Finding Grace

So I think this might be the final chapter of my blog. While I am still not a hundred percent sure about this decision, and I reserve the right to change my mind at any moment – I have a feeling that this is it. And I have my reasons. I mean no one reads my blog really ( my readership includes four friends, one teenage boy from upstate New York and some random passerbys); the words don’t flow as effortlessly as they used to; everyone and their cousin has a blog (even my uncle has a blog); I have moved departments and have way too much work to blog (and somehow I’m inspired to write only when I am in the office), and most importantly it’s time. When the solar system as you know it changes, then you know its time to move on. As the song says, time to turn, turn, turn. So I am saying goodbye to Pluto and my blog.

When I started this blog almost two years ago in the orange –amber days of fall, I didn’t really have an agenda - all I had was words. And I had this sense – of looking, searching – of trying to find grace. So for those of you who’ve wondered what the title is all about - this is it. Most literally, it is a biblical term that means divine love and protection (and I once got an email from some Evangelical Christian type guy saying he loved the title.), but for me it is that place where “everything’s ok.” We live in a world that is fraught with disillusionment, heartbreak, and pain, and through it all, grace knows that no matter what – it’s ok. Typically, we humans tend to fall from grace because of our stupidity and silliness, but I believe that through all our mistakes and failures – we actually find it. As we go through life and stumble and fall, we rise to grace.

“Grace in that force that infuses our lives, that keeps letting us off the hook. It is unearned and gratuitous love; the love that goes before, that greets us on the way. It's the help you receive when you have no bright ideas left, when you are empty and desperate and have discovered that your best thinking and most charming charm have failed you; grace is the light or electricity or juice or breeze that takes you from that isolated place and puts you with others who are as startled and embarrassed and eventually grateful as you are to be there. “

These aren’t my words but something that I read in this book – Plan B. Before I go on to rave about this book, let me put in a quick disclaimer to say that this is not about religion even though Anne Lamott is a devout Christian. But the book is wonderfully written and funny. And I wish I had her way with words.

Everything feels crazy," writes Lamott, adding, "But on small patches of earth all over, I can see just as much messy grace as ever…'It meets us where we are but does not leave us where it found us.'”

The thing is that in life things don’t always work out the way you plan. But there’s grace. Grace that lets us know that even if things aren’t working exactly according to plan – it will still be OK. Because if Plan A isn’t working out, there is a Plan B. And Plan B doesn’t really require that much planning – all it asks is that we just show up. That we make ourselves get up in the morning and breathe.

So that’s what I am going to do. Breathe. I’ll still be writing. I’ve been keeping a journal for sometime now – and recently, I read some stuff that had written two or three years ago – and was struck by certain things. One – my life is quite boring. Two – I have a remarkable capacity to obsess and overanalyse (I have a five page entry revolving around a futon, a friend and a conversation, a eighteen page entry on a guy I met in New York and a phone call). And three – there’s been so much of grace in my life. I had been looking for it – only to find that I had it all along.

And that’s why I feel it’s time. And even though like the characters in my stories, I am still looking and searching – I have a feeling that we all will be ok.

Longings

Drops of water trickled down the window. And as the train gathered momentum, the world outside became increasingly blurred. Two women dressed in brightly colored salwar kameez.; a lone bicyclist; a hand pump; patches of mustard flowers. Vishal wiped the glass with his palm to take one last look at the world he was leaving behind.

He had lived in Haldwani – a small town in the foothills of the Himalayas – for the better part of his twenty one years. His father owned a small grocery store where he occasionally helped out in the evenings. For Vishal, his true home, however were the hills that surrounded his town. He knew every color, every mood, every sound, and every legend behind those hills. While in college, he had exploited his intimate knowledge of the area and acted as a tour guide. He was an instant hit with Durga Puja Bengali crowd. Vishal was content with his life, he wanted nothing more but his parents, and especially his mother did.

