Are you being served?

I am Indian. I have grown up in an environment teeming with people and life. And so, I am quite accustomed to the impatience that is characteristic of us Indians, as also our gross inability to queue up patiently for anything. Being from the educated middle class though, my sister and I were trained to wait our turn patiently, make way for the elderly and the disabled and facilitate their needs. Since mum is a teacher, I have unknowingly imbibed her righteous, strict, school teacher-ly way of telling people off.

Often, I found myself in an uncomfortable situation, turning back to glare at a jostling crowd, while I patiently allowed a person to go before me at a queue in a cinema, or at the bank or provident fund office. My self-righteous glares were met with looks of insolence, frustration and impatience.

At the hotel where I worked, we did up complex statistical studies on queuing theory, to ensure that wait times in any queue did not cross the miniscule threshold of patience possessed by the Indian customer. Therefore we had multiple service counters at peak hours, better technology and improved layouts to ensure the best ergo dynamics. Strangely though, it never seemed to help. It was almost as if people’s capacity to wait shrunk to match our improved processing times. How long a minute truly is, depends on which side of the counter you stand.

Interestingly though, I saw a simple resolution to this problem very recently.

A few days back, on a grey, bitterly cold and wet afternoon, I queued up for a bus home. I think all the passengers were unanimously awaiting the warm dry interior of the bus. The bus came along and we stepped forward expectantly. There was a little old lady at the top of the queue. She was hard of hearing, slow and finding it rather difficult to manage her things, find some change and buy a ticket. All around me people were irritable and shifty. I cringed as I heard the gentleman ahead of me mumble to himself in annoyance. I felt the same annoyance and righteousness well up in my blood.

The bus driver was a petite, smiling, blonde-haired lady. As she patiently dealt with her aged passenger, she looked up and beyond at us, assessing the scene in a flash. Finally she dispensed a ticket, and got the lady seated on a seat close to her. Smiling, she beckoned the rest of the queue to step in.

“Thank you so much for your patience and for allowing me to assist my first passenger for longer – that was most understanding”, she announced cheerily, looking pleasantly at the gentleman ahead of me in the eye.

Her words brought on an almost instantaneous transformation in everyone – me included. We boarded the bus – taller and happier – for once, part of the solution and not the problem. It was a wonderful feeling. Mr. Grumbler clambered in ahead of me, tilting his head sideways as he crossed the little old lady. Not surprisingly, he rushed to her aid, to assist her disembark from the bus at her destination.

Righteousness has no place in such situations. We all want to be part of a positive change – we just need to be reminded of it sometimes!

Meditation class

“Are you a religious person?”

I goggled across at the lifestyle counselor when she posed this question of me. It was a Tuesday afternoon, and I had decided to try out the counseling services offered by the university to all its students.

“I am Indian”, I said slowly. “So I guess you could say that religion is embedded in every thing I do, even though I am not consciously aware of it”.

“I see. So do you attend prayer meetings, or listen to devotional songs on a regular basis?”

“No. No,” I answered. “I mean, I respect all prayers. But I guess you could say that I am more spiritual than religious”. I was pleased as pat with my answer.

“Hmmm…” She did not appear impressed. “So do you pray at all?”

“Oh yes, all the time”, I said emphatically.

“And how do you pray?”

“Er…how do I pray?” I was stumped. “Well, you know…nothing formal. I just keep having an informal chat with God as I go along my day”.

She shook her head at me.

“You are probably analyzing everything under the guise of talking to God. That is not praying.”

I felt indignant.

“And do you have any hobbies?”

“I write a lot. I even maintain a blog”, I finished proudly.

“That is probably more analysis there. Don’t you do anything restful at all?”

“Oh that’s easy. I love to read…I read incessantly”.

She looked up – pleased for the first time in thirty-five minutes.

“Really?”

“Oh yes. In fact I read at least three books simultaneously”.

She looked more defeated than I felt.

“That is not relaxing. So you work and study – both of which individually would be a full load. Then you read like a maniac, write, analyze and socialize. But you have never learnt to relax or meditate?”

I shook my head – at a loss to explain.

“Well, we did undergo guided meditation frequently when I was training. But I found it really hard. My brain would not shut down. It was like someone wanted to chain down my legs and arms. I felt the need to drum my fingers or wriggle my toes incessantly”, I finished helplessly.

Her look was almost pitying.

“I want you to find a guided meditation class that focuses on breathing exercises. Stay with it for four weeks. If after four weeks you do not find it beneficial, you can come back to me, and we shall try something else.”

