It Finally Happened

After two and half months in India, thinking that my great intestinal karma would perhaps never fail me, touch wood, I finally got a case of the runs. Poland being forever within me, my silver lining was that it was a relatively benign case.
Indeed, the Schedule Sisters had had tummy troubles all week. Mine could perhaps be traced to a lunch in the singularly uninspiring Bhandari Swiss Cottage, or more likely from our almost daily visits to the Freedom Cafe.

It could aslo be partly attributable from anxiety regarding a telephone job interview I had just had. Yes, I know, I promised that there would be no gainful employment for a year. But I am such a sucker for a good come on (they headhunted me off LinkedIn. Although the prospect of my very own BMW convertible, now within tantalizing reach under the California sun, does seem like worthwhile recompense, it did not help my nerves, as I was currently reading Bill Bryson's Notes from a Big Country, in which he relates to his British audience the often funny, but in the same measure disconcerting vagaries of life in America. Americans' near total ignorance of the world, seeming inability to fathom irony, and the nothing short of police-state invasion of privacy by government, employers and marketeers, are a definite downside.

That said, ever the documentation manager with hopes of securing that extra worker or new piece of whizzy software, the Project Plan that was my trip to India featured gross overestimates of the time required to do everything on my India Dream Checklist. I've had a whale of a time in Rishikesh. I'd like to keep improving my Hindi, as it has been coming along quite nicely. A Vipassana course in Dharamsala is next, followed by some urban adventures in Delhi. After that, whatever follows will be spontaneous.

But back to my ailment. It started in the morning when I woke up with a general feeling of unease. I declined the Schedule Sisters' entreaties to accompany them on a Daily Mission trip to Haridwar for lunch, thereby interrupting the cosmic flow of their universe. While the entire stretch of the Laxman Jhula disctrict was subjected to a ghastly morning special session of devotional chanting, I lay in bed, not quite in pain, resting, as gas began to gurgle its way downward in my intestines. After a fashion, I began passing wind in roughly twelve-minute intervals. Big, long, loud, industrial strength doozies, smelling much like a decomposing skunk emanating from my innards. After a few hours of this, it was clear that the time had come to make my way to the loo, where I comfortably let it all rip, to my great relief. The odor had the added benefit of killing all the flies in my room. The following morning it was much better, but I took Imodium to stop it completely.

Mental note: next meal, white rice. And no more fretting about possible outcomes, which remain mere speculation at this point.

The Schedule Sisters

Natali hooked up with South African Michelle while traveling in Tibet. Daphna, who hooked up with me in Rishikesh, is Natali's friend from back home in Kfar Saba. Together, we all joined hands on the banks of the Ganges.

Soon enough, and rather spontaneously, we started adhering to a schedule. Daphna and I would have breakfast before her Hindi class at 10. I would continue writing or reading until 11:30, when we would all meet up at the ashram to go for what was for Daphna and me lunch, and breakfast for Natali and Michelle. Afterwards, we set out on our Daily Mission. That could be a trip to the market, a walk to the waterfalls, a visit to the post office, or to take in a movie.

I always made a point of taking my Magic Anti-rain Stick in the Bag of Culture. It was disguised as an umbrella, and ensured that no rain would fall while we were outdoors. I know it works, since failure to bring it along inevitably results in a downpour on our heads.

At 6 I had to be back for my Hindi calss. At 8 we would meet up for dinner, which would last until they basically kicked us out of the Freedom Cafe (aka Fly Sanctuary) towards midnight. We were the (Polish) Schedule Sisters.

Of course we developed our token phrases: "Eat yur froot!" in a thick Afrikaaner accent would inexplicably bring on gales of laughter even in the most unlikely contexts. I was nicknamed Khandre-jini, which was coined from Andre, Alejandro (?!) and Didi-ji. A travelers' bond.

Michelle eventually had to go back to the UK for a family do, and I must admit that I actually considered hiding her air ticket to try and prevent it. Nevertheless, Daphna, Natali and I bought a joint onward train ticket to Pathankot, the station nearest to Dharamsala. This will undoubtedly cause some reconfiguration of the schedule. But I'm sure we can handle it.

The Downside of Rishikesh

Naturally, in our mental Poland, we had to find a cloud for our silver lining. My Karnataka mobile phone, roaming in Uttaranchal on Idea Telecom, provided spotty service. There was always a signal, to be sure, but calls and SMS transmissions had periods, sometimes quite lengthy, of zero responsiveness.

From my second day, I enthusiastically signed up for the morning yoga class at the ashram. The young instructor was so limber, guiding us through the various assanas. However, as I soon discovered, he demonstrated rather than taught, and I ended up wth head, neck, shoulder and back pain. This led to a suspension of the lessons, daily massages, and finally, that reliable old remedy, Ben Gay, to provide satisfactory relief.

The biggest annoyance came daily around 5 o'clock in the evening, from no less than our very own Sant Sewa Ashram, in the form of a concert of devotional music, broadcast to the town by megaphone. Now, there's devotional music, and there's devotional music. It can be excellently soothing, enlightening and uplifting. Or, as in our case, it can be worse than Chinese water torture.

