Desicritics Category: Culture: Home

Health Care at Home

Ravi Kulkarni — Sun, 8 Mar 2009 03:30:23 EDT

In my previous blog I listed a litany of complaints about the health care system. In this blog, I will talk about some actions I have taken to ensure a healthy lifestyle.

By most standards, I am a health freak. It is not that I always do optimal things nor that I am in perfect health. But I have improved my health considerably in the last ten years or so and my blog is an effort to share my learning.

Over a period of time, I have been consulting doctors and getting lab reports. In order to improve something, one needs a baseline. One measure is to count the number of times a person falls sick. This is very subjective and sometimes deceptive too as major diseases can lurk under seemingly good health. The metrics in the lab reports provide a more objective basis. Based on these metrics I do my own research on possible lifestyle, diet and exercise changes that are needed to get better. I have realized measurable improvements of health over several years.

In my opinion, diet is the primary source of our health issues. After all we are what we eat. I avoid junk food, including all sodas, colas, synthetic additives and preservatives, synthetic sugar substitutes and so on. Where possible I have substituted whole grains for bleached floor, brown rice for white rice, olive oil for peanut oil and so on. I buy organic where I can. About 50% of my personal diet consists of only raw fruits, vegetables and nuts. For example today my lunch consisted of the following (all raw): sprouted moong (green gram), red and yellow bell peppers, Persian cucumbers, broccoli, apple slices, a mango, blue berries, raspberries, almonds and walnuts. I try to consume flaxseed in many different preparations.

Recently I purchased a Vita-mix whole food machine. It is an excellent device for making juices, soups, dips and assorted other things. I highly recommend this product to anyone interested in cooking and especially those who enjoy raw food.

Our teeth play a very important role in our health. It is not just the social consequences of bad breath or discolored teeth; they have a much more profound impact on our lives. Treatments like root canal can do more harm than good in some cases. I have followed a very simple regimen: I make sure to brush at least twice a day and floss after every meal for at least 2-3 minutes. Just flossing alone has made a tremendous difference in my dental health. Recently I also purchased a Panasonic mouth irrigator. This product is available for about $25 at amazon.com and worth its weight in gold.

As I am an IT professional besides being an internet junkie, it is almost certain that my eyesight is weak. However, I have always resisted wearing glasses and never got a pair. I think eyes are the best optical instruments ever designed and they are capable of working under extreme conditions. I have always relied on eye exercises and yoga to keep them in reasonably good condition. I definitely need reading glasses but don't yet wear any. I also do no wear sunglasses even in the sunny locale where I live. I think sunlight is good because we just don't get enough of it in our home and office bound existence.

I have mixed feelings about supplements. If one is deficient in certain vitamins or minerals, it may make sense to take a few supplements until that deficiency is overcome. But I am not sure about the effectiveness of multivitamins. Ideally we should get all our vitamins and minerals from our diet. It is almost impossible to determine the action and interaction of so many different nutrients which are present in foods an isolated in a pill form. Our ancestors did not take any supplements but at least some of them enjoyed perfect health. However, I must admit I have taken certain supplements over the years and they have certainly helped. In particular, Co-Q10 which helped eliminate PVC (premature ventricular contraction, a benign heart condition) and Niacin which helped reduce tri glycerides. I have discontinued use of both.

Our ancestors used to rely a lot on the natural and home remedies. As a result they probably lived a much healthier lives than we do, though our life spans have increased during the last century. Invention of antibiotics and vaccines have reduced deaths due to many infectious diseases. That the overuse of antibiotics is now being seen as a leading cause of super infections is the irony of progress. We are born with amazing healing capabilities. And yet we provide crutches and artificial props in the form of concoctions of harsh chemicals in the mistaken belief that intervention is better than letting the nature take its course. As a result we compromise the very body we want to keep strong and fit for a hundred years.

My favorite home remedies are: turmeric, cinnamon, ginger and garlic for simple infections. Home made yogurt, buttermilk with asafoetida for many stomach ailments. There are a few commercial preparations that have become standard faire at our home. These are:

Inflameric as an anti inflammatory supplement
Oil of Oregano as a powerful natural antibiotic
Calendula Ointment (homeopathic) for cuts and bruises
Septilin for colds and flu

As a family, we have almost eliminated consumption of any prescription medicines. Neither of my kids, ten and six years old, have had to take antibiotics, ever.

We do consult doctors on a regular basis, but we tend to pay more attention to their diagnosis and much less to prescription. But once I have confirmed a diagnosis, subsequent course of action depends on my own research. Nobody knows my body, diet and lifestyle better than myself. Best course of action often depends more on these factors and less on a formulaic prescription. An average doctor does not have enough time or patience to take into account all these factors. My source of information:

Curezone - Lot of information, user contributed information, first hand reports etc.
WebMD - Information about diseases, medicines
FDA - US Food and Drug Administration
Allayurveda - Information about Ayurvedic medicines and principles
Yahoo groups - Individual ailment discussion groups

Our modern lifestyle almost ensures that we need to exercise on a regular basis in order to maintain good health. I try to get at least 45 minutes of 3-4 days a week, mostly on a treadmill. I probably need more flexibility and strength training, but I guess I will get there. While my lifestyle and diet do provide major benefits, exercise provides a further boost to it. My tri-glycerides have been high for the last several years. I have noticed that they come down measurably whenever I exercise regularly and go easy on simple carbohydrates and fat.

Yoga and meditation provide benefits to body, mind and spirit. I am still struggling to incorporate these into my daily routine. When I do that, my at-home health care should be complete.

