Chennai – Old yet new

Sifting through my old emails, I found one forwarded by my ex-boss just before my maiden journey to Chennai, once called Madras and where British Influence in South Asia made its baby steps.

This is written by a lady from Chennai, who loves it for what it was, is and is becoming. Reading it now, it strikes a chord; India has changed my idea of so many things.
_______________________________________________________
Subject: The New Chennai by Shoba Narayan

The new, edgier Chennai hasn’t lost its past
Chennai is now edgier, sexier, grittier but tradition
has not given away completely in this traverse of time

By Shoba Narayan, Mint, July 24, 2009

What can I tell you about my beloved Chennai? People from other metros
will argue that Chennai has little to recommend it. They complain
about the heat and the orthodoxy. They complain about the nightlife or
lack thereof. They complain about wily, rude autorickshaw drivers who
fleece unsuspecting tourists. Yes, I know.

But what can I tell you in defence? Abnormal as it seems, I am
happiest in Chennai. This irrational love that most of us have for one
place has mostly to do with childhood. I know several people—my
husband included—who have no ties to any one city, having grown up in
several.

My friend, Arun, for instance, who now lives in Berlin, can
objectively take Indian cities apart, sifting them into pros and cons
that say everything but mean nothing. Mumbai for enterprise, Delhi for
power, Kolkata for Bongs who aspire only to get out of Kolkata,
Bangalore for the weather and entrepreneurship and Chennai for its
culture.

All true, but it does little to capture the essence of this coastal
city that welcomed St Thomas and does the jalsa (illicit
gratification, for example, liquor) and jilpa (gratuitous holding
forth on topics that one knows nothing about), as blogger Krish Ashok
says.

Chennai is waking up at 4am to have lunch at 7. It is going to tiny
Murphy Electronics in Adyar and having the proprietor dig out from the
dark recesses every gadget and20gizmo that you never thought to have.
It is drinking “Kumbakonam degree coffee” at, well, Kumbakonam Degree
Coffee in Anna Nagar. It is eating chop suey and hakka noodles at
Waldorf with the IIT guy you have a crush on.

It is watching grizzled old men cover themselves in monkey caps when
the temperature drops from unbelievable to bearable. It is watching
pretty maidens with turmeric yellow faces and dripping wet hair walk
to the temples in the month that is called Margazhi in Tamil. It is
describing yourself as a “thayir saadam” (curd rice) or a “Mylapore
girl” and knowing instantly what it means; about every nuance of that
person. It is knowing that music connoisseurs go to Mylapore Fine Arts
or the TriplicaneAcademy during the December season, while the people
who want to see and be seen go to the Music Academy.

Chennai is Grand Sweets, Ambika Appalam and Saravana Bhavan. It is the
pleasure of speaking in Tamil using a shorthand that only other
Chennai-ites will understand and relish: swear words such as savu
gracki, or the disdainful “veetila sollittu vandirukaya?”, which is
what an auto driver will yell when you cut him off, causing him to
nearly bang into you. Your fault, lady. Have you told people at home
(that you are going to die)? That’s what it means but like most
translations, this does little to capture the pithy essence of that
insult.

Change comes slowly to Chennai. Go there today, and you will still see
the vendors on the beach selling “thenga, manga, pattani, sundal” or
coconut, mango, and a variety of fried lentils. Couples still sit in
the moonlight at Elliot’s Beach, looking around furtively for known
faces. Mamis (matrons) still duck into Nalli’s or G.R. Thanga Maligai
(GRT) for silk saris and gold, respectively, and haggle hard for the
“compliment” or a Rs5 purse that is given free after they spend a few
lakhs. The free purse seems to give them more pleasure than their
purchases.

Chennai is going to Pondy Bazaar and finding everything except your
mother and father. It is parties where people still quote the “Manjal
Araithayaa” speech from the Tamil movie Veera Pandiya Katta Bhomman
after sufficient quantities of liquor have been quaffed. It is eating
spongy idlis at Murugan Idli Shop and wondering if ordering every type
of dosa on the menu is gluttony or good taste. It is the scent of
jasmine at sunset.