Percussion was an arrhythmic thump-thump on an old bongo. Melody was played by one, and sometimes two fingers on a hockey rink organ. And chanting was a severely off-key primal scream of a lead, accompanied by two screeching children on backing vocals. This went on for three inescapable hours.

All the while I had been conducting an internal debate as whether or not to immerse myself in the river. The upside would be the pilgrimage value of hundreds of generations of people having imbued the waters with their purest intentions. The downside was the possible ill effects that the questionalbe cleanliness of such waters would have on my health.

Daphna and I had taken what amounted to a 90 second motorboat ride in which the skipper intentionally side-crashed into the boat's own wake, soaking us with holy water. We were no worse for the wear. But on the evenings that we sat on our balconies, devotional chanting grating loud and proud in our eardrums, it occured to me to have myself thrown into the river after having donned concrete shoes.

On a more fortunate note, there were no mosquistoes. Less happily, there were hoardes of crickets, who very much liked to nestle in our curtains. They made noises that you actually got used to. And they didn't bite.

My teacher, Mr Omprakash Saach Deva, most impressed by my linguistic aptitude, helped my Hindi progress by leaps and bounds. Once getting verbs and word order more or less straight, daily lessons consisted of my narrating my favorite Bollywood movies, of course in simplified Hindi.

Downside notwithstanding, Rishikesh is an engaging and amazing place.

The Upside of Rishikesh

At the corner of the Himalayas, nestled in a verdant valley, along the banks of the Ganges river, lies the holy Vishnu city of Rishikesh. Not quiet, but not loud either, the city attracts scores of devout Hindu pilgrims seeking divine favors, absolution of sins, peace, and mindfulness, as do pilgrims the world over.

As befits a center that attracts visitors from around India, and indeed everywhere else, Rishikesh is blessed with riverview restaurants, serving some of the best food I've had in this country. As a holy Hindu city, all meat and alcohol are banned, but no matter. It would be more fortunate if hash were more readily available, which to my mild surprise and consternation it was not, but again, no matter. The vegetarian fare is superb, with each establishmet competing on creativity and presentation.

My favorite such restaurant was the Paradise Rooftop Cafe, perched on the second floor balcony of a building not far from Laxman Juhla, a 450 foot suspension bridge straddling the river. The continental breakfast that graced my mornings consisted of a tall glass of fragrant masala chai, two eggs over medium, fresh baked whole wheat bread with butter and jam, and oatmeal covering cut pineapple, mango, banana and papaya, with a few pomegranate seeds adorning the surface. They made a mean veg biryani as well, with saffron rice under and within which there were julienned cucumbers, peppers, carrots and tomatoes, garnished with grated coconut and cashews. Perhaps the piece de resistance was the eggplant stewed in mushroom and walnut sauce, served in a middle cabbage cup, accompanied by grilled vegetables (always a hit) and steamed rice, also in cabbage cups on either side, on top of a sizzling caste-iron tray. My mistake in that meal was to have also ordered a vegetable salad, and as such, the high proportion of simple carbohydrates to the relatively small portion of rice had me blowing happy farts well into the next day.

Rishikesh brought my days of Southern solitude to an abrupt end. I lodged in the Shri Sant Sewa Ashram, with a balcony overlooking the river, featuring a perfect view of Laxman Jhula. My first beighbors were some lovely and unconvential Indians. Sunil and Nikunj, Marwaris from Gujarat, and Gayatri, Sunil's Tamil companion. Both Nikanj and Gayatri were artists. Indeed, Gayatri had done her art degree in the Netherlands, and had recently returned from an exhibition of her photography in the UK. They were traveling around the North, seeking out Holy Men, hoping for some scraps of wisdom to fall their way. Intensely interesting, we spent two days as neighbors in engaging conversation and contemplation overlooking the Ganges.

One morning, a brisk knock on my door preceded the introduction of my other neighbor, Daphna, from Kfar Saba, recently discharged from the army, propelling me back into the bossom of the Hebrew language. We became inseparable, and were joined two days later by Daphna's friend Natalie, and Natalie's friend, South African Michelle. We roamed as a pack and resolved to continue together at very least onto the next leg of our trip, which would be Dharamsala. But not just yet.

To this mix we can include Jacques, a handsome and bookish Frenchmen, who had more than just a passing fancy for Bollywood, sharing my horror at the dreadful costumes in Jhoom Barabar Jhoom. We spent several enchanting days together in something of a traveler's paradise.

Lonely Planet? Hardly!

Northward Bound

The time had come to bid farewell to the South. I had spent two months discovering many wonders, but encountering few if any other travelers, and to my surprise and consternation, no Israelis. As much as I hate to admit it, I actually missed them. Traveling in India makes them better people, albeit from a rather low starting point.

Knowing full well that every rupee scrimped in travel costs in this country is a tear shed, I resolved to spare no expense on my cross-country journey. I hired a private taxi from Pondicherry all the way to Chennai airport. And for Rs 1600, I didn't think to insist on air conditioning.