Disclaimer: I am not a doctor and this article is not medical advice. Please do your own research and always consult a physician for your health concerns. If I am mentioning certain brands and products here, it is because I found them to be useful, not because I derive any benefits from this mention.

A Journey That Continues

Kishore — Thu, 5 Mar 2009 13:04:24 EST

He was a nice looking gentleman wearing an oversize coat and thick mufflers around his neck, who acceded to taking a picture of me and V standing on the edge of Dolphin’s Nose. “So where are you from?” he asked me handing over the camera to V. “I... Er... I’m from...”, I fumbled. V did better. She smiled, as she secured the camera into its case.

It was an incredible moment in our lives. A moment when we realized, we didn’t have an answer to the most rudimentary question of existence – “Where are you from?” Well, let me see. We have moved three cities in two countries in four months, have our belongings lying in five cities across the two countries and have no idea where we would be four weeks from this minute.

Things weren’t supposed to be this way. It was supposed to be happy days ahead. Family, elders and all that, you know? A fairy tale of the prince and princess living happily ever after. It sure was a fairy tale of sorts, until the day we called bitter-gourd bitter. Ever wondered calling bitter-gourd bitter could bring you trouble for the rest of your life?

Many months after that ignominious moment of getting reprimanded for stating the obvious, troubles continued. “Elementary my dear Watson.”, a well wisher suggested, “Everyone has troubles. Just deal with it.” Deal with it, huh? At what price? A few hundred dollars of happiness would do? Heard they started selling that thing in Wal-mart these days. So I could’ve helped myself, you know, with a few capsules whenever there was trouble.

We are dealing with it alright. But not like the Goody two shoes that we used to be. Although no one knows it that way. Life is simple. People are not. They are high on illusion or hung over on reality. So much so that any attempts at talking them out of their ridiculous assumptions or psychic outbursts only falls into deaf years. We became weary of our condemned routine and decided to find our own way.

We are on the move, although no one knows the real reasons of what we are doing or where we are moving. "Family" thinks we are happy. The indicators are there – we travel, we do the vacations, we shop, we laugh, what else one needs to know if someone is actually happy? For them, we are the good kids who do a lot of traveling on business. To ourselves, we are lost rowing in a sea without a compass and the shore is nowhere in sight.

May be we could still have waited for more time, until the day when the deaf ears would open up. May be, if we could’ve drugged ourselves with a few capsules of Solvomycin from Wal-mart, everything would’ve been solved and life would’ve been back to being a fairy tale. Life is a honey moon. Except that the honey doesn’t taste good at some times, and the moon is hidden by clouds at other times.

“Deal with it, kid”, an elder told me. “It’s the same with everyone”, a veteran confided. “You can’t run away from troubles. You’ll have to come back to it someday”, told a peer. I agree with everyone. Except that they are not me, and they haven’t seen what I’ve seen. But how do you tell the world you don’t bother about it anymore? I guess you just don’t. And that’s what we’ve done. Kept quiet, and moved. “Cheeky, but you did the right thing”, a friend smiled when he heard our story, “Life finds a way”.

We’ve set out to do what we think is our pursuit of happiness. We are moving places, driving in near-zero visibility. We don’t know where our next turn is, or how long until we stop again. We don’t know if we’ll run out of gas, or reach our hitherto unknown destination soon enough. We don’t know if we are alone, or there are other cars beside us. But we do know that we’ll keep driving.

Fiction: A Few Reasons to Return Home

Vinod Joseph — Sun, 16 Nov 2008 00:47:28 EST

Sreejit's face has a look of intense concentration as his fat index finger glides over his Blackberry's scroller. No, Tim hasn't replied to his angry email yet. To be honest, Sreejit isn't expecting a reply from that bastard. Tim's last email had made it clear that the next round of discussions would take place only after three months.

The man sitting to Sreejit's left has a respectful look on his face. A Blackberry is not a very common sight in Kerala, not even in the first class waiting room at the Ernakulam Junction railway station. The man wants to tell Sreejit something, but Sreejit refuses to make eye contact. Instead, he opens old emails and reads them, his eyes focussing on the screen intensely as if he is reading something very important, as if they are unread emails.

An announcement is made over the loudspeaker. 'The Netravati express is 'shortly expected to arrive on platform number 3.' Sreejit rolls his eyes in exasperation and puts the Blackberry into the travel pouch around his waist. 'I don't believe this,' he says loud enough for his neighbour to hear.

Sreejit's neighbour does not let go of the opportunity. 'This train is always late. Today it is late by only forty minutes. Usually it is late by at least four hours.'

Sreejit exhales and tells his neighbour, 'before leaving for the station, I called up Railway Enquiries and asked them if this train was on time. And they said it was.'

'IST stands for Indian Stretchable Time. Forty minutes late ... that's not late at all!' the neighbour guffaws. 'Once this Netravati Express was twenty four hours late. It came exactly on time, the next day!'

'I guess I've got used to seeing things done in a different way. I've been away from all this for almost five years now.'

The opening is not wasted. 'Are you from the States?'

'No, from the UK. I mean, things are not perfect over there. Trains do run late once in a while. But, this ...' here Sreejit stops for emphasis. 'This is incredible. They don't even apologise for the train being late. And of course, there is no need to explain to us why the train is late.'

Sreejit's neighbour becomes an apologist for Indian Railways. 'Netravati is coming all the way from Bombay. A journey of over 24 hours. So it can be a little bit late.'

'I ought to have taken a taxi to Trivandrum. I was told the train will be more comfortable. Now I'm not too sure.'

'My name is Babu. What's your good name?'