Chennai is steeped in Tamil culture. “No ifs, ands and buts about it”,
as a Madrasi would say, and no, please don’t use that word to describe
anyone south of the Vindhyas. M.S. Subbulakshmi epitomized what, for
many women, is Tamil culture. She was deferential to her husband who
managed all her affairs; almost childlike in her simplicity; had
regular oil baths and then scented her hair with sambrani (a type of
incense for sweet-smelling hair); circled the tulsi plant for the
well-being of her family; and inspired thoughts of the divine.

Today’s Chennai is edgier, sexier, grittier. Radio announcers (many of
them female) regale listeners with a snappy Tamil that is equal parts
slang and slander. Girls in Chennai no longer wear salwar kameez like
I used to. They ride motorbikes in tight jeans and halter tops. Few
oil their hair but many still wear the bindi. They prefer lattes to
filter coffee and pizzas to pongal. And you know what? That’s fine.
Because Chennai hasn’t lost its essence.

The same babe who speaks in Tanglish (Tamil-English) will go home and
address her grandmother as “Paati”. The same boy who sports spiky hair
and sunglasses will submit to a Ganga Snanam with loads of hot sesame
oil come Deepavali day.

Chennai—my Chennai, the city that I love—still exists. You just need
to know where to find it. Come with me. I’ll show you.

When in Chennai, Shoba Narayan dines at Karpagambal Mess in Mylapore
and Beyond Indus at the Taj Mount Road.

India’s tragic love story

India is full of beautiful palaces, monuments and buildings that spring up unexpectedly in an old town, next to a a dirty river, in the valleys.

In a history of the rise and fall of empires spanning across centuries, where the mughal rule expanded into India from central asia, the birth of one of the wonders of the world brought India into the limelight, putting it on the same stage as China, Peru, Brazil, Egypt, Jordan, Rome and Mexico. In a sad but romantic history of the dynasty of the six mughal emperors, a tale of love and the struggle for power produced a grand, beautiful tomb acclaimed by the whole world, a majestic construction built on the foundation of promise and loyalty.

The fifth mughal emperor, Shah Jahan, had many wives, but the third wife possessed most, if not all, of his affection. In a short marriage life of just 19 years, Mumtaz Mahal (whose title signified chosen one of the palace) bore him 14 children, the last of whom caused her to die in childbirth. Of these 14 children, 8 died, and of the remaining 6, there were 2 girls and 4 boys. Out of the 4 males, the last and youngest of them all eventually caused his father the greatest harm and injustice, and he became the sixth ruler of the mughal dynasty, ending the reign which lasted almost two hundred years.

Beyond the line of six descendants which she left behind, Mumtaz’s death brought down her husband, Shah Jahan who retreated into a year of mourning and shed all royal clothing to be dressed in mourning clothes. A year after her demise, he embarked on a massively planned project to build her a monument, as he had promised on her deathbed, and in the next 22 years, oversaw and specified the details of the white marbled tomb renouned among all the world. With marble inlay decorating the white pure marble, and phrases from the Koran inscribed as borders on the magnificent structure in Agra, the outcome of the project was awe-inspiring and breathtaking. Even till today, the Taj Mahal’s mist shrouded outline leaves you amazed, and from a distance, it looks like a dream turning into reality.

A very faithful Muslim, Shah Jahan’s devotion to Islam has been blended and crafted seamlessly into the monument, and the dome-topped wonder silences everyone who lays their eyes on it, even if they are not Muslims. The entrace of the Taj opens to a perfectly symmetrical garden, which is partitioned into four equal squares by water streams and fountains, like the garden of Eden as described in the Koran. The peace and serenity emanating from the surroundings of the Taj settles upon you as you walk closer to the structure, each step showing you yet another beautiful angle, whose symmetry and glazed perfection stops you in your tracks, and you unconsciously reach for your camera in an unsuccessful effort to capture the aura and presence of the Taj. One of the most photographed objects in the world, nothing can beat seeing the Taj in person. The story behind and around which the Taj has been wrapped is beyond the physical presence, it is the spirit of the emperor and his wife which spills forth romance and inspires its viewers.

Out of greed and desire to rule over his own family, Shah Jahan’s youngest son with Mumtaz killed his three elder brothers, then imprisoned his father under house arrest in the Agra fort, where he gazed at the Taj for the eight years during his arrest. So much tragedy, so much pain, yet so much love.