Like most middle class parents, she wanted more for her son. It was her ambition for her son that had brought them to Haldwani in the first place. Till he was eight years old, Vishal had lived in a small village in Champawat. But his mother wanted him to go to one of the fancy English medium schools in Dehradun. Fortunately or unfortunately, his father had not been able to afford the move to Dehradun , so they settled for Haldwani instead – and his mother was relatively satisfied with the fact that her son had secured admission in St. Johns – which was an English Medium Convent. Vishal’s mother had also made him pursue computer classes along with his degree in commerce. Vishal never protested – he had always gone along with what his parents thought was best for him. So when an uncle made him an offer to work at a BPO in Delhi with a relatively good salary, and his parents seemed excited at the prospect – he accepted. Most people his age would have been thrilled to leave a small town for the pleasures of a big city, but as the train pulled further away – he felt a strange heaviness settle inside him.

Vishal heard a thud that pulled him put of his reverie. He saw a young woman trying to lug two big suitcases. He instinctively got up to help. The woman said, “Thank you, “and smiled. For some reason, he felt acutely embarrassed by her smile – he turned around and buried his face in the window.
A few minutes later, the woman unpacked a box of food, and tapped him on the shoulder and said, “Would you like some.” Once again, Vishal was flustered – he felt his throat constrict and all he could manage to do was shake his head feebly.
The woman laughed and said , “Don’t be shy – go ahead.”
Her laughter was full throated and free, and with her laugh Vishal’s inhibitions came undone.
They spent the rest of the night talking. Even after the switched off the lights, they lay on the respective berths and spoke in hushed whispers. Their thoughts floated up and enveloped each other as the train rhythmically rumbled into the night.

Vishal knew very little about the woman, except that her name was Gayatri. He didn’t know what age she was – he guessed anywhere between twenty five and thirty five. She didn’t have any of the wide-eyed naiveté or brashness of youth, but nor was she jaded like most adults tend to be. She was somewhere in between youth and adulthood. He also had no idea where she was from. He didn’t think she was from the hills because she wasn’t fair skinned and pink cheeked like the girls from his hometown. She could have been married, with kids – he had no idea. All he knew that there was something about her that held a strange allure.

He didn’t realize when he fell asleep, and when Vishal awoke the train was nearing its destination Delhi. He jumped off his berth, and saw that Gayatri was already up and ready to go. As the train approached the station, he once again helped her with her luggage. She smiled at him. And once more, he felt flush with embarrassment. She handed him a piece of paper with her name and cell phone number, and said, “Call me if you want.” And he was left clutching a piece of paper.

---------------------------------

A string of alphabets flickered across the monitor. Vishal stared at the screen unable to comprehend what it meant. He heard the buzz of the neon lights, the indistinct chatter of his colleagues; the incessant clicks of the keyboard. Every sound seemed louder than usual. His head hurt unbearably. He almost wished that his head would explode , so that all that was seething and churning inside it would blow up in smoke.

Vishal had been in Delhi for a little over a month, and had settled in with relatively little discomfort. He had found a flat which he shared with two other boys – one fro Jaipur and the other from Aligarh. He found that the work he was assigned to do was not particularly challenging, and he had more than enough money to meet his expenses. But while his roommates reveled in their new found disposal income, and splurged at multi-plex cinemas , malls, and restaurants that had mushroomed all over, Vishal still yearned for his hills. He missed the familiarity of the street that he grew up in, the rickety tea stall where Sunder sold sweet milky tea in tiny little glasses. Most of all, he yearned for the woman he had met on the train.

It was a yearning that consumed him. The office, his work, his roommates, watching television – all seemed unreal and pointless. His only connection to anything real in this strange and new city was Gayatri. It was a connection that was fierce and palpitating – it was the only thing that made him feel alive – so he hung on to it with every fibre of his being, even though he knew that it was a connection that was tenuous at best. Just a night on a train. He knew nothing about the woman – neither her past nor her future. He wasn’t even sure what he was yearning for. Like most 21 year old boys, he often had sexual fantasies about women but he knew that this wasn’t lust, but he wasn’t sure if this was love. He often thought about calling her, but was never quite sure what he would say. “Will you marry me? Will you have coffee with me? Will you have sex with me.? And he wondered how she would react – maybe she was already married or had a boyfriend, maybe all he was to her was a casual conversation – or was she thinking about him as much as he was.

