Move

I have used and loved Blogger for 14 years, but it's time. Fuchsia has a new home. Visit us here. There may continue to be some visual changes in the weeks to come, but the content remains the same. 

Transformation Year

I

I do not think of the current state of my body as a special post-30 phenomenon. The body is what it is, different from others' who are in their 30s, and quite obviously different from my own 20s. There is nothing profound or astonishing about the changes in its form or preferences over time.

However, there are some things that, to me, are more sensibly measured in established time units: year-on-year personal progress which is easy for me to see because of the annual reflections post.

< the sun lovingly disarms the body and mind >*

II

2018 was my year of transformation. At the end of 2017, I wrote about how I worked on resurrecting my confidence through that year. The new year opened up a new playing field for that confidence. Professionally, I got the space I'd been looking for for years, to spread out and ground my feet. Personally, I made a(nother) new attempt at managing the excess weight and this time the effort stuck. The two things fed each other - owning my space at work strangely gave me the confidence to power through the initially daunting task of changing the way I ate, and improving my diet gave me energy and clarity I had never experienced before. It was a rare win-win for which I am grateful to a lot of people who made it happen. It set the tone for many things that happened through the year...

# Firstly, I lost ten kilos. It was an all-consuming experience. I felt uncomfortable when clothes first started getting loose. It was as though a part of me was leaving me and I didn't know how to be in my own skin. There was one day when I didn't even want the change. But the change was undeniably exhilarating. I obsessed about it and people around me patiently encouraged me. I reflected on my life-long battle with being overweight and partially managed to see my size independent of me. I realised, growing up, the only options were to be skinny or fat. There was no in-between. And I was never skinny. But it took 32 years to truly realise that I was never fat either (even though I now see old photos and notice fat I couldn't see earlier). That friends and family didn't just say it because they loved me. That boys, men, aunties with nasty words didn't know better. That said, I don't yet feel confident enough about maintaining the new habits and weight now.

# I ate more vegetables in 2018 than I ever did. It sounds inane but for someone who doesn't eat meat I hardly used to give myself any options for food. Pumpkin and saag were two big break-throughs this year. There were also a lot of new types of experiments in the kitchen. My mother hasn't been happier.

# I got promoted at the beginning of the year. I badly wanted it. And that's the farthest I wanted to go in that job.

# I looked for a new job for ten months before landing on an opportunity that had interest both ways. I got the job. It has a few things that have me excited. It's early days though.

# I went to the south of Spain. Gaudi is God. Orange trees stretch for miles at end in the countryside. I fell into a pit while appreciating some almond trees - there was pain, blood, laughter, crying and some scars that have stayed.

# I also went to the south of France. It's pretty but overrated. And I SO do not relate to the high-flying life of the Riviera, nor to the trashy, flashy life of Cannes. The best discovery of the region was Fragonard - buy their perfume if you get a chance. And one for me too!

# For C's birthday, Ruhi, C and I made a road trip to Peak District. Our Airbnb had pear and apple trees in its backyard and sheep in the front yard. There is so much peace to draw from such places once you're done jumping up and down with excitement! I'm getting excited thinking about it now, nearly six months later as well.

# For his birthday we also went to the BBC Proms for a piano recital. He was happy, and I just enjoyed the fabulous ambience and music.

# I went to the ER again - this time I got great service from the NHS because my emergency sounded really scary. For a change I was scared too. This was in February.

# At the end of the year in November, I went to the ER in Oslo. Even before I arrived in Oslo, I'd noted my sole aim for the trip to not slip on ice. But slip I did!

# Ruhi kindly showed up to help out in both emergencies.

# I bought my first red lipstick. I'd toyed with the idea for a while, experimented a bit as well, but the one I found is the perfect one.

# There's a small place called Rye in England. It can make for a nice day-trip from London. Except my trip was rainy and not nice.

# My office temporarily moved to WeWork in Aldgate because of 'The Great Flood of Wigmore Street'. That's what we called the accident that involved our office's roofs falling down thanks to some blocked pipes on the floor above ours. Those three months were a new kind of London experience, including a LOT of days working from home and getting so much other stuff done.