All of India that week was engulfed in a dreadful pre-monsoon heat wave, with average temperatures in the 40 degree Celcius range. In the event, the drive was very pleasant. There's nothing I love more than driving along country roads, taking in the lush scenery, honking for cows and goats, and listening to Tamil movie music on the stereo. We had all the windows down, and I was even treated to a phone call from my dearest friend Liora in Sydney, Australia.

Everything was nearly perfect, until we got to Chennai, easily my least favorite metro in this country. Wouldn't you know it, we got stuck in traffic. Searing heat, dieself fumes, ensuing headache, and a trip that was meant to be under two hours stretched to beyond three. Suddenly, we turned a corner, and we were in the airport complex, just like that.

Unsurprisingly, Jet Airways offered the best flight at the best time; truly my favorite airline in India. Arriving a neat two and half hours later in the sweltering Delhi heat, I made a point of spending (this time wisely) Rs 800 for an air conditioned taxi to the Main Bazaar, the tourist haunt across from the central train station.

After checking in to a most uninspiring hotel, though having my first air conditioned room since Bombay two months previously, I marched over to the train station, intent on buying the most expensive ticket I could to Haridwar, air conditioned and first class. I went to the inquiries wicket. There was a policeman wielding a lathi to make sure that everyone stood in line properly. Strangely, I found this comforting. It took about ten minutes to get to the front of the queue, only to find out that I had to go to the reservations center, some 500 meters away.

Off I went diligently. I was greeted by a sign informing me that I had to get a form, and of course fill it out in order to get the ticket of my choice. This I found strange. In every other country I've been to, and it is reasonable to say that I've done my fair share of globetrotting, my experience of purchasing train tickets has always been to simply get to the wicket, state destination, class and date, pay the fee and get my ticket. Not so in Delhi. I'd like to tell some Indian in a position of power that the stifling and illogical bureaucracy to which this country is so addicted is a huge obstacle to its development. It is both frustrating to its victims, and self defeating for its perpetrators.
There were many line ups. I didn't know which was the right one for me. I went to the far end and found a woman busy doing data entry on a system from at least 25 years back (now the form-filling made a bit more sense). "Excuse me," I began, "but could you tell me if there's a special line up for international travelers?" as the Lonely Planet had indicated. She didn't even look up. I tried again. I decided that the best approach would be to continue my entreaties in a polite but firm manner. Just the same, in the heat, after a long day, I decided to run a query in my mind's database of curses, just in case.

SQL
get * from insults to female bureaucrats where
"sow, bitchslap, hellfire, bile marinade" figure

Before the results of the query came back (my CPU was apparently overloaded), she looked up, condescendingly of course, and told me that any line would be fine. So I picked one pretty much at random, and waited, yet again, for the better part of 45 minutes. Finally it was my turn. I indicated that I needed to go to Haridwar the following morning, first class AC. The clerk knew no English, which also seemed an impediment to his processing the form. After some time, I got a ticket, paid a ridiculous Rs 825 for a 250 km journey, checked the details, and went to do my evening rounds (haircut and dinner).

On the morrow, I was up at 5:30 for my 6:55 train. Lugging my 20 kg backpack, but full of piss and vinegar, I eventually found the train, car and seat as was printed on my ticket. There was a child in the seat next to mine. He looked quite perplexed. An adult close by asked to see my ticket. I was in the right seat. Another man put on reading glasses and inspected it closely. After a few moments, he showed me that it was for June 30th (this was the 12th). I found the conductor, who accompanied me outside, where I had a controled explosion.

There was no way in God's country that I was not going to travel on that train in that car. Fortunately for me, Indian Railways conductors are notoriously corrupt. For Rs 2000, I could ride. While this was now becoming a shockingly expensive trip, I was heartened to find out that I could have my original ticket refunded upon arrival at Haridwar. I made a mental note to make only one attempt and just absorb the loss if the refund business proved too trying.

I sat down. The train slid out of the station more or less on time, and after a spell, the steward, who had BO wafting from him, brought out tea, served in passable bone china. Later there was mango juice in crystal glasses. This was first class. I could always tell when the steward was approaching with additional edibles, as I could smell him at something of a distance. Not a great association for food, but I was happy to be on my way.

Some five hours later (making for an average speed of 50 km/h) we arrived at Haridwar. I stood in two line ups to attempt to get my refund. At the end of the second one, I decided to insist. I was pointed to the manager's office. I went in and stated my case. He took me around back where I was sure to make a nuisance of myself, and after only about ten minutes, I had Rs 750 in my hand. I was so pleased that I decided that I wouldn't make a stink about the cancellation fee.

Having spent several times the monthly minimum wage to get this far, when offered an autorickshaw for the last leg to Rishikesh, 25 km away, at only Rs 50, it sounded too good to be true. That was because I thought I'd be traveling alone. Alas, the rikshaws in these parts are for six passengers. In the event, they crammed 13 of us, plus driver and conductor hanging out the side. I was smooshed, but in good spirits and was taken by my first glimpse of the Ganges river.