He walked through life in a daze – all he could think of was Gayatri and the piece of paper on which she had written her phone number. One day on his way back from work, he decided that he would call her – at the very least he wanted to meet her again. He would know then if this would lead to something. Two cars whizzed past him, as he took out his cell phone from his shirt pocket. He took a deep breath and dialed the number – 984560224. He heard a ring at the other end; a faint click; and a familiar voice that said hello. His throat constricted. He fumbled and hung up. He realized that he was not yet ready to let go of his longings.

The shades of green

Everything was bathed in an orange heat. There was nothing to shield the road from the sun’s fury – just a few large single storied buildings, and a vast expanse of emptiness. She checked her rear view mirror and saw two cars and another SUV.

Parvati turned on the radio. She found a country music station. She hated country music. She punched the seek button furiously - hip hop, classical, country music again, eighties love songs, some woman selling mattresses, country music again, some man selling Jesus. Static. Country music. After a few minutes, she gave up in frustration.

The signboard for the strip mall where the grocery store was located loomed up in front of her. “Shopper’s Delight. Best prices guaranteed” The parking lot was almost deserted. It was three in the afternoon. And in a town where nothing much happened in any case, three pm was a particularly uneventful time of day. A heavy stillness descended on the entire place. It seemed like a struggle to move. Sometimes Parvati felt that it was hard to even breathe.

There were a few stray shoppers there. A white old lady entered the store with her. She had poofy blonde hair that was carefully arranged to hide the baldness within. The aisles were a vision of plenty. Shelves and shelves filled with cartons and cans of all colors, shapes and sizes. A cornucopia of consumption.

She walked through the aisles – looking but unable to focus. She pulled out her grocery list from her purse. She needed to buy some things for the party on the weekend. Every month, one Indian family would host a party where other Indians in Edmund were invited. When she came here twelve years ago from Detroit, there were twenty Indian families and she knew all of them. Now there were more than a hundred, and she didn’t even know all the Telugu families even though she knew of them. Edmund even had its own Indian store now with avakkai pickles, dals, spices, and new Telugu and Hindi DVDS. For her husband, Charvarti, the Indian store had made life in Edmund, Oklahoma very livable. He desired nothing more than his pessaruttu and podi. After more than twenty years in America, he still had not developed a taste for pizza and pasta. He insisted on Indian food everyday. Even matar paneer was too exotic for his taste buds. And for this weekend’s party, she would be putting on an Indian spread. It would be completely vegetarian, and completely tried and tested. As a young bride, she had experimented with her cooking – wanting to impress her new husband. But she soon realized that her husband preferred the old and familiar. So for the last twelve years in Edmund, they had had the same friends, had the same meals, and had the same conversations. Conversations about which college their kids were going to, conversation about the cheapest fares to India, conversations about cricket and politics back home, conversations about property prices, and conversations about saris that women displayed as treasured conquests after their annual holiday to India.

Parvati picked up a bottle of canola oil, and as she was pulling her hand back – there was a loud crash. Six glass jars of olives splintered on to the floor. Shards of glass. Pieces of green bounced and skipped. Spiraling like those other green pieces from a long time ago.

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

She could still remember that summer afternoon. It was perhaps three in the afternoon as well. A quite time of day in Amalapuram. The dogs stopped barking, the birds stopped chirping. The men took a break from their fields and lay down under the shade of a tree. The women having woken up at four took a break from cooking, fetching water, feeding babies, milking cows and dozed in their courtyards. It was too hot for anyone to attempt to do anything – the afternoon sun was so brutal and scathing. For seventeen year old Parvati, this was her favorite time of day. There was a strange beauty and grace about it – a sense of tranquility and peace. Everyone would lower their guard and let themselves be lulled into the stillness.