Sreejit is trapped. As a rule, he does not talk to strangers when travelling on trains. A habit inculcated over five years cannot be ignored. But he does not have a choice. He is forced to admit that he answers to Sreejit.

The train enters the station majestically. There is a rush of activity. People rush to the doors and mill around. Some people start getting inside even before the passengers have got off the train. Sreejit and Babu are travelling first class and so they don't have to fight their way into the train. They settle in a section of the compartment which has only two other people, an old man sleeping in a corner and a woman in her thirties.

The first class seats are reasonably comfortable, but there's dirt on the windows. Sreejit takes care to ensure that he doesn't touch the window sill.

The train has been at the station for fourteen minutes now. Sreejit looks at his watch and gives Babu an enquiring look. Why not? Babu is more than happy to explain matters. 'This train has come all the way from Bombay. At this stage, it won't be very punctual.'

'Makes a lot of sense to me. It's a 28 hour journey to Trivandrum, isn't it? Why be punctual for the last leg from Ernakulam?' Sreejit does not hide his scorn.

'It's scheduled to stop for ten minutes. Since it is late...'

'Since it is running late, I would expect it to leave as early as possible. It's been here for almost fifteen minutes now.'

Babu changes the topic. 'Are trains very punctual in England?'

Sreejit sighs and gives Babu a happy smile. He takes his time in replying. 'You know, I have a rather long commute to my place of work. I live in Reigate, that's in Surrey and I catch a train to London Bridge from Reigate everyday. Once every ten days or so, a train will be late, by a couple of minutes. And once a month or so, a train will be held up for say, ten minutes.'

'Is that all? In India we are used to trains running late all the time....'

'When a train is late by a few minutes, we start cribbing. In the UK, people complain about minor things. Out here people are passive. People don't care if the trains run late.'

'There's not much point in cribbing in India. We have too many people and not enough ...'

'I don't think so. It's also a question of attitude. If a train is late, there will be an announcement every few minutes explaining the reason for the absence. They'll tell us the train is held up at such and such a place due to such and such a reason.'

'You must find it so difficult here after living in England.'

'I hate to say this, but after living in the UK, it's so difficult to adjust to the way things are done here.'

The train moves off and Sreejit heaves a sigh of relief. 'Finally,' he exhales. Babu sighs in relief as well, as if he is too embarrassed at having been let down by Indian Railways in front of a foreigner.

Sreejit decides to re-read the email he received from Tim a few days before he went on leave. It doesn't matter how many times he has read it before, Sreejit feels a fresh pang of rejection each time. Tim's email was very blunt and to the point. As discussed at the review meeting held the previous day, Sreejit's performance was not satisfactory. They didn't think he was capable of fulfilling the requirements of his role. They realised that Sreejit had a demanding role, but if Sreejit could not improve his performance and meet the five objective parameters set out below in the next three months, they would ask him to leave.

A vendor arrives with lunch boxes - there's chicken biriyani, sambhar rice, curd rice, fish curry rice etc. Sreejit buys a chicken biriyani while Babu settles for some curd rice. They start eating.

'I heard that food in England is very bad. Is that true?'

'Not at all. It is very hygienic and clean. You won't fall ill if you eat food from a vendor on a train.'

'Oh! Do you have people selling food items like this?'

'No, but each train, especially the long distance ones, will have a buffet trolley with an assortment of sandwiches and beverages.'

'Sandwiches! Is that all you get? It must be very difficult to live on such things?'

'I am used to that now. Actually, these days, I don't like spicy food. Come to think of it, why add spices to food? They don't have any nutritional value. In fact, they deflect the real taste of food. If you eat spicy food all your life, your taste buds will slowly die. You won't be able to appreciate subtle flavours. In fact, Indian food doesn't have subtle flavours.'

They go back to their foil packed food. Sreejit chuckles to himself. At the pub the day before he went on leave, he had nicknamed Tim Dr. No and everyone had laughed. Hopefully the name would stick. Tim had a habit of starting every sentence with a No. They all hated Tim and his joke had made him very popular. But Sreejit was the first of Tim's victims. Why had Tim picked on Sreejit?

Sreejit finishes his lunch first, because he doesn't eat half of it. He looks around for a bin to dump his foil pack, but doesn't find one. 'Just throw it out of the window,' Babu tells him. Sreejit is disgusted beyond words, but he reluctantly opens a window and throws out the wrapper. He then goes to the end of the compartment to wash his fingers in the tap. When he comes back, Babu is the process of disposing his lunch wrapper through the window.

'I just don't understand why there can't be a few bins in every compartment? Labour is cheap in this country. It won't cost too much to have the bins emptied at every other station!'

'We are used to all this,' Babu put in mildly.

'I guess I shouldn't be shocked, but I am. Each time I return to India, I get a jolt when I see the way things are done here.'

They are silent for a while. The train reaches Allepey, but no one enters the first class compartment.

Sreejit opens Tim's email once again. He goes through the five parameters they have set for him. They appear objective but they are not. His technical knowledge apparently is not good enough. How the heck can such an allegation be called objective? Before Tim arrived on the scene with a mandate to 'trim' the company, no one had complained about his technical knowledge. If at the end of three months, Tim 'objectively' decides that his technical knowledge is still not good enough, they can fire him and there is precious little he can do about it. He has consulted an employment lawyer. His company is entitled to fire him as long as it follows all the procedures, he has been told. He can take his company to the employment tribunal claiming unfair dismissal, but unless he can prove that his termination is on account of race or religion, he is unlikely to win. No, he can prove nothing of that sort. All his colleagues are polite to him outwardly. No one has assailed him on account of his religion or skin colour. He isn't a homosexual or anything is he? his lawyer had asked him wistfully. If he is and is being harassed about it by his boss, he might sustain a claim that he is being terminated on account of his sexual orientation. No, I am not gay, Sreejit had politely replied though he wanted to scream at the lawyer who charged him 300 pounds an hour.

