Friday, August 19, 2011
Future Plans
I have four days left here in Bangalore before I fly up north to the Himalayas. I'll begin the trip in Dheli, for a day, but ultimately in Dharamshala, the shanty town of the Tibetan exiles. I've chosen to do a meditation retreat there for 15+ days.
The meditation centre has a 360 view of the Himalayas. We spend a couple hours a day roaming around in the small acreage of land (the walking meditation, which precedes the creative meditation), letting the mountains breathe through us (I assume, but I can't have expectations for this, since I have absolutely no clue as to what I'm really getting into).
This trip couldn't come at a better time. The last few days, as I prepare for bed each night, my mind becomes consumed with what ifs and overwhelmed at the options that lie ahead. I hope this meditation will ease the transition of not only returning from abroad, but becoming accustomed to living back in Portland, at home, done with the first round of school, and away from many friends.
I also just kinda want to trip. I wouldn't have signed onto this trip if I didn't think, riding through the pain and suffering, there'd be any amount of pleasure. After all, the life occurrences that aren't necessary should be pleasurable. It's up to ourselves to determine the definition of pleasure. And, for that matter, "fun".
All I know is I want to do meaningful work, laugh with friends, and not sweat the little things. But I also am an American and have outrageously high ambitions, of which foregoing may be hardly an option. I've learned that I can't avoid listening to that overpowering voice in my heart. It never seems to even take a minute to shut up and let me be. And while that's produced a lot of suffering, it's also gotten me many places, including here. We've created quite a symbiotic friendship, and I've learned to trust it.
Also, it will help me in my further work. All professional roles I foresee in my future involve talking to people and deeply absorbing what it is they have to say. Talking. To. People. I may get caught in whirlwinds all the time and I have to be prepared; I have to be in the moment. And if continuing meditation after this course will benefit me not only personally, but my friends and family and my future career, then I will take the time necessary out of each day to work toward that.
I know that once I catch a glimpse of something, I work hard to fully rise to that stage, even if the end goal is not guaranteed. If there's one thing I've learned from constantly contemplating mortality in this often ruthless and unpredictable city, is that the only true "end" goal is death. OR, when faced with a finite task, the non-guarantee and exactly the opposite--staying alive. All other goals are simply milestones, hardly crowned achievements. Though celebrations are always a good time...
Though it's a silent meditation, everyday there's a 30 minute personal Q & A session with the leader so we can make sure we're interpreting the material correctly. This is a meditation school. I see this as a valuable technique because it's my personal belief that misinterpretations of self and of "worldly" teachings can stunt further growth.
After the 15 days, I have a choice of staying for a third week for the most intense portion of the meditation, which even at this point I think I could be ready for. If I decide to leave, however, I have planned a 4-day trek through the Himalayas. We reach a pretty damn high elevation, and it would help me to recognize my being and understand my limitations.
I don't know what's after this life--no one does. And no matter how strong my mind is, if I can't use my bodily energy to do well in this world then I don't see much point sitting and contemplating it.
Might make for a great travel story to pitch as well. I've got some pretty cool ideas and angles in the making.
I'll try and write another blog entry before I leave. If I end up being too busy with last-minute adventures, then I'll catch y'all in America.
Monday, August 15, 2011
This is Why...
Nearly two months in and I'm in as much bewilderment as the moment I stepped off the plane and sifted through a crowd of cab drivers to find the one who'd take me to my home stay.
Before flying here, I told myself this wasn't such a time for sincere spiritual reflection. It was a time to come and work my ass off, have a little fun if I could manage, and come home with some good recommendations and a bit of new knowledge from the foreign land. This has got to be the most potent lie I've told myself since the post-Mexico era.
This place has shaken me, in the best sense of the word.
First off, this is not Mexico. And the spirituality that Westerners wish to witness after meandering through a sea of rational-minded, psychologically degenerative philosophies, will find it pulsating through every step if they pay close enough attention.
And that's the greatest advice to anyone wishing to either travel or live abroad: Stay constantly mindful of what you pay attention to. Spirit or not.
Of course, personal cultural and intellectual background will play into the context... but that's a different tangent.
The spiritual endeavors began with my host-pops, who, in the midst of this pluralistic religious stomping ground, is extremely rational-minded. He buys books on modern interpretations of varying religious texts, philosophies on quantum physics, the nature of science, etc... and in the middle of rigorous studies he finds time to riddle me this and that.
The first:
"Starting with the letter B, what are the two places on this Earth where religion ceases to exist?"
Knowing a bit about my own spirituality, but not in a religious context (if that's possible) it took me some time before I could arrive at any plausible answer.
"Brothel!" I said, after a few minutes of contemplation.
One down, one to go...
My host-pops guided me through the next intellectual endeavor, covering topics of sacrifice and sex before arriving at the Blood Bank.
Sometimes it takes a few minutes relaxing in my room to realize to what creepy, extraordinary and intimate heights some of our talks escalate.
