Al Jazeera English

In lieu of the recent affairs in the Middle East, and with respect to the passion most immigrant and immigrant descendants have for current affairs, I'm going to hold off on putting anything up besides a link to watch the progress in Egypt.

Look forward to an update Wednesday by midnight again!

Al Jazeera English on Youtube

Thirst

The cliché- a man stumbles across the desert with the harsh rays of the sun beating down on his back, baking the ground around him. The heat causes his body to sweat, and his fear makes him sweat even more. He is losing water rapidly and knows this.  His turban drapes loosely, wilted from the trials of finding his way home. There is not a friendly face, creature, or plant in sight.  Everywhere he looks, he sees the same thing- flat land stretching far into the distance until the sky and the ground melt into one point.  

His tongue is thick in his mouth, swollen and pressed against the insides of his gums. His lips and teeth are covered with a thick layer of sand and dust, as if he has been trying to eat the earth.  Despite his throat’s desperate tensing and relaxation, there is no moisture, no water, there is nothing.  

Thirst. 

The word can be used to describe the physical need for water. But it can also be used to describe something that goes much deeper, into the very spirit of a person. 

There is something about walking down a common thoroughfare in a foreign land and suddenly hearing the first notes of a song that is familiar from your own native country. 

At first, you stop and shake your head, craning to hear the notes more clearly, and wondering if you are going a bit insane.  Then you pretend you can’t hear it and continue walking, hoping to speedily arrive at your destination without being sidetracked.  

As you continue walking in the direction, the music becomes louder and louder, and you realize that your heart is beating a little faster. 

The music becomes everything- your family, your house, your bed, your friends, your language, your religion, your culture. Everything you left behind to start a new life in a new land.  

Your feet turn in the direction of the sounds and steal you away from your goal. One part of you cries out in disapproval at this loss of focus, while the other part rejoices in the possibility that, for just a moment, you will be one of many like you. 

The dhol beats thump in the dirt beneath your feet, and the powdered colours fly through the air, turning your groomed Western business wear into a riot of bright splotches. 

“Happy Holi!!!!”

People run around, here and there, hugging people they do not know, and wishing them the best during this festival season.  Your ears are soothed by the garbled mixtures of English, Hindi, Bengali, and other languages from the subcontinent. 

You don’t know anyone, but they are all related to you and comfortable with your mannerisms, your looks, and your way of interacting. 

There is a thirst, to hear the lilt of speech, and the rhythms of your own music. To see the dress and celebrate the festivals with all of the nuances that you would have at home. Even the most learned, cultured, and accepting person from this new land cannot offer the feeling of comfort and relaxation that you feel when you are surrounded by your culture from your youth. 

Just as the man’s thirst could be satiated by only water, so the thirst for your culture and people can only be satiated by them. But this holds no criticism for those who do try and who do know and offer succor from the feeling of being alien. Rather, it is an acknowledgment of age old sentiments, there is no place like home. 

Woops!

Dear Readers!
      Hope your week is going well! I got a bit overwhelmed at work, so I'm going to be posting Thursday night instead of Monday night.

      It is a one time event, so wish me luck and see you here soon!

-Suchi

That Thing at That Time

“In India, you do not say such things in front of people!” she complained.  Their parents softened their voices, both blaming the other for the unbecoming attitudes of their children. It was a public censure for the benefit of those children.

Anita and her brothers fidgeted in their stiff wooden chairs, once again confronted with the difference between themselves and, according to their relatives, everyone else in India.  Despite the fact that most of their relatives were academics or professionals, it seemed that gender stereotypes would never go away. At least, not in the backwater state her family called home. 

As her mother continued lecturing them about appropriate behavior, Anita let her thoughts wander back to their landing in Mumbai.  

After practically an entire day of sitting on the plane, the idea of stretching her legs on the land was heavenly. She was lucky to have the window seat, the result of much bargaining and cajoling with her brothers.  As she watched the parched earth and sprawling city magnify minute by minute, she was at once seized with anxiety about their reception.  