Just like many parts of India, and its endlessly fascinating aspects, the Taj is symbolic of India, of its history and its beauty. And unexpectedly, I seem to have fallen in love with some parts of the vast and rich heritage of this nation.

The heart of poverty

Standing in the busy street, walking by the cars bustling beside you, sitting in the comfort of the hotel-chauffered car, or squeezing among three others in a rick, one thing that hits you as you travel about India is the immense poverty in which so many Indians are trapped, and other than which they know nothing else.

Everywhere you go, you see men, women and children running, walking, strolling about without shoes or slippers, their feet bare on the soil and its elements. Just watching the people of India going about their daily lives, you immediately grasp the extent of how destitute and impoverished they are. In the cities where the nation’s increasing prosperity has flowed to some, many others are still left behind in the dirt of deficiency and lack, being trampled upon by the crowd of those who have found quick wealth. The income disparity and large gap is blindingly obvious, with flashy cars complete with white-uniformed drivers just inches away from the physically disabled beggar, whose hands quiver from days’ worth of hunger.

Driving past poor neighbourhoods in the suburbs to reach the grand gates of our five star hotel, I cringe when I see young children walking alone in the dark alleys, to huts made out of stone and dried leaves for the roofs. The bumpy rides show how badly maintained the roads are, and as you turn corners and are presented with a sight of a cow and a goat sharing their dinner at the neighbourhood trash corner, the odour of decaying rubbish and scraps of leftovers makes your stomach churn and waves of nausea wash relentlessly over you. What makes it worse is when you see and old bearded man, skinning as a beanpole, walk towards them to try his luck at the same pile of trash. It makes you turn away, from pity and also guilt, for wasting half of the chicken bryani ordered at the hotel cafe, and for making a face at the fish and chips that wasn’t as tasty as you would have liked.

At the tourist sites, homeless beggars lurk in anticipation of the donations of pity tourists often give, and it has become their occupation and expertise to stretch out their hands in a bid to get their daily allowance. Women hang their hand-made bead necklaces on both arms, and follow you non-stop asking, almost pleading with you to buy their wares. They see you are not interested and they keep dropping their prices, desperation overwhelming their greed to make a quick buck from foreignors. Babies in their arms, these women as wafer-thin from the lack of proper nourishment, and their hungry young children suck at their breasts, dried from the lack of milk. They walk around, sweat glistening on their foreheads, one child in front and one at the side, eyes wide from the draining heat yet alert to the sounds and sights of foreignors.

In the cities, where the markets are still bright and much alive at ten o’clock at night, the narrow streets see cars, motorbikes and bicycles jammed next to each other. You have to weave your way through rows or parked motorbikes to cross from the streets to the pavements, which are then blocked by all the items for sale and the unending stream of pedestrians and saturday night shoppers. Children skip up the stairs to the bright and colourfully-lit shops, as the orchestra of honks and chatter make a rhythm which gives the cities their heartbeat. The word “foreignor” is labelled all over your face as you walk, flinching when a sweaty arm brushes against you, the owner never once realizing and never once turning around to apologize. This is the way things work, you don’t have much time to be worried and particular about personal space — most people here do not understand that concept. Finally, when inside an acessory shop, you feel relieved from the rush outside, but then the heat and unventilated air gushes at you, and discomfort leads the beads of perspiration that start to form. Amazed at the thousands of selections of bangles and earrings and bindis and necklaces there are to choose from, I am always at a loss, and take an extremely long amount of time to appreciate and then finally come to a decision of which to buy. I love the colours and vibrancy, but at the same time, I am also struck by the shop attendants, just young children who have to work to sell the items, whether because it is a family-run business, or because they have the work from the young age of eight. They flock anxiously to you as you enter the shop, asking what you would life. My initial irritation at having an attendant hovering relentlessly at my side slowly grows into admiration of their persistance and constant smiles and politeness. I am also always full of respect for them, for they embrace what they have without complaints, unlike us who live in large clean cities and have made complaining an elevated form of art.

Yet what really makes me feel for Indians is their kind and helpful souls, their willingness to help you push your bus when the engine doesn’t start, and their beautiful smiles when you thank them, realizing that they did it without asking for money, even if they were poor and sitting at the roadside hoping someone would stop by to buy the clothes they had hung up for sale.