But that's just it. I've spent my whole life fiending for conversations that peel back layers with time, eventually arriving at a depth both parties never knew existed. And here, it happens all the time!
**Like the time my host-mom sat down with me while eating my dinner and said, "You know, I just think, women, they're better..." and giggled and walked away. It subtly changed my outlook on India. ('Nother post, If I wish).
All these instances, whether it's with interview subjects, my family or friends, they've allowed me to reflect on myself, exposing parts of me that I've subconsciously known existed, but never tapped into.
I have never had so much fun trying to grab onto the true spirit of the city and all of its lovely characters, knowing I never fully will. People here are human. There is nothing mechanistic about them, and that reflects on the city, just as all personal awareness reflects the objective, communal realm, and vice versa...
And through it all: The job and the professional contemplations that arise with it, the new sights and sounds, the FRIENDS and FUN, the freedom of independence--the feeling came rushing back.
This is exactly why I came. This is exactly why I love to travel. And I've known it all along. It's the same path I've been on since I sat on my empty porch after moving houses at age 7; the age I began to contemplate existential theory... Those first, "Who am I?" and "Why am I here?" questions we all hear too often...
No matter the rice-based meals three times a day, or the garbage lining the streets laced in molden ash from gas pipes, or the 11 P.M. city shutdown, or the bucket of water I sometimes have to call a shower. What makes a place is the people--the ideas. All the rest are personal trials.
Real growth exists in the Self, but it's fun to change up the context from time to time...
Not looking forward to saying my "See you laters"... But I will never, ever forget.
I'm not in a dream, I'm in a book.
Before flying here, I told myself this wasn't such a time for sincere spiritual reflection. It was a time to come and work my ass off, have a little fun if I could manage, and come home with some good recommendations and a bit of new knowledge from the foreign land. This has got to be the most potent lie I've told myself since the post-Mexico era.
This place has shaken me, in the best sense of the word.
First off, this is not Mexico. And the spirituality that Westerners wish to witness after meandering through a sea of rational-minded, psychologically degenerative philosophies, will find it pulsating through every step if they pay close enough attention.
And that's the greatest advice to anyone wishing to either travel or live abroad: Stay constantly mindful of what you pay attention to. Spirit or not.
Of course, personal cultural and intellectual background will play into the context... but that's a different tangent.
The spiritual endeavors began with my host-pops, who, in the midst of this pluralistic religious stomping ground, is extremely rational-minded. He buys books on modern interpretations of varying religious texts, philosophies on quantum physics, the nature of science, etc... and in the middle of rigorous studies he finds time to riddle me this and that.
The first:
"Starting with the letter B, what are the two places on this Earth where religion ceases to exist?"
Knowing a bit about my own spirituality, but not in a religious context (if that's possible) it took me some time before I could arrive at any plausible answer.
"Brothel!" I said, after a few minutes of contemplation.
One down, one to go...
My host-pops guided me through the next intellectual endeavor, covering topics of sacrifice and sex before arriving at the Blood Bank.
Sometimes it takes a few minutes relaxing in my room to realize to what creepy, extraordinary and intimate heights some of our talks escalate.
But that's just it. I've spent my whole life fiending for conversations that peel back layers with time, eventually arriving at a depth both parties never knew existed. And here, it happens all the time!
**Like the time my host-mom sat down with me while eating my dinner and said, "You know, I just think, women, they're better..." and giggled and walked away. It subtly changed my outlook on India. ('Nother post, If I wish).
All these instances, whether it's with interview subjects, my family or friends, they've allowed me to reflect on myself, exposing parts of me that I've subconsciously known existed, but never tapped into.
I have never had so much fun trying to grab onto the true spirit of the city and all of its lovely characters, knowing I never fully will. People here are human. There is nothing mechanistic about them, and that reflects on the city, just as all personal awareness reflects the objective, communal realm, and vice versa...
And through it all: The job and the professional contemplations that arise with it, the new sights and sounds, the FRIENDS and FUN, the freedom of independence--the feeling came rushing back.
This is exactly why I came. This is exactly why I love to travel. And I've known it all along. It's the same path I've been on since I sat on my empty porch after moving houses at age 7; the age I began to contemplate existential theory... Those first, "Who am I?" and "Why am I here?" questions we all hear too often...
No matter the rice-based meals three times a day, or the garbage lining the streets laced in molden ash from gas pipes, or the 11 P.M. city shutdown, or the bucket of water I sometimes have to call a shower. What makes a place is the people--the ideas. All the rest are personal trials.
Real growth exists in the Self, but it's fun to change up the context from time to time...
Not looking forward to saying my "See you laters"... But I will never, ever forget.
I'm not in a dream, I'm in a book.
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
Is this a Dream?
Thought I'd give you all a taste of my work life here. It's been a bit hard to convey since my roles change on a daily basis.