It is possible to love and hate a country simultaneously, not unlike a spouse at the end of a collapsing relationship, when the life support has finally been unplugged. I hate India whenever I have to go anywhere. But I invariably love it upon arrival. Rishikesh was engaging, and many wonders awaited me.

Comments and More Photos

Here are photos from my recent adventures. But before you click on them, I'd like to encourage you, my dear readers, to post more comments on this site.

As it turns out, you are not so few. Recently, I have had 336 visits. The top ten countries are:

1. Israel (vast majority, no suprise)
2. India
3. Canada
4. United States
5. United Kingdom
6. France (Dorothee, to be sure)
7. Sweden (Gaby, my love)
8. Singapore
9. Australia
10. Greece (hello there, whoever you are)

And yet, no comments. My mother has been the most avid commenter. Keep it up Mom! But the only other recent comment was on Josh-bhai's Nationally Confused profile, posted by an anonymous user, asking me if Josh jumped off a bridge, would I do the same. To save him, of course I would!

My point is, even that kind of inane drivel is fine. Show yourselves. At least statistically, you are a loyal fan base. Let's have some feedback. And you don't have to stroke my ego. I can manage that just fine on my own.

Here are the photos:

• STC Event Bangalore (featuring my lecture)
• Pondicherry
• Rishikesh

Shame

One of the many things I love about India is the abundance of great bookstores everywhere you care to venture. In Pondicherry, I happened into one such establishment, and headed towards the literary section. I love novels that employ the full range of the English language. Edgar Allen Poe is one of my favorite authors, totally twisted mind notwithstanding. Josh-bhai had highly recommended Salman Rushdie in this respect, and had in fact given me more than one of his books, but I had never actually gotten around to opening any of them.

So there I was perusing Salman's works. They didn't have the Satanic Verses, which earned him a fatwa by the late Ayatollah Khomeini. Earning the wrath of a man whose grave I would happily shit on if ever given the opportunity, I have made a mental note to acquire that particular book at the first opportunity. I settled on Shame, a novel that is sort of set in Pakistan, and examines the sort of relationship between Zulfikar Ali Bhutto and Muhammed Zia ul Haq.

The language employed is nothing short of stunning. The irony is at once piercing and hilarious. A few examples of cultivated cursing outdo even the best South Park has to offer. Published in 1983, it has an eerie foresight to it.

In sum, Shame comes highly recommended, and it has motivated me to explore more of Salman Rushdie's works.

Wine-swilling Womanizing Mullahs

Some weeks back, on my return flight from Port Blair to Chennai, I had my first opportunity ever, due to a most welcome oversight on the part of the Jet Airways check-in clerk, to be bumped up to Business Class. All the more fortunate was I to be seated beside a most charming North Indian gentleman, who traveled frequently in his work as a senior executive in an international aid organization. Naturally, the nation I wanted to hear most about, after precursory introductions about shopping in Dubai, was Iran – the country whose people, food, carpets, cinema and poetry I love to love, and whose theocratic government I love to hate.

As it turns out, on one occasion, my in-flight travel companion had been invited to attend the wedding of the daughter of a senior cleric in the government. Liquor flowed as freely as the scantily-clad dancing girls sashayed (and more) for the pleasure of the invited guests, which included no small number of regime VIPs.

Later, in Bangalore, I met two adorable Iranian students, one from Shiraz studying engineering, and his friend from Bandar Abbas studying occupational therapy. They had girlfriends from India’s Northeast, whose culture is a good deal more permissive than the rest of Hindustan. Over an exquisite dinner of deep-fried pork, sashimi and sake in a lovely Japanese restaurant, they corroborated the likelihood story recounted to me in the air.

That the mullahs are wine-swilling womanizers does not render them all the more odious in my eyes. Quite the opposite. It shows that they are not the messianic religious fanatics with their fingers ever-ready to press the nuclear button, as they would have us believe. No, they, like us, are firmly rooted in the material world, rational, and with the desire (and means) to enjoy the good things in life.

Former president Akbar Hashemi Rafsanjani, perhaps the richest man in the Islamic Republic, most personifies the image described above. What’s more, he was recently elected to the Assembly of Experts, and seems plausibly poised to make a run for Supreme Leader, once Ali Khamenei, the current occupant of the post, rumored to be very ill, goes the way of all flesh.

The Iranian people see through the façade of Rafsanjani’s clerical turban. This is perhaps his greatest virtue. A deal can be done with him. The one fly in the ointment is current President Mahmoud Ahmedinejad, who actually adheres to his religion and fervently subscribes to the 12th Imam messianic doctrine. Ironically, he is widely perceived as uncorrupt, which I am inclined to believe. That said, he is jostling for the power to blow up the world. Talk about the lesser of two evils.