# We went back to Tuscany - this time during the harvest season. We stayed at a vineyard, the air smelled of grapes as we drove through Chianti, the food was amazing as ever, and C upped the game further for my birthday celebrations.

# And then there was Kenya! So much of it was like India, and so much of it was nothing like I'd ever seen before. It was a true exotica-meets-nostalgia experience with all the face-to-face encounters with lions, cheetahs, African elephants, giraffes, rhinos, and others.

# One Saturday in the summer we drove to the outskirts of London to Enfield to Parkside Farm, where you can pick your own strawberries, blueberries, other berries, onions, beans, and all kinds of veggies!! Pay for what you pick and off you go! The left the car smelling of strawberries thanks to all the child-like excitement with which we shopped. I LOVED IT and totally recommend the experience for anyone who visits in the summer.

# A very different kind of trip was undertaken with Ruhi after she demanded a girls-only vacation. I went on to Skyscanner and checked where we could go for the cheapest flights. A place called Carcassonne came up in the search. I had never heard of it, so I searched for what it was all about. Looked nice and legit - and off we went! Pretty chateaus, lush green fields, French wine, bread, non-touristy experiences and a lot of talking! We ended up sending each other postcards, not knowing we were doing so until we received them days later.

# I went back to Berlin - this time for work. But I managed to spend some nice time with T (I love that boy) and did some graffiti as part of a team-building exercise. It's fun but those fumes from the colours are brutal.

# As you can tell, I travelled a lot in 2018. There were many more work trips as well. At the end of the year, my employers paid for a new passport because I'd made 19 work trips in the three years I was there. That's 57 stamps!

# I watched more DDLJ.

# I went for an evening of Shakespearean theatre at the Westminster Abbey, which was amazing in itself, and then we bumped into Pankaj Kapur(!).

# I started 'gardening' in my first floor home without a balcony. Yes, it's possible. You should do it too. It's rewarding to see a seed grow into a plant that later flowers.

# I went for a pottery class which was a lot of FUN. Damn these things are expensive af in this city!

# I experienced south Mumbai through two work trips. It was quite clearly not the Mumbai life I dislike.

# It snowed like crazy in the spring and I spent an afternoon clicking photos in my favourite Hampstead Heath.

# I went back to learning how to drive (I think I write about this topic every year). I got the best instructor in the world. I drove and drove and drove and then I failed my exam because of bad judgement at a turn, which was a result of out-of-control nerves. But I did not give up this time and finally got my licence at the end of the year. It is such a gigantic win that I cannot do anything to describe it. I'm still terribly nervous about driving on my own though but hopefully I'll overcome that as well. *fingers crossed*

# My lovely team at work organised a fabulous send-off for me before Christmas and then I went to India for a month.

# The India trip was tiring and hectic, as usual. To top it I contracted bronchitis and sinusitis in Delhi's gas chamber.

# The busy trip meant I could not get around to finishing and publishing this post on time. But here I am - six weeks late to the party.

2019 is already all-consuming but I am very available in the evenings doing nothing, watching Netflix.

*thanks to the luxury of access to a sunny terrace on 26 December. 

Mainstreaming

My recent trip to India got me thinking about mainstreaming. It began with the hardcore, pendu Punjabi songs which have spread like an epidemic. I wonder how and when people in Delhi became so Punjabi that they started listening to songs that are hard to understand and don't even sound good. I thought it was migration from UP and Bihar that was increasing, not Punjab. This expansion though is easily extendable to Punjabi-ism in general as well. Casual use of Sikh imagery, Punjabi words, food, and culture across public places, restaurants, radio shows, television and even films is visible everywhere. What troubles me about it is that it comes at the cost of losing nuance. In my view, by definition, mainstreaming and the associated scale (especially in India) cannot retain the richness of a thought, idea or culture.