For the second half of the internship, I've basically been working on trend pieces. I attend an event, and find an angle focusing on development. I come back to the office the next morning, do research, conduct more interviews if I need to, and write a piece.
Last night, I was sent to an event at the top hotel in Bangalore to meet the distributing director and associates of Sogrape winery, which has its base in Portugal but owns vineyards around the world, with a concentration on Latin America. As always, I had no idea what to expect.
I didn't bring any nice clothes with me, and I rarely find time to shop so I wore a 4-year old Buffalo Exchange skirt that I'm pretty sure I "borrowed" from Emma Bardagjy at the Country Fair two years back. It exposed my hairy legs, which I only realized after my cab broke down in the middle of an intersection and made myself comfortable in the back seat until another ride came.
Once another car reached, I crawled inside and introduced myself to the Bostonian man and journalism professor next to me, whom I will refer to as "Mr. Prof" in subsequent paragraphs. Next to him sat "Sasha", the editor of the lifestyle section of another paper. The man in a tux and the women in a gold dress. Yet again, I was highly under dressed, but I'm used to it by now... I like to think it's a trademark to my "style".
Before we arrived, Mr. Prof first skilled me (precursor to the night) on what I learned to be very crucial etiquette--how to accept a business card. This was the first time I truly noticed how formative this meet-and-great process is. It's the first impression, and by god damn, you better make a good one. On the flip side, my extensive business card collection has increased ten fold since I've held put in this professional playground.
After the B.C. exchange, I was seated across from Portuguese Felipe, and for a temporary escape and a deep breath, took a gander at the 9-course menu we would be served along with the wine. At this time a waitress asked me if I would like a warm towel.
"Umm... what do I do with it?" I whispered. I felt like I was sitting next to Leo D. in the dinner scene in Titanic. I knew he'd be my sole partner for life.
My mind began to focus on the silverware, and table etiquette, but it quickly switched. Never mind all that, my duty for the night was to analyze trends in wine consumption among Bangaloreans through conversation with these men.
As I kept my cynical thoughts inwardly composed, my very own Shakespearian fool showed up. It tends to happen here.
"My friend told me to come to this dinner. What the fuck is this fancy shit. If I would have known I wouldn't have come."
Nice, some easing entertainment. Felipe looked over at him, and said, "We'll try and make this as easy and comforting as possible." Little did he know, he made me feel better as well.
The "pallet cleansing course" passed around the table, and I asked why we were being served dessert before the main course. Laughter erupted among the eight-person crowd.
"Enjoy this Tara, you will be attending many more of these in your life," Mr. Prof said. Then he took me outside to lightly analyze various styles of literature and the global media market, but I assumed his actual intent was to preach about the need to find my own voice in my writing and stay true my source, because that alone will drive me to success.
............
Back inside, the Shakespearian fool was firing questions I hadn't thought of, and I was relieved. He made my job super easy... as I don't know quite as much as he does about imports and distribution between Indian states and shit like that. I listened intently and scribbled down quotes when I thought them decent to print.
He concluded the night with, "You don't even make much profit of the wine. Why don't you market bread? That's what the people need!"
I didn't outwardly display my love for him, but I definitely had the eyes.
During the last course, the marketing executive gave a toast to my future success, "Saaaaalud!"
One month ago, this would have given me an out-of-body experience. A "How did I get here?" moment frozen in time. But now it's a more mild feeling. It's still quite unbelievable, but I now know a great deal more about my true self and my intended path. This is also the most recent in a series of events. So I listen, smile and respond kindly. I'm glad they think so highly after a few glasses of chardonnay.
"Sasha" offered me a paid internship at her lifestyle section. But after the ride home, when she was ferociously yelling about how much she hated Bollywood, and punctuated her argument with, "Bollywood is for my maids, It's servant entertainment and I refuse to sink so low," I don't think I will be joining her team.
I woke up this morning and wondered why I feel so different. It's because I'm truly living in a dream. But it's "reality". And that, is fucking awesome.
Gotta keep workin' hard...
For the second half of the internship, I've basically been working on trend pieces. I attend an event, and find an angle focusing on development. I come back to the office the next morning, do research, conduct more interviews if I need to, and write a piece.
Last night, I was sent to an event at the top hotel in Bangalore to meet the distributing director and associates of Sogrape winery, which has its base in Portugal but owns vineyards around the world, with a concentration on Latin America. As always, I had no idea what to expect.
I didn't bring any nice clothes with me, and I rarely find time to shop so I wore a 4-year old Buffalo Exchange skirt that I'm pretty sure I "borrowed" from Emma Bardagjy at the Country Fair two years back. It exposed my hairy legs, which I only realized after my cab broke down in the middle of an intersection and made myself comfortable in the back seat until another ride came.
Once another car reached, I crawled inside and introduced myself to the Bostonian man and journalism professor next to me, whom I will refer to as "Mr. Prof" in subsequent paragraphs. Next to him sat "Sasha", the editor of the lifestyle section of another paper. The man in a tux and the women in a gold dress. Yet again, I was highly under dressed, but I'm used to it by now... I like to think it's a trademark to my "style".