I can be almost dogmatic about something, once I get started. And so, even though I had my doubts, I found a convenient weekly meditation class in Brisbane. As was to be expected, I did not experience any great benefits in the first visit.

But it was a pleasing environment in the class, conducted by the Brisbane River on Thursday evenings, with soft music and group chanting of simple Hindu mantras. Besides I have never been one to fail or give up without a battle. So I stayed with it.

And it truly was a battle. Sometimes I think that we make out simple concepts to be harder than they actually are, when we are resistant. And so, I’d experience a ticklish cheek or an aching leg through my deep meditation hour, while all around me people looked flushed, rejuvenated and deeply relaxed.

Last night was my fourth week. Resigning myself to yet another two hours of slow torture, I decided to at least make myself as comfortable as possible. And so, I placed a cushion under my knees, an eye cushion on my eyes and took a blanket, as it often got very cold. Closing my eyes, I chanted the mantra absently, listening to the music and my voice.

I awoke with a start some forty-five minutes later…and I say ‘awoke’ for lack of a better word. I was not asleep, and yet was not truly awake either. It was a most puzzling sensation for one who is so used to being in control all the time. Almost like being lost for an indeterminate period. And then being found.

I lay there in the darkness and tried to evaluate my experience. But it was not to be evaluated. My mind was too busy floating around in the quiet. For once, it was completely stilled. All around me, people were silently listening to their breathing. As the music faded, we turned on our side and rose.

I saw rosy, rejuvenated faces all around me. For once, I felt like a part of them. The yoga teacher smiled a special smile across to me. She understood.

Letting go of everything is a restful feeling. I now saw what the counselor wanted me to experience.

I floated home, the stillness in my head still lasting.

Easter Sunday

It was Easter Sunday and we were strewn on couches in my friend Carrol’s house.

I always find that I tend to awake from a night of wining and dining very early and very mentally alert. Unfortunately no one else ever wakes up at the same hour – usually they surface about five hours later, clutching their heads and stomachs, looking decidedly green. So I have consigned myself to cleaning, organising or reading in the aftermath of a party.

Unfortunately, none of the above mentioned avenues were available to me in Carrol’s chic little townhouse. Padding up to the kitchen counter, I silently scanned her shelves for a glass. In the semi-darkness, I could make out a shape on the other couch. Carrol and Maureen were probably in a semi-comatose condition in the next room.

There was a clatter as I inadvertently fell over a wire on my journey back to the couch. The bump on the second couch stirred and flipped back the bedclothes.

“You are always SUCH an early riser,” sleepily Stephen shook his head at me.

“Sorry”, I mouthed to him wryly. “Go back to sleep, its only five-thirty. I don’t know why I cannot sleep”.

“Oh well”, he said, as he got up and peered at his watch. “ I am awake now. Lets get a cup of tea each and watch the day emerge”.

And so, ten minutes later, steaming mugs of tea in hand we sat on the terrace watching the rain-soaked day emerge. I relaxed, not feeling the need to be entertaining – Stephen is a very gentle, almost painfully shy soul – he is happy to sit still and not make too much idle conversation.

“This is a very nice house”, he suddenly said to me.

Startled out of my reverie, I looked across at him and smiled.

“It is, is it not? Carrol’s brother purchased it last year.”

“Really?” Stephen’s eyes widened at me. “They are not renting? Wow.” He looked around him with renewed interest. “So what does Carrol’s brother do again?”

“He is an IT Engineer,” I smiled at him.

Stephen stopped his perusal of the wooden deck and looked at me quizzically.

“An IT engineer? Wow. How come all you Indians are IT Engineers, Bankers and Doctors?”

I grinned smugly. “Because a good education is very important for us. We are also, generally speaking, more IT savvy and literate, in our middle class population subset, than most nations.”

He looked at me thoughtfully, nodding gently.
“Yes, I did read that. But you know I always wonder… How come I never find Indians who are…..”

“…Plumbers, builders and carpenters?” I completed for him, with some amusement. “Unlike Australia, the middle class prefers the more educated professions than the trades in India.”

Stephen shook his head at me and smiled. “I was not going to refer to the trades. I do know that the trades are not considered viable professions in the Upper Indian middle class.”

“Sorry Steve”, I said, chastised. “I have to learn to stop interrupting you. You were saying….?”

“Well,” he said. “I was wondering how come no Indians are in professions like….Urban Town Planning, for instance.”

I goggled at him. “Urban Town Planning?”

“Well yes, you know,” he said matter-of-factedly. “What kind of shops are located in a locality, what kind of traffic will flock to them? And so, what network of roads should be laid, etc. etc.”

That is the amazing thing about Stephen. He can suddenly come up with an astonishing idea and stop you in your tracks.

