Full Circle

Transatlantic, cross-continental, virtual relationships. I never believed they would work for me. Yet over the course of five months (and it was only after the third that we met!), spanning 3 countries, we’re still going strong.

I met Mark and Yoo-mi for the first time, face-to-face, two months ago. Though we’d only known each other through email, our meeting seemed merely a continuation of our friendship. Countless adventures and steaming roadside thalis later, it’s hard to believe they’ve left.

Flashback November ‘04. New as I was to Chennai, it was a little daunting to begin settling in and forging friendships anew. (Less easy than Shanghai, where you could hop into a Starbucks and get bad food but meet interesting people. At Chennai’s Murugan Idli stalls, however, excellent food but…) Yet three weeks into my stay here, I was in Madurai visiting Pavi and it was as if we'd always known each other. Soon, Rahul, Mark, Yoo-mi and Viral came by, bringing with them a little wisdom, more craziness, and a gigantic amount of California CF cheer. I can hardly think of anything as fortuitous as landing up here with an already-established network of great friends.

On Saturday, Mark, Yoo-mi, Rahul and I met up with my Chennai pals Archana and Kiruba -- only India's No.1 blogger -- over an inspiring meal at Annalakshmi. (Pictures at www.kiruba.com.) Though admittedly I was a bit nervous about the Chennaiers-meets-crazy-San Franciscans dynamics, it was a blast, despite the occasional provocative Mark-isms :) (And Kiruba, the way Rahul pronounces your name, I can’t tell whether he’s referring to an island in the Bahamas or…) In just a few weeks, a Penn college pal and a fav travel-pal will be coming to town to visit this corner of the world.

I love it when worlds and people collide, distances shrink, and time becomes simply a matter of one's perception.

It’s beautiful when life comes full circle. Especially when you least expect it.

A Journey to Remember

The latest wave to hit Chennai’s shores was the Chennai Marathon ’05 on Sunday, February 20th. Kiruba, Jacob and I were absolutely pumped up before the d-day, meticulously keeping track of what to eat, the route, etc. In spite of all these attempts to keep myself primed before the actual race, my knee decided to pull an arthritic cramp on me the week before, and in Mumbai I was attacked by the worst cold I’ve had in a year. So, did I run? Did I arrive in glory..or on a stretcher?

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5:30 am Sunday morning. I was still sniffling, had a slight cough, but I felt significantly better than the day before. I knew I didn’t have to run, but it meant something to me, and I had to do it. So I stuffed some cotton in my ears, packed plenty of tissues in my pocket and scoped out an auto to take me to the beachside Anna Square, where the race would begin. I arrived at the location well in time before the start of the marathon, but was astounded at the enormity of the crowd that had already collected until that point. I hadn’t gotten my number till then, so by the time I actually waded through the crowd, found the table and pinned the number, the announcers were asking runners to take their positions for the marathon.

“Men, the Main Marathon is about to begin. We repeat, the Full Marathon, the Main Event, is about to begin. Take your positions!”

Soon after, it was time for the half-marathon, i.e. the Ladies Marathon, to begin. It is believed that women cannot run a full marathon (or are unwilling to) so we are conveniently denied the choice. I heard the announcers announce, “Ladies and boys, take your positions, the Ladies Marathon is about to begin!” As soon as this was announced, the crowd surged forward in an attempt to catch a glimpse of the women. While at first I was annoyed that they kept calling the full marathon the “main event”, I actually felt sorry for the men after I realized that men who actually wanted to only run the half-marathon, couldn’t do so without some serious damage to their self-esteem.

The whistle was blown, and we were off. Some of the men whistled, and I could hear the strains of some lewd filmsong floating in the salt breeze.

Filmsong or not, the key was to keep going. The first few km are always the hardest for me; after 8km or so I can keep going at a steady pace. At the 6 or 7k point, I stopped to blow my nose. Soon after, I felt someone patting me on the shoulder saying, “Go on, you can do it!” It was Michelle, a wonderful Maltese pilot/newmom whom I just met at the starting line. I couldn’t help but think how nice it was of her to pause her own running to cheer me on. I kept going.