Before we arrived, Mr. Prof first skilled me (precursor to the night) on what I learned to be very crucial etiquette--how to accept a business card. This was the first time I truly noticed how formative this meet-and-great process is. It's the first impression, and by god damn, you better make a good one. On the flip side, my extensive business card collection has increased ten fold since I've held put in this professional playground.
After the B.C. exchange, I was seated across from Portuguese Felipe, and for a temporary escape and a deep breath, took a gander at the 9-course menu we would be served along with the wine. At this time a waitress asked me if I would like a warm towel.
"Umm... what do I do with it?" I whispered. I felt like I was sitting next to Leo D. in the dinner scene in Titanic. I knew he'd be my sole partner for life.
My mind began to focus on the silverware, and table etiquette, but it quickly switched. Never mind all that, my duty for the night was to analyze trends in wine consumption among Bangaloreans through conversation with these men.
As I kept my cynical thoughts inwardly composed, my very own Shakespearian fool showed up. It tends to happen here.
"My friend told me to come to this dinner. What the fuck is this fancy shit. If I would have known I wouldn't have come."
Nice, some easing entertainment. Felipe looked over at him, and said, "We'll try and make this as easy and comforting as possible." Little did he know, he made me feel better as well.
The "pallet cleansing course" passed around the table, and I asked why we were being served dessert before the main course. Laughter erupted among the eight-person crowd.
"Enjoy this Tara, you will be attending many more of these in your life," Mr. Prof said. Then he took me outside to lightly analyze various styles of literature and the global media market, but I assumed his actual intent was to preach about the need to find my own voice in my writing and stay true my source, because that alone will drive me to success.
............
Back inside, the Shakespearian fool was firing questions I hadn't thought of, and I was relieved. He made my job super easy... as I don't know quite as much as he does about imports and distribution between Indian states and shit like that. I listened intently and scribbled down quotes when I thought them decent to print.
He concluded the night with, "You don't even make much profit of the wine. Why don't you market bread? That's what the people need!"
I didn't outwardly display my love for him, but I definitely had the eyes.
During the last course, the marketing executive gave a toast to my future success, "Saaaaalud!"
One month ago, this would have given me an out-of-body experience. A "How did I get here?" moment frozen in time. But now it's a more mild feeling. It's still quite unbelievable, but I now know a great deal more about my true self and my intended path. This is also the most recent in a series of events. So I listen, smile and respond kindly. I'm glad they think so highly after a few glasses of chardonnay.
"Sasha" offered me a paid internship at her lifestyle section. But after the ride home, when she was ferociously yelling about how much she hated Bollywood, and punctuated her argument with, "Bollywood is for my maids, It's servant entertainment and I refuse to sink so low," I don't think I will be joining her team.
I woke up this morning and wondered why I feel so different. It's because I'm truly living in a dream. But it's "reality". And that, is fucking awesome.
Gotta keep workin' hard...
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
Playing hooky (the respectful way)
Yesterday, 8:30 a.m. Sat down to an Indian breakfast, post-yoga post-shower, wrestled with pages of news until they rested in the right position, and began mentally preparing myself for the work day.
"What do you have to do today?" Host pops Ramgopal asks me as he's skipping down the stairs.
"Well I have two articles I need to.."-- Nevermind that. You had two articles in the paper today, I have a friend in town from Sri Lanka, and I'm taking you to Nandi Hill and we're wine tasting and we'll get in free 'cause you're a journalist and you can write a story and you just have to come it will be so fun just call your boss it won't matter you work hard enough, ok, go get ready--don't drink your coffee--we'll stop for that!"
Holy shit. The lack of coffee lagged my mind and his words I could barely capture, but what DID register was, "Opportunity! No office work!!" So I called my boss, pitched her the idea, said I'd be ready with a story, and there were no issues.
Those who know me well will understand this: I was with two 70-year-old men, both of whom could speak more words than I can think, and those ideas they speak of I hold too dear. The two are constant reminders of the virtue in good listening. Being with them is like peaking into a pinnacle of history that may soon go extinct.
What divides Nandi Hill and the city is the Bangalore International Airport, and maybe some llamas and hilly pastures. But most importantly, the divider is a town called Devanahalli with a hill (I'll check the name) that boasts more history than most. Indian rebels would carry the British P.O.W.'s up this hill, and push them off, watching their cheeks slice against dripping stone slabs until their features blurred and, alas, they had expired. Now it's where farmers go when their land is lost and they can't fathom surviving in the slums--where forbidden lovers seek acceptance from above. (I'll have to read into this to understand the precise details).
Nandi Hill itself is a 100m high mountain. It's a sacrificial stadium, a lover's retreat and a pocketed zoo with a serene view of surrounding towns and cities.