“I don’t think that is really considered”.

“What do you mean?” he asked me. “I mean, surely, you have such large cities. These factors must need planning and hence professionals?”

“No. No. I mean, sure, we have health, sanitation and civic authorities. But so many of our cities have grown so organically, I don’t think they were ever consciously constructed.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Like many other cities in the world,” I said, somewhat defensively. “And I think a lot of this is covered in architecture and urban design. But I cannot recall the civil planning authorities being recruited from Urban Planning designers, really”.

He just shook his head at me.

“And so, I don’t think any parent tells his child – ‘Why don’t you think about becoming an Urban Design Planner’. Do you understand?”

“Hmm…I do. Its like a blind spot in a world of scientists, accountants doctors and engineers.”

We fell silent again – and I contemplated his words. Perhaps it really was our blind spot. One of our challenges as Indians is the heterogeneity of our society. And the fact that the educated Indians are so busy catering to the more visible demands of the Western world, we fail to see the opportunities in the domestic markets. Perhaps it is also, that the average consumer in India still cannot afford a well-planned city, or other civic possibilities that my blinded brain cannot think of. And so, till the demand does not arise, there will be no need to ensure a supply. Whatever the reason, I definitely cannot remember the last time Urban Design Planning was discussed in a career counselling workshop that I attended.

Suddenly, there was a shuffling noise from inside. Carrol emerged looking dishevelled and sleepy.

“You always wake up super early after a big night,” she looked at me accusingly. “What was your over-active brain analysing this time?”

I merely shrugged and smiled.

“Shall we get some more tea and some breakfast?”

Fools Day

N is a lovely, old client of P’s. She has been seeing him for many years now, and counts him as a very fond friend. A fortnight ago, she stood across the counter from me, making her next time to see P.

“Oh, please can I see him in a fortnight on the Wednesday?” she asked.

“Sure thing. Your usual time?”

“Oh yes,” she responded. “Unless he comes in earlier? It’s April Fools Day on the day and I want to play a prank on him”.

After she left, I smiled to myself and made a mental note to be in office the next time N was to come in. I did not want to miss this.

Two days back, she called me to re-confirm.

“So, I am the very first client he will see on Wednesday, right?” she re-affirmed.

“Oh yes”, I said, absently.

“Good. Because I have thought of how to confuse him.”

Today, I watched N with some amusement, as she waited eagerly in the waiting area. I hoped that her prank would be successful. Soon, an unsuspecting P ushered her into the consult room, closing the door behind him. Some five minutes later, I heard much guffawing and laughter drift through the closed door.

“Her prank must have been successful”, I thought to myself absently.

Fifty minutes later, N walked out wringing her hands. She sought me out almost instantly.

“Do you know what happened?”

I looked from her to P, questioningly.

“As I sat down across him, I told him that he was wearing socks from two different pairs.”

P chuckled.

“I expected him to get flustered and check his socks,” she shook her head sadly.

“What happened?” I asked.

“Oh, he just exclaimed at how perceptive I was.”

I was confused.
As if to explain, P raised his trouser legs to reveal one black and one grey sock each.

Trying to contain my amusement, I consoled her.

“I understand N. Does it not worry you that he is a certified practitioner?”

“Oh well”, she said with some gentle irony. “I guess you have to be a little crazy yourself, to treat the crazy.”

I smiled and looked to P, who by now, was gleefully recounting the episode to someone else in the office and showing off his mismatched socks.

“I really should see someone,” I heard his voice ring out merrily, “But I cannot afford to see myself.”

Laughing helplessly, I went back to my work.

Taiwan Miracle

Those readers who are familiar with my past (and somewhat erratic….I admit it!) blogging will remember that I have been through the house hunting ordeal sufficient number of times for it to justify sending shivers down my spine! But as I was headed to India for three weeks, and most of my friend circle seemed to have split up and returned to India – for better or for worse, it did seem pointless to keep on renting the house where I was staying.

Still, all practical and pecuniary considerations put aside, the jolt of realization did hit me when I returned to Brisbane – that I was actually homeless. (I know this sounds rather dramatic, but believe me, it can be a very displacing feeling to live out of a suitcase in a temporary stint at your uncle’s home) And so was heralded the quest for yet another place to call home.

This time around, I did not want to rent a whole house. I just wanted to rent a room in house, preferably furnished – so I was not burdened with the need for furniture and furnishings. And since we were listing criteria here, I decided to be ambitious and also demand an inner city suburb, close to the river and within earshot of public transport  – day and night. Did I also mention that it had to be affordable (to be understood as dirt cheap in broke-student cryptic!), quiet, clean and homely? Most seasoned Brisbane-ites would gaffe (and choke) at my list of demands… but hey, I was stepping out of my comfort zone here – living with absolute strangers of varied ethnicity is not really easy; I could cut myself some slack!