The composition and context of my family always made us less Punjabi than what might be considered ordinarily Punjabi. As a result, certain stereotypes always bewildered me. Lately, that's gotten worse because of this same mainstreaming. People's knowledge of Punjabi culture is negligible and topped with half-understood isms. Reinforcement of stereotypes in such an environment is almost offensive. I prefer silk to sequins, wood carvings to gold paint, flat shoes to heels, vegetables to meat, less to more. But I love the dhol, Diljit Dosanjh and SUVs. You know where the stereotypes lie.

*

The upside to mainstreaming that I noticed was the one associated with Odisha's Saura art. It seems to be everywhere! Canvas paintings available on Amazon, kids' games and puzzles, home decor in local shops, life-size paint on public walls, you-name-it! I'd love to know who's behind it. It is hard for these things to get noticed, accepted and executed at such a scale without an intervention. And while I hope other art forms get similar attention, I do wonder which nuances are getting lost in this process.

This is the story of Thakur

I first found Thakur at Dilli Haat's permanent Kashmir store, in 2008. Simple, economical, and totally fit for purpose.

It lived with me in Pune and we travelled together across Maharashtra. It was particularly useful during the Srivardhan trip taken in the monsoons. I still remember that leaky state transport bus!

On campus in Pune, romance blossomed with its help. The nippy weather one.

Over the years, it continued to be a good friend, and obviously moved with me to London. Here it supports me every day from September to April. I literally lose sleep if it's not around.
.
.
.
.
.
.

Thakur is a black pashmina shawl. I use it like a night cap these days because my body temperature drops significantly during sleep and I get a headache if Thakur (and its heat) goes missing.

The nomenclature emerged from the time C saw me walk around wearing it in traditional style - covering my shoulders and arms with it. Classic RB style, I got extra lazy about using my arms to do anything either. Hence, the arm-less Thakur (of Sholay fame).

Technically, the label was for me, but the shawl conveniently absorbed it. Now the shrunken, ten-year-old holds a special, permanent position on our bed, and in our lives.

My London

I’ve never felt passionate about London because I live with someone who does. I’ll explain how that works.

I find it difficult to appreciate anything that I think is over-appreciated by the people around me. The most current example of this phenomenon is that I have got down to reading Shantaram now, 15 years after it was first published. I did not want to read it when every other person around me (in college) was carrying around that giant 900-page copy of the book and raving about it. Some people did it because they genuinely enjoyed it, and I am certain many did it (carrying and raving) because they needed to fit in. The noise that that resulted in acted as a repellent for me. I don’t operate well in a lot of noise. I need space to be able to think, form my own views and make my own judgments. I won’t deny being guilty of borrowing opinions, but I do enjoy some space when I can get it. And that’s why I am not a fan of videos that go viral, people who talk too much, et cetera.

Coming back to London! C loves it so much, as do most people around me (current and former residents as well as visitors), that I don’t feel like I have enough space to allow my own feelings to mature. It’s my fourth year here though, so I thought of jotting down a few things that make up my life in London.

Firstly, I check the weather forecast last thing before I go to bed and almost the first thing when I wake up in the morning. It helps decide whether I should bother washing my hair or not (windy/rainy day = pony tail day), how many and which types of layers to wear (cotton for humid, breezy day; waterproof for pissy rain day; warm for 12-15 degrees days; extra warm for 10 degrees or lower days; Eskimo-style for anything colder), and accordingly which shoes to wear (rookies do suede on a rainy day). Before you think I am exaggerating, let me clarify that ALL of these weather variances can occur within a two-week period. Last week it was 8 degrees and I got into a fight with C because he wanted to walk, and I was under-dressed for the weather (yep, despite all efforts to stay on top of the weather situation). Yesterday I grudgingly wore trousers to work because my legs weren’t waxed to wear one of the dresses I’d have rather worn in the warm, breezy weather.

Okay! With the weather monster covered, let me come to more normal things.

I was baffled the first time a stranger on the street smiled at me. And I obviously did not respond appropriately in time. On another occasion I saw C nod and smile at a stranger and I quickly jumped to enquire who it was. A stranger! How does it work in a city where people do anything they can to avoid eye contact on the tube? The only thing that helps me navigate this contradictory scenario is that I have figured this smiling business happens only on streets with a speed limit of 20 miles or lower. Yes, where the pace of life is physically slower than busier parts of the city. Avoiding eye contact feels very natural, so does avoiding conversations on the morning tube. I LOVE the unspoken rule of no conversations on the morning ride. Tourists also toe that line. But sometimes you do come across exceptions, and they are hated in good measure by everyone around them.