India makes you want to go home, to be in the comfort of the hotel, to have the soft bed to sleep on and clean potable water running from the tap. India creates a longing to return and show your fellow countrymen what they are taking for granted, and to shake them up and tell them what so many here in this nation of over a billion do not even know they lack. India makes me ashamed of complaining, of splashing money away like water when young children work so hard just to kill their hunger. India makes me see its people in a different light, makes me appreciate and be thankful for what I do not have to go through, and makes me a little more emphathatic, and for that I am grateful.

An Indian Intensity

There is an intensity about India that I cannot quite describe.

It hits you the moment you arrive at the airport, a thick dense smell hovering in the air you breathe, in the soot puffing out of the vehicles and the sea of dark shiny faces squashed closed together eagerly awaiting the arrival of their loved ones.

It has the power to momentarily stun you especially if you’re coming from a neat, organized society like Singapore, whether the buses and trains run mostly on time, where the air is fresh and clean and the streets are not just black tar covered in piles of trash. In India, roads belong to motorists and pedestrians alike, both taking unyielding claim on the public land, both declaring their possession with a undebiable mix of unconcern and right. Old men walk barefoot on land filthy with spit, faeces, rubbish overspilling from a dump, the smell rotting in your nose. A natural reflex is for me to wrinkle my nose and make a face at the horrifying indifference with which India’s people accept it as a norm in life. Well, it has become and always will be a norm in their lives, and while they wear suits and ties in the clean offices of the multi-national companies, the people blend so well together once on the streets, not standing out from the rest of the bustling of night markets of Pondy Bazaar, and Spencer’s Plaza.

Business men walk right next to beggars who look at you, hands outstretched for a coin or two. Crazy old men walk right in the middle of the street, weaving their way among the cars as they rant to themselves, lost in a world to which only they have access to. As you walk inches close to the ricks (or tuk-tuks like they call them in Thailand), its not hard to feel so much like an outsider, because everything seems so different and hard to accept. Restaurants have people walking barefoot in and out, old people sit and even lie stretched out on the pavements streaked with dirt, and eat with their blackened fingers, yet they have a peaceful look as they view their environment, contemplating their thoughts. It’s hard for me to imagine the lives they live, or more rightly put, I imagine them living boring mundane lives, each day living for the next, but what puzzles me is how they accept the fate they were born in. But I have to constantly remind myself that they can accept what they have because they never had the chance to choose something better. Then when I think that, I feel bad, for their lack of choice, which might also allow them to live contented lives, and I also feel a huge sense of relief that I was born in society where things work, where healthcare is easily though not cheaply available, and where education has lifted so many out of poverty and a fate of impoverishment.

The moment you step out of the cool air-conditioned shelter of the hotel, there is a humid, hot stickiness that envelopes you in the summer heat. The first time you walk into a bakery selling indian sweet delights, the overpowering smell of gee, flour and unventilated air makes you nauseous. If you have never been exposed to Indian cuisine before, the concoction of spices, oil, butter and curries may give you a stomach upset that is quite memorable, for more appropriately, you cannot quite forget. Indians are also famous for their punctuality (or lack there of) and their promises to deliver which usually are followed through only after a few times of prodding. 2 minutes of wait time actually translates into half an hour, and a half hour really means an hour. It gets frustrating when time is of the essence, but in other circumstances, I would say I am quite amused.

Yet while I gripe about many aspects because I have not gotten used to India, I must say there are certain things that impress me alot. The high standard of English here is impressive. Probably the only country where I can get everything done and settled without referring to a translator or having to learn the national language. I honestly am very impressed. Indians are also one of the friendliest peoples that I know. They are always polite, always ready to help (although help may take a while to come) and they always check with you if everything is alright. The indian hospitality is a big factor in my impression of India, and the calendar in my room has captured an Indian chef cooking with a huge grin on his face, and that is precisely the imprint in my mind, a mascot for his fellow countrymen. India is also rich in culture, history and spirituality, with altars everywhere possible, and temples a large feature of its landscape. Every picture you can find about India leaves its shadow in your memory, because nothing about India is forgettable.