Would her aunties and uncles take her to task about her shorts and t-shirts, her inability to fluently speak the language, and her cross-country running? Would she still be able to roam around with her brothers and their friends, instead of taking hundreds of shopping trips to the local vendors?  Would her skin colour again be the topic of conversation? Or that same question about when she was going to be a doctor, like her many cousins? 

Her thoughts chased one another around, a circle of nerves and fear and anticipation.  Anita eased into the doubtful comfort of the airplane chair in an attempt to calm her mind. Unfortunately, the baby two rows in front chose that time to wail and cry and throw a tantrum.  Too bad she couldn’t do the same thing.  

Satish dropped his book to his lap, heaved a sigh, turning to give her a dirty look. 

“Quit muttering! I don’t want to listen to you complain and we’re not even there yet!” 

He was generally the quietest of the bushel of kids and pretty easy going. He was probably just as nervous as she was. Or he was just hungry and grumpy.  

The seatbelt sign lit up above their seats, and the entire cabin shifted gears. The lazy boredom disappeared into a frenetic mess of people reaching for bags and luggage, throwing away trash, talking, crying, turning on cell phones, and descending into chaos. 

By the time they made it off the plane and out the doors of the airport, the heat had sucked any thoughts other than those concerning air conditioning and water out of their fragile American bodies.   Tightening their grasps on their luggage handles, the family waded into the crush of people, seeking the least shifty of the taxi drivers to take them to their destination.

Anita’s nose wrinkled at the strong scents assaulting them. It was as if her mother had decided to cook hundreds of curries at once. She turned to check on her brothers, only to find herself a sea of people away from them. They stood as if shell shocked, taking in the sight of what looked like fully Westernized Mumbai citizens running here and there. 

Anita was rudely brought back to the present when her mother and father abruptly left the room. The silence was deafening.  She felt a tap on her left shoulder and turned in the direction, startled by the sudden contact. Her oldest brother, Abhilas, stood with his hand coyly placed over his mouth. He fluttered his eyelashes in a mock flirtatious expression.

“Why, Auntie ji, you do not have any sanitary napkins?!”

The kitchen was filled with hoots and laughter, the air lightened by the ridiculous nature of the situation. Who cared that she did not walk softly, or had a hearty laugh, or dared to refer to feminine hygiene products by their name instead of nebulous terms?  

Her brothers in that moment became her co-conspirators, plotting to overthrow the strange gender mechanisms of their extended family.

Ramu, the youngest, stood up and stretched his long skinny arms. He spun on his heel, shouting as he ran out the door “Last one has to pitch!”

The rest of them scrambled up from their seats, wiping tears from their eyes as they rushed to beat him to the cricket field. 

Anita followed slowly behind the rest of her siblings. Despite the Westernization of the metropolises in India, the Western attitudes had yet to permeate into the true system of social interaction in India. That system was still based in rural life, where menstruation was called the time, and pads were called the things, and if women had genitalia, far be it from them to know what it looked like, how it functioned, and describe that area anatomically. 

Anita could not care less for the outdated sentiments. It was one thing to be respectful and discreet. It was another thing entirely to treat the whole female reproductive system like the elephant in the room. 

 

She rolled her neck to the side, stretching out the kinks, and straightened up to survey the field. Setting her concerns aside, she grabbed the ball and stepped up to the wickets.

Flashback: Resonance for the Future

             “What are you?”  The high-pitched squeal cut through my reverie. My hand clenched around the little soldier, snapping it in half.

 The little twigs stood straight up, firmly ensconced in sandy holes. They were an army of twig-people fighting a war against pink pebbles I had strewn across makeshift sand dunes.  Nature was in turmoil but the dappled sunlight made it seem like an idyllic moment of peace and silence.  The opposing sides were arrayed and surveying one another, preparing for battle. I was enjoying the orchestration immensely, my imagination inventing a new world. 

Then the pudgy mean-spirited bully of the class decided to come to my corner.  I looked up at the rude interruption, disgusted by his decision to confront me now. He had spent the entire morning kicking my leg and grinning at me with his silver teeth on display.  

His posse snickered. They stood a ways back, as if I was some rabid mongrel dog to be harassed.  We played this little game at least once a week. It generally ended up with me in time out and the little gangsters- to-be on the soccer field because they got away with excuses.