It is actually the last of the five parameters which hurts the most. He can live with an allegation of inadequate technical knowledge since he knows that it is a lie. But he cannot live down the allegation that his client handling skills need to be improved. He has been asked to work on his verbal skills so that clients can understand him better. It was the last parameter which forced him to shoot off an angry reply to Tim just before he caught the flight to India. Yes, I do speak with an accent. However, I've never had trouble communicating with anyone. That idiot who complained about my accent last month is prejudiced. He is biased. He is a racist. You don't have to believe him. Surely you know me better than that. I have been in the UK for 5 years now and my accent had always been legible. It was not as if I spend all my time talking to clients. Not more than ten percent of my time is spent with clients. I have been with the company for three years now and there had been only one complaint so far.

He knows that Tim won't reply to his email. The Human Resources department has prepared Tim's email and any response will also be prepared by HR. They have done it many times before. The UK has some of the most employee friendly laws in the world, but if an employer wants to fire an employee, he can do so, provided he is patient and is willing to pay lip service to all the rules.

'So you don't see yourself ever returning to India, do you?' Babu asks him.

'Actually, I might. There are so many things about India I don't like, but India is still home. I will come back to Kerala one day and settle down here.'

'Really! That's very good. I thought you are....' Babu hesitates and then continues, '..you are one of those who hate India so much that they will never return.'

'Ha! Ha! Of course not! I have gained so much from my experience in the UK and when I return, I will have a lot to contribute.'

'I'm sure of that. When are you likely to return for good? Anytime soon?'

'I don't know. I may come back in a year's time, I may return after ten years. It all depends.'

Babu is too polite to ask what it depends on and merely gives Sreejit a smile as he goes back to his Blackberry.

Fiction: The Glass Is Still Empty

Samrita Devgan — Tue, 21 Oct 2008 11:08:33 EDT

The heat was at its peak. The bright, hard light simply barged into my room through the panes, just like an unwanted acquaintance. The blades of the ceiling fan tried hard to out beat the other. The rattling of the cooler irked my senses. My lips were parched. My siesta came to a painstaking halt with a sudden choke in the throat. Clean, pure water was all I could think of to quench my thirst. I got out of bed and walked up to the refrigerator. An empty glass lay on it which seemed to be reflecting light in all its hues. I immediately opened the refrigerator and grabbed a chilled bottle of water. Pouring water into the glass seemed too much of an effort, and appeared time consuming. So, wasting no more precious time, the bottle served the purpose. As the water trickled down my throat and the satisfaction, thereafter, was nothing less than someone lost in a desert, having come across a spa of groundwater. My eyes then caught the empty glass once again, and now I greeted it with the refreshing smile of a kid after her feed.

My thoughts were interrupted by the jarring sound of the doorbell. As I looked through the peephole, I was instantly filled with wonder and excitement. I quickly opened the door and there stood my long time pal, Rhea. We had spent years of togetherness in school and college. Though I had been in constant touch, I was seeing her after five long years. As I was about to embrace her as a gesture of my happiness, my eyes lowered to where her hands were. She held a wreath. I choked and gasped for breath. It was she who now made the first move. She put her arms round me and took me in. A catharsis overtook me and as I hugged her next, it was not happiness but a sharp pain that accompanied it. Tears rolled down my cheeks. Rhea tried her best to console me, but her words seemed to be falling on deaf ears. My sister was the baby of our family, and the world was never going to be the same without her. Without Piya our home was merely bricks, sans life.

As the dusk set in, the house was full of mourners. All sound seemed to have vanished. Lips were without words. Despite the crowd, only whispers were audible. Then, as I walked up to the refrigerator once again, for a sip, I noticed the glass on it. It was still empty to all human eyes. All scientific theories could prove this fact. But to me, in its emptiness, the glass seemed to have witnessed a plethora of feelings. To me it symbolised a world in itself. As my water bags burst once more, I could now see only the hazy picture frame, of a smiling Piya, that lay behind the stainless glass.

Book Review : Diplomatic Baggage: The Adventures of a Trailing Spouse

Kim — Sun, 27 Jul 2008 09:41:54 EDT

As a Trailing Spouse to Egypt, this was a book recommended at an Inter-cultural training session that I attended.

I am glad I waited 2 years to read this book (I might have been terrified of the move) although I'm kicking myself for spending money on it, even though I got it at a discounted price on Amazon.

I got carried away by William Dalrymple's (an author I greatly admire) review of it: "Brigid Keenan, is a new comic genius.... very, very funny"

Later in the book, I figured out that he spent time at their house in Damascus, while researching his book From the Holy Mountain.

Why did I hate the book so much?

Except for the last chapter, the author was constantly whining and groaning about the hardships that life had tossed at her. This after choosing to marry her husband of her own free will, knowing the kind of job he did and loved that it would take him to obtuse corners of the world. It was a fully informed decision that she took. Even spending some days with him, in what she calls a "chicken shed" in Kathmandu before deciding to marry him.

She constantly whines about everything from the help, to the kids, to her husband, to location.... in short, she whines about -Everything.

The life of a Diplomatic Trailing Spouse is much easier than that of other Trailing Spouses. Accommodation, household help, office help, everything is put in place before the diplomatic family even arrives at their new location. Brigid's grouse is that some of the other European embassies provide more services to the spouses than her husband's European Commission ambassadors office does.