For Parvati, this was also the perfect time to sneak out of the house. The youngest daughter of a prosperous land owner, she was always held back from the outside world. She was the family jewel . The village beauty. The bearer of the family’s honor. Her father , her grandmother, her uncles, aunts and assorted servants ensured that she was not allowed to step outside the house alone. When she finished high school her father refused to let her continue on to college. He didn’t think that a college education was going to be much use for young girl who was destined to marry rich. Offers had already starting pouring in for her.

So Parvati made the most of the two hours before dusk. She would quietly pry open the door, and run through the paddy fields pulling up her petticoat in her hands. She would jump across the narrow canal, climb over the fences of the mango orchard, and then run some more. She was breathless by the time she reached the other end of the orchard. And no matter what, he was always there waiting for her.

She had first met Babu – a shy teenage boy- when he had accompanied his father to her house. He had stood by quietly as his father pleaded with her father for some credit. She stood behind the pillar of the courtyard and watched him. Even while his father was groveling, he stood there with the demeanor of a warrior. Humble but not humiliated.

She had known from the very beginning that he was not right. She also knew from the very beginning that he would not fight for her or rescue her from her father’s fortress. They both knew that their ways would part, and they both knew that what they shared was just a moment in time. They would lie on the grass and look up at the leaves of the trees. She was always amazed at how many different shades of green they were. She would talk incessantly. And as she lay there talking, she could feel his fingers on her skin. She never did anything. She would just look at the leaves and the skies but she would let him touch her.

So far her afternoon trips had occurred without incident. Parvati had a faint suspicion that her mother knew but for some reason chose not to confront her about it. The only times she had to change her plans was when it rained because being soaking wet was a dead give away.

That afternoon as she tiptoed across the courtyard towards the door, there was a loud crash. Six glass jars of pickled mangoes splintered across the floor. Shards of glass. And pieces of green bounced and spiraled…

First the servants, then her aunts and then her grandmother – the matriarch of the house – were jolted out of their sleep. Her grandmother promptly decreed that Parvati be married within the next month. Several suitable boys were considered, but a twenty five year old engineer – the son of a rich landlord – who lived in America was seen as the most eligible. In 1978, living in America was still a relatively rare and sought after qualification for Andhra grooms.

Parvati unpacked the groceries and started putting things away in the refrigerator. She had bought a lot more than she needed. But her daughter, Shravani, was going to come home from college for the July fourth weekend, and she wanted the freezer to be well stocked. Though she was an only child – she had not shared a very close bond with her daughter. She had done what every responsible mother is supposed to do, and Sharvani was doing what responsible daughters are supposed to do. She wasn’t a troublesome child. She had got good grades at school, and had much to her father’s delight opted to go to med school.

Sometimes she wondered if behind the façade of a good daughter, Sharvani was sneaking out secretly to meet someone. But Parvati found it hard to picture such a scenario. There were no paddy fields, no mango orchards here. And there were no over protective aunts and grandmothers. Sharvani could hop into her car and drive up to Chuky Cheese to meet some boy anytime she wanted. No, Sharvani was a good girl. She studied a lot, and whenever she came home, all she really did was eat and sleep.

After she finished putting the groceries away, Parvati took out the bag of tondli she had bought at the Indian store. This was her husband’s favorite vegetable. She chopped them into thin circular slices and smeared some turmeric on them. And when the oil heated up in the pan, she threw in the tondli. The small pieces spluttered. And within minutes the shades changed – from a deep green to a dry yellow. Even now, she was mystified by how many different shades of green there were.

I stand by the window with my head against the wall.

A thousand lights blaze. Bouncing off the glass pane. Shattering into a million pieces. Taxis screech, two men holler. A young couple walks past holding hands. A middle aged man speaks on his cellphone. Like a kaleidoscope, the city unfolds before me. And I stand by my sixth floor apartment – a mere observer. I almost get the feeling that I am standing by the ocean, watching the distant horizon.