“Miss! Miss! I didn’t know nothing! She did it!”

Guess it was time again. I stood up from my play, squaring my shoulders to face the group.

“I am Indian.”

 Widening my stance, I got ready for the round of schoolyard fighting. The posse shot off their questions one by one in heavily accented English. 

 “Where are your feathers? Huh?” yelled one, “Do some magic! Sing some song!” shouted another.

The others hollered in excitement, skipping in a circle, bending and swaying in the stereotypical Native American fashion. They had heard my answer many times before, but for some reason, Indian was not a good enough answer.

It didn’t all start like this.

I walked in to class with a pink Barbie backpack, wearing overalls and a Disney princess shirt.  Like any other second grader, I loved Clifford the Big Red Dog, and could not wait to start the year.  Especially recess! 

  My silver anklets tinkled gently with each step, and my bangles chimed in harmony with each movement.  Other than that, I was rather indistinguishable from my classmates.  The room was still half empty, so I quietly went to my desk and set down my book bag.  The classroom was bright and colourful, with posters of book covers, Kinect blocks, and numbers.  

Wide-eyed and excited, I took it all in, carefully marking my new possible friends as they walked in the door.  None of them looked or spoke the way I did, but it did not matter.  The alarm bell rang at exactly 8:00 AM. The teacher’s soft voice called each one of us to say our name and introduce ourselves.

“What kind of name is that?!” sniggered the boy to my left.  That was when it was over.  The name, the jewelry, the mannerisms, the food, the language, and even my colour- neither black, nor tawny Spanish brown, or even white- set me aside.

  Although I wasn’t the lowest on the totem pole, I was not very high on it either. I slowly retreated into the shelter of my heritage, the dancing, the religion, the dresses, the language, and accepted it as the wall between myself and others.

I was Indian, and nothing else really mattered.

               

               

               

Leena's Dance

There were only twenty minutes left until the curtains went up and Leena was firmly rooted in place. The roar of the crowd dimmed to a far away murmur as her thoughts grew louder, chasing each other in circles around her head- this was it, her first performance with this team, and hopefully not her last performance. The other dancers dashed here and there, putting on last minute make up, angling their hats to the perfect angle, and nervously fidgeting with their oversized T-shirts. Jennifer scurried past her, giving her a quick tap on the shoulder. It was time to start.

The lights under the curtain darkened, and the beast quieted in anticipation. Her breathing slowed and she breezed across the stage to her spot- this was her favorite moment. To step and point, weave and bend, to drape and leap, and take her audience and music to the climax, and then drop them back into their bodies, spectators jealous of her nimble grace.

“Leena!” roared her mother from downstairs “come eat right now!”

Pungent asafetida filled the air, insinuating itself into the smallest pores of the walls and carpeting in the house. Not to mention Leena’s hair, clothing, bag, and everything else that could keep a smell. Her Kuchipudi outfit was folded neatly in a bag at the bottom of the steps and her brother’s agitated back and forth at the door told her she was already running late. Her dance teacher would have already started the class, clapping and singing nonsensical dance terms while the other students stepped and turned in unison.

Her father sat in the chair at the head of the table, wearing his lungi and holding his chai in front of him as he absent mindedly scanned the newspaper. It was a garish sheet, full of riotous colors, all orange, green, blue, proclaiming headlines for the local Indian community. Her mother stood at the other end of the table, brandishing a silver cooking spoon at Leena like a weapon. She rattled off instructions as fast as Leena spooned the deliciously hot sambar into her mouth.

“Eat your lunch and go quickly. Don’t forget your music, your performance is tomorrow! Tell your teacher we will bring extra flower garlands!”

It was a daily Saturday ritual in her household. Her life was filled with Kuchipudi practice, Kuchipudi performances, and then hours of following around physicians, reading about medicine, and working on school work. Her friends could be tanning at the beach, and Leena would still be practicing the coy look of Radha greeting her beloved Krishna, or the enraged and victorious stance of Durga after defeating a Rakshasa. But she did not really resent the dancing- the feeling of executing the perfect mudra, of artfully portraying Meera’s longing for God, or the hours of work that went into the turns. Nor did she have an issue with her parents’ insistence that she dance. It was something else entirely.