The 10k point was nearing, and I could see a water stop in the distance. Two young boys, both perhaps around 9, were handing out water in cups to runners. “Some water?”they earnestly enquired. When I stopped to fill my own bottle from the water can, they rushed over and tried to foist a cup on me. “Don’t stop, just take this water!” they urged. I looked at them, thought of something to say that would express how thoughtful I thought it was for them to be doing this, especially at their age. I couldn’t think of anything, so I smiled, and went on my way.

The turnaround point came, and the bluish-white waves of the Besant Nagar beach became visible. A group of slum-children, clearly taken aback by the strange spectacle, had seated themselves comfortably on the sandy pavement near the road. They gawked at the runners, pointed, smiled, waved and cheered us on.

15km down, and I knew I could make it. 12-time marathon runner Jacob, who’d been counting the number of girls before me, paused momentarily when he saw me to cheer me on, “Come on, Smita, you can do it, you’re in the *th place now!”
The sun was beating relentlessly now, I was feeling a bit stuffy and I was on a busy road stretch before the finish line. Standing in front of the thatchments of roadside fruit-sellers were some appointed water bearers who were handing out sponges and water. One man caught my eye, and I turned to take a better look. Sure enough, an old fruit seller, in his tattered veshti and muddy shirt, was handing bottles to runners. This man is offering me water, I thought, who probably has no drinking water for himself…

I did finally make it. But when I approached the finish line I realized that my finishing was just incidental to the experience. The beauty, it struck me, was not in the arrival, but in the journey. Lao Tzu sure got it right when he said, “A good traveler has no fixed plans, and is not intent on arriving.”

NASSCOM '05

Many truths sprang forth from this year’s conference. Some snapshots of the three-day extravaganza:

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Abul Kalam Azad, President of India, renowned scientist and the driving force behind India’s nuclear program, addressed the gathering on the last day of the conference. He had heard of the conference’s ambitious aims to increase India’s share of the global IT pie from 3.5% to 6% by 2009. But he was not impressed. He chastized, “It is crime to under-aim! You must get to 15% in five years, I will give formula!” With this ominous pronouncement, he unveiled a dense powerpoint presentation, filled with numbers and graphs and charts that sent my mind swirling. When the time came for question and answers, revealing his erstwhile Professor status, he barked, “Mr. Mehta. Where is Mr. Mehta? Ask me a question!” Flabbergasted, the software scion loosened his tie and hastily asked a question, and I could see others squirming in their seats lest they be called upon next. Yes, only the President of India could have sent us all back to scary seventh grade days.

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Narayana Moorthy, esteemed founder of Infosys and the godfather of Indian IT on “compassionate capitalism” and how to be a successful entrepreneur:
a) Need to have an idea that can be expressed in a simple sentence
b) Need a team that is mutually exclusive but comprehensively inclusive
c) Need a value system
d) Essential ingredients are speed, imagination and excellence in execution.

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McKinsie’s crystal-ball predictions on IT and India:
- Indian global delivery model will continue to gain ground in the world
- Segments like infrastructure (server and network monitoring, data centers) will be looked at for delivery and will begin to move offshore.
- Call centers will become obsolete in a few years as voice-recognition software nears perfection.
- Wage inflation growing tremendously in India; India needs to focus on advantages other than cost in order to maintain it’s ‘poster child’ for IT image

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And of course, I have to have My Own boxing g-Love At First Sight Bombay Bollywood Story

I thought I was prepared for the onslaught of NASSCOM ’05 that Tuesday afternoon. Clad in the first western business outfit I’d worn in many months, and with conference pad and shining new pen in tow, I felt I was ready for anything. At the foot of the stairs near the registration desk, I paused and took a deep breath. In a sea of black suits and bulging tummies, I realized it: not only was I fortunate enough to fall into the .5% of the female population there, I also had the distinction of being youngest among the 1200-odd delegates.

