Determination in Reverse

Heroic individuals surmount insuperable odds to achieve greatness. They persevere single-mindedly against financial and social pressures to achieve their dreams. But this narrative is about a person who did exactly the opposite.

It was my fathers dream that I become a violinist. He loved the sound of the instrument and during his own formative years had strongly desired to learn to play it. But due to financial constraints and other family responsibilities, he never got the opportunity. So when I was around five years old, he bequeathed the dream to me. Only I did not want it. I found Bharatnatyam with its beautiful clothes and jewelry so much more preferable to sitting around drawing a bow over 4-strings. Moroever, at the time, classical music did not sound appealing.

Given that we were in an place where carnatic violin teachers were non-existent, father started me off on Hindustani track with Mr R.S. Mr R.S was a skinny, kurtha-clad, partially bald Marathi gentleman in his 50s who was employed at the local All India Radio station. He patiently taught me the basics and that is where we got stuck. We stayed at the basics for years. Having no interest in the instrument, I never practiced outside of his classes and consequently Mr R.S did not see it fit to teach me advanced lessons– much to father’s frustration. Luckily for me, Mr R.S. (who incidentally rode a moped) decided to accept a job offer in the US and brought to an end our mutually frustrating efforts – to teach on his part, and not to learn on my part.

After a blissful but all too brief lull, teacher #2 was presented to me. Mr G was a scooter-riding professor at the local music college and insisted on revisiting the basics – again. So we spent a whole year before he (thankfully) became consumed with preparing for the festival of India in which he was participating. So consumed that he had no time for me. How serendipitous!

Unfortunately, by this time, father had upped his game and managed to locate not just one but two experts in carnatic-style fiddling. He was apparently determined to ward-off any potential discontinuity in instruction…so he hired them both! Teacher #3 was an idli and filter coffee loving bachelor who worked at a local bank branch. He had a fascinating unibrow, and his moustache, which was half the unobrow’s length, was equally lush. All-in-all, he was a hairy, pudgy, motor-cycle-riding bachelor who was more interested in regaling an audience (me) with his musical talent than imparting knowledge. Mom gave him coffee and snacks after each lesson. Teacher #4 was a old retired gentleman who bicycled miles from outside the city to instruct me – his lessons were intermittent.

As if these irritating classes were not enough, whenever “dignitaries” (mostly relatives) visited our home, father would casually but proudly, without my consent, volunteer me to play for their entertainment. Very much like in those Jane Austen based BBC productions where one of the daughters is randomly asked to perform at the piano while a small crowd of visitors sits around…

When I revisit those days now, it confounds me to realize that I made so limited progress beyond the geethams inspite of extraordinary efforts on part of my father and well-intentioned instructions from so many teachers.

What finally bailed me out were SSC and HSC exams. Both these provided perfectly valid excuses to discontinue further attempts by father to make me perfect the violin. Mom would intervene by saying “avalluku tution ka apparam timeay kadakyaruthu illai” (she has no time at all after tution classes.) Whew!

Lest I appear ungrateful, I am very thankful now for all the efforts put in by father and the teachers. Despite remaining a relative novice with the violin, those classes were not a waste. I understand and appreciate all kinds of music today in no small measure because of those years. From Debussy to Muthuswami Deekshitar, from Paul Mauriat to Harris Jeyaraj…and everyone in between, I can enjoy.

Meetup in Vegas. Hangover style.

Da Man asked me to check out an email trail from his college-group mailing-list. I did and was amused. The first email (verbatim except for name of the sender) in this trail reads as follows:

Hi Mubbers,
I, for one, will not be able to make it to the June reunion in Madras. I think many of you probably won’t be able to either.
What say you to a meetup in Vegas in August? Before school starts, and just us, no family, for a weekend. Like in “The Hangover.
Perhaps the second weekend in August, 8-9th…let me know your thoughts.
We will have a lot of fun. Let’s do it. Oversea’ers are most welcome too.
-xxxx

Let’s analyze the hive-mind of this group of grown men. First thing to notice is their moniker– Mubbers. The word, Mub, means under-the-influence in street Tamil lingo. That tells us something. At first, I’m tempted to wave it off as teenage stupidity because these fools apparently picked the moniker when they were still in college. But then I go on to see that so many of these men remain boyz. The invite has received numerous accepts. “I’m in”, “Count me in”, “Me too”, “Let’s do it” are the tame responses. The outrageously enthusiastic acceptances, which I can’t reproduce, would make any violet shrink.

And I’ve met all these guys, their wives, and their children. Everyone of these fellows is a sober looking professional. Each is a family man yoked to a never-bar-hopped-type wife and diligent school going kids. These men are, in the Vegas sense, lame with no game. I can only picture them in the casino discussing topics such as Tesla cars, stock picks, and the wisdom of joining a startup. In this context, their excitement to reunite in Vegas to cavort “Hangover” style, that too after leaving wife and kids behind, is more than a bit comical.

Couldn’t they just own up to their station in life and meet-up at Yosemite for a manly hike up the mountains? Or share a few pints in a sports bar within downtown San Francisco? Of all the places in the world, why Sin City sans family?

Here is some more background. The “June reunion” mentioned in the afore-quoted email is the one that has triggered this rush to Vegas. That reunion, the real one, is being organized in India by Da Man’s classmates who still reside there. I know because I’ve seen that email trail also. That reunion is to take place in a nice resort, explicitly welcomes wives and kids, and even lists out a variety of family friendly activities for the attendees.