Ram took me into the Hindu temple. We left our shoes at the stone pillar and proceeded through Alice's doors and locked ourselves in a maze. That is, until I found a door I wanted a picture in front of, and what popped out was a Hindu priest. He invited us into his home.
This priest lives on sight, complete with modern appliances including a T.V., a reverse osmosis water purifier, washing machine and a western toilet. But enough of all that, he laid down a mat and welcomed us with coffee. Then he brought us to the temple, where I drank holy water and was repeatedly blessed. It was 12 P.M. and I had been blessed four times that day, after yoga and this incident.
Then he let me take a picture with Lord Shiva. Hmmmm.
Lunchtime rolled around and I was guiltily pressured into a whiskey. It was "impolite" to watch two men drink without having one myself. They were both talking over each other, flicking their hands--suggesting the unimportance of the hour-- and before I could finish the "f" in fine the waiter was at the table scribbling "Johnny Walker black label" on his notepad.
The food was splendid, one of the best meals I've had. It even beats the lunch in Kerala, and I think I'm finally discovering the food I prefer. The lunch spot was on the hill overlooking all below, and for a moment I shut my eyes and pretended to be a British imperialist. I opened my eyes and looked down on my countryside, planning out effective trade routes.
"This is how the British were so successful," I thought. Not only did they have vision that got them to the top of the Indian hills, but on those hills they had a physical blueprint to lay their vision to work. It must be instinctual why made persons love living on hills. I guess I already knew that, but I had never actually stood on a hill and played pretend in the same place power-hungry men mapped out reality.
************************
On a personal note, since I was 15 I've been writing on scrap pieces of paper different strings of words to describe that the only legacy we can leave this world with is a story, so we might as well spend our lives creating one. I finally feel that I'm really, really creating one. My own. And most importantly... we need life-long friends and descendants to tell them to...
Work....
Phone messages are sent to my extension, leaving personal mail for the "manager" and "health columnist". I now deal with editorial content. I write like mad. I live like mad. I'm pretty sure I'm on the brink of going mad, yet I have never felt so sane.
Wine story and pictures later.
"What do you have to do today?" Host pops Ramgopal asks me as he's skipping down the stairs.
"Well I have two articles I need to.."-- Nevermind that. You had two articles in the paper today, I have a friend in town from Sri Lanka, and I'm taking you to Nandi Hill and we're wine tasting and we'll get in free 'cause you're a journalist and you can write a story and you just have to come it will be so fun just call your boss it won't matter you work hard enough, ok, go get ready--don't drink your coffee--we'll stop for that!"
Holy shit. The lack of coffee lagged my mind and his words I could barely capture, but what DID register was, "Opportunity! No office work!!" So I called my boss, pitched her the idea, said I'd be ready with a story, and there were no issues.
Those who know me well will understand this: I was with two 70-year-old men, both of whom could speak more words than I can think, and those ideas they speak of I hold too dear. The two are constant reminders of the virtue in good listening. Being with them is like peaking into a pinnacle of history that may soon go extinct.
What divides Nandi Hill and the city is the Bangalore International Airport, and maybe some llamas and hilly pastures. But most importantly, the divider is a town called Devanahalli with a hill (I'll check the name) that boasts more history than most. Indian rebels would carry the British P.O.W.'s up this hill, and push them off, watching their cheeks slice against dripping stone slabs until their features blurred and, alas, they had expired. Now it's where farmers go when their land is lost and they can't fathom surviving in the slums--where forbidden lovers seek acceptance from above. (I'll have to read into this to understand the precise details).
Nandi Hill itself is a 100m high mountain. It's a sacrificial stadium, a lover's retreat and a pocketed zoo with a serene view of surrounding towns and cities.
Ram took me into the Hindu temple. We left our shoes at the stone pillar and proceeded through Alice's doors and locked ourselves in a maze. That is, until I found a door I wanted a picture in front of, and what popped out was a Hindu priest. He invited us into his home.
This priest lives on sight, complete with modern appliances including a T.V., a reverse osmosis water purifier, washing machine and a western toilet. But enough of all that, he laid down a mat and welcomed us with coffee. Then he brought us to the temple, where I drank holy water and was repeatedly blessed. It was 12 P.M. and I had been blessed four times that day, after yoga and this incident.
Then he let me take a picture with Lord Shiva. Hmmmm.
Lunchtime rolled around and I was guiltily pressured into a whiskey. It was "impolite" to watch two men drink without having one myself. They were both talking over each other, flicking their hands--suggesting the unimportance of the hour-- and before I could finish the "f" in fine the waiter was at the table scribbling "Johnny Walker black label" on his notepad.
The food was splendid, one of the best meals I've had. It even beats the lunch in Kerala, and I think I'm finally discovering the food I prefer. The lunch spot was on the hill overlooking all below, and for a moment I shut my eyes and pretended to be a British imperialist. I opened my eyes and looked down on my countryside, planning out effective trade routes.