It didn’t take long for Mr. Sanjob to register this fact. As I walked away from the registration desk, he gallantly reminded me in his unbecoming Atlanta-twanged Orissan accent, “Miss, you habh phorgotten your complementary bhag.” I looked up to find the origins of this unsolicited remark, and my line of vision immediately fell upon the stomach of an enormous, walrus-like man who was standing stupidly with a toothy grin. “Oh, great, I’ll go get it”, I hurriedly remarked with a half-smile-half-grimace, hoping that he would disappear if I waited at the desk long enough. But, gallant as he was, he waited till the bag was in my hand, and decided to escort me along the hall.
Shall bhee get lunch? he volunteered. As luck would have it, the conference was kicking off with a networking lunch. I was alone, with no fellow colleague who could be used for deflection purposes. My cell phone refused to work, ruling out the possibility of an urgent, phantom phone call. With no exit strategy, I thought: what the hell, what’s the worst that can happen?

Plates in hand, we sat down at the only available “table for two”. After a long description of his company and his life ambitions and goals (a few pointed questions easily broke that dam loose), he said, “so tell me more about you.” I looked squarely at my plate, fumbling to pick up the few remaining pieces of rice. “My life is pretty boring…umm…I like listening to music..wow that desert looks greatI’mgoingtogogetsome.”
Back at the table, he began again. So, Smita, bhat do you like to do with your phree time? I looked down at my plate, searched for remaining edible items, and decided to begin the task of slicing a grape into eighths. In between, I mumbled, “mmm…I like readingwhatdoyoulike to do” With the look of a sage, he said, “I like to travel, but I hate traveling alone. All my friends are married. I hate staying in hotel rooms alone, you know?” Pause. “Ermmmm” I muttered, fully engrossed in the arduous task of fruit dissection. He continued: “I also like to give back to the community in my free time. I’m a member of Atlanta’s two biggest….(blah-blah)..But in particular, I love teaching Children. I just love Children.” A deliberate pause followed, and he looked solemnly at me. It was a 6-star lunch, but I almost felt like throwing up. As I excused myself on account of ill-health, I thought, so this is what a Bollywood film feels like..

Mumbaied

It’s NASSCOM ’05. India’s biggest IT conference. In Mumbai.

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They say that if you want a total-body experience of childbirth, you should sit on a suburban train in Mumbai. It’s not so much that you get off the train as much as you are, well, ‘expelled’ by the heaving, shoving masses. So it was with some trepidation that the lady at the hotel reception began to answer my question after I arrived yesterday evening: how do I take the train from Santa Cruz to Churchgate? (you can tell Mumbai used to be a British stronghold). “It’s rush hour….it’ll be too crowded…” For a minute, I was tempted to heed her well-intentioned advice. Only for a minute.

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An only-ladies compartment “for all 24 hours”, the sign specifies. I hop on the train from Churchgate, back to Santa Cruz, after a long sunset walk on Marine Drive. It’s relatively empty, but by the next stop, it’s packed. A group of Maharashtrian ladies decide to join in, squashing me against two high-school girls in the midst of a heated discussion. Inadvertently, I have become an eavesdropper. I realize that the girl next to me is an expert joke-teller. Each joke is crisply delivered in a practiced monotone, and at the end of each, without even a pause, she moves to the next. “What did one Egyptian boy tell an Egyptian girl at the Giza pyramids?” she says. “Come behind here, and I’ll show you how to become a mummy.” Even before I can shield my ears, she has jumped to the next one. The rising tenor of the group of Maharashtrian women adjacent to me draws me to their conversation. There are two old ladies, and two young ones. Their attention is riveted on one of the younger ones, who, in Marathi, appears to be jumping quickly between topics of religion, recipe-advice and annoying mothers-in-law.

“Cheeeeepssssssssssss.” “Cheeepssssssssssssssss.” It’s the drone of the chip seller, who sounds like he’s taken voice lessons from a snake and an engine. After his fourth round through, I wonder why he’s wasting his time here; nobody’s bought anything yet. Then I watch his strategy. He walks unseeing along, until he gets to the berth of the…erm..heftiest lady aboard. There, he pauses for an extra moment, showcasing his goods. And the 5th round through, sure enough, business has been made.