It would appear that the Indian chapter is going about its business organizing a “tame” event in line with their proclivities. Da Man’s cluster of “mubbers” for various reasons feels pressured into entering a kingdom of cool. It is best that I leave this post by stating the obvious without delving into underlying reasons– there is quite the difference in attitudes, perhaps even world views, between the two classmate cohorts.

Tom Cruise, Marjorie x, and Macaulay create quite the stir

We swing by the library to pick up a “hold” for Bee. I promise to pop-in and pop-out, so Da Man and the kids wait in the running car. Automatic doors part, a swoosh of cool air hits, and then…I hesitate. Within the premises of our local public library, located right at the entrance, is a used book-shop. Despite being in a hurry, I am unable to help myself. Just 2-minutes, I tell myself. I scan entire racks of fiction, cook-books, political science, biography, and kids books. Then I turn around to take in two shelves of classics. Many familiar titles but nothing piques my interest…until suddenly, a tiny decrepit volume beckons. I extend a finger and pry it out. Lays of Ancient Rome by Macaulay. It’s a small hardbound copy. Feels nice and old and tattered. I open the book at a random spot and read–

“For the ashes of his fathers,
And the temples of his Gods,”

The tiny little volume is marked at five bucks. Something in me really really wants to buy it but there are rational reasons not to. First, I am not overly fond of Macaulay– his disrepute (he once wrote– “a single shelf of a good European library is worth the whole native literature of India…”) precedes him. Second, poetry doesn’t appeal to me– in fact, I’ve never even heard of this book. Third, I hate to be pressured (running car, remember?). Fourth, five entire bucks. Fifth, book-shelf space at home is in short-supply. Still, it takes me great effort to quell a surprisingly strong instinct to buy. The book seems to be calling to me but I manage to leave it behind.

Inside the library, I pick up Bee’s book. The “Holds” section is right next to several racks of movies. Once again, I hesitate. But I am already here– so I decide to take just an extra minute. As I scan through racks of movies rapidly, still on the move, I instinctively reach out for just one. It’s a Tom Cruise flick that I’ve never heard of called Oblivion.

Later that evening, we pop in the movie. About half-hour in, after surviving an ambush, Tom Cruise hesitates, bends over, and picks up a slim book. He dusts it off. The title is Lays of Ancient Rome. Hairs on my nape unfurl. On the screen, Tom flips open the book, these words leap at me–

“For the ashes of his fathers,
And the temples of his Gods,”

A chill envelopes me. Only a coincidence. But what a magnificent coincidence, and what are the chances? I make a rough calculation. At least 5000 books in that shop. I touched one. At least 5000 movies in the library. I touched one. 145-pages in the book. I glanced at one. Just this combination yields 1 in 3.6 billion.

On Monday, I head back to the library-store. The book is still there. I grab it, pay for it, and hold it tightly all the way back to my car.

Since then, I’ve finished reading the book and decided that the preface was more interesting than the verse (which has its moments, I concede). But as for why Macaulay was thrust upon me in this manner…this copy hasn’t provided even the hint of a revelation.

If I ever run into Marjorie <very-unique-last-name>, the name scribbled in cursive on the inside cover, I will be sure to strike up a conversation. Heck, I am even prepared to chat the breeze with Tom Cruise should he stop by my place for chai. But all in all, I won’t be pressing things anymore, so the wait might be long. In the meanwhile, I will endure Da Man’s amused glances at the book, which now sits on the side-table on my side of the bed.

Final notes:

1. Tom Cruise’s copy was a black-soft-leather-bound version, my find is a green-hardback. So there’s that difference.
2. If I had spotted a copy of Lofting’s Dr. Dolittle or Rand’s Fountainhead in the shop, and then run across the namesake movie (or a movie with a corresponding reference), would I have found the coincidence noteworthy? The answer is a resounding no. At first, this realization made me wonder whether I’ve made much ado about absolutely nothing. But then I also realized that my finger wouldn’t have reached out for these books and movies. So, if pigs had wings, if my aunt had a beard..and all that jazz.

Psychodynamics of everyday fashion

I’m jolted by a momentary flash of bright red and yellow. I don’t believe my eyes, so I give chase around the corner for confirmation. Indeed, what I think I saw is starkly manifest. The vibrant colors are affixed to an Indian girl in the form of a Salwar-Kameez suit and dupatta. The girl senses me and turns. We exchange smiles and the encounter ends. But this marks a first. The first time that I’ve seen a girl come in to work attired in a SK. Needless to say, the episode spawns a spate of thoughts in me.

My closet at home. An entire section devoted to Indian clothes, which see little to no use. Most of these well-made, dignified, even stylish garments have spent years on hangers or in boxes. For I never wear them to work, I don’t even take a stroll around my neighborhood in them. Physical comfort has nothing to do with my apprehensions, which are apparently psychological. To the extent that I suspect I might feel less self-conscious in a pair of short shorts than in a Sari while going about town– which is saying something– because I don’t favor skimpy outfits.

I sense and reciprocate the warmth and welcoming embrace of America. I know that even in my part of the world, where immigrants comprise only a small fraction of residents, Indian clothes won’t attract hostility per se. So my own circumspection puzzles me. Am I an extra-sensitive individual, perhaps prone to imagining things and worried about being exoticized? Or do my inhibitions have a basis in reality?

Chances are that it’s the latter. After all, despite serving as home to immigrants from the world over, there isn’t concomitant diversity of clothing on the streets of America, not even in the metropolises. Chinese suits, afore-mentioned Indian outfits, African garbs and so many others are almost entirely absent– the exceptions usually adorn visitors, that too of elderly persuasion, who interestingly exhibit a reverse-inhibition– they find it impossible to set aside their beloved Sari (or equivalent.)