"This is how the British were so successful," I thought. Not only did they have vision that got them to the top of the Indian hills, but on those hills they had a physical blueprint to lay their vision to work. It must be instinctual why made persons love living on hills. I guess I already knew that, but I had never actually stood on a hill and played pretend in the same place power-hungry men mapped out reality.
************************
On a personal note, since I was 15 I've been writing on scrap pieces of paper different strings of words to describe that the only legacy we can leave this world with is a story, so we might as well spend our lives creating one. I finally feel that I'm really, really creating one. My own. And most importantly... we need life-long friends and descendants to tell them to...
Work....
Phone messages are sent to my extension, leaving personal mail for the "manager" and "health columnist". I now deal with editorial content. I write like mad. I live like mad. I'm pretty sure I'm on the brink of going mad, yet I have never felt so sane.
Wine story and pictures later.
Monday, July 25, 2011
Month in Review
I'm less than a week shy of reaching the one month mark here in Bangalore, and by god, it's time to reflect. It's been a month without raw vegetables, caprese, strawberries, a decent coffee or a quiet night's sleep. A month without an IPA, a live instrument or a store owner without a press agent.
BUT. A month with riding on the back of motorbikes through oncoming traffic, watching cows tear through garbage on every street while men piss in ditches next to them (It's that great of a sight). A month of sitting on my rooftop terrace and watching the busy streets that fall below. A month of eating ruthlessly with my hands and playing snake on my prepaid Nokia and never knowing what the next minute will entail. A month straight of bursting out in laughter without a source, accompanied by periodic pauses in disbelief. And a month of being hold that "Tara" means "star" in Hindi.
Simply put, this trip has been nothing I could have imagined and has by far exceeded any expectations I may have had. Stocked full with conversations, spontaneity, challenges and the rewards that follow.
I walked into work each Monday refreshed and ready to start the week, zero of five articles completed. By the time Saturday rolls around, I discern that a week's worth of work and discovery feels like a year. Time doesn't stand still here, it moves at light speed and so does my conscience. The passing of time is proportionate and never feels consequential.
I feel different here. For the first time in my life, I feel in the moment. I'm not looking to my past for answers because I now realize I've already found them, dealt with them, and overcome them. For the first time, I feel like a young adult with a child-like heart.
Sometimes after a week-long whirlwind I wish I could fly home for four hours, recuperate, and come back. Sometimes I feel like I'm standing in the middle of an intersection, arms raised and neck cocked back while cars whisk by and lights stream lime greens, blues, reds and yellows. I try to be a fucking rock under rolling rapids, but sometimes I just want to let myself tumble and not give a damn. That's the trial of living in the city.
This city is busy. It takes 30 minutes to travel seven kilometers- on a good day. But with the overload of people comes an overload of fun. Coffee shops lace the streets and hookah smoke is often powerful enough in its concentration to mask the smell rising up from the sewage streams flowing through each neighborhood.
*My friend ET once told me we've been trained to think our fecal matter smells bad as a defense from eating it. I suggest everyone just hop a plane to India and stare at the sewage for a few seconds, watch the pipes spraying shit and piss while stray dogs bark underneath, and I swear no one will want to eat their own poop ever again.
Development is on every corner. I feel like I'm living in an adaptation of post- WWII in America. Budding young females and males are desperately trying to grab a hold of the "Indian dream". It's been over 60 years since British Imperialists fled and now rampant, unsteady growth still rages on. I try and remind friends that this unsteady growth is brewing up dire consequences that will become evident over the next couple of decades (and already have). I will dedicate a post to this subject very soon.
My home stay could be a reality t.v. show. It would be a dark comedy, raising a vast array of emotional responses. There are three of us staying with Ammini and Ramgopal. Sunaina from Punjab, Hemant from Rajasthan and me, from America. There's drama like you wouldn't believe, drawn from emotional and logistical closeness and physical proximity. We all rely on one another. I try and stay respectful, especially because the amount of people has skyrocketed the electricity/water bill. So I've recently reduced my showers to one bucket per day-- about 5 gallons (You'd be amazed, Mom!). There is hardly time to be alone. Luckily, I know this is temporary and I try to spend as much time as possible in the company of others.
Goals for the next month:
Ride a bike through the city
Eat more street food
Travel to Mumbai
Travel to Punjab... force Sunaina to show me the Pakistan border.
As far as work.......
Work is work. It gets done, it gets done well and it's left at the office. More on that later as well...
BUT. A month with riding on the back of motorbikes through oncoming traffic, watching cows tear through garbage on every street while men piss in ditches next to them (It's that great of a sight). A month of sitting on my rooftop terrace and watching the busy streets that fall below. A month of eating ruthlessly with my hands and playing snake on my prepaid Nokia and never knowing what the next minute will entail. A month straight of bursting out in laughter without a source, accompanied by periodic pauses in disbelief. And a month of being hold that "Tara" means "star" in Hindi.
