment. I slept, having eaten in the lounge. My bags arrived very fast and I was out within half hour of landing.

For the last leg of my journey to Toronto, I was invited to bid for a seat in Business Class. I put in the minimum bid of $1130 and won. It was meant as an experiment. Given the length of the flight, I am quite thrilled I won! I boarded the flight ✈️ n Terminal 3. Business Class is a different experience. They have a separate entrance, guys who will help you load your luggage on to a cart outside and whisk you in. There are a number of counters and so you are issued a baggage tag with no delay. There are liveried helpers, once again, to load your bags on to the scales. Then there are the E-gates and security goes by in a jiffy! Once again, the security channels are exclusive and things go by in bare minutes. From there, it’s a 10 minute walk to the business class lounge / which is humongous. Poor features, just four toilets for such a large lounge. Offering you all the indulgences of the East, there is a spa and several breakfast stations, besides breakfast on demand. It was all very overindulgent. I tried a little bit of almost everything- a lingering case of FOMO. Fresh cheese omelette, toast and butter, croissant and jam, pita with hummus, labneh, belcher granola. Then fruit and half of my second granola parfait. I noticed the coffee station guy serve the white woman her flat white, before he served me my latte even though I had gotten there first - still a colonial hangover?! Maybe! Or maybe flat whites are less elaborate than my floral topped latte!

Boarding was easy. There was champagne, hot towels, magazines and then before take off, orders for post take off drinks. I mistakenly and greedily took the champagne, which I returned since it was cold and I knew it would not suit my sore throat. I ordered a Morroccan mint tea and settled down to write this journal.

I watched a wonderful British 3 part true crime series (itv). Had the Asian vegetarian meal which was pretty crappy - beetroot mince, broccoli, coconut rice, Kala chAna made like a puli kozhambu, a potato patty, besides bread and butter. I had camomile tea before the meal and black tea after. A few hours later had a latte which was served with cookies and then at 8 pm dinner consisting of kale soup, masala dosa, Kancheepuram idli and Vada served with just gotsu. It was pretty bad - I ate the dosa, a little vada and a tiny portion of the chutney but ate all of the raspberry mousse dessert they served after. Drank about 4 bottles of water. Watched 7 episodes of Big little lies. Drank a glass of red wine and slept a total of 4 hours.

It’s a long flight and business class eases it greatly. However, meals are at your own whim, which means you have to ask for it. They are responsive but you don’t want to appear demanding or greedy and you wonder if they are gritting their teeth behind their forced smile for having been given the unfortunate task of serving you. And with my voice still hoarse my assertiveness flagged a little - how odd! So when I woke up from my sleep I could have ordered a coffee, but did not! Was business class worth it?! Maybe.


Feb 1, 2020
So this time it was marked with adventure. What with the corona virus looming large as a threat for global travellers. My flight was delayed by a day. The next day at 9 I received an email that the departure time had been fixed as 7:45 pm. The crowd at the airport was horrible with passengers from our flight and a later one trying to board. Etihad at the best of times is extremely disorganized at the boarding end (for economy passengers). The difference flying business starts right there, making it worthwhile! We stood 2 hours in the line up to drop bags off. I got boarding passes for both flights (unlike some others). It was eerily quiet in the rest of the airport. Security was a breeze and there were 5 people in the KLM lounge. The flight itself was alright - unremarkable- but ok. I ate some dinner and slept. Then watched a couple of movies, listened to my audiobook and the time went by. I ate my chutney sandwich and croissant with coffee (great idea) as well as the bowl of pomegranate. I had packed some Murrukku as well which I nibbled on. I passed up on all other offerings and stayed clear of the sweets. On arriving in AUH I made for security which was straight out of a sci-fi movie - vast masses transiting through, mainly getting out of the Far East for fear of contracting this new monster virus. I felt suffocated and a tad vulnerable. This is not a pleasant time if you look Chinese and are wearing a mask. They have a look which says “ please don’t blame me or hold me responsible”. Even I felt self conscious when coughing to ease an itchy throat. Strange times. I sought refuge in the Terminal 1 Al Dhabi lounge - there was lots to eat and drink and there were comfortable seats, besides plenty of bottled water. I dialed down feasting on spinach soup, fresh hummus shaped like a small crater which was filled to the brim with the choicest olive oil, delicious fatoush salad, a spoonful of vegetable biryani with cucumber mint raita and some pesto pasta with sun dried tomatoes. No alcohol, no sweets and lots of water. I toddled out at about 1, bought some candy at the duty free and got to the Gate at 2 pm just in time to board. My audio book kept me company. I tasted a small piece of masala dosa and some pongal gotsu on the plane, tucked away the croissant and yoghurt to give to Ezhil our driver who would pick me up and slept till landing time. The knees were feeling the strain of long hours of sitting. I called Ezhil’s phone and Amma picked up. They were making their way to the airport. I mistakenly stood in the foreign passports line instead of OCI and so was delayed a bit. My bags were already off the belt and waiting for me and an hour after landing I found myself winding my way along the path with crowds of awaiting relatives, flanking both sides to reach Amma and Ezhil.