In India, I wore pinafore uniforms, salwar-kameez, paavadais, ghagra-cholis, Sari-blouse, jeans-polo, and more. While there was often context to my choice of garb, they were displayed on street, at home, in school and college with abandon and without inhibition. A girl can wear the paavadai (from the south) in North India, display the salwar-kameez (from the north) in the south, and western styles anywhere — without having to engage in complex thought. Even on television, Indian and Western styles co-exist easily on the same show/stage. That’s certainly not to say that everything is welcome there. The “free spirited” woman still experiences self-doubt on Indian streets leave alone the beach for there exists an invisible “revealability” threshold. Even her male counterpart is known to come up a cropper sometimes.

So for now, in the USA, women enjoy uninhibited freedom to display as much or as little of their bodies but within a set of prescribed styles. In India, they revel in any style but must stay within prescribed bounds of “decency.” And the beat goes on…

Who let the aunties out

Great grandmother. From a poor family. Became the third-wife of a twice-widowed man old enough to be her father. Bore him ten children and mothered the progeny from his previous marriages. She lived and died without ever exercising choice in education, profession, or marriage.

Paati (Grandmother). From affluent (thanks to the serial marrier) family. Consented to become wife (at sweet sixteen) to a college-educated office-going boy a little older than her. Matrimony (and motherhood) ended her schooling as she bore kids in quick succession even before exiting her teens. She remains enamored with her husband to this day and the toothless recipient of her affections reciprocates in every way.  Thus Paati, who lucked-out with a good man, can be said to have done one better than her mother for she was denied choice only in education and profession.

Mother. From middle-class family. Did well enough in school to get admission into medical college. Her parents however dissuaded her from pursuing a career in medicine because the funds set aside for her were ear-marked for (her) marriage (expenses). So her male siblings went on to receive excellent education while mother ended up with an “ordinary” college degree. She subsequently began an office job until a man showed up on the scene and insisted on marrying her. She happily resigned her job to take up homemaking as her life vocation. The only choice lacking in mother’s life pertained to education.

Then there’s me. Let’s just say that while there were obstacles, in the main part they were surmountable. I haven’t been entirely denied choice in education, profession, or marriage.

That, in a nutshell, is a story that spans four successive (matrilineal) generations of women. The improvement in choice (and freedom) is obvious. The slope of the tilted playing-field has gradually become less steep, at least for the Indian middle-class. Every generation has apparently chosen to push the bar towards better-equipping their girls with the tools for lifelong security. (Government sponsored programs that offer subsidized education to girls also deserve a good measure of credit.)

All said, there still remains much ground to cover. A plethora of choice is not the same as freedom to make intelligent choice. Lacking the latter is also bondage, albeit in different form.

Switching into anecdote-mode. I just received an email out of the blue from a stranger claiming to be a relative (whose existence was unknown to me) from India:

Akka,
I am —, daughter of —, whose grandmother is the…<very convoluted family tree connection, which I subsequently verified>. I got your contact from —. I have been admitted to the CompSci graduate program at xxx University <located where I live> and I arrived last week.
I am reaching out to say hi.

I responded and made a date to meet her over the upcoming weekend. Then I checked her out on linkedin. Her profile revealed a B.S. in Computer Science from a top Indian University, a paper as first-author in a peer-reviewed International journal of some caliber, and multiple hackathon participations. And she isn’t even 21 yet. I smiled in delight…I can’t wait to introduce Bee to the new girl in town.

First-world problems: parenting

As a mother, I find myself having to take a stand constantly in matters big and small. In some areas, such as nutrition and hygiene, popular opinion is on my side– my struggles are confined to finding ways to get and keep Bee on-board. Then there are areas where I must wage battle on a second front– against gender-stereotyping and the sociocultural grain.

Bee’s first Halloween celebration in pre-school. I take her costumed as a little dinosaur. As soon as we get there, I can foretell the storm that is coming. Instead of encountering a diverse bunch of astronauts, doctors, superheroes, and the occasional dinosaur, I find that every boy at this event is a superhero accessorized with a plastic firearm, and every girl is a princess. Later at home, Bee wastes no time in letting me  know that she will require a “pretty” costume the following year.

Bee in kindergarten. Her best friend is a boy. They play every single day, frequently forgoing lunch, at monkey-bars, swings, and the like. They even keep in touch over summer-break and begin first-grade still best friends. Midway through the year, however, classmates begin to repeatedly inquire whether they are going to get married. The teasing is not malicious but it makes the best-friends self-conscious to the extent that they stop playing together at school. What Bee experiences in real-life, she encounters again in a book (from Dan Gutman’s weird school series)– where the protagonist (boy) is teased along similar lines. Now Bee primarily sticks to playing with girls on the school playground.

The toy aisles in stores do their bit in telling little girls about their place in the grander scheme of life. Aisles overflow with pink and glitter, with miniaturized versions of homemaking and vanity related paraphernalia. One cannot entirely escape this even in a LEGO store with its themes (for girls) that include beauty-shop, model-catwalk, and park-cafe. I’ve realized (but not accepted) that stores will be stores. After all they are in the business of sublimating demand after subliminally creating it. But what about schools? To my dismay, even here the messaging persists. Bee gets rewarded for classroom work/participation/behavior with assorted pink goods and plastic dolls.

Bee, a girl who was not intrinsically biased towards a color, type-of-toy, or gender-of-friend, began exploring the world with an open mind. She gravitated on her own accord towards objects and people based on her personality and preferences. However, popular (and contrived) messaging stepped in to interfere with the child’s inner voice and chip away at her personality.