Notwithstanding the upcoming power struggle in Iran, meanwhile, the Islamic Republic and the US are duking it out by proxy in Iraq, Lebanon, Syria and Israel. The Americans pretty much have no choice, by the Bush Administration’s colossal stupidity, but to hand Iraq to the mullahs on a silver platter. One can only hope that Bashar Assad does not succeed in goading Israel’s hand-wringing, inept government into another war this summer over the Golan Heights – the result of which would be the same – cession in an exchange of land for peace. It’s Israel’s choice whether they want to part with it sans or avec Revolutionary Guard-supplied Katyushas and Fajars falling all over the country. As for Lebanon, hope is fast fading.

But these really are side issues, being used to up the ante and conduct diplomacy by force of arms over the big prize: the mullahs’ lunge for nukes. And here’s where there just may be a glimmer of hope. Skye Frontier believes that if those pork-chomping, whiskey-guzzling, coke-snorting, bum-fucking ayatollahs are faced with a credible threat of loss of such privileges, being rational, they are likely to climb down from the atomic tree, provided that a few face-saving gestures are visibly made for public consumption.

That means that the West, lead by the US, supported by the EU and NATO, and of course by Israel, although more discreetly, all get up off their fannies pronto and put it in no uncertain terms. Perhaps we could then set in motion the eventual denuclearization of the entire Middle East, that volatile power keg that threatens daily to engulf the entire world in the fires of Hell.

Pondicherry

As it would happen, the most direct route from Bangalore to Pondy, as it is affectionately known, is by bus, and only at night. Up until this point, I had successfully managed to avoid traveling by bus in India, but it seems that my number had finally come up.

Roads are terrible here, and they drive like maniacs with a death-wish. I’ve learned to expect anything. All means of vehicles (and of course cows) can turn onto a street from nowhere. Turns are made from any lane. From time to time, vehicles travel on the wrong side of the road into oncoming traffic. Sometimes they even drive on the sidewalk. Pedestrians are everywhere, as there are practically no proper crossings, and the few that exist, like traffic lights, are summarily ignored.

I was expecting the worst. And I got it.

I booked a sleeper compartment, reasoning that the less I could see, the better. I was at the back of the bus, which incidentally left two hours late, though the timing was the least of my worries. On the other side, a window was open, right above the overloaded diesel exhaust pipe. The man below me snored, sounding like he was sucking at the perpetual bottom of a Slurpee, with a dilated straw. All night long. The engine grinded and screamed, perhaps for mercy. I surmised that a good part of the road was unpaved. Accordingly, I spent eight very long hours being thrown about in my compartment like a cat stuck in a front-load dryer, breathing heavy diesel fumes all the while.

We arrived at sunrise. I was hoarse, with black bits in my phlegm. Pondicherry however is a truly lovely place. It is on the ocean with a splendid boardwalk that extends several kilometers. I selected the Park Guest House, at the boardwalk’s very beginning. It had a impressive garden and ocean view. It was owned and operated by the Sri Aurobindo Ashram. The ashramites struck me as somewhat odd. They don’t have those idiotic smiles of American born-agains, who definitely have something to share with (or rather foist upon) you. This is a soothing place, in tranquil surroundings, and these folks are fittingly composed themselves. However, there’s an aloofness in their serenity, as if they have something they don’t want to share.

All over the place, there were quotes by, attesting to the wisdom of, Sri Aurobindo, and his spiritual partner, The Mother, who incidentally was born in France. The quotes consisted of such Deep Thoughts as “Soar to the heights, so you can know the depths,” and so on. Having gone to her maker in 1973, The Mother could never have read The Cult. But disallowing a desire to be El Presidente, she could have written it.

In any case, the town itself is most enjoyable, with a very definite Latin feel to it. Even the policemen wore képis, in a charming case of post-colonial hangover.

Alas, this was the end of the tourist season, as was the case all over South India. All of the yoga courses were on summer break. The most I could find was an hour a day of group meditation at the Sri Aurobindo Ashram. As a former French colony, I was able to speak the language of Voltaire to order meals and tickets and have other low-impact exchanges. It was wonderful to speak something other than English for a change, and it surprisingly rolled off my tongue, making me feel articulate and witty. But being Tamil Nadu, no one spoke Hindi. Facetiously, I thought, just what is the point of having an official language, if you can’t force people to speak it?

To me, this signaled that I was At South’s End. On the Ganges, which I had never seen, in a Hindi-speaking environment, in which I had never been, famous for yoga ashrams, which I was craving, this was the season for Rishikesh. Before me lay an odyssey of some 2000 kilometers. Onward and upward.

Bangalore Blues

Up until now, my entire experience of India has only been of the South. I can happily sing the praises of this region’s excellent food and pleasant climate. My previous sojourn, in the context of India and the War, took me to Goa, Cochin, Chennai and Bombay. So far, since April, I took up where I left off in Bombay five years ago, exploring The Dream Factory, finding my center in the Andaman Islands, and until a few days ago, checking out the hi-tech scene in Bangalore.

In the three weeks I spent in the Garden City, rather than describe the place and my adventures, I treated you to my ruminations on National Confusion, more of which you can still look forward to.

Here’s what really happened.