The phone rings. I rush to pick it up.
“Rashmi, what time are we meeting for Anne’s birthday dinner?”
“ I don’t know maybe around 8: 30. I am not even dressed yet.”
“Should Dhruv and I pick you up on our way.?”
“No, thanks. The restaurant is just a couple of blocks from my place. I can walk.”
“Are you sure?”
“Seriously, its fine. I will see you guys later.”
“Ok, see you later then. Bye”
“Bye.”
Click. I hang up.

Suddenly, I feel a complete silence descend on the apartment. I can hear the sounds of the city in the background, and yet I hear nothing. I feel paralyzed – unsure of what I am supposed to do. A few minutes later, I snap out of my reverie and look at the clock. It’s almost 8:15. I rush to take a shower.

As I browse through my closet trying to decide on a dress, I feel a sense of apathy seep through me into my veins. It clings to my freshly shampooed hair, to my manicured nails. I even smell it in my 200 dollar shoes.

I watch myself in the mirror. I pucker my lips and apply gloss. I put on shimmering earrings. And I smile. I look like the confident, young, successful investment banker that I am. I look at my reflection. It doesn’t seem real. I feel as if I am playing a part - still waiting for my real life to begin.
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I enter the dimly lit restaurant with candles flickering on every table and successful yuppies having animated conversations about Syriana. It occurs to me that hundreds of similar scenes are being played out in the city at that very moment. Soho. East village. Upper Westside.

I catch a glimpse of the birthday girl. Anne. She is a friend from business school and works at another investment bank. She looks at me and waves. I walk over to the table and meet an eclectic collection of friends , acquaintances and lovers. We drink merlot, kid Anne about her new dating strategy, and then like all wannabe New Yorkers lapse into a discussion of the property market.

The waiter comes by to get our orders. I can’t hear him in the midst of all the chatter, so I turn around. And there he is.

He is almost exactly the way I remembered him. He smiles. Hesitantly at first and then it gets surer. I think of all the things this was what I loved the most – that unguarded wholesome smile. That smile was like my piped piper – I followed it even when I knew better. I was completely entranced. With the sun our faces, and wind in our hair – nothing else mattered.

A minute or perhaps two pass. My friend nudges me with her elbow. I smile back at him tepidly. I turn around and feel the moistness in my eyes. And a strange pain sears through the bottom of my stomach.

I walk back to my apartment. I jump across a puddle of what looks suspiciously like urine in my expensive new stilettos. I hear the cars. I see the lights. And suddenly everything seems louder and brighter. I feel the city in me. It’s visceral and fierce.

For the longest time I have felt that I was merely in between places. And my real life was around the corner – waiting to begin. I realize now that this is it.

It’s 1 A.M on the corner of 64th and 2nd. I can no longer hold back my tears. I crouch by a graffiti filled wall. And feel the waves come crashing down on me.

But they said, but its not,
But I knew, but I was caught,
And you were, and in time,
And in nineteen ninety nine,
And I short of words, ran,
Less hopefully, I thought I can.
Fighting time to save a spill,
Part of a 6th semester thrill,
Short of that undiscovered you,
Look-a-likes but genuine few.
'Tis not meant for some damn girl,
For that matter, interests spurn,
Not an Oppenheimer rhyme,
Nor an Hercule Poirot crime.
Just some overtime idol muse,
Something somewhere, lit a fuse,
Been through the same familiar faces,
Or in space-time, the same damn spaces.
But natural, the mind unleashed,
Horizons wide, in passive speech,
How many times, will you read this drivel?
How much difference, difference can you tell?
And do you think, you'll show it around?
And do you think my mind is sound?
Or am I lunatic on the grass?
And will I never be first in class?
And will I be able to fill this page?
Having got this far, thus stage,
Yeah, right sure, I like to impress,
Yeah, right, nowhere in sight, impress,
Yeah, right, plans that come to nought,
Almost a full page of scribbled thought.
And this space, I have yet to fill,
For there are gonna be revelations still,
But then again, it's all the same,
Words and words, and then a name.
The last stanza-the maximum effect,
But there crept in, a slight bit defect,
Glowing tribute in free form verse,
No adjectives used, what could be worse?