Thankfully, there exist scattered beacons for watchful parents to point out (to their wards.) Characters like Hermione (from JK Rowling’s Harry Potter series) and Avatar Korra (not to forget Toff, the Kiyoshi warriors, Kitara, and Azula), the occasional v-blog in which girls revel in journals instead of makeup, Intel science-talent winners, the odd message pertaining to education from the White house…and so forth. All said, however, it remains a pity that parents must play David with slingshots against a Goliath-esque toxic milieu.

Finally, a more recent incident–

Da Man brakes our car to a halt at a traffic light. A gaggle of teens wave signs at us — they are fundraising and want to sell us a car-wash. All the girls in this group are in two-piece bikinis, the boys in over-sized t-shirts and baggy shorts.

“Mommy,” Bee says from the back, “look, the girls forgot to wear shirts and shorts.”

Da Man and I chuckle. “They took them off because it’s such a hot day,” I say.

“But why aren’t the boys feeling hot?” Bee counters.

I squeeze Da Man’s hand and decide to interpret Bee’s words as a minor victory. It remains to be seen how long she gets to retain this bit of clarity.

Recalibrate this spotlight: IITians

Preface for readers who are not familiar with the IITs: The Indian Institutes of Technology (IITs) are India’s premier technical institutions and churn out graduates who are considered the country’s best engineers. Doing well on the JEE (Joint Entrance Exam) is the only criterion (available to Indian citizens) for gaining admission to the IITs. A huge number of high-school students take this exam, only a fraction make it.

IITians have succeeded in assuming important academic and industry positions in India and abroad. They have ascended management ranks in various industries and begun to make the cut as authors, and even politicians. It is thought that even if the IITs themselves are not world-class institutions (in terms of facilities and research output), IITians possess world-class minds with a penchant for individual brilliance and financial success.

Against this backdrop, let us take a look at what happened at the recently concluded 2014 Annual Finals of the ACM International Collegiate Programming Contest. Even though it has the word “programming” in it, the contest is really about thinking up algorithms with the added requirement of implementing them into code (for validation purposes.) This is as level a playing field as it gets, a test for minds that offers no advantage to those with access to better facilities per se. Out of India, teams from all IITs participated in regional competition (within India). Several IITs, along with a few “other” institutions, made the cut for the international contest.

122 teams from around the world made the trip to Ekaterinburg, Russia to participate in this IBM sponsored event. 8 were from India. The top Indian team to place was from IIT (Indore) at rank 42 for solving 3 of 12 problems. They were followed by teams from IIIT (not to be confused with IIT), Anil Neerukonda Institute of Technology and Sciences (ANITS), and IIT (Madras)– which ranked 50, 55, and 63 respectively for solving 2 problems. The team from IIT (Bombay) came 87th by solving 1 problem. The rest– teams from Delhi University, Amrita University, and IIT (Roorkee) tied at the bottom without solving a single problem. Top overall ranks were dominated by Russian and Chinese teams. Within the SAARC footprint, teams from Pakistan and Bangladesh fared best with ranks of 25, and 27 respectively. The details are available on the official page at http://icpc.baylor.edu/scoreboard/

Rankings aside, it comes as a surprise to learn that the JEE cream solved so few problems. Even though all but one valiantly refused to be dismissed for a duck, they did nothing of note. Pedestrian would be a reasonable way to describe their feat. Since Computer Science is the most coveted major and attracts cream of the JEE (and others) crop, it is safe to say that no matter who ended up going, nothing was being held back. To put a positive spin on this turn of events, one would have to observe that students from the so called “also-ran” institutions did about as well or even better than elite IITians.

This article is certainly not intended to flagellate the participants but it would be a mistake to gloss over the showing. The results demonstrate that the IITs are filled with intelligent but unsuitable (for engineering) men and women. They are a subset comprising those that succeed in gaming the brutal JEE via access to coaching classes. The best-suited minds for engineering, the ones who might create original blueprints for next-generation railway, aircraft, power-plants, reactors, armaments, bridges, machine-tools, consumer-gadgets, and buildings are apparently falling through the cracks for various reasons, the JEE being one. Would-be world-class engineering minds rarely make it into the IITs via JEE.

At least some of the disproportionate worldly success that IITians go on to enjoy is owed to extravagant press and societal tendency to put them up on a pedestal; these ancillary benefits are put to good use by the pragmatic winners of the JEE. The downside of this misplaced celebration is that it comes at the expense of persevering technical innovators, those who could’ve otherwise had a chance to make a real difference. Instead the IITs largely serve as stepping-stones in the creation of capable administrators (managers) out of the very intelligent.

Today, it has become possible to make a case that the IITs would be world-class if they could be filled with better suited undergraduates. This is exactly the reverse of popular opinion.

How to woo a mofussil girl?

It’s one of my favorites, a movie called Manal Kayiru. I’ve seen this comedy so many times that as it flickers on the screen, I find myself drifting into the past…

Da Man. He squints down a straight cue, assesses various angles, and then shoots the white ball like a rocket into a stacked cluster. Colorful balls clatter off each other and bounce off green felt until finally…none drop into pockets. Da Man shrugs. His skills, which he says were acquired in smoky taverns, are on full display. It is broad daylight and we are in the clubhouse of his apartment complex. Let me teach you, he offers. I decline, shaking my head. Perhaps someday…

In a mall parking lot, Da Man lingers for a moment, fingering a random Harley that’s parked next to his car. When I giggle, he takes offense and pulls out his wallet to show me his driver’s license. What am I supposed to look for? He points to the letter M. He is licensed to operate motorcycles. We could tear up the mountains on the back of a bike, he says matter-of-factly. I smile, googly-eyed. Perhaps someday…