For me, as a techie, Bangalore represented the most realistic option for residence in India, and accordingly, I looked at it with a most discerning eye. With an unprecedented catapulting into a debut position in the Top 5 of All Time, I spent my first three nights in the city with India’s Greatest Lover. Thrice each evening, and once more in the morning for good measure. With passion. And skill. On that third morning though, it was sadly and painfully clear that It Was Not Meant To Be. Perhaps this kind of affair only occurs when traveling. While leaving me with a lifetime of wondrous memories and fantasies for posterity, it set the tone for the rest of my stay, of fits and false starts.

I had been invited to give a lecture to the assembled members of Bangalore’s STC on technical writing for localization. I opened by saying that if Mr T had to deal with this issue, he would certainly say “I pity the fool who gets stuck as localization manager!” Indeed, it is a thankless task, especially when performed on unruly, inconsistent legacy documentation, which, as most of us technical writing schmucks well know, is invariably our sorry lot.

The lecture was very well received, and I entertained a rather serious offer of consulting. I also gave an additional lecture at a company on unstructured vs. structured documentation, and the overall technical documentation lifecycle. Pretty riveting stuff, eh? Yet, except for in the largest and most serious multinationals, Indian technical communicators are somewhat behind the times, often preferring to focus on grammar rather than process and methodological innovation. Perhaps for that reason, the market is a potential gold mine.

That said, Bangalore the city, like anywhere else, has its pros and cons. Indeed, it lives up to its epithet as the Garden City, as there are a number of quite pleasant, green parks in the city itself. Great shopping abounds, from bazaars to swanky malls. Multiplex cinemas are also in ample supply, and to be sure, I spent much of my free time in them, seeing basically every Hindi movie that was showing, plus Spiderman 3 and Mr Bean’s Holiday to boot.

As it turns out, I have a nearly encyclopedic knowledge of Hindi cinema since the year 2000, having seen no small number of productions. It inspired me to learn Hindi, and in fact has been my main teacher. I know the major directors, composers, lyricists, background singers, production houses, and of course the star system, with its accompanying gossip mill, all up to date. I can identify almost 90% of movie songs played on the radio and TV, even placing them into the aforementioned framework. It makes for a great conversation piece and Indians are suitably impressed. But I’ve had no chance to further my Hindi by actually speaking it, as the South is not its native region.

Bangalore is the Indian city with the highest prevalence of English, at least that I’ve visited. This is owing to a number of factors. The language of IT is English, forcing a high degree of competence among those who work in the industry, as well as those who serve it. This technology pole has drawn in migrants from all over the country, who similarly have high competence in the language, creating something of a snowball effect, and thereby rendering it as the de facto lingua franca of much of the population. And it has a large population: 8 million. There are the native Karnatakans, a large Tamil community, a surprising number of people from the Seven Sister North Eastern States, as well as North Indians, who, like me, enjoy Hindi cinema.

Alas, the greatest downside to Bangalore is its crowding, congestion and pollution. Practically everywhere you go, it is mobbed. And Indians, with a very different sense of space from Westerners, inevitably stand in the “wrong” places. In queue, inasmuch as they are capable of standing in one, they’re close enough to touch, even with total strangers. If the weather weren’t so muggy, I suppose it wouldn’t bother me. But in the pre-monsoon heat, it can be very annoying. If there’s an escalator, people will be standing in front to block it. Ditto for other entrances and exits. Crucify me for intolerance, but after a while, it starts to get to you.

So while at least formally reserving my verdict on the place, after three weeks, it became imperative to get some fresh air, see the ocean, and decompress. Pondicherry fit the bill. An enclave in neighboring Tamil Nadu, this former French colony also featured ashrams and yoga classes, which having begun in Banaglore, I was eager to continue in cleaner, quieter surroundings.

Gabriela Ajagan

Gaby and I had the good fortune of meeting on the set of the Chillz Ice Cream commercial in Bombay in April 2007. What struck me first was her Katarina Witt-like looks. I thought she might be Italian. When we finally struck up a conversation and she told me her name, I reckoned that my hunch had been true. How wrong I was.

Gabriela was actually a native of Stockholm, Sweden. Curiosity got the best of me and I inquired regarding the Mediterranean name and looks. As it turns out, mother was from Finland, and father was from Chile, a refugee from the early years of the Pinochet regime. In fact, to complicate matters further, “Ajagan” is the hispanization of the Irish “O’Hagan”. Her parents were both activists in the Communist Party of Sweden, and had met and fallen in love there. Café revolutionary as I am, this fact only endeared me to her even more. We hit it off and were instant friends.

Gaby’s parents decided that the household language would be Spanish. She learned Swedish only from kindergarten, although thereafter used it with her half brother and sister. What’s more, idyllic childhood summers were spent with her maternal grandparents in Finland, even though she never learned Finnish properly. Touchingly, through a magical combination of love and body language, Gaby developed with her grandparents. Gaby always accepted that they couldn’t be as close as both would have liked, owing to the language barrier. Her Finnish grandfather was a writer, with works never translated. It has left her with a feeling of never really knowing them as well as she would have liked. In contrast, Gaby has a profound relationship with her Chilean grandparents, with whom she carries on a lively correspondence to this day, despite their advanced age. All of this has been part of the process of developing her own unique life narrative.