And so the saga started all over again. Trawling through real estate classifieds and websites, taking notes, making lists, calling people, visiting shabby homes and sinking deeper and deeper into depression at the conviction that I will never find a place to call home this time around.

Finally, one afternoon, I saw an ad for a house in a VERY trendy riverside inner city suburb for a fully furnished room with utilities at a throwaway price. Mentally I struck it off thinking it was either a little, scratchy place or a scam. But then, I guess hoping for a miracle, I decided to take a peek.

And so, three days later, my cousin, aunt and I lugged the last of my treasure trove of books, boxes and bags into the lovely double bed room of the house I was to now share with the quaint little Taiwanese family. I had my misgivings – we Indians have NOTHING in common with most South-East Asians…language, cuisine, culture… it was all poles apart. But strangely, this move has proved to be the best thing that happened to me since I got back from India (or before I left as well, in all honesty!) Not only is the house airy, clean, quiet and welcoming – it is also a very enriching experience.

The Taiwanese, unlike most Mainland Chinese are a very economically wealthy group of people. My landlady owns the house we live in (usually most shared houses are leased by one person and sub let to tenants in individual rooms). Her husband is a wealthy manufacturer in Taipei with his own, thriving business of plastics and electronics. Her son and his wife live in Australia, for the sole purpose of becoming Australian citizens. Both are engineers – she mechanical, he chemical – which is evidenced in all the D-I-Y projects that are in varying states of completion around the house.

Everyone speaks different degrees of fractured English – in their quaint, high-pitched sing-song voices. Since my name was a bit of a tongue twister for the landlady, she has cheerfully resorted to calling me ‘Sushi’ – much to our obvious amusement.

Life is centered around their fifteen-month-old baby daughter – Hwa Hwa, six year old dog – Chai Chai and the kitchen. Everyday, delightful meals are made with complex cooking methods like roasting, baking, steaming and poaching, served onto a wooden table and shared, to the white noise of a television in the background.

I have learnt much about the Taiwanese way in these three weeks. Housework is shared by all members of the house without any obvious sex or status oriented preference. So the daughter-in-law might cook up a storm, while the husband baby sits and the mother-in-law does the dishes… or in any other order. Television is central to a Taiwanese lifestyle as a source of background chatter. And it is customary to cook for family and friends.

So every evening when I got home, Irene (the daughter-in-law) would wait for me with cut fruits, tapioca cakes, banana cakes, steamed pork buns and even on occasion, a pizza or donut! One evening I had to politely decline her traditional pork cakes, explaining that I was vegetarian on two days of the week. I expected this to be met with puzzled looks as, the concept of vegetarianism is very alien to most Asians.

But not the Taiwanese. Like the Hindus, a very large part of the Taiwanese population are Buddhists and vegetarian at that. Irene explained to me, that it was common to see vegetarian restaurants in every suburb of Taipei. Rather than being surprised by it, she merely inquired on what days I was vegetarian. Now on Tuesdays and Thursdays, she keeps aside some pots and pans for me, refraining from making any stocks or meats in them. I also get offered tofu, peanut and sesame drinks and vegetables on these days.

After some conversation, I learnt that Irene and her husband had traveled to India on a holiday, and fallen in love with Indian food. He specifically was enthralled by the ‘naan’ and tandoori chicken. So one day, I decided to visit the Indian grocery store and pick up some ingredients to cook for them. It was amusing to watch the fascination with which the entire family passed around packets of cardamom, turmeric and cloves, peering at them and discussing them with enthusiasm. I made them a lamb curry, which they enjoyed heartily – eating daintily out of their tiny rice bowls with chopsticks!

They have requested a prawn curry, when I next have the time to cook – in the interim, I am happy to have found a place to call home!

Signed – Shruti ‘Sushi’ Sain

Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind (2004)

The Movie Poster

Before I start, I must state three things at the outset…

1. I absolutely cannot stand Jim Carrey – I find that he is generally characterised by over acting and hamming.
2. I strongly dislike the romantic, “chick-flick” genre of movies.
3. I dislike reviewing films and books in my blog posts – since this is something one can typically google and read up.

Now that I have made my position crystal clear, allow me, dear reader to resume my blogging…

It has been about four days since Sid finally left for India, and I was experiencing a bit of a void that the departure of a very close friend leaves in your immediate life. Having cleaned and fussed over the house to the nth degree, I finally settled down to my laptop to watch a movie.