We are strolling down posh avenue. When I catch sight of a mannequin in an outrageous sequined gown, I gasp admiringly. Da Man shrugs. That’s a nice dress, he says matter-of-factly, you would look nice in it by my side at a wine-and-cheese party. My eyes become like saucers and I blush. Perhaps someday…

Da Man shows up one evening with a sprained wrist. When I ask what happened, he waves off my concern. He went snowboarding over the weekend, and suffered a fall on the slopes. “Don’t bother with snowboarding,” he says eruditely, “skiing is the better choice for you.” I nod credulously. Perhaps someday…

A movie line cuts into my thoughts. “..kaal kilo sothu le orrey amukku ammikitengledi.” The line startles me in more ways than one. It’s a lament delivered by the protagonist. “You’ve pressed me into quarter kilo of rice” doesn’t quite have the same ring in English. But in Tamil, the effect is electrifying. The protagonist has been hoodwinked into marriage and is venting thus in distress. I turn reflexively to Da Man. He continues to contentedly gobble down the rice and carrot-sambhar that I’ve prepared. Every now and then, he mixes in some appalam or potato-roast.

When he catches me glaring, Da Man bobs his eyebrows and smiles mischievously. He knows exactly what the matter is because I get this way every time we watch this movie.
“Is it time to return me to the store?” he asks.
I shake my head. Not today…

Licensed to Titillate

Each time I enter or leave the building at work, I walk past a waiting area in the lobby. Here I always pause to partake in cheap entertainment. I glance at the visitors to pick-out the ones who are here with a license to flirt. Stunners, dressed provocatively, with heavy make-up, ironed hair, and high heels. Sent here expressly to banter, influence, elicit information, and, most of all, sell. They ply their trade not for gentlemen’s clubs, but on behalf of corporations with the most cerebral of reputations.

I still remember my first brush with one of these lady Bonds. Her team and ours were commingling at a fancy restaurant over drinks. When our senior executive took his place at the table, Bond snagged the seat next to him. Rest of our side watched in fascination. Nobody could quite put a finger on how she managed the illusion, it was a matter of inches here and there, but it seemed like the tall blonde was in a state of disrobe while staying completely clothed. She flirted lightly but expertly, pacing the encounter beautifully. Our king, if not shaken was certainly stirred. When he invited her for an early AM hike in the mountains, she must have felt the flush of sure success because at this point she huskily asked him whether it was time to take things to the “next stage.” Much to his regret, our executive was compelled to acknowledge that he didn’t have cart-blanche. Satisfying manager-X (of female persuasion) with a successful pilot study was necessary to consummate a sale. If she was disappointed, Bond didn’t show it. She (kept the hiking date) however disappeared from the scene after that evening. In her stead, a replacement flew in the very next morning.

The replacement was a fine looking man who sat in our conference room right next to manager-X. By the way, if you think you know where I am going with this, think again. For Mr. Chippendale made no attempt to indulge in the dark arts. He also kept his business suit on, metaphorically and otherwise. He did his bit to regale manager-X with ordinary stories from everyday life but did nothing to push the envelope. The pilot study commenced that day and ended a few weeks later. A decision was made based on merits of the product.

I’ve seen such routines play out many times since. Male decision makers are frequently targeted, while equivalent females are not. The result (at my work place) is that men pull the trigger prematurely, while corresponding women make informed decisions. From one point-of-view, it would appear that women are evolving the corporate workplace. But then nothing of import is so cut and dry. There remains the expendable lady Bond and her side of things. It remains possible that everything I’ve observed is merely a distorted reflection of what takes place at the highest levels of…tennis and skating, where only women flash underwear in the arena. Perhaps it isn’t respect for the abilities of female managers, only cultural conditioning at play. The establishment might not be quite ready to devalue men, not even for a sale. So men in power are courted– by lady Bonds in restaurants, and urbane salesmen on golf greens. The female manager has to be satisfied with decencies and a job well done.

There is much that will play out in coming times. It remains to be seen whether, one day, athletic men will flash colorful briefs on the center-court at Wimbledon. Or whether everything will tilt the other way– women deliver the Lutz in “full-pants.” In the meanwhile, I can only continue to glance at the waiting area. And later on, when I inevitably encounter a poor product choice or shoddy vendor on the premises, I can marvel at the women and men who sell and buy (respectively) sizzle.

Sell the sizzle, stupid
It's the sizzle, stupid
Sizzle, sizzle, sizzle

Back to Square One: dil maange more

Where I grew up in India, custom tailor-made clothes were the norm, ready-mades an aberration. All garments, casual and formal, for men and women, for adults and kids alike, were made to order. The men and women in our circle went to different tailors, while youngsters turned to Mr. V.

Mr. V’s facility was 20-minutes away by rickshaw. A short rectangular man, of somber expression under thinning hair, he was also the boss of three workers. His shop resembled a typical doctor’s office in form but in many ways was more advanced in function. Mr. V made all his customers compulsorily wait in a waiting room but unlike the stethescope-wearers, this tape-measure-wearer did so with good reason. His waiting-room was stocked, not with trashy magazines, but with an outstanding collection of dress catalogs. Per my recollection, these were not re-purposed shopping catalogs– they appeared to have been expressly created to aid tailor-customer interactions for they contained no verbiage in them, only (comprehensive) style illustrations. Specialized Indian catalogs and ensemble foreign catalogs were both available. While the Indian catalogs focused exclusively on salwar-kameez and sari-blouse combos respectively, the foreign catalogs were all-in-one volumes with live models in pants, blouses, skirts, dresses, and even less-is-more costumes.