Indeed, as a child, in such a situation, it is unsurprising that there would be a certain element of loneliness and differentiation from others. This never stopped her from having lots of friends. On her first day in kindergarten, in a relatively non-immigrant neighborhood, she was introduced by the teacher as the girl who “spoke another language”. Being Gaby, this fortunately did not stigmatize her.

Another memory she recounted to me was being at home in her bedroom with girlfriends while her Chilean father was having a political discussion with friends of his own downstairs. The Swedish friends were unsure of how to react to the fist banging on the dining room table. Gaby had to explain that it was not a heated argument; this is just how South Americans discuss issues that they feel passionate about. They raise their voices, not out of anger, but rather out of conviction. The Swedes had a bit of trouble grasping this.

At age 13, the family moved to Chile. This was a most difficult experience for her. To compound things, she went to a private school, putting her into somewhat segregated surroundings. The experience was a real eye-opener, especially since she had been brought up in a middle-class suburb of Stockholm, where (through the eyes of a child) she didn’t see injustice and segregation, since all of that is well hidden in Sweden. One of the things that made her feel separate from the rest of her Chilean classmates was that she was eternally la Sueca, or the Swede. What’s more, this was just the age when Gaby was starting to notice boys, but her upbringing thus far left her totally unprepared for Latin men with their catcalls and other such behavior.

Once older, Gaby set off on her own odysseys, living in Barcelona, New York and a return stint as an adult to Chile. Travels took her to Africa and, of course, India. Her view of her own national identity is the mixture itself. She accepted early on that she would be alone in certain aspects, but was comfortable with the complexity. She connects on a spiritual level to Latin American folk music and Latin humor. Yet, at the same time, she shares the ironic and cynical Swedish sense of humor as well. And her love interests tend to be with men who are outside their own country of origin.

After her trip to India, Gaby decided to return to Stockholm, of all locales, if only to make her peace with the place. Upon her return, she told me that the grayness of it all struck her, a thought that I found most sobering. But she’ll do well. She is a happy person with a balanced temperament and has shown herself to be a true citizen of the world. Nationally Confused? Not in Gaby’s case. Nationally Integrated is her creed.

Fun with Cognates

When people find out that I speak (almost) ten languages, they invariably ask if I ever get confused. My answer is that it is far more challenging to speak two closely related languages well, meaning keeping them completely separate, than to learn and segregate languages with little relation to one another. For example, I can count on one hand people I’ve met who speak both Spanish and Portuguese well, without significant mixing.

Nevertheless, there are words that by coincidence mean totally different things in other languages, and a few are worth mentioning, if only for entertainment value.

In Hindi (my latest love)

• Or means and
• Ya means or
• Ha means yes
• Wo means that (or he/she when not nearby), while the same word in German means where.

In Hebrew (we’re on a role with ‘H’ languages today)

• Hoo means he
• Hee means she
• Mee means who
• Anak means giant, while the same word in Indonesian means small child.

However, the most intruiging word I can think of is turkey, i.e. the poultry North Americans eat at Thanksgiving and Christmas.

In English, Turkey is the name of that country that the EU is arguing over whether or not it is European. (Skye Frontier opines that it is).
In Hebrew, the word for that fowl is Hodu, which also means India. Guess what. In Portuguese, the bird is known as Peru. I can’t even speculate as to why.

Shootout at Lokhandwala – Movie

Of the recent crop of Hindi movies to hit the big screen, Shootout at Lokhandwala stands out. The film is replete with graphic violence à la Tarantino, making the same not only easier to stomach, but actually adding to the entertainment value. The soundtrack totally rocks, being the best I’ve heard in recent times. And the main villains are endearingly played by Vivek Oberoi and Tusshar Kapoor.

Vivek’s debut film, Company, was a huge hit, with him playing a hoodlum, a role for which he spent extensive time in a Bombay slum. He does the tough-guy role really well, although his million-dollar smile betrays his true and privileged background. Indeed, in subsequent films, he has done well at romance and comedy. Saathiya and Masti stand out. A good dancer who is definitely not hard to look at, his ultimate charm is that what he has, he dispenses sparingly, but to outstanding effect.

When I first saw a movie with Tusshar Kapoor, I found him to be rather nondescript. But as I’ve seen him in more and more, he’s actually grown on me quite a bit. He’s an excellent dancer, and has a very unpretentious air about him. I reckon his success will continue to grow.

All the song sequences in Shootout at Lokhandwala are done by the villains, and their energetic and aggressive cavorting to catchy and rhythmic numbers are easily the high points of the film. Vivek and Tusshar also have superb onscreen chemistry.

That the producer and lead actor, Sanjay Dutt, would endeavor to make a movie that is based on “true rumors” surrounding the criminal underworld that pulled off the 1993 Bombay Bombings, is noteworthy in itself. The blasts were apparently revenge for the 1991 destruction of the Babri mosque by Hindu extremists. Riots ensued, most viciously in Bombay, and ironically, most of the victims turned out to be Muslims. Dawood Ibrahim, leader of the Bombay Mafia, in his Muslim piety, activated his links with the Lakshar-e-Toiba and al Qaida terrorist outfits.