Simply put, this trip has been nothing I could have imagined and has by far exceeded any expectations I may have had. Stocked full with conversations, spontaneity, challenges and the rewards that follow.
I walked into work each Monday refreshed and ready to start the week, zero of five articles completed. By the time Saturday rolls around, I discern that a week's worth of work and discovery feels like a year. Time doesn't stand still here, it moves at light speed and so does my conscience. The passing of time is proportionate and never feels consequential.
I feel different here. For the first time in my life, I feel in the moment. I'm not looking to my past for answers because I now realize I've already found them, dealt with them, and overcome them. For the first time, I feel like a young adult with a child-like heart.
Sometimes after a week-long whirlwind I wish I could fly home for four hours, recuperate, and come back. Sometimes I feel like I'm standing in the middle of an intersection, arms raised and neck cocked back while cars whisk by and lights stream lime greens, blues, reds and yellows. I try to be a fucking rock under rolling rapids, but sometimes I just want to let myself tumble and not give a damn. That's the trial of living in the city.
This city is busy. It takes 30 minutes to travel seven kilometers- on a good day. But with the overload of people comes an overload of fun. Coffee shops lace the streets and hookah smoke is often powerful enough in its concentration to mask the smell rising up from the sewage streams flowing through each neighborhood.
*My friend ET once told me we've been trained to think our fecal matter smells bad as a defense from eating it. I suggest everyone just hop a plane to India and stare at the sewage for a few seconds, watch the pipes spraying shit and piss while stray dogs bark underneath, and I swear no one will want to eat their own poop ever again.
Development is on every corner. I feel like I'm living in an adaptation of post- WWII in America. Budding young females and males are desperately trying to grab a hold of the "Indian dream". It's been over 60 years since British Imperialists fled and now rampant, unsteady growth still rages on. I try and remind friends that this unsteady growth is brewing up dire consequences that will become evident over the next couple of decades (and already have). I will dedicate a post to this subject very soon.
My home stay could be a reality t.v. show. It would be a dark comedy, raising a vast array of emotional responses. There are three of us staying with Ammini and Ramgopal. Sunaina from Punjab, Hemant from Rajasthan and me, from America. There's drama like you wouldn't believe, drawn from emotional and logistical closeness and physical proximity. We all rely on one another. I try and stay respectful, especially because the amount of people has skyrocketed the electricity/water bill. So I've recently reduced my showers to one bucket per day-- about 5 gallons (You'd be amazed, Mom!). There is hardly time to be alone. Luckily, I know this is temporary and I try to spend as much time as possible in the company of others.
Goals for the next month:
Ride a bike through the city
Eat more street food
Travel to Mumbai
Travel to Punjab... force Sunaina to show me the Pakistan border.
As far as work.......
Work is work. It gets done, it gets done well and it's left at the office. More on that later as well...
Monday, July 18, 2011
What I've Found in Writing
Every time I get a little break at work, I usually spend some of the time researching writers and analysts about writing philosophies, critique, proper prose and "what it takes..." I don't generally take much of this advice, but rather find it entertaining and I can see where I fit into this world and it puts me at ease.
Many critics say writing can be learned. It can. I truly believe anyone (most people) can become at least a decent writer if they wish. Anyone can write a book granted they either have a wild enough imagination or know a substantial amount about a given subject. Editing is the process that helps with this.
What isn't as easily learned or executed is the lifestyle around writing. Especially the lifestyle of a journalist. I've learned a few things about what it takes- personality wise- to make it. Now, I'm not quite a professional yet so I don't know exactly "what it takes", maybe that'll be a guidance book when I'm old and wrinkly and too lazy to travel or look to something new. But for me, there's a few qualities I find in myself that I try to take note of and accentuate in order to become better at the writing lifestyle.
1: I don't care how much I think my writing sucks, I will still write.
-There are so many outlets for writing. If I'm not feeling too creative, or I'm feeling overly emotional, I'll hit the journal. But I don't fore go writing, even if thoughts aren't coming clearly. This is probably the hardest task to maintain. It's so easy to think about something you'd like to write, but it's a bit more difficult to always remember to put the pen to the paper. When I have some idea, and I want to discuss it with friends back home, I use the blog. The blog has slowly become one of my favorite styles of writing. It's like a professional journal that isn't being published, but people actually read it (hopefully) so I feel more inclined to present a piece that people will want to read (Sorry non-writing friends, this one may bore the hell out of you). Being published is a different story altogether. I can't wait for a creative urge, I have to force it out of me. Sometimes it comes, sometimes it doesn't. But with more practice the good times come more frequently. It's only recently becoming more frequent that I'm somewhat satisfied with something I write on deadline to be published.
2: Writers, especially journalists, must know in equal parts how to socialize and when to be alone.