In the waiting room, Mother (who usually accompanied me) and I made it a point to peruse these catalogs to glean last-minute ideas. Upon receiving permission to enter Mr. V’s inner sanctum, we would take along the catalogs, now with pages pre-selected. Mr. V appreciated our enthusiasm, always congratulated us on our good taste, and frequently wished-out-loud that his other customers paid attention to the catalogs like we did. His words and demeanor would please us and set the tone for a productive meeting. In the ensuing group discussion, all of us would have our say.

Design elements from three sources were usually chosen. The basis always came from the outfit that Mother and I had imagined when we chose and purchased (elsewhere) fabric. On this foundation, we would superimpose recent inspirations taken from the waiting-room catalogs. Finally, the master-tailor’s own suggestions, drawn no doubt from quirky predilections that he had acquired over years. Once the product requirements were finalized, Mr. V would convert them into cryptic tailor code, take requisite measurements, and then…right in front of us, make the design come half-to-life by slashing on the fabric expertly with chalk. We were then sent home with a tentative delivery date, and the second wait began.

The delivery side of things was equally interesting. For one, it never took place on time. Then Mr. V and/or his backroom workers tried to make it up by exercising various liberties with the finalized design. What I had “seen” was never what I got. I eventually came to expect bonus features, and sometimes even entertained myself by trying to divine them in advance. Would it be an extra frill here, a bunch of unexpected pleats there, or an upgrade from buttons to zipper? When Mr. V would call to confirm that the clothes were ready, the suspense became palpable.

The excitement at beholding an outfit I had helped design frequently vanished in the dressing room. For it never looked quite as good as I wanted.  During these initial moments, I would cast aspersions on Mr. V’s skills and bemoan the form-factor mismatch between catalog display-unit and the wearer (me). And it would sink in that I was stuck with this set until until my next growth spurt, or Diwali, whichever came first. But there were also times when Mr. V totally delivered. The multiple pairs of jeans I picked up just before my first departure for America were better than any I have encountered since.

Once in America, I came to marvel at the superb in-store experience. Retailers provided ample opportunity to try-on finished products prior to purchase. What-I-saw-was-exactly-what-I-got. The menace of Mr. V’s surprise-element was rendered powerless. But instead of fading away into obscurity, Mr. V gradually assumed greater and greater importance…to the extent that now I wish the man would set up his shop a rickshaw ride away from where I live.

You see, once my (Indian) middle-class sensibilities come into play, available selections in American stores shrink dramatically. After passing on decollete dresses, frilly blouses, short-shorts, and flirty prints, there is only so much left over. Secondly, the styles reflect time-sensitive trends postulated by anonymous pundits, and tend to expire suddenly at their behest. Clothes with evanescent relevancy are necessarily bereft of detail-work of the kind that Mr. V’s team added even to jeans. Then there is also the issue of fabric variety and color. Dil simply maange more.

For whatever reason, people have continued to keep gifting me fabric over the years, and I’ve built up some serious stock. So I’ve re-opened my copy of Zarapkar’s System of Cutting, purchased a bunch of Simplicity patterns, and dusted off the sewing/embroidery machine. Baby steps…

Blue pill, Red pill

While writing last week’s post, my fingers pressed the words “penurious student” into service. Even as the words appeared on my computer screen, I spontaneously recollected two episodes from a distant past. Both contemporaneous, both packing a punch. This piece will describe those episodes and their peculiar juxtaposition.

I was then still in college. A semester was about to end, and I was eagerly looking forward to visiting home (at the time, that was in India.) My tickets were confirmed, and all shopping complete…when I abruptly learned that I should obtain some paperwork (the details are unimportant) from the INS before departure. My only option was to make an urgent in-person visit to the INS office, and do everything possible to secure same-day service.

Now there came into play the problem of logistics, transport essentially. It was beginning to look like two taxi-rides would be necessary. Both at odd hours, each prohibitively expensive. One to the airport, and one to the INS office.

There lived an Indian couple in town: my parents’ friends, long settled in the US, who had (and continue to) enjoyed my parents’ hospitality over a span of decades during biyearly trips to India. When I had landed in the US, I initially met them but immediately sensed a wariness on their part. Perhaps they were worried that I might impose unduly upon them. So I kept my distance, subsequently meeting with them only at gatherings. These interactions were cordial but infrequent. In this time of some need, however, I called them. They ever so politely declined my request for a ride (to the airport), only offering words of wisdom such as independence, and the American way. It wasn’t entirely unexpected but still disappointing.

I booked both taxi rides.

A little after midnight, the (first) taxi arrived at my door. I entered the vehicle to find that the driver was an elderly Sikh man. As he drove me to the distant INS building, we chatted. A little bit about where I was going and why. But mostly about where we came from, life in general, and his struggles in immigrating. Time swept by and by the time we arrived outside the INS building, it was 1AM. Before getting out, I offered him a credit-card. To my surprise, the man refused it point-blank. I was puzzled at first, then disbelieving, finally touched. I insisted that he take the fare, only to have him out-insist me flamboyantly, like only Sardarjis can. After all these years, I only remember the gist of his parting words- about me being like his daughter, it being an ungodly time of night, his best wishes for me in life.

I’ve reflected upon both episodes (always together) many times. Those who should’ve been enthusiastic to do me a favor had pulled a distasteful Houdini, while the man who owed me nothing had given me the sweat of his brow. The family-friends, who still continue to ask for and accept favors (from my parents in India) had offered banal words, while a stranger with no incentive had offered genuine goodwill (and more). Clearly, strength (or weakness) of character plays out regardless of circumstance while niceties are often circumstantial. And…somewhere along the way, I must’ve taken the red pill- so now I get to live in Wonderland and see just how deep the rabbit-hole goes.