She promotes herself as a glamorous, successful young London fashion journalist, but later in the book accepts and acknowledges that her children were the worst dressed in their school.

I do not know Brigid personally, but what I read in her this autobiography of hers, made me think of her as a spoiled, over indulged wife who can never find anything positive and good in life.

Granted she had a few scares like the maggots that got under the skin and had to mature and grow and eat their way out, but those kind of experiences were less than you could count on one hand. For the most part, she was preoccupied with how to find white gloves for a 6 fingered servant in India and wondering why there was no association to put beggars to sleep the way Animal friends do it for animals! At the same time brushing aside her daughters experiences with pedophiles and exposers as casual asides.

Brigid has written about Kashmir's art and crafts and co authored a book on Damascus; which may be worth looking at, but Diplomatic Baggage is not a book you want to buy or gift a friend who is going to be a Trailing Spouse, not unless you want them to cancel all plans and send their spouse to live abroad on their own.

Of Cats, Dogs and Individuals

RukmaniRam — Thu, 24 Jul 2008 00:20:43 EDT

Last week, I visited Fox- friend, kitten lover and a SPCA volunteer. As always, I found a kitten (this time around, it was Peekaboo) she was fostering for the SPCA. But there was also another cat, Harlequin, who "found" Fox and often came to eat and snuggle. Fox tried to find the owner of the cat. But when Harley was still homeless after a few weeks , she was taken to the SPCA to be cared for and hopefully adopted. Having grown up in a country where cats, dogs, cows and other such animals roam the streets with authority, I wondered why Harley had to be adopted or stay at the SPCA. Couldn't she just be a cat that wandered the neighborhood? Apparently, not. She had to "belong" to a family. She *had* to be a pet.

The same goes for dogs too. It was then that I realized that I had hardly seen a stray animal in the 11 months I have spent here in the US. Fox tells me that I had to look in the right places to find them. Besides, those animals did not want to be seen by humans- either because they once belonged to a family and later were dumped, or had been mistreated by people and were so affected that they feared us. These animals had to be pets (or livestock a la barn cats), because they could not survive on their own. If left to themselves, what happens when they are sick/hurt? They would have no one to take care of them. I have also heard that the "wild" ones would run loose acting out their whims and fancies with no one to regulate them.

My mind kept drifting to the dog that gave birth to her litter underneath the staircase of my aunt's house in Chennai and then I felt I had heard something very similar before. Of the need to "belong" and "not be just a cat"… Oh yes, I know what it is. It's the older generation referring to me! But of course! You had to be part of a family. You *had* to be a pet (or in some cases, livestock too! :P) and belong. You couldn't be just a person, just a woman. I could also see the other parallels… People disliking or being afraid of society: either because they were disowned by it, or because they were taunted by it.

When I told someone that I enjoyed living by myself I was accused of abandoning my responsibilities towards my family! My desire to live alone as an adult is seen as unnatural, and I was branded as "Americanized". Wait… what? Why? "Because in India there is no life living alone. There isn't meaning to your life unless you have someone to live for (or had someone who lived for you). An individual life has no meaning at all." If you are defined by your job, you are a workaholic; if you live alone and go to grad school, you are a student; if you are married, you are a wife (and if you stay at home too, you are a housewife... being the wife of a house is something I find highly amusing!), you're a daughter in law, a mom, a sister (or a son, brother, father, husband- I hear this isn't gender specific!). I always thought these were roles we played in our lives, and who we were was defined by our interests, our passions, our principles and our beliefs.

Another person I have known for a very long time loathes the word "independence", because, to him, it implies defiance of authority.I don't get it. Independence, or as I like to call it (and think is more appropriate, seeing as human society is inherently interdependent) – self reliance (emotional, physical, financial- anyway you see it) is real hard. It is a lot of responsibility- towards yourself and towards society. It's not about not having a boss; it's about not having someone to lead you on. It is not about not having anyone to answer to; it's about being answerable to yourself. My reluctance to go back and "belong" to the structured society also stems from the fear that the freedom of thought and (to some extent) action that I have developed over the past few years will be unceremoniously taken away from me. I live with the elders, I'm always someone's beta, and a Beta is never an Alpha.

I'm not saying I do not like being part of a family. I'm only saying; don't feel sorry for me if I don't. I'm not saying that I don't need people around me. I'm only saying; if there aren't I'm still going to be okay. I'm not saying I don't want to be a pet. I'm only saying; that sometimes I want to be just a cat.

P.S: To all the PJ masters out there, I am speaking metaphorically. I do NOT *actually* want to be a cat.

What Do You Do For A Living?

Deepti Lamba — Sun, 20 Jul 2008 05:57:43 EDT

So, what do you do for a living?

Ah!! you're a homemaker...

Yeah, that's the end of the conversation with me.

Back in Delhi when I bumped into an old school acquaintance I decided to tell the truth that I was a writer and quite a lot of my stuff was published. Where? Skin mags!!

The babe looked flustered and shocked and I was smug. It sounded better than stating a flaky - I am a homemaker

Recently I blurted out the truth in a more creative fashion - I am retired and since I am a woman of means I don't need to work. Thanks to my husband I am lucky enough to be able to devote time to my passion and my family.

The individual who asked me What do you do for a living? spluttered and was left speechless .

Most people are unable to earn money from their passion. Most people are unable to devote time to their passion. Come to think of it, a majority of people don't even know what they are good at. They work because they have to, not because they want to.

Few people are eager to go to work on a Monday morning. The few who do look forward to their work are generally self employed or enjoy great deal of autonomy at their work, others crib about their work environment , their bosses, colleagues and the list goes on.