Surfing through various movie databases and forums online, I finally settled on the “Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind”, with some trepidation… owing to factors one and two stated in the introduction to this post. But the critic ratings were unanimous, and I decided to give it a go.

The film is just brilliant. It is a comedy, but not quite… a romance, but not mushy and has a real earthy, simplistic and yet real-to-life feel about it. It tells the story of an ordinary, painfully shy man (played to perfection by a VERY subdued and subtle Carrey) and his encounter with an almost maverick, free-spirited girl on a train (played charmingly by Kate Winslet). The story traces their initial awkward encounter, the flicker of something between them, and then inevitably their journey into love and each other.

The plot starts to thicken, when one day Joel (Carrey) sees Clementine (Winslet) with another, younger man. Not only does she look through a heart-wrenchingly agonized Joel, but she also fails to recognize him. Puzzled and yet determined, Joel investigates the matter, only to discover that Clementine has had all memory of him erased.

Shocked, abandoned, shattered and broken, Joel is left with no option for survival, but to do the same. The film traces the procedure of erasure of all of Clementine’s memories from his brain in a grainy, broken and abrupt series of images – starting with the most recent, painful memories of their fights and disagreements, moving on to the earlier, happier times.

As Joel’s brain starts to lose Clementine’s memories and the feelings associated with them, he gradually becomes aware of the situation. He also realizes that he does not want to forget her and must try to fight the procedure. The storyline dips into his childhood and formative years, as he tries to hide the memories of Clementine there. Unfortunately, in a nerve racking climax, the procedure manages to find and erase all his memories of her.

The film concludes in cinematic brilliance – with Joel and Clementine (now played by different, ordinary people) encountering each other once more. Innocent of their past, they feel the same inexplicable pull to each other. And then, while driving in a car together, Clementine finds a letter to herself, along with tape recordings of all their memories – happy and unhappy times together. Voicing their disappointment with the way the old Joel and Clementine treated the other, they accept each other for all they are.

The movie left me thinking – not about the romantic, new love… but about the ability to love your partner for all his or her flaws – as also the indestructibility of such a love, and the inability for someone to flick it on or off, as if it were a light switch.

I know, I know… I have gotten sentimental here! But you should watch the movie – You’ll get what I’m trying to express here!

Salaam Bombay

Bombay - City of Dreams

I had just walked into work and was settling in, when I noticed a missed call from Sid on my phone. Wondering what the matter could possibly be, I rang him back.

“You called?” I asked, dispensing with the customary greetings.

“Yes. I just read about some major blasts and terrorist activities in the hotels of Mumbai. You might want to check if your friends and family are safe.”

I put down the phone, shaking my head sadly. The past year has seen me receive such news numerous times. From the Delhi blasts, to the Jaipur ones, from Bangalore’s explosions to now, this latest call. Anxiety seems to increase exponentially when you are so far away in Australia. I would first ascertain the extent of the damage before I started to call the heaps of family and friends I have there.

Launching the browser window, I typed the address of a popular Indian newspaper. Pictures of the iconic Taj Mahal hotel popped up, smoke billowing from its beautiful dome and roofs. Air dropping National Security Guards, rounds of bullets being exchanged and grenades being tossed was all being covered live on television.

All on the streets where I lived.

Could this really be happening? The Australian media was giving the events unfolding in Mumbai complete coverage – two Australians had been killed in the firing. Caucasians were being targeted. This was a matter of their security as well. Within hours, the government issued travel advisories, warning their citizens against traveling to India.

As I took a bus home from work that evening, Aussies on the bus stopped to talk to me. Pointing to gruesome pictures of destruction and death on the front page of Brisbane’s free daily newspaper (and in fact, on all the inside pages as well) they looked at me quizzically.

“You are Indian. How do you feel about the terrorist attack on your country?” they asked.

“Do you think that these are Indian terrorists?” another older Australian lady wanted to know.

“I hope your friends and family are safe”, they added as an after thought.

Smiling and murmuring my gratitude for their concern, I sat down in a vacant seat. I had no answers to their questions.

Some fifty-six hours later, as I tap out this post on my keyboard, I still have no clear response. Four people, whom I knew personally in some way or another in the hotel fraternity, have lost their lives. So how do I feel?

Horror, at the way Mumbai’s most prolific symbols of history, commercial prosperity and influence were targeted?

Or terror that our marine borders are so porous that we were infiltrated with such ease?

Or perhaps outrage – lets comb the entire country for supporters of terrorism, and award them the slowest, most painful death that we can think of?