Purse-string theory

As I putter about the house, dusting this and wiping down that, a disturbing realization dawns upon me. Every single item of note has been purchased by Da Man. Nothing by me. Sofas, television, cameras, computers, cars, electronics, kitchen gadgets, appliances, bedding, desks…on and on…all acquired by him. I investigate further, and to my dismay realize that even stationery, and clothing (including some unmentionables) came into the house via his credit card. Da Man: Infinity, Me: Infinitesimal is the score. My goals come courtesy of non-durables and small-ticket items, which second-graders could buy with their lemonade-stand earnings.

I don’t accuse Da Man of making a unilateral power-play because he bought most things either at my request or with my approval. But the fact still remains that he executed the transactions. Ridiculous or not, I feel deprived. Filling up with self-pity, I can’t help reflecting on how things came to become like this, how it all began…

I was a student then, finishing up my studies when I found myself engaged to Da Man. During one of our conversations, one thing led to another, until I let it slip that I did not own a suit. That when time came, I would attend job interviews in simple garb. My admission must have galvanized something in Da Man because he insisted on whisking me away to a mall. There he took me into Macys and asked me to try out suits. I spent the next hour parading in and out of the dressing room in various jackets, skirts, and pants, while Da Man did his evaluations. Three times he nodded aristocratically, and the corresponding combinations were set aside carefully. Da Man had faultless taste, he had unerringly selected the most expensive combos. All that remained doing was to buy one set. When Da Man boldly picked up the entire bunch, for one breathless moment, I thought that my prince was going to buy them all for me.

What he did next is the stuff of legend. After taking a close look at the items, he scribbled down some details. Then he put everything back and rapidly began to exit the store. I ran after him in a state of confusion. Once we were in his car, Da Man explained himself. The suits were overpriced, he said, none were on sale. He would find me a good deal. Despite being a penurious student, I was accustomed to shopping impulsively and allowing ambiance to sway me. So Da Man’s approach came as a complete shock. I still suppressed my doubts, stayed the course, and remained engaged to this man…

Fast forward a couple months. We were now newly married and visiting friends in a different city. While exploring an outlet mall, we stumbled across a haberdashery going out of business. Half-hour later, we walked out triumphantly with four immaculate suits. These suits were superior, yet all put together had cost less than one pair from Macys. Da Man had proved his acumen, and I had to salute the method in his madness. This was, to the best of my recollection, the moment when I handed over shopping reigns to him. In a way, appointed him the keeper of our purse-strings. How clever of Da Man. He had bought me pants, and in the process become the pant-wearer in our relationship.

I snap out of my reverie, return to present time, and catch sight of two items on Bee’s desk. Both pencil sharpeners. Both gargantuan, over-sized for the humble chore that they perform. Both purchased by Da Man. The first is a vintage mechanical monster, the second a modern electric wraith. And neither works properly. As a result, pencil sharpening in our house is a two-stage procedure. First, the monster is used to taper the pencil section, and then the wraith finishes the job- by putting a point on the lead. I decide that this is my chance to show up Da Man and perhaps even wrest back some control. I head off to Target to purchase a new pencil sharpener. Whether they are on sale or not, I am coming home with one.

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Da Man’s sharpeners might dwarf the one I purchased in both stature and cost (see picture)…but mine has the last laugh. It works.

Waiting on Mr. Krishnamurthy

Growing up in India, I didn’t come across many, if any, couples who sat down together at the dinner table. I suspect that my observation is not out of the norm because it is based on dozens of families- friends  and family alike. Aside from meals at restaurants and marriage-type functions, these married couples ate serially– first husband, then wife. And the wife always served her husband, the reverse never took place. This continues to be common practice in hinterland and modern settings alike. Whether eaten from banana leaves or stoneware, on floors-mats or at tables, with bare-hands or utensils, by bare-chested or suited husbands (or other elders), food is served by the Indian wife.

As a kid, I paid little heed to this dining-room dynamic beyond assuming that it demonstrated affection, and imagining that it strengthened the matrimonial (or familial) bond. I might even have rationalized the ritual’s origins to the demarcation of gender-roles, echoes of which strongly persist from caveman days. All in all, considered in isolation, it seemed a reasonable transaction.

But is it really? For the described dining room dynamic, as it turns out, is not a simple two-body problem. A whole host of other related customs exist that transform it into a special case of the n-body problem. These customs come into play in group settings and have to do with batching and queuing of eaters, server hierarchy, leftover policies, and server etiquette. Without belaboring these customs or going into details (and outliers), let me directly summarize each: Men (family and guests) are served first, senior women come next (served by younger women), young-women eat last (self-serve). Left-overs, on the other hand, are disbursed in exactly opposite order. The serving of traditional multi-course meals is elevated to art-form and instruction imparted exclusively to young girls– nuances of demeanor and hand-movements (with serving spoon), arcane rules of eccheyal-pathu-payadhu (and some think the Laws of Kashrut are tricky!), ordering of courses, etc.

In light of this set of ancillary customs (specifics will vary from family to family), the benign looking dining-room dynamic assumes more sinister antecedents and (future) implications. A menacing and far-reaching set of practices with interlocking mechanisms emerges…<stop>

I began this piece, expecting to make a few points, and perhaps even slip in a humorous anecdote. That’s not how this is unfolding. What was meant to be light reading has turned quite heavy. So…I am going to directly jump to a pithy conclusion and then let you join the dots.

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The journey to the boardroom begins in the dining room.