The virus in our minds

I do my bit to contribute to the globe’s environmental pollution. I fly a lot. Every year, a few trips across the pond to see the offspring and at least two to India to see the moms and other aging relatives. Other than that business trips, as needed. This time I am on an unscheduled trip to India. But I picked a day when all airlines were in a tizzy with the spectre of the coronavirus looming large. A co-worker returned to Canada last night with vivid accounts of the mass exodus of travellers from China. He said people had bookings on multiple airlines to guarantee a safe extraction! On his flight, Air Marshals hovered over passengers to bark at them if their face masks came off, except while eating. So I could not have picked a more inopportune date for travel - what with airlines bailing out on flights to China precisely from January 31, 2020.

However, the real story is not the virus itself but the anxiety it has stoked in the populace at large. Last night our flight was grounded owing to a “technical snag” ( read - the domino effect of the “virus” resulting in overworked staff and overwhelmed airline). Today, we are flying but, other than the super resilient Indian crowd at the Etihad line, the airport is eerily empty. There was no one when I passed through security, the duty free shops looked like abandoned relics of a past era and the lounge I was in had 5 people in all. I was armed with masks, having bought in to the paranoia but decided not to wear one since I did not want to set off any alarmed looks.

Hollywood could not have dreamed up a more devious plot to entertain and sizzle. A virus from eating bats triggers a global health emergency - sounds oddly familiar?? Is this the case of the tail wagging the dog? Another distraction story perpetrated by the Americans? A ploy to destroy the Chinese economy or to boost real estate prices in Canada, as this will no doubt trigger some serious emigration out of China? All these are of course figments of my overactive and agitated mind. I am a product of my time, that lives off social media fodder. We have gone loopy. Our problems are more imagined than real. JK says it best even though he lived and died before whatsapp and facebook took over our lives!

https://www.instagram.com/p/B2Gqb3OnapU/?igshid=ei1jj26com49

Truck de India - a review

Rajat is a young IIT grad who chose not to be recruited by the Googles of the world. Instead he hitch- hiked on trucks throughout the length and breadth of of India to write his debut account. He took me along on an engrossing journey. I met truck drivers like Jora and Jagdish whose hearts are large and who fight private demons, bhukki (opiate) and loneliness, on long hauls. I learnt the jargon of police corruption, with the use of words like “mechanical” to charge penalties, and the power of the dalals (middlemen). I learnt about politics and distribution of power, state sanctioned communalism and discrimination based on religion and its manifestation in the poor infrastructure that folks in the targeted regions experienced. I ate dhaba food, witnessed sandstorms, suffered the heat and the excruciating long waits from bureaucratic delays.

Truck drivers emerge as heroes everywhere, but especially in India where they risk their lives everyday, working under impossible conditions hauling food, staples and cement in overloaded vehicles, so we can all indulge in all-season foods and live decadent lives with nary a thought or appreciation for how we get to live the way we do. He makes the point that truck drivers, who are vulnerable to abuse by many masters, disproportionately bear the burden for our indulgent lives! It’s a highly intelligent, thought provoking read with great insights about the fabric of Indian society woven from its feudal and colonial past to the entrenched unjust, social structures of today. The writing could be a bit more polished (sentence structures etc) but that does not take much away.