India’s intensity is beyond words, its essence barely able to be captured in pictures. You have to be here to understand it, to experience their culture, to soak in the life that is displayed all around. India is a land of great inspiration, a great evoker of thoughts and wonderment. You need to see the beggar on the street eating from the trash while a white-collar office worker walks on by, totally oblivious to the dire state of health the beggar is in, in order to appreciate what you have. You need to see the women walking and performing everyday tasks in their beautifully woven traditional saris, with their bindis proudly on their foreheads, to feel a need to go back to understand tradition and the great longing people have attached to it. It is the land where over a billion form the world’s largest democracy, where Mahatma Gandhi united his people against foreignors and inspired hundreds of millions in his advocating of support of locally-produced goods. It is also where the planet’s cheapest car can be bought, and where the Bollywood industry was birthed and continues to flourish.

India fascinates anyone, everyone who is willing to open their eyes and see the world. It certainly has opened mine.

A part of India

India is warm hot air hitting you right in the face, lingering with the smell of gee, jasmine flowers, and curries long after you have moved away from its origin.
India is smiling friendly people always ready to help you, but sometimes not for free, a tip will be good.
India is vehicles honking at other vehicles just for the fun of saying hello, and sometimes honking even when no other car is in sight.
India is the sight of people sitting on any piece of land possible, lying at the bus stop, with dirty fingernails long overdue for a wash.
India is men wearing some sarong-like cloth as underpants or pants (im not sure) and whenever they feel like it, loosening the cloth and tying it again right in front of strangers.
India is pedestrians walking right in the middle of the road, unaware and uncaring that they were that close to death.
India is girls clad in beautiful saris sitting pillion behind their husbands or boyfriends, both legs at one side in a pretty lady-like manner.
India is garlands of jasmine flowers for sale in the market, on the necks of ladies, scattered on the dirty roads.
India is the the sand on the beach, coarse under your feet, and horses parading with guardmen in dirty green uniforms.
India is smiling attendants, shaking their heads while saying yes, never about to say they can’t do something even if they really can’t.
India is cheap but good books, a pleasantly high level of English, and hotel chauffeurs in stunning white navy looking uniforms.
India is taking tea breaks whenever you want to, drinking on the roadside, oblivious to the developed world around.
India is little boys made to work their ways of our slumish poverty by dragging huge containers of tea and selling them in cups by the beach.
India is the kites in the sky, soaring through the delight of those who play with them, their companion and their happiness.
India is the selling of sugarcane juice at a roadside stall puffing much more exhaust then money made.
India is the huge income disparity between locals and foreignors, and amongst castes and religions.
India is the swamps stinking with sewage and rubbish right next to the slums in the city centre.
India is women balancing heavy sacks of rice on the top of their heads, with just one hand for help, while their men walk beside them.
India is arranged marriages that result in unhappy lives, of women and children born into a caste they have no option to refuse.
India is tv channel after channel of men and women seducing each other, before a forty second dance outbreak from forty other people that suddenly apprear in the scene.
India is polluted skies and dirty grounds, filthy with years of non-maintanance.
India is buses with people hanging off them, swerving and blasting their horns.

India grabs you from wherever you are from, and shocks you with its stark characteristics. There isn’t any one thing that doesn’t quite amaze me. India osmoses into you whether you like it or not. India is hugely fascinating, and it makes me more aware of everything.

Incredible India

This weekend I head to India, land of many mysteries and full of a people on whom everyone has a comment to make, complimentary or not.

India is perhaps not on the list of my top 5 destinations and I guess it probably would not have featured in my travel itinerary for at least the next five years, if not for the fact that I have the great combination of getting a free trip and 3 weeks of a break from office, despite being officially considered a business trip. Yet while I had never planned to go to India, India came to me. The organization that I work for is made up of a large percentage of the Indian race, whether they were Indian nationals or not. As the migration process to transfer more production work to India becomes more a reality than just a theoretical recommendation on a PowerPoint slide, I find myself working with more Indians than ever before. Outsourcing is no longer a word confined to movies like Slumdog Millionaire, nor is its impact only evident in the United States or countries like London, it has become a part and parcel of life, and you either deal with it, or move on and become obsolete. Most times there is a general dissatisfaction with the notion that people whose costs are lower are snatching our iron rice bowls away, and we are left with fighting for survival. Yet when you get to know these people and are finally able to put a face to a name found on Outlook, the initial annoyance gradually becomes replaced by a curiosity to understand the nation of India, its people, its culture and why so many have made it the subject of their studies.