All that is discussed after I am politely ignored for leading an 'idle life' and I find myself wondering time and again whether my 'stress free life' ( yeah, even I had a boss yelling at me at one point) isn't better than dealing with the egoistical bosses and bitchy colleagues.

When they compare their stressful lives with each others I remain quiet. My stress is different from theirs- I go sleepless at night because I write late into the night not because I have a presentation or assignment to finish. I get up at crack of dawn because I have tiffins to pack and chores to do and not because I have to drive from one end of the city to get another to work. Basically I am the mistress of my own time and of my mind.

Sure, I have to deal with people who think I am a lazy babe without an identity; some even called me a doormat. Doormat and me? Just because I don't get a pay cheque at the end of the month?

I'm already working but I don't have to prove my worth to anyone.

The way I see it- when I am on my death bed I am not going to regret that I didn't have a nine to five job but reminisce more about relationships gone sour or dreams left unfulfilled.

Related Article : What Do You Do By Mark

Short Story Review : "Supriya at Fifty" by Prasenjit Gupta

Shantanu Dutta — Mon, 30 Jun 2008 12:38:28 EDT

Supriya Moitro is a girl born in a well to do Bengali civil servant family in Gorakhpur in 1935. She grows up in Moradabad and then goes to college in Allahabad. Against mild parental unease she then moves to Delhi to study for her MA in Hindi. Their unease is partly because of the daughter leaving home and partly that she should have chosen to study Hindi, a language generally looked down upon by the Bengali educated classes. From there Supriya moves to Aligarh where she joins as a lecturer in Hindi and where the first bend in the river occurs. Supriya falls in love with Ashok Dixit, a colleague and a non Bengali. Her parents come rushing down mortified at the thought of their daughter’s cross cultural marriage but return with a reluctant blessing.

Shortly after they get married, they move to the United Sates and effectively settle down there, though they will never admit that truth to themselves. Their only son Subodh knows no other home but the US and on their increasingly infrequent visits to Kolkata, he is distinctly uncomfortable. Not that Supriya herself is very comfortable. Each visit to Kolkata finds her retired parents, older, greyer and frailer and less able to cope for themselves. Though Supriya has a sister and other family, each visit leaves her groping with guilt about the choices she and her husband have made.

Time goes on, Subodh finishes high school and goes on to University. On one of his phone calls, he announces that he is bringing his fiancée Janet home (Oh mom, we met at grad school!). Supriya and her husband with the same perplexity and unease they had gifted their parents all those years ago. Supriya at fifty is the semi autobiographical reminiscence of Prasenjit Gupta masking as a short story through the persona of Supriya looking back on her life on her fiftieth birthday. Gupta is a Delhi University graduate now living and writing from Iowa. Through the character of Supriya, he asks many questions about identity that continually confronts people who have left their roots behind and attempts some answers.

The results for third culture people are mixed. As Supriya would recall, as a Bengali brought up in UP and later settled in the US, she was well versed in three languages: Bengali, Hindi and English: she was as comfortable reading Tagore as with Premchand or later Shakespeare or Wilt Whitman. Quite an accomplishment considering most of her erudite friends and those of her husband knew one language only – English and nothing more. It is possible for her to be equally at home in different parts of the globe without any discomfort in her campus apartment in the American university as in the gullys of Uttar Pradesh or the decaying bungalow of her father in Kolkata and that was more than could be said of her son, who had never been to the small towns of UP and found even a week in his grand parent’s house too suffocating.

Yet Supriya realized, she truly fitted nowhere. She lived in the US and yet she was not quite American. In the early years, her husband had encouraged her to switch from saree to skirt but she had demurred. She spoke English fluently and yet taught Hindi in the local university and cooked Bengali food like Doi Mach at home. She and her husband had so wanted to find a nice Bengali girl for their son before he surprised them so. Christmas meant nothing to her and yet she felt so nostalgic at the time of Pujo, the Bengali festival corresponding to Dusshera when the whole of Kolkata would dance with delight.

There is a certain intangible part of humanity that is associated with one’s own soil, culture and norms that is irretrievably lost as one moves to be a citizen of the world from being the native of a town. The process is enriching, yet the loss of what might have been, the friendships that might have been cultivated that have been lost, the bonds that have shrunk because distance and geography played their part, the opportunities that have been gained and the opportunities that have been lost all come together in one giddy cocktail. As Supriya would put it “ …her experiences, her culture, her traditions have dissipated themselves in three different ponds, whereas if all her life had been spent in one language, think how large a lake it would be, how deep, how profound ,with all the consecrated wisdom of her ancestors…”.

On the whole, life has been good to her. She has had a good husband, a good son and is on her way to have a good daughter in law for after the initial misgivings, they have grown to be fond of the girl their son would marry and who has gone to great length to accommodate and adjust to her fiancée’s parents. But in reverse, she has been away in the pivotal moments of her family’s happenings in Kolkata, there is a very obvious disconnect that she experiences as soon as she lands in Kolkata. People have married, have had children, the children have in turn married, the older uncles and aunts whom she knew and loved have gradually passed on and to the new generation, she is just another aunty from far away who comes now and then but will never be in any sense be ever a part of their lives.

So much has been gained because of the choices that she has made and yet so much has also been irretrievably lost that Supriya at fifty. Half a century into her life she can no longer draw any conclusions. She decides that she will live that for posterity to judge and hopes that she will not be found wanting.

"Oh Boy!"