I’ve worked in Marylebone for most of my time here, commuting through Oxford Street almost every day. In the process, I have come across some brilliant artists busking outside stations and big stores. Their voices and their music reverberate through the busy street, making every passer-by pause for at least a moment – even if only in their heart – to appreciate the talent and magic that these individuals create. The good thing about these artists is that they never stay in one place for long. So, even if you cross the same spot every day, it’s not necessary that you’d find the same person singing or playing there every time. The surprise and freshness of the experience makes much of a mundane moment.

London’s streets also have an outlier vibe about them. The one that speaks almost in response to the conservative, patriarchal systems of the country from not a very long time ago. It almost seems like a physical, visible manifestation of the rebellion that helped people break away from the fetters of what I’d lightly call, ‘time’. I was almost ignorant of the history until I came here but seeing what I do today gives me hope for India which is still caught in awful remnants – even if deep-seeded – of the colonial times.

A better tradition that’s continued from the colonial times is the English pubs. They have no music, unlike pubs in many other cities, and they’re more communal and friendly than even a park at times. People of all ages are easily accommodated, with some pubs even having a play area for kids. Thursday evenings, on the other hand, see pubs ‘accommodating’ more people outside, on the footpath, than inside. Nobody cares for a place to sit as long as they have a beer or cider OR mulled wine and good company. It also doesn’t matter how you’re dressed – anything from a post-workout gear to a pre-wedding look goes! Extraordinary is the ‘English’ word to describe it.

London is not perfect though, as aren’t any other cities in the world. Or the world itself. It is fairly lovable with its charming architecture, beautiful parks, amazing food scene, good work-life balance, cultural action, and the short but absolutely stunning summer.

Neither hearts nor posing against pretty backdrops is usually my thing, but this was me indulging in both, near London Bridge a few weeks ago.

Dreamy

One could easily miss the sharp and narrow turn in the winding road. In fact, within metres it changed to a gravel path, with sunflower fields on the left and small homes on the right, which seemed like they’d been there for centuries. The sunflowers were a clear sign of the past two months of the heat wave. The plants stood tall, but the flowers had burnt and wilted. Driving ahead slowly, there emerged the expansive grey stone property. Tastefully built, it had large glass doors on the ground floor, with a dining area on the left that could easily seat 20 people, extending to a porch outside with space for more. That porch had a shed of grape vines, from which happened to hang fully grown grapes in black, red and green. Beyond the porch were rows after rows of symmetrically-running grape vines. The vineyard had dark Cabernet Sauvignon grapes ready for harvest. That westside view was also accessible from the first-floor bedroom window. The sun setting in the distance, behind the hills had a bright, golden-orange hue. The Tuscan sun. Its low rays pierced through and overpowered every sense, every thought; giving way to a night sky filled with stars.

My understated love for daal (or dahl/dhall as known in London)

I was a fussy child who could not develop a taste for any foods. My vegetarian food universe was limited to potatoes, yoghurt and bread. One argument in favour of that is it’s a non-fuss peasant’s meal. But when that’s all you eat, the body (and the mother) cries in ways you don’t want to imagine!

I slowly took a liking to lentils – all but the sprouts form of it. Every colour, every type of beans, made by anyone! Aside: As a child, I could not bring myself to swallow food cooked by anyone other than my mother. No well-meaning aunt, grandmother or neighbour, who only wanted to help the woman with a full-time job and two kids, could succeed at making me eat (anything). So, it is a big deal when I say that I could eat daal made by anyone.

But I never confessed my love for it because I preferred kidney beans (I could eat those three times a day for three straight days) over everything else. “What’s your favourite food?” “Rajma-chawal (kidney beans and rice)!” To be honest, that’s the favourite food of 90 per cent of the north-Indian vegetarians. Others enjoy things like slimy okra.