Maybe even shock – at the ease with which a thriving democracy can be brought to a grinding halt – just because a handful of miscreants are willing to wreak havoc on the rest?

Do I want to go and hunt out the politicians who claimed that they would throw Indians from other parts of India out of Mumbai, and ask them where they were hiding at a time  like this?

Or perhaps, laugh at the global community that sits up and takes notice only when their citizens are threatened.

Perhaps I am comfortably numb.

But then as I watch live streaming pictures of the encounter underway, courtesy the website of an Indian news channel, I recognize various shops on the street where the encounter takes place.

“That was where Mum and Dad bought their first pair of curtains from…ages ago”. I tell Sid, pointing to a corner shop on the screen, as the crowd swells and cheers on the NSGs. He nods at me in pre-occupation, following the developments closely.

“And that is the Leopold’s restaurant – they serve up the most divine juices.”

Everyone looks at me in disbelief. There is a war like situation on in Mumbai, and was this all I could think of?

But indeed, this was all I could think of. Bombay is a magical city – a city of dreams, great speed, great anonymity, great professionalism and yet great comfort. It has seen major riots, serial blasts, train blasts, bus blasts, floods, more riots and now even a guerrilla terrorist attack. After every new incident, Bombay-ites and Mumbaikers alike, pick up the pieces, support each other and bounce back to normalcy. This is perhaps the greatest display of the spirit of Mumbai. Some also say that perhaps there is no other choice for the resident of Bombay. I do not know.

But as I recall one wet, cold July two years ago, stranded in Central Bombay in waste deep floods and traffic jams all night, offered cups of tea and biscuits by unknown strangers, my heart bleeds for its chronic troubles.

It has given me some of the best years of my life….Mumbai meri jaan.

Business as usual

From the day that I landed in Brisbane, people around me started asking me the same question…

“So, how do you like it here in Australia?”

Sometimes, it took on other forms…..

“How different do you find it here from India?”

or

“So, do you like it better here than India?”

or even….

“Is it less crowded / polluted / chaotic / beurocratic here than it is India?”

There has never been an easy answer. How do you explain to someone who has never seen more than five people on his street, without experiencing a panic attack, that you can find peace even among the milling crowds? And how do you enlighten the person who is used to the straight forward above-the-board dealings of the west, that there is indeed a method in all the madness in India?

We recently shifted offices at work, and that meant a spate of tasks like moving internet connections, telephone lines and re-directing mail. All procedures documented by the telephone service provider (a public sector company, I might add) were followed by us to the last “T”, to ensure that the move was glitch-free. A week prior to the scheduled date of shifting, they ‘accidentally’ disconnected all our phone lines and then charged us a reconnection fee to get communication going, 24 hours later. We spent the entire day dealing with anxious clients, suppliers and employees who were unable to get in touch with us.

At such a time, I wonder how things would have been handled back home. No one would recall what the exact procedure was to request a move. Someone deputed to ‘liase’ with the government departments would pop down to the telephone exchange for a friendly cup of tea with the requisite officer. Over a relaxed cuppa or two, they would exchange some gossip and grease money. The job would be done efficiently. No business lost, no angst and most definitely no inefficiency.

Recently, a little cart selling the most divine coffees, opened shop outside university. In almost no time, all the definitive coffee drinkers were seen milling outside the tiny coffee shop. After a few days of friendly smiles, we once got talking to the proprietor. He told us how, he had spent three years chasing legislators and authorities to grant him the permission to open this little cart. He had extended all sorts of favors in lieu of the permit – in the form of gifts, financial and even sexual favors (so he claimed….I’m not making it up!!) to get the task done! Back home, the correct payoffs would have been made and treated as cash outflows of the business. It would have been incorporated while evaluating the viability of the project.

My Italian-Australian friend Steven, often rues at the fact that bus drivers in India do not talk to passengers, wish them the time of the day and give them directions or road assistance. He says that in Australia, the driver would lose his job if he was not friendly enough. But then, I wonder how that bus driver would cope with the teeming bus loads of people – overflowing from the doors and oozing out from the windows, “adjusting” to accommodate that ‘one’ more office goer in its midst. The mind boggles. I was also pretty sure that should someone ask for directions in a bus load of people, a minimum of three random passengers will pipe up and volunteer assistance.

And so I come back to the opening idea of this little piece. It is hard to explain all of this to someone who has not lived in India. Sometimes though, it is harder to explain this to someone who is from India. Extracting yourself from a situation allows you to see the bigger picture. And while the more sparsely populated western world affords you much more space and infrastructure, it is not always the most effective structure. It is hard to appreciate the slow machinery that cranks and groans as it supports a billion Indian hearts (and a few miscreants as well!). And yet, when it floods, or it riots, or the quakes strike – the common man and the system display why no other culture can replicate the complex, tiered, interlinked structure that is India.