Seema Dhindaw — Thu, 15 May 2008 03:43:09 EDT

“Thank god, it’s a boy! How wonderful! Congratulations” I remember the desi uncles and aunties saying with abandon even as I stood right next to my parents. My memories of their uninhibited exclamations of “Badhaai ho, munda hua!” ring loud and clear even today. Being their first-born, a daughter, I couldn’t help being overcome with feelings of jealousy and apprehension. The realization that someone else was going to steal my parent’s attention was enough to get my 6-year old heart racing. My big brown eyes widened and filled with fear as I looked up at my parents and repeatedly asked “Do you still love me?”

As my brother and I grew older, sadly my fears became reality. The favoritism had become strikingly apparent not just to me but others as well. My aunt and neighbors noticed and did what they could to make me feel special. My grandmother, on the other hand, visiting from India could not see past my brother.

I faded into the background and all my tiny accomplishments in kindergarten and elementary school went unnoticed. I began to realize just how important it was for my parents to have a son, particularly my mother. As teenage years approached, the treatment meted out by our parents was obviously differential. He got to stay out later than I did. His mistakes were more readily forgiven. His anger and outbursts excused with “Boys are like that, its ok.” He was bought an expensive car because “it would stay in the family.” His announcement of having a girlfriend was met with pride and encouragement while even a mention of my boyfriend would probably inspire histrionics. Over the years my hostility towards him manifested and our relationship floundered.

Many Indians including Punjabis tend to agree upon the value of the male child. In Indian households and particularly in North Indian families, the son is expected to live with his wife and children while caring for his aging parents in the same house. This can be quite a lot of pressure for any son. Financial responsibilities and the lack of privacy can make life pretty miserable for everyone.

What is bothersome is not that these biases exist but that many families strive relentlessly to preserve and propagate those here in America. My own family, I feel, has been guilty of this. Many a times my mother has made statements such as “He’s a boy, so it’s different. You should be more understanding”, ” We feel sad for so and so. They just have two daughters. Who will care for them when they’re old?!” A daughter can take as good if not better care of her parents than any son could. Why such a strong bias especially when you have a daughter who cares for you? A gift from me is “no big deal” but any small card or gesture from my brother is received with open arms and praise.

How does being female somehow make us inferior? The last time I checked we were in the year 2008, weren’t we? Not 1930. One would think these views about women would be the height of the matter but surprisingly they are not! It actually makes a difference if you are thin and fair. Even Bollywood has adopted the “gori chitti aur patli” (fair and skinny) paradigm. Recently, Bollywood actress Kareena Kapoor has made headlines for becoming an unhealthy and perhaps anorexic size zero. “Zero” not only describes how good she looks but also her acting abilities.

Bollywood actresses like her wear drag-queen-style make-up to match the desired skin color to appear beautiful. Up until recently no significant effort was made towards making the nearing 40 year old balding male actors with receding hairlines and age inappropriate clothing, more appealing.

No doubt Bollywood is guilty of such nonsense but what does one say when the almost 300 lb aunties in sarees with bulging love handles, blouses that barely fit and extraordinarily huge hips casually comment on how so and so’s daughter should lose weight. “She would look so much prettier.” What about their own short chubby sons? I'd like to ask. The standard response which I've heard so often is "Oh, but they are boys, so looks don’t matter as much. It is the girl that has to get married off.” Such a mentality is difficult to change.

Enforcing these beliefs in girls raised in the United States is ridiculous. It breeds low self-esteem within an environment that values confidence and grooming over skin color and weight. Tanning salons have opened up all over and constitutes a multi-billion dollar industry. Yet you still have Indians saying “Hai! Kitni gori hai, patli hai! Changa munda milega”.

As a woman born and raised in the US, I now find myself rolling my eyes at these comments but I have to admit, they affected my self-worth deeply as a teenager. Perhaps on a subconscious level they made me rebellious as well. Why do the women have to endure phone calls and comments centered around their weight and looks? How fair is it that no one seems to notice the nice developing potbelly on my brother or the man boobs that have appeared on Kunal? Women have to deal with comments such as "moti hogayi hai na?"

It doesn't matter that you might be a successful researcher or a prominent scientist or an engineer. Fat is of utmost importance. It is the men,the sons who are complimented on their careers. Even your female friends who happen to get in touch with you online after years have past don't care about your professional accomplishments. "You've become chubby" "Moti, fat jaadi....i".This obsession with weight among Indian women in particular is upsetting.Why aren't such comments directed towards men?

Hearing such female-degrading comments from families and friends at social gatherings has become commonplace for me. However, it was astonishing to face such comments in a professional setting. My very own Indian ex-PhD advisor wasn’t afraid to reveal and act on her biases. At a lab lunch celebrating my birthday, she in a very matter of fact manner said “Indian women need to be subdued, as Seema will learn.”

On other occasions, instead of providing advice regarding my project she would make comments about how I should “lose weight” so that I can “get a husband.” “ You should work 24 hours a day, 7 days a week because you don’t have a husband or kids. Look at all the other people in lab,they aren’t single. They have families. Even XYZ has a girlfriend.” As I listened to these unprofessional comments, I couldn’t help thinking ”aren’t you a woman too? Don’t you have a daughter? “ At the time being her student, I was too scared to say anything for fear that she would jeopardize my future. As fate would have it, I didn’t have to say anything, I guess just being an overweight, single American woman of Indian descent was enough for her to screw me over on a whim.

It’s depressing that such strong biases exist in the US among Indians even today. It takes a toll on you when you hear the same comments so many times from the people who are supposed to be your strongest supporters. It is even more alarming that people with these views can abuse their power and get away it. Isn’t it about time that people do away with this mentality and accept each other with fairness and equality? Man, woman, short. Tall, fat, skinny—what does it matter? Aren’t we all human?