The train is now so packed that conversationsbreathfeet merge together. A tall, youngish man, with a slew of neon-colored plastic bags, jumps on board. He towers among the women around, droning “Chiiiinaaa bagsss. Chiiina baaags.” Needless to say, he grabs my attention and I turn to take a closer look at the bags. They are cheap, polyester longish bags, replete with neon handles and off-color winnie-the-pooh designs. Who would want to buy…my train of thought is stopped right there, as I see women bending, reaching, straining over to take a closer look and pick the color that their child would want. I turn back around and think of the Indian streets filled with Chinese goods. Yup, India and China are coming closer than ever before.

My stop is approaching, and I’m getting worried. While I’m comfortably seated amidst grandmotherly women and an amusing (though shocking) jokester, I’m worried about my departure. It’s so crowded that I can barely move out of my seat. The train begins to slow down, and I make my way through. Even though the train hasn’t stopped, women have already started alighting, heedless to the attemps of off-bound passengers. Now this, I was not expecting. The force pushing me back inside is getting stronger, yet I try to push my way out. The train has stopped, and I can’t move. I push even harder to get through, stepping on a few people’s toes. The arm clutching my purse has not found it’s way through, it’s stuck. In a final burst, I push again, and I’m out, but I land squarely on the feet of an alighting woman. “Yiiidiot!” she mutters. Oh well, at least I’m out.
A renaissance? Maybe. Who knows what the week might bring? :)

Auto-Epiphanies

I go running in the mornings. Usually really early to avoid being baked. So at 5:30 one morning, I’m wandering the silent streets looking for an auto to take me to the track. I spot one man, industriously washing his auto and preparing for the day. He agrees to take me, and asks me to sit down. I sit inside, and hungry mosquitos immediately begin to feast. While I wait impatiently, he continues with his morning ritual: lighting the diya in front of the small picture of Lord Shiva, burning two incense sticks and waving them around the dark interiors; closing his eyes and silently muttering the strains of a chant that hark back to my school days. We leave, and finally arrive at the destination. The money is in my left pocket. I take it out and give it to him. His disbelieving gaze turns from my outstretched left hand, to my face: “give it with your right hand” he says in Tamil. Still a little sleepy, I say, “inne”? (what?) In crisp, accented English, he says, “you please give it with right hand only.”

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Familiar getting-out-of-auto story: we arrive at our destination, and I only have a hundred or fifty rupee note on me. I’m about to ask if the auto driver has change, but I realize they never do. Invariably, the response I get in Tamil is, “Madame, you are only the first customer.” Annoyed, I always think about asking them why they don’t keep a little bit of the previous day’s earnings so that they can use it as change. What do they do with it all, I wonder, collect it under their pillows?

And it recently struck me: there probably is no secret stash box. Though being an auto-driver is prestigious for folks on the lower rung of the social strata, they probably don’t have any savings. Each day’s earnings is probably used that very same day. I think about the maxim 'One day at a Time', which I use to calm my spreadsheeted-plan-for-a-century mentality whenever I get caught up in the whirlwind of the future. Strange, I’ve never recognized how much a luxury the Future can be.

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Sunday morning, I set out for a French film playing at Sathyam. An auto driver who hangs around my building beckoned, so on we went. Soon, after finding out that I was going to the cinema, we got into a discussion about films, and his passion for Tamil cinema became increasingly obvious. However, my every sentence was punctuated by a hysterical "roombo speed vanda!" (no need for too much speed) to which he'd say "why you're getting scared, madame?" and we'd continue the discussion at the same breakneck speed. Finally at the cinema, I waded through coconut sellers and the smell of testosterone+piss to get to the hall, and soon found myself alone in the cold streets of Paris. A story of newfound love between two inmates of a memory rehab center. While I thought I would be able to count the number of people in the hall on both my hands, it astonished me that the hall was nearly full. And it definitely wasn't a “francophile” type of crowd, if you know what I mean. As my gaze swept the hall before the film began, I thought it strange that I was only one of two women there. However, soon after the steamy, rain-drenched sex-scenes unfolded (and I started to squirm in my seat), the epiphany of the century struck me. What is the common denominator among French films, good or bad, strange or eclectic? Skin. Lots of it.