The other relevant fact about me is that I easily get bored. That extends to general current affairs, people, and food. For instance, I lovingly ate so much peanut butter during my hostel life in Pune that I can no longer tell what’s so special about it. Same story with melons. In fact, I have a deep existential worry about what I might do if I get bored of all the things I like and can eat.

Enter daal!

Copyright: pirate of kitchen

As I mentioned, I have never confessed my love for it. In fact, I’ve barely acknowledged it to myself. When I first learned how to cook though, I could not believe how easy it is to make daal. Side lesson in twisting facts: the first time I made daal, I manually soaked all the water out of it and later wondered why it was so dry. Anyway, as I was saying, making daal is very easy. The second cooking-daal-related-win was when I first made daal makhni and thought to myself that it was better than my mom’s! Presumptuous much? Clearly, but why would l lie about such a thing? And to be fair, my Gujarati dad-in-law totally vouches for my Punjabi daal makhani!

I digress.

I skipped lunch today because I felt too lazy to cook for myself. But that only lasted till 14:45, when I rushed to the kitchen and made my 20-minutes-to-joy yellow daal tadka and complimented my daal-making skills. I love daal. And I love the daal I make. You’re welcome to join for a simple meal. If the meal planning is led by my husband, it will be daal chawal. If led by the lazy me, it will still be daal chawal. If led by the me spoilt by my mother, it will be hot namak parantha and daal. My dad always tries to peg a price to his daal makhani, only to conclude that it’s far more valuable than any served by a fancy restaurant in Delhi. I can sense my tendency to go down to that path even though I totally recognise that it can’t be true. Homemade daal is not meant to compete with the dahl available on the street. 

A Decade

Ten years ago, I unwillingly took a step which steered the course of my life in almost its entirety. I decided to pursue a master’s programme from Symbiosis, which, in theory, was a step back after having spent the previous three years at a far more prestigious institution in Delhi. From an academic perspective, the two years at Symbiosis were a sham and shame. If I could offer any advice to those running that programme, I’d restructure and redesign every element of it. Nonetheless, the time there was packed with several other elements which are hard to ignore even today.

1. I learned I am capable of being severely self-destructive. 

My environment festered a series of negative experiences which pushed me to one of the lowest points of existence I have experienced so far. And I saw how I perpetuated my situation and circumstances instead of lifting my head above water. Ten years on, I can’t confidently say that I have overcome that behavioural tendency, but an acute awareness of it makes me somewhat control it to an extent. 

2. I was exposed to sexuality, the different facets of it, and the normality of it all. 

When I moved to London in 2015 and met the people that I did, I realised that my assumptions about ‘normal’ were not universal. People who had seemingly similar backgrounds as I had views that I found jarring and at times, appalling.

3. I took very long to appreciate the diversity of people around me.

In retrospect, even a passive existence in that atmosphere widened my perspective a great deal. People around me weren’t all type As (natural, forced or pretentious) running after the same thing. I was surrounded by the flaky, the fickle; the straight shooters, the obnoxious; the driven, the creative; and many other types. And it took a few years for me to, firstly, be patient about it, and secondly, appreciate the importance of it. 

4. I made friends for life. 

I dreaded the idea of being surrounded by people 24x7, and struggled when I had to choose between playing along and decompressing (or isolating myself). But despite that and the many differences, I managed to find people who I can confidently trust to remain in the inner circle. It was the first time I was as comfortable as I was with people (even if a select few) and certainly the first time when intellectual or cultural backgrounds and differences didn’t come in the way. In fact, during those years I also got closer to a friend from before, and I am thankful for her reckless use of her cell phone at the time.

5. I started travelling. 

I come from a typical, middle class, conservative family where both parents had full time jobs, ie, they neither had the time to take me on holidays, nor did they have any interest in letting me go on my own. Until I was forced to be 1500 kms away from them. It started with a short trip to the Ajanta and Ellora caves. And there’s been no looking back. The opportunity and ability to travel saved my sanity when I had nothing else to look forward to in life. And it gave me experiences that have ranged from soul-stirring to outright fun.  