In the words of my father – corruption is everywhere… the only difference lies between an honest crook and a dishonest one! Recognize that… and its business as usual!

Interpersonal differences

It was finally Friday! After battling many a tough weeks of illness, exams, assignments and crazy work schedules, I was looking forward to a relaxed weekend with family. I packed my little over night bag, grabbed my half-read Salman Rushdie (The Enchantress of Florentine – a most engaging read) and my laptop and set out to work. I was going to go home straight from work, and I looked forward to a quiet, peaceful weekend.

At this stage, I must explain something. As per my psychologist boss, friend and colleague P, I have an introvert personality type. This means, that while I can handle large, gregarious groups of people, I actually need to frequently recharge by spending time by myself, or with my closest friends and family. Also, when overloaded by tasks, I tend to reduce anxiety, by breaking down my mammoth to-do list into organized, attainable little jobs. And so, when I plan an office picnic, I look up the weather to check for rain, I fret if I am not on time, and I do not handle sudden, unexpected changes in my schedule very well.

It takes most of us a lifetime, before we are able to ascertain with some level of confidence, our exact personality type, and how to cope with it. And so often, in work and family situations, there is bound to be friction when you throw a gregarious, pressure prompted extrovert, with an organized, methodical introvert. One finds the other brash, inconsiderate and frustratingly disorganized, and in return, the other thinks the first is picky, fretful and often slightly boring.

P’s assessment of me had come as something of a shock – I guess even the meekest of us, likes to believe that we live in the moment, revel in the public eye and can improvise along the way. But I regress too much now, in the name of giving you some background, allow me to continue with my narrative.

And so, as I stepped out of the house to catch a train to work on Friday morning, my cell phone tingled away merrily, announcing the advent of a text message. It was P. He wanted me to join him and a few friends for dinner; I was welcome to bring along a friend. He was notoriously last-minute as well. I hesitated. I had been telling Siddharth all about P, I really wanted them to meet. But I did not like the idea of changing my laid out plans.

“Let me ask Sid”, I thought. “If he is free, we’ll go for dinner, if not, I’ll go home”.

And so, as I got to work, I called Siddharth.

“Hey! P would like you to join us for dinner tonight. Are you able to come along?”

“Umm..sure. At what time?”

“Maybe about seven? There are a couple of people. Could you pop down to my office at about a quarter to seven?”

“That should be fine. I’ll be there, although I might be a little late”.

I put the phone down, satisfied. I can go home tomorrow. Tonight, I’ll unwind with my closest friends. And so, I accepted P’s dinner invite.

Later in the day, closer to dinner time, I called Sid again. He can be time poor at times, and I did not want the others to wait too long. He was still busy working.

“Hey, just checking that you will be able to make it in on time as we all leave from here for dinner”.

“Can I be late?” he asked, hesitantly. “Will we take very long at dinner?”

Sensing a change in plans, alarm bells started sounding.

“We will be two hours at the very least.”

“It’s just that I have a deadline to meet, and I have not yet completed all I need to do.”

There was an expectant silence for a moment.

“Oh well, that’s fine then. I’ll let P know that you cannot make it”, I said with some resignation.

I was unsure why I was so upset, as I resumed work. Perhaps it was disappointment. Perhaps I did not like last minute changes to my plans. I needed time to digest and deal with changes…unexpectedly creeping up on me, most definitely was not pleasant.

P bustled in at the very moment.

“Hullo Shrooooottttteee! I am so excited that your gorgeous Indian friend will join us for dinner”, he said.

That was the icing on the cake.

“Oh he can’t come”, I got out, perhaps a little more miserably that I intended.

P eyed my morose expression.

“Gee…should we all wear black T-shirts in mourning then?”

In spite of myself, I smiled. Shrugging the moment off, we went through the rest of day.

Dinner was a lovely, relaxing affair. We went to a quaint little restaurant in Wilston, where we polished off melt-in-the-mouth servings of caramelized pork chops, braised trout and grilled chicken, all washed down with wine and great conversations. As we clinked glasses, laughed outrageously and fiercely debated our favorite movies, I felt the stress of the past few weeks leave me. It was a mellow evening.

P chose the moment to make some observations.

“Yeah, It was disappointing that you could not bring a friend tonight Shrootee,” he said. “But perhaps that was because it was all so sudden. Maybe the next time, we’ll plan these things a week in advance.”