Though it's imperative to get out there, have new experiences and meet exciting people, there comes a point when too much can drain the creative energy. Writing takes internalizing situations, finding the real source of your opinion and a proper prose to write with. What the situation funny? Ironic? Sad? Is how I'm feeling now effecting this? Should I write versions that deliver different feelings?
None of these can happen when you're constantly surrounded by others. Writing takes a stable person with tendencies of going crazy. To draw from HST, find a way to stay on the edge without going over.
3: A writer must be deeply connected to themselves in order to be connected to the world around them.
For journalists, you've got to have a solid footing. If you don't, you can not perceive the world around you properly. For writers, going crazy, as long as you're connected, could spark some great imaginative pieces. Take, for instance, David Foster Wallace (RIP). He was more self-conscious than anyone about his craziness and went down as a brilliant writer. That said, there's a fine line. *Know when to be social, so it doesn't happen to you* But, both of these do coincide with the need to spend time alone. How do YOU see the world, apart from how your friends, family and colleagues see it? And how have you found in yourself that this is how you want to see? For writers who wish to be journalists simultaneously, it's important to differentiate between these two.
4: Take a leap of faith in life
To have that voice, writers need to be interesting. Sitting in front of a computer all day tends to extract all the will and energy of a writer. So don't be lazy. Don't only go out at night and meet people, but accept wild plans made by others or make them yourself. Try every week to witness something you've never laid your eyes upon before. Conversations are great for future dialogues, new scenery is great for description, experience grows wisdom. The world is an empty notebook waiting to be filled.
5: Writers need vigilance
Find a way that suits you to make it happen.
!!!!!!!!!I LOVE WRITING!!!!!!!!!
Many critics say writing can be learned. It can. I truly believe anyone (most people) can become at least a decent writer if they wish. Anyone can write a book granted they either have a wild enough imagination or know a substantial amount about a given subject. Editing is the process that helps with this.
What isn't as easily learned or executed is the lifestyle around writing. Especially the lifestyle of a journalist. I've learned a few things about what it takes- personality wise- to make it. Now, I'm not quite a professional yet so I don't know exactly "what it takes", maybe that'll be a guidance book when I'm old and wrinkly and too lazy to travel or look to something new. But for me, there's a few qualities I find in myself that I try to take note of and accentuate in order to become better at the writing lifestyle.
1: I don't care how much I think my writing sucks, I will still write.
-There are so many outlets for writing. If I'm not feeling too creative, or I'm feeling overly emotional, I'll hit the journal. But I don't fore go writing, even if thoughts aren't coming clearly. This is probably the hardest task to maintain. It's so easy to think about something you'd like to write, but it's a bit more difficult to always remember to put the pen to the paper. When I have some idea, and I want to discuss it with friends back home, I use the blog. The blog has slowly become one of my favorite styles of writing. It's like a professional journal that isn't being published, but people actually read it (hopefully) so I feel more inclined to present a piece that people will want to read (Sorry non-writing friends, this one may bore the hell out of you). Being published is a different story altogether. I can't wait for a creative urge, I have to force it out of me. Sometimes it comes, sometimes it doesn't. But with more practice the good times come more frequently. It's only recently becoming more frequent that I'm somewhat satisfied with something I write on deadline to be published.
2: Writers, especially journalists, must know in equal parts how to socialize and when to be alone.
Though it's imperative to get out there, have new experiences and meet exciting people, there comes a point when too much can drain the creative energy. Writing takes internalizing situations, finding the real source of your opinion and a proper prose to write with. What the situation funny? Ironic? Sad? Is how I'm feeling now effecting this? Should I write versions that deliver different feelings?
None of these can happen when you're constantly surrounded by others. Writing takes a stable person with tendencies of going crazy. To draw from HST, find a way to stay on the edge without going over.
3: A writer must be deeply connected to themselves in order to be connected to the world around them.
For journalists, you've got to have a solid footing. If you don't, you can not perceive the world around you properly. For writers, going crazy, as long as you're connected, could spark some great imaginative pieces. Take, for instance, David Foster Wallace (RIP). He was more self-conscious than anyone about his craziness and went down as a brilliant writer. That said, there's a fine line. *Know when to be social, so it doesn't happen to you* But, both of these do coincide with the need to spend time alone. How do YOU see the world, apart from how your friends, family and colleagues see it? And how have you found in yourself that this is how you want to see? For writers who wish to be journalists simultaneously, it's important to differentiate between these two.
4: Take a leap of faith in life
To have that voice, writers need to be interesting. Sitting in front of a computer all day tends to extract all the will and energy of a writer. So don't be lazy. Don't only go out at night and meet people, but accept wild plans made by others or make them yourself. Try every week to witness something you've never laid your eyes upon before. Conversations are great for future dialogues, new scenery is great for description, experience grows wisdom. The world is an empty notebook waiting to be filled.
5: Writers need vigilance
Find a way that suits you to make it happen.
!!!!!!!!!I LOVE WRITING!!!!!!!