6. I appreciated life outside Delhi. 

I was obsessed about Delhi then and until much later. Then I started living in a place which, in stark contrast to my life in Delhi, had no facilities except an en-suite bathroom for luxury. From minor comforts to being surrounded by nature to realising that albeit normalised, certain behaviours and cultures are not normal. 

7. I experienced a life of struggle.

I brought it upon myself. My ambitions, personal desires and decisions were completely out of sync, and I was looking down a rabbit hole with no ability to sort myself out or seek help. That dragged on for a few years before making any sense whatsoever. Now, 8-10 years later, from a somewhat objective vantage point, I still think that the struggle was intense and the overcoming of it, real.

If it wasn’t for that decision, I’d have probably picked a boring career that paid more. I’d have met a different set of people, experienced time and places in a different context and perhaps had a different set of reflections at this stage. It’s been a rich decade nonetheless and I am at that terrifying juncture beyond which I never envisioned what life might be like. Let’s see where it goes. 

N

[2017 reflections] # I got a new manager at work. I resisted working with him (an Indian male) when I first heard about him. But I am thankful for his influence on my mind.

*

He introduced himself on the phone as a problem solver. A year later it seems like an obvious fact to me and surely many others who worked with him or even existed around him. But during that call I wondered why he said that. Why he was elevator-pitching at me. Sure, he was set to be my next manager, but I didn’t have any problems I wanted him to solve.

I was so wrong. He is leaving soon and I am wishing he’d stay. However, it’s good he’s leaving or I would have made him my crutch. Part of me wishes he’d stay because he’s the only person like himself.

*

I first met him in January 2017. My very first impression of him (beyond what was built up based on conversations about him) was that he looks like a wise, old man. The big eyes were filled with deep experience. I then thought he tried hard to get along and be liked by everyone. Just like the uncle who would always bring something for everyone every time he visited. Except that this guy wasn’t pleasing people with regular presents; he was unwrapping valuable gifts in the form of work solutions that colleagues needed. And they weren’t uniform gifts. He had solutions that ranged from product roadmaps to sales strategies to a how-to on dealing with difficult colleagues. Sometimes people didn’t know they needed a solution at all. He would just glide in, write a problem on the board making people believe in it, and then give them a solution for it as well. Most often, people left feeling thankful.

*

My conversations with him have ranged from deeply uncomfortable to highly inspirational. I have only known one other person whose practical application of their knowledge has been as precise and thoughtful as his. The only difference between the two has been their approach to how they interact with people around them. N, very consciously, has treated everyone as a peer, opening a channel that can only be productive in a professional interaction. I think it is safe to say that he is the type of person who takes people along with them. A year ago, I could not have imagined having a direct and open conversation with him or any other senior colleague without an unfounded fear established by hierarchy. Of course, there are still some people with whom I cannot be as open as I’d like, but I feel like I am now at a point where I don’t consider that as a shortcoming at my end.

He has left me in tears on occasion – not because he managed to offend me but because he helped me unravel perspectives (and sometimes facts) that I never considered with sufficient clarity or thought. I winced when he asked me to read a book on self-awareness. And I never read that book, but I now know why he asked me to read it.

I have also laughed at his absurdity and our disagreements alike. And I appreciate how he never made a bone about any of it.

He recently introduced me to the idea of an idea independent of the self. We agreed that I am a few steps away from being successful at not being attached to my ideas, but it certainly provoked a thought that I am glad has stuck with me.

*

His own defence mechanism is quite evident. As most things N, most of it is deliberate, and some of it natural. He has always come across as confident and in control, and I am not the one to get personal with anyone at work. But based on what I have sensed, I hope he does okay and gets all that he needs. I, for one, will always be wishing well.  

***

NRI

I have been a non-resident Indian (NRI) for four years. And that has defined a vast majority of my circumstances and actions throughout this time. Everything from my ability to vote for the British parliament to being at the receiving end of puzzled looks for pronouncing words differently from how they’re said outside India – it has all been about me being an Indian in a context outside of its boundaries, physical or otherwise.