I smiled at him – loving him more for trying to approach things my way. P is a complete extrovert – planning in advance is as alien and desirable to him, as a bath is to a cat. P cannot be sure if he will keep his coffee meeting in the next one hour, we both knew that planning for a week out was impossible for him. But inexplicably, his holding out a suggestion that impossible and difficult for him, made me feel so much better and cared for.

Sometimes, by just being ourselves, we unintentionally send out the wrong message to those around us. Recognizing our style, and those of others, and talking about effective strategies to cope with the difference, goes a long way in communicating to the other, how important the person is, and the extent to which you will go out of your way to ensure that he does not feel taken for granted.

P has often taken so many such steps to make me feel nurtured and special. And so, I share this strategy with you, in the form of a long, wieldy story on my blog. Because it is important.

Oh dear… I guess its time to have this chat with Siddharth though!

The Taxi Driver

My girlfriend Carrol, had her birthday last week. We decided to celebrate the day with an evening out at one of Brisbane city’s lively riverside clubs.

And so it transpired that I was walking towards a bus stop at a half past two in the morning. It was bitterly cold and I was trying desperately to keep the wind from creeping into my stole and dress. It was going to be a long, circuitous bus drive home. The week had been particularly challenging, what with various financial obligations turning up, and suffice it to say that a taxi was an unnecessary luxury. But God knew that I could do with one. Steeling myself, I crossed the taxi rank and walked on. It was chilly, I was tired, my head hurt and my feet were complaining.

That was when I saw him. He was an Indian taxi driver, sitting at the wheel of his drive and completing a transaction with his last fare. He looked up to scan the scene for his next passenger and our eyes met. In a flash he comprehended my exhaustion. Lifting his eyebrows gently, he signalled me towards his cab.

A year in Australia has shown me that while I do remarkably well among people of varying nationalities, when I am tired or sick, I need the comforting sound of Hindi in my ears. Ignoring the voice of reason in my head, I catapulted and walked towards him. His earlier passenger held the front door open for me, and I got in. The driver looked at me quizzically.

“Hey. I need to go to Morningside please”, I said. He nodded and shifted gears, starting the taxi with a gentle rumbling.

And then I added in Hindi, “Please could you stop at a 7-11 en-route?”

For a second, he threw me a surprised look. Then he nodded once more, and swiftly changed lanes.

“You do understand Hindi?” I verified, in Hindi once more.

He nodded and smiled yet again. Satisfied, I leaned back, closed my eyes and massaged my temples. We drove in silence till he pulled up at a 7-11. I got out and bought some chocolate and a couple of aspirin for my throbbing head. He was waiting outside, the engine running.

I got into the warmth of the cab gratefully. The tinny sound of Brisbane’s only Indian radio channel filled the air. My spirits lifted as I heard an old film song from the yester-years. Relaxing, I issued road directions to my house.

“So are you from India?” he asked me slowly, in Hindi that held faint traces of a gentle Punjabi accent.

“Yes”, I replied, in Hindi. “From Bombay. I have been here for a year. How about yourself?”

“I have been in Australia for three years. Some time in Sydney, a bit in Melbourne and now I am trying my luck at life in Brisbane,” he responded.

“Gee, you have moved around quite a bit. Do you get to go back often?”

“I have not been home since I came three years ago”, he answered, his expression turning wistful.

My heart went out to him.

“Where are you from”, I asked. “Do you have family here?”

He hesitated for a long, audible moment.

“No. I am from Pakistan,” he finally said, with some trepidation.

“Oh ok”, I said. Apparently he expected an explosion of some sort.

“So where in Pakistan are you from?” I pressed on.

“Lahore”

“Really?” I was excited. “Did you know that my family actually originates from Lahore, in the pre-partition period?”

He smiled gently. “My family was from Amritsar before they had to move.”

Suddenly the taxi felt a lot more mellow and friendly. We were both lost in our own thoughts and memories as he pulled up outside the house.

The meter flashed a princely sum of twenty-five dollars at me. Cringing internally at the expense, I drew out the notes from my wallet and held them out to him.

He shrunk away from the money, shaking his head.

I looked at him with questioning eyes.

“No, money is not needed”, he said.

“Take it”, I pressed him, gently. “It was nice to talk to you, but you should complete the transaction.”

“No”, he shook his head. “Just treat it like a family member gave you a lift home.”

With that, he gently but firmly opened the taxi door for me and waited till I rummaged for and located my keys. Smiling, he drove away, without looking back.

I was left feeling an indescribable combination of emotions.

Planting an imaginary geographical line often cannot transcend a shared heritage of so many centuries.