A nation of great contradictions, the world’s largest democracy and Asia’s third most important economy, India is incredible, even if it is simply because of the sheer number of people populating the multi-varied landscape south of the Asian continent. The multiple languages and dialects in one country confuse me no end, the uncountable number of gods that they pray and worship, the numerous spices you can find in the markets, these all make up but just a small part of the place which intrigues people from all corners of the world. Its magnetic pull as an exotic nation and gem of the Far East led many Western powers to fight and conquer it, from the Portuguese to the British, and while these foreign occupants left behind trademarks of their individual cultures, they never managed to replace or change the traditions and ethnicity of the people to whom the land rightfully belongs.

When I think of India, I am struck by images of vibrantly-colored fabrics, alive with the prints and intense hues of dyes and intricate designs. My mind conjures up pictures of sheer saris flowing in the wind, of women walking with an arm lifted high to balance the water pot perched precariously on their heads, and of markets, thousands of them.

Although they are dark in skin color, Indians seem to have a rich and colorful culture that permeates all that represents them. Dress-wise, they are well-known throughout the world for their beautifully handcrafted cloths which their women drape in a complicated manner unbeknownst to most non-Indians, and books and documentaries globally agree that the shades available for cloths in India are concentrated and strong, brilliantly delightful and a feast for the eyes. Most of the time, women in India wear their traditional dress proudly, unafraid to address changes in technology while holding on to tradition. I don’t recall any other nation whose brave embrace of new trends and global requirements come so hand-in-hand with retention of culture. In the culinary sphere, Indians are huge on spices and taste, and as intense as the colors of their fabrics are, so are their foods. Curry powder, chilies, ground pepper are just a few of the thousands of spices possibly available for sale in the street markets, and a well-crafted concoction of these ingredients could produce some of the tastiest and most delectable dishes. Indians like their food very hot, very spicy, and most of them prefer to eat with their right hand, as opposed to the fork and spoon. Note of caution however – never eat with your left hand, it is extremely rude and represents something unclean. In the South the Indians eat plenty of rice, basmati being one of the rice staples; while in the north, the people prefer naan, chapatti, and the likes. They often drink a yoghurt called lassi to quench their thirst and its creamy heavy texture is supposed to calm the fire-drenched taste buds. Chai (tea) is found everywhere and is also a way for Indians to welcome guests. The architecture is another awe-inducing feature of this great land. Imagine the number of temples built, each temple construed painstakingly with sculptures of the many Indian gods and stories hidden in the walls. So far, the pictures I have seen never fail to make me wonder about the people who create these structures, and the deep spirituality they must have. And yet there is another phenomenon that confounds me no bounds – why do Indians always shake their head when they talk??

It’s less than a week to go before my maiden voyage to its shores and first time that I will set foot on its soil. It’s undoubtedly exhilarating and I feel like Christopher Columbus now!! I’ll bring back news my friends of this ancient civilization and its mysteries!

Hasta pronto!

Cultura.

It’s been a long time since I last wrote, but today’s lunch with Juan invoked the cultural enigma that has eluded me since I was old enough to wonder and realise that the world I live in is a book, a fairytale, not the reality of the rest of the countries.

I watched the Truman show a long time ago, when secondary school worries like crushes and fitting in with the coolest of society flooded my mind. Watching it, I felt sorry for Jim Carrey, and my most vivid memory of it included how I marvelled at his ignorance that he was being watched all the time, every single second by everyone else; where his life was a movie dictated by the creators of his make believe world.

Now that I am about a decade older (hopefully wiser) and more attuned to the rhythms of the world and the cultures that are embedded in the peoples who live somewhere else, I am lost between the awkward realization that I have been living in a snow bubble and the absurdity of which the people similar to myself have swallowed it whole.

The word “Culture” stems from the Latin world “Culturar” which means to cultivate; and in light of the way we change and get used to certain ideas with the passing of time, it is the definition of us.