I have consciously avoided discussing this position on social media and with most people outside my immediate circle because often instant judgments and opinions are passed at the mention of a fancy-sounding city. So, I neither post photos of the Big Ben, nor do I comment on India’s politics on Facebook. Because I fear all of it gets perceived through this first filter of a non-resident voice which leaves me a little more than uncomfortable. 

Some of these perceptions are grounded in fair assessment. If one is 5,000 miles away from the country, it is so convenient to make commentary about issues – political or civic – because undeniably, none of them affect us on a daily basis. 

I am also guilty of subscribing to the stereotype about NRIs loving to stroke their nostalgia about how great things are – or at least ought to be – back home. I left the country in 2014, before the last general elections, and that is my locus for how things are in India. #BMKJ is hard to digest because I don’t know whom to believe and with whom to argue. I don’t live there, so my alternative truth is all the more convoluted than those two people’s whose ideologies might differ but for whom at least the physical context is the same. 

But I still have a problem. 

NRIs are not just armchair activists or commentators, Karan Johar-loving desh bhakts who cry every time Rehman’s Swades shehnai echoes in their ears. They don’t all donate money to Modi even if a mind-boggling number of them are from Gujarat. And they aren’t all awestruck by the idea of India buying more Burberry bags than some other international markets. 

The privilege of an opportunity outside India goes away as soon as that plane leaves India’s boundaries. An NRI often begins as a mess in their host country because he/she doesn’t understand the words, the smells, the styles or the motivations of the people who surround them. 

They struggle to understand cultures. They struggle to adjust and be accepted. They struggle to make friends. They get hurt and learn lessons the hard way at work because they don’t know the ways of the new people. Their learning curves are steep and that is often on the back of having to start from scratch. 

If they make friends with only Indians – “oh what’s the point of being there then!” 

If they marry someone who’s not Indian – “oh my god this person is gone forever now!”

NRIs work on Republic Day, Holi, Independence Day, Rakhi, Diwali, you name it! Maybe Eid will be off. Christmas most likely will be off. They miss the weddings back home. And they miss the reunions too. Sometimes they choose to, but often they are forced to. It is heartbreakingly painful to come to terms with a grey, rainy, Diwali day, topped with a difficult day at work. There’s no luxury to pause for a day because it is the most special one of the year. And there is often no family to share a meal with either.  

And then they get judged for being brown. Sometimes they get attacked for being brown. The second-generation Indians judge them too. 

Amrish Puri’s dhobi ka kutta, na ghar ka, na ghaat ka rings true at some level. But what do you know, we still love DDLJ and all the current-day opulence. 

To be fair, many like me do live a good life despite these challenges. Same as being in Mumbai or Delhi, right? It is a good life even if sewers are over-flowing and auto guys continue to be a pain. I make a like-for-like comparison here. This is not about those Indians who go straight from a village in Punjab to Toronto or London, having completely skipped a big Indian city. Nor is this about an average middle-class person in Delhi or Mumbai who only goes to a mall or metro station for air conditioning. Like for like.  

The opportunity cost of an international opportunity is quite big, and often easily overlooked. 

Meryl Streep

I watched The Post last weekend. There are two things that I took away from that afternoon. 

1. The movie began on an ordinary note and picked up at some point at the one-hour mark. And it only went up from there.

2. Meryl Streep blew my mind with her performance. I know there’s nothing that hasn’t already been said and established about her and her skills, but oh-my-god she brought out the core of her character, built over several decades, in just over an hour. Her body language and gestures and voice and expressions, packaged with great dialogues and Steven Spielberg’s direction left me with a massive lump in my throat. And it wasn’t a linear emotion of sadness. Her acting was so fantastically nuanced that I think I experienced empathy for a distraught woman, along with pride and joy for her and her decisions all at the same time. She subtly brought to life the journey and transformation of a woman who always founded her identity in family to someone who owned a room (and the screen) full of middle-aged white men ready to walk all over her.

What a scene! 

How can one be so brilliant! SO MUCH RESPECT!