At 2:00 pm, Leena tied the last thread of her ghungroo around her shin and straightened up to survey the crowd. This was the final act for her. 

The singer had yet to begin, and the audience was loud and unruly. Leena lifted her knee towards the ceiling pointing her toes to the ground, and then slowly lengthened her leg to complete the first of the ceremonial steps towards the center of the stage. Now, she was a supplicant to God.

It was an act of intimate worship between the dancer, the stage, the music, and Divinity. Her bare feet shaped gently to the wood as she bent at the waist and her fingers formed an elegant triangle from which she lovingly poured flowers as tribute. She bowed her head, seeking her center and giving thanks. The singer glanced her way, and Leena gave a small nod. The violinist slid his fingers to the scroll of the violin and moved his bow in a long and languorous stroke, sending a single note snaking into the air. The audience quickly quieted and Leena began her story, dancing many characters, many faces, and many moods. Twenty something years culminated in this twelve minutes of absolute devotion. Her lithe form transitioned over and over again from one pose to the next, molding to the music and being molded by it in turn.

The curtains lifted and the bright glare of the lights momentarily blinded her. But in her space, everything was at peace. The first loud bass note vibrated up through the stage and sounded across the auditorium. A single fluid movement took Leena up from her prone position on the stage and she snapped her cap off, tossing it to Jennifer. The beats thumped from the speakers, pulsing through the dancers as they danced their way into the hearts of the city- the premier hip hop and R&B dance crew was back.

Her family’s reaction was as expected. It came in intervals, where her mother would ask where she went wrong and her father swung between loud anger and quiet isolation. It wasn’t often that an Indian daughter would quit her “doctor in training” routine to be a professional dancer. She knew she had hurt her parents, but it seemed essential then to explain that she was nothing if she wasn’t a dancer- whether it was Kuchipudi, ballet, or a hip-hop dancer. Maybe it was too much to ask that they come to the performance and watch their daughter pop, lock, to them, gyrate on stage. She asked anyway, unwilling to sever the ties that brought her to dance in the first place.

Jennifer drove her home from the auditorium, joyously babbling about their performance line-up, going over the minute details of the dance and brainstorming new choreography as they sped down the quiet suburban roads. It was late and the house was dark. Leena waved to Jennifer from her driveway and strode towards the front door.

The key clicked in the lock and the door creaked open. The darkness within was welcoming and she stood there in the front hall, letting her bags drop to the floor. The asafetida smell lingered in the air, reminding her of her of the morning. It seemed a long time in the past.

She left her bags where they had fallen and took off her shoes one by one. She turned them the same direction and placed them in a line next to her father’s shoes at the entrance. Her bare feet sank into the heavy carpet on the stairway as she made her way up to her room. When Leena finally fell into bed, her head made a crinkling noise against the pillow. Her fingers quested towards the sound and encountered folded paper.

Smiling, Leena succumbed to sleep.

Walking The Line | Nazar - A South Asian Perspective

Walking The Line | Nazar - A South Asian Perspective

I initially wrote this article with the idea that it would be a one-time cathartic essay. I did not imagine then that I would take not only the title but the feelings from the piece and start this blog. It is my greatest hope and aspiration that you will find that these pieces resonate with your experiences as first generation immigrants, or perhaps, as a non-immigrant, or an established American, you will find that these pieces are a journey into a world you left behind or never knew.

Finding the hybrid culture, the common ground in a new country is an old struggle- it is a task that has been attempted and successfully completed by many waves of immigrants. The struggle is not completely new, but the nuances are different for the Indian community in America. There are questions about love, faith, culture, education, careers, and even the smallest of daily activities that have not been broached by many. This first generation is truly just coming of age and becoming a visible part of America

I do not have all of the answers to the questions, but I do wish to share the stories I have seen, thought of, or experienced, with you. Perhaps answers will be illuminated, or the discussion will give rise to something. Better yet, the reading will be an enjoyable and thought provoking experience and you will come back for more.

Thank you for stopping by, and I look forward to the new beginnings this 2011