Sanjay Dutt, a most secular Muslim, is known to have had contacts with underworld figures, at very least on the level of movie financing, in which their involvement is well known. From here, apparently, in the wake of the riots, Sanjay took delivery of some pretty serious illegal weapons. Indeed, he was arrested and convicted on such charges, and remains on probation to this day.

Shootout at Lokhandwala is about the Bombay police unit that went after underworld figures linked to Dawood Ibrahim in 1991, using the most heavy-handed brutality. Their methods could clearly be described as human rights violations. Sanjay Dutt plays the commanding officer of this unit, who was charged with the atrocities stemming from the event that gives the film its name. The shootout annihilated the entire gang in question. At the end of the movie, his character is acquitted. Nevertheless, the denouement text on the screen implies that the Anti-terror Squad’s subsequent disbandment, at least indirectly, contributed to the 1993 Bombings, as there were no longer competent police resources to take on the most dangerous underworld figures in a manner effective enough to stop them.

It seems to me that Sanjay Dutt has used this excellent film as a soapbox to completely deny involvement in the underworld and terrorism. I cannot judge to what extent this is true, but suffice it to say that while he may have gotten a raw deal in court, the complete disavowal rings somewhat hollow. That said, go see the film!

An Ode of True Love to Josh-bhai

Joshua Schulgasser was born in Be’er Sheva to religious American parents. Notwithstanding that, their home’s library was replete with a plethora of subjects and titles, all of which went uncensored before the Schulgasser children’s young minds. Indeed, his English is not that of the typical only-spoken-at-home variety. It is accentless and cultivated. Mother was a prodigious gourmet, giving the children a lifelong love of and talent in the culinary arts.

It was an immigrant childhood to be sure, growing up in two very different worlds: New York Jew at home; North African development town outside, even though there is also a considerable Ashekenazi community. The contrast could not be starker.

Josh-bhai is a genius. He excelled at his studies. An electrical engineer by university training, he spent six years in the Israeli Air Force, rising to the rank of Major as an integrator for the software that flies F-16 fighter jets.

Like many children of immigrants, his search for his own national identity drew him to travel, in his case to India, which was our initial point of conversation. We met as he was leaving after a year in private hi-tech in Herzelia Pituah, Israel’s Silicon Wadi, on his way to Europe and India (again). I was a technical writer and had required information on a project he had integrated. In all my years of technical writing, no engineer ever presented me with such complete work. When it came up that he was into Bollywood cinema, on the heels of the return from my first trip to the Subcontinent, his imminent journey aside, I knew immediately that I could not let him go, at least metaphorically. In the years that have followed, we have only grown closer.

Josh-bhai’s trips to India and his natural diligence have endowed him with fluent Hindi. Further studies in India have made him an amateur classical musician. Upon returning from the sojourn after we had initially met, he decided that work in hi-tech could wait, and went on to study for, and complete, a degree in fine arts, with distinction. Talent is not lacking.

Apparently, Josh’s Hindi is so good, that New York Yid looks aside, he is taken for an Indian when in Hindustan. My own experience has shown me that very few people can achieve this level of linguistic integration, especially as an adult. As such, Josh-bhai is fully versed in the linguistic mindset, and quite aware of the cultural differences.

Linguistic integration in a culture where the general worldview is so far removed from one’s origins inevitably creates a state of cognitive dissonance. Josh had warned me that as soon as my Hindi was conversational, Indian men would eventually turn the topic of dialog to my sex life. This is not an easily discussed subject in India, and the perception of foreigners as, shall we say, libertine, persists, thereby making such talk most uncomfortable. Suffice it to say that in my personal opinion, the views of most Indians on sex are totally messed up. I reckon if they were to probe me on the subject, they would likely be mortified by what they heard. So my tactic has been feign mild offense at such “personal” questions when they come up, and this always works.

Josh told me that when you want to integrate, you make a supreme effort. However, when you’re finally on the “inside”, you often don’t like what you find out. This again brings us to living with complexity.

Of the many things I admire about Josh-bhai, one of the most striking is that he has always followed his heart. Financially responsible, when he has needed to work, he has done so. When he has wanted to travel, he has hit the road, mostly to India, with a few side trips to Europe as well. When he yearned to make art, he cast aside the advice of others and studied for several years. And none of this has impeded him in any way. On the contrary, he is the richest and best-rounded person I know. The validation I needed to pursue my interests in Hindi language and cinema was validated by him. The courage to follow my heart and come to India was inspired by him. And owing to a striking similarity in backgrounds, and an uncommonly sensitive intuition on his part, I would venture that he is the one person in the entire world (and I’ve seen much of it) who truly understands me. And while once again oceans and continents separate us, I want to dedicate this series on the Nationally Confused to Josh-bhai, out of admiration and love. Through him, I began to understand that identity is something you construct yourself, and as your own creation, you have every right to be proud of it.