Since I am currently running low in inspirration and motivation - I thought I'd post someone else's work. A long time ago - almost seven years now - someone sent this to me . We'd email each other in verse - and we had this "jugalbandi" going on. So this one is an ode to a friend (who I knew fleetingly), and an ode to a time when we were "younger" and the words came footloose and free.

Searching for Sara

11 am on a Wednesday morning
the blood rushes to the head
words blur on the lcd monitor
a cup of coffee, twenty emails
the drone of the worker bee
the printer hums, the phone rings
and the breath comes in gasps
struggling to find a beat

A day, a hour , a second
but time stands still
meet friends for lunch
buy a new dress
make weekned plans, fret
over what I cannot chase
neatly arranged packages
waiting to be shipped
waiting for something to happen

Was it me who said
life is full of possbilities
go to the end of the earth
but make it matter
rip your heart out
bleed if you have to
take your blue skies
and run with it
like the six year old girl
in an orange wind swept haze

And here I am
with my face against the glass
sealed and protected
because what if
I break a leg or bruise my knee
and what if my Gods conspire
what if my worst fears come true
like I can't let go, but I want to
I say, its me Sara, and you say...who?

In pursuit of brand names

A moment comes, which comes but rarely in history, when we step out from the old to the new, when an age ends, and when the soul of a nation, long suppressed, finds utterance.

In a Newsweek article, Fareed Zakaria quotes Nehru’s famous speech made at the eve of India’s independence. Nehru was referring to India awakening from over 200 years of colonialism into freedom and dignity, what Zakaria is referring to is a country awakening to malls and bowling alleys. The lead photograph in the story is of a bunch of young people partying at a night club in Mumbai. Like most stories that have appeared in the media in the last few weeks as part of Bush’s visit to India, the country has been hyped as the next big thing. Its amazing GDP growth, the explosion of call centers and middle class incomes, the malls and the tech boom, the azim premjis and the narayan murthys, the next China – everywhere you turn, the same clichés are being mouthed. A article in the WSJ talks about India’s bright future by saying :

The nation's deep pockets of computer programmers have spawned deep-pocketed urban consumers, now at the core of the consumer boom. Many younger Indians are more confident than their parents about the country's economic direction, say executives, and are more willing to buy expensive foreign brands.

"There is a sense of a brighter future," says Nandan M. Nilekani, chief executive of Infosys Technologies Ltd., India's second-biggest outsourcing company. People are "loosening up their purse strings....

The immediate beneficiaries of the consumer boom have been India's ubiquitous celebrity endorsers. Outside the Metropolitan mall complex near New Delhi, Bollywood megastar Amitabh Bachchan appears on a giant video screen, touting one of his 14 products. He hawks Cadbury chocolates, Eveready batteries, Parker Pens and Pepsi. The 64-year-old Mr. Bachchan, whose white goatee stands in blinding contrast to his chestnut-colored tresses, also endorses digestive pills and hair oil.
Inside the four-story Metropolitan shopping complex, Shruti Chowdhary spends her morning off from an outsourcing company loading up on new clothes -- Reebok tennis shoes for herself and black blazer from United Colors of Benetton for her brother. Ms. Chowdhary -- 25 years old, single and living with her parents -- estimates that 70% of her monthly salary goes to shopping.

For sure, there is truth and merit in all of these things – India is a growing and vibrant economy. Economic growth and prosperity is vital to any nation, but when millions upon millions of our fellow citizens lack the most basic amenities and dignities of life, can we really claim that India is shining. And meanwhile despite the fact that middle class and middle aged women are buying Gucci handbags in droves, they still haven’t figured out how to pull the flush in a public restroom (yes, this is my pet peeve!)

What saddens me the most is that we are defining our moment in history - our “nation’s soul” so to speak – by the trappings of the global consumer culture. There should be more to our aspirations than just brand names and the pursuit of a Toyota SUV.

P.S I know I have written about this before, but the overwhelming consumerism of middle class India disturbs me and it alienates me . Its not the place I grew up in . But I have a feeling I maybe in a minority on this one.