Fishing For Wishes: A Fish Who God Listens To

Aditi Nadkarni — Thu, 15 May 2008 00:49:18 EDT

Red was an impulse buy. He was, really. My roommate and I were at a 24-hour supermarket late one night to buy a coffee maker on a lazy Saturday for lack of anything better to do. Go figure. And there he was, in a short plastic jar looking at me. It was fate. I do not just say this, mind you. In this post I have empirical evidence to back it up. The following narrative is based on true accounts.

I was never a fish lover. But these flashy fish with their dazzling colors immediately caught my eye from an aisle away. Only one of them actually made eye-contact even from that far. I walked over and picked up the jars carrying a Betta fish each, one by one scrutinizing the brilliant fins of all the other fish. They were all jumpy. As we later found out, most Siamese Fighter Fish are. But when I picked up Red's glass it was magical. He did not jump or twitch like the others had and instead continued to look at me very intently. The only time I saw Red display any spunk was when I set his jar back on the shelf and started to walk away. He swam to the periphery, blew a few bubbles and did a couple of quick and startlingly violent twirls that caught my attention. He was the only bright scarlet one among the bright collection of Betta fish. They all seemed ferocious and a little upset. This little guy however, appeared peaceful and mainly curious. When I picked up his jar again, he continued to stare, right into my eyes, even more intently than before. I made up my mind.

That night, my roommate and I went home with a very treasured polythene bag. Every time he moved inside the thin plastic, I felt a gentle twitch on my fingers. I've felt a baby's kick on one of my pregnant friend's belly before and this twitch reminded me of that heady sensation, of how gently and unexpectedly even the littlest of life makes its presence felt.

Usually a pretty rational person, I surprised my roommate considerably when I held Red's polythene bag to the glass window letting him catch a glimpse of the world outside our car as we headed home. When else would he get a chance to look around again, I wondered. It could've been a series of coincidences but we passed on our way home, a Red Roof Inn, a Red Lobster and the song "Red, Red Wine" by UB40 came on the radio. At home as we put our new member in a bowl and turned on the TV, the feisty Red Foreman from 'That Seventy's Show' appeared making one of his dry, sarcastic quips. My friend and I exchanged glances and we knew. This was meant to be. He was christened Red.

Inside his bowl Red discovered his surroundings like a baby discovers the world around him. He moved in and out of the plastic flora and stared in awe at the sandalwood Ganesha next to his bowl. He wolfed down the small pellets of Betta fish food we had bought for him and we warmed up the apartment so that our tropical fish would be at a comfy temperature.

One fine morning Red's presence turned into somewhat of an added excitement. My friend was interviewing for a job the next day for which her credentials weren't exactly ideal. I was in the midst of feeding Red as she sat on our sofa and told me how much she needed the job. I turned to Red and for no particular reason said "Red, do you hear how much she needs the job? You are going to have to talk to God about this and make sure she gets it, OK?".

My friend stared at me with narrowed eyes as if I were nuts.

"Just wait and see" I said with a wink. Lets face it, we all do weird stuff to give our friends the extra bit of confidence and luck that they need. I have sat and patiently cracked 25 fortune cookies at a restaurant amidst startled Chinese waiters for a friend desperately looking for signs about her relationship. So praying to a fish was not odd any more. The next day my friend graciously called me to tell me she had received the job. There were so many people with great credentials, she told me, but she was the one who landed the position.

"It must be Red. He is lucky!" she exclaimed, in her excitement crediting our fish with what was most likely her own skills and talent that paid off in the interview. But word quickly spread and the next day I had a few voice messages from a few people half-joking about Red's newfound ability and half-asking me to pray for them as well. I won't lie, following this, I too whispered my own wishes to Red and watched wide-eyed as they all materialized one by one. Even the weather dodged rain and storm forecasts at Red's behest, which almost never happens in Ohio.

Someone came over and asked me to pray to Red for their sick pet and later sent pictures of their doe-eyed, recovered dog. Yet another wanted their car to be fixed. There were quite a few people who wanted that one precious job offer to come their way. And one by one Red granted them their wishes. Stock market hopes, loan needs, even relationship longings were rewarded almost instantly when I brought them to Red's bowl and made a quick wish.

Now Red's kind of a celebrity fish. I have started to maintain a notepad to keep track of wish-requests. My parents in India ensured that I receive such requests across borders as well. Friends and family call in to request that a good word be put in with Red. Red's schedule is jam packed and he has not let anybody down thus far. Every single wish has been brought to fruition...except maybe the one I made for world peace which I now believe falls out of Red's capabilities and is only a term meant for beauty pageant speeches.

Recently a fishy fungal infection sent waves of panic among the Red Wishing Club. Prayers were offered. My parents made a visit to the Siddhivinayak Temple in Bombay and my roommate and I made several trips to PetSmart looking like troubled, anxious parents. Red fought the fungus and made a speedy recovery meeting wish-deadlines with ease.

Most importantly, Red has contributed significantly towards our social life. People now call or come over if only to pay our stellar fish a visit. Betta fish are social beings to begin with and Red is enjoying all the attention to say the least. Meanwhile, funnily enough, I feel like the mother of a prodigy who needs to make sure that her wonder of a child sleeps and eats well and doesn't get an inflated ego as he goes on using his genius to do world a greater good.

One morning, a friend rendered skeptical by a recent heartbreak, after hearing about Red told me in great length about how faith is nothing but a crutch and that such superstitions just make him suspicious.

"True" I agreed much to his surprise, "I can see why you are suspicious. After all, more than anything, Red has demonstrated that faith does seem to be fishy"

Note: Red is still accepting wish-applications :)