Someone asked me not too long ago, if I was comfortable here in Singapore; I had to think more than 2 seconds before answering. Comfortable is too vague to agree or disagree; life is pleasant for sure; we are used to efficiency and quick responses; anything slow or not up to standard earns itself a huge medallion of complaints and safety is increasingly taken for granted. I am comfortable yes; too much perhaps stuck in my comfort zone that I am lost in its maze of expectations and things I am used to. Yet I am also strangely uncomfortable in this Disneyland society. One of my mantras in life has always been to experience; soak up the culture in each place I go to, live the way they live without turning up my nose at them, and to empathize with the fact that each people is the way they are because of their upbringing. In Singapore, we frown on things that vaguely resemble potential outliers; we mark them from the start and separate and segregate them from the higher potential beings; there is an imprint on them right from the beginning of the race that puts more obstacles in their path to a better life.

No, I would say for sure that I am not comfortable here; in fact, I am sometimes repelled by the attitude with which we wrinkle our noses in disgust at people different than us. I find myself relax in the company of music drenched and dripping with passion, throbbing with life and emotions. I love the Latin culture; the music itself transports me into a different world; I am swept away by the vibrancy and deep desires they have for everything. The emotions displayed when they speak; the great need for physical touch and everything alive.

I am a sentimental person by nature; yet culture in Singapore has shaped me to be a person fearful of displaying my emotions; it was only living abroad that managed to edge me to the border, daring me to be happy, live and experience. Wikipedia writes a short snippet on shame and culture; on the feeling of failure in reaching others’ expectations. How much I can relate to that. How many times have I felt ashamed for not being the person someone else wanted me to be? Its impossible to count.

I spent the whole of last year questioning a lot of assumptions I used to embrace wholeheartedly. Now, here’s the question of the year. What kind of culture would I be comfortable in, loving every minute of it as opposed to dreading the unsmiling faces of the people around?

– 14th Jan 2009

Bleakness of conformity

What a terribly disturbing phenomena–

“Japan is a conformist society, and life, it is said, is bleak for those who do not fit in.”

Time for a wake-up call.

I need DRIVE.

I need friends who will drive me and motivate me to push myself beyond the limits set by others. I need people who I see myself growing together with for years ahead; friends whose constant aim to improve themselves and development of character spur me to better myself with each passing day.

The past 6 weeks have been repetitive and humdrum; I do the same data entry work everyday; I rotate between meeting friends, trying to catch up with what each of them are doing in their internships; but I feel so empty and unfulfilled; like a huge crater in the middle of the desert; dry and desperate for an oasis.

I am sick of conversations that lead nowhere; of constant discussion of the same old issues; I feel that with some people I am forever stuck in a rut; a same cycle of topics that I dreadfully want to stop discussing. I crave a new burst of enthusiasm and encouragement; I want to meet people who have so much passion in them for all the right reasons to make me want to burn with fire just like them. I need a goal with a proper target that I can focus my attention on and know that at any point in time, I am nearer to that goal than I was before.

I want to make every day an improvement to my life; not one day a waste that I will look back and waste more time regretting. I want to live a life, each moment moving forward with the exuberance and adrenaline rush that comes with knowing where I am heading, and so very excited at reaching there because I know I have come so far and put in so much.

I decided today to embark on a tangible project– research on poverty and income disparity in Asia; and how microfinancing has helped to eliminate a tiny bit of that. I hope anyone of you who has information on that will be kind enough to share your knowledge; let’s be iron sharpening iron. To contribute is to give a part of yourself, and in doing so, is to learn much more than you would have keeping it to yourself.

Dear friends, I honestly need encouragement and motivation from you, and if you think you would like to be that one person who would want to push me further, to help me and to help yourself, please, by all means do so. Thank you.

The World is Flat

Thomas Friedman, author of “The World is Flat”, commented in his book that when he was young, his mother told him to “Finish up your food, people in India and China are starving.” Nowadays, he tells his daughter, “Finish up your homework; people in India and China are starving for your jobs.”

As globalization continues its rampage around the world, mobilization of everything is possible. Jobs are no longer confined to domestic citizens; its buffet time for all who are willing to travel and grab them. To transit and be willing to take the cheapest pay in exchange for having a job at all.

There are billions of people starving for jobs, and it makes the stark acknowledgement that productivity is so crucial for survival even more real.