Epilogue: In 1956, Mr. and Mrs. Krishnamurthy named their newborn daughter Indra.

In defense of Mrs. Bennet

“She was a woman of mean understanding, little information, and uncertain temper….The business of her life was to get her daughters married; its solace was visiting and news.”

I begin my case by asking the jury to consider the most contemporary of settings– Silicon Valley, USA. Arguably, some of the most valuable entities created by mankind were born and continue to thrive there. HP and Cisco and Intel and Oracle– now old money, aristocracy so to say. Apple and Google and Facebook and Twitter– new money, the rat-pack. Against this backdrop, thousands of startups churn valiantly for survival, mind-share, and finally financial success via acquisition or IPO. Those who drive these enterprises are visionaries, forced to both create and sell. Their pluck, initiative, innovation, and risk-taking are universally lauded. These men are tabbed warriors, even potential leaders in the making.

Let us now transport ourselves to times when law of the land prohibited women from inheritance, and social norms limited both education and profession. To a place where the sole path to respectable survival and financial security tunneled via marriage. When absence of dowry amplified matrimonial challenge. Money wasn’t made, only transferred…to males. Against this backdrop, Mrs. Bennet finds herself in charge of five daughters (products) that she must marry off well (product placement).

Should she take the lead of the lackadaisical Mr. Bennet and sit back waiting for something good to happen…while her products lose relevance by the day? Or should she take initiative, keep close tabs on market movements, cold-call potential customers, network like crazy, and thrust her products into every available limelight?

Needless to say, Mrs. Bennett did not take Mr. Bennet’s example. She persisted valiantly (and as it turned out victoriously) from beginning to end. Mrs. Bennet’s existence, apparently grotesque and incomprehensible to many, saved her daughters. For all her efforts however, Mrs. Bennett finds herself immortalized only as a garish and pushy woman with no tact or polish. Even worse, her very motives are considered anti-modern and unworthy.

Mr. Bennet, on the other hand, is universally portrayed as a great dad. This is the hands-off parent who left his girls to do their own thing, paid absolutely no heed to their long-term security, and spent most of his time in the comfort of his study. Even when he came down to dinner, he usually took pleasure in regaling the available audience at the expense of his wife. Such a man, who tackled none of his responsibilities, the world has placed on a pedestal.

I don’t write this in the name of literary criticism as much as make social observation. We continue to hold Mrs. Bennet in disdain, and take pleasure in Mr. Bennet’s clever repartee. For some reason, we simply don’t want to hear the truth. At the same time, deep down, in places we don’t talk about at parties, we want Mrs. Bennet out there doing her job. And we keep words like pluck, initiative, innovation, and risk-taking reserved for the likes of Twitter-boys.

It’s about time that Mrs. Bennet waved the edge of her petticoat, took a bow, and roared: “I have neither the time nor the inclination to explain myself to those who rise and sleep under the blanket of the very freedom I provide, then question the manner in which I provide it! I’d rather you just said thank you and went on your way.”

Eco Otaku

There was a time when I didn’t discriminate between types of rubbish. Until I encountered color-coded waste bins, and met our conscientious neighbors, the idea of recycling was an afterthought. But now I do my part. Containers of all sorts are sorted and disposed off via the aforementioned bins. Strong totes are de rigueur for shopping, plastic bags forgone. Under my tutelage, Da Man has been known to watch the occasional episode of Living with Ed. I’ve even devised and completed a “many mangoes with one stone” project– Bee’s pre-K “art work” now adorns dozens of lowly milk cartons, transforming them into storage containers with function and pleasant form.

That boast aside, I am a rank amateur and can’t hold a candle to Paati (grandma), extreme-recycler extraordinaire. Her recycling mindset might have ancient origins and be borne of economic necessity, but undeniably anticipated many of today’s eco innovations.

Well before birth of the first thread-banger, Paati had mastered the re-purposing of used-clothes and upholstry with her own (foot-powered) sewing machine. Pillow-covers, totes, purses, footmats, placement mats, dusting cloths, mop-ends, dish-rags…you name it, she made it. Her genius for categorizing discards by fabric type and degree of wear was something else. To illustrate, what was a functional curtain in year of the monkey became a tote in year of the dragon, and might well peer at up at me in the form of a footmat when I vist her next (year of horse hopefully).

Then there are the plastic and tin containers that hark back to a bygone era. The parent companies that made the products emblazoned on their sides have ceased to exist, but shadows of their creations continue to revel on Paati’s kitchen shelves. I am not a fan of opacity in the kitchen, but it works for her, and miraculously looks good. It’s a delight to see the twinkle in her eye when she points to many a gleaming stainless steel utensil, each acquired by bartering plastic milk packets and reams of vernacular periodicals. She even recycles cream, collected over a span of weeks, by converting it into ghee. In addition to all this, she lives according to a whole set of principles that minimize wastage. In other words, she’s actually recycling from a stream that she has already reduced to a trickle.

Like many a previous post, I began writing without having an “ending” for the script. Now that I’ve painted myself into a corner, let me try to escape by relating an anecdote and then catch a glimpse of the future through Paati’s eyes–

A few years ago, I had presented paati with a Swiffer mop and duster. On that occasion, after demo-ing the duster and mop, I tossed the disposable duster-cloths into the wastepaper basket…only to find them a few hours later, rinsed and drying on the clothesline. I remember marveling that this old woman, who didn’t get to complete class-10, is the biggest nightmare for the “Freebie Marketing model.” Perhaps that was Paati anticipating yet another trend. You see, Da Man switched recently to wielding an open-razor. And just this year, I became reintroduced to the art of using the fountain-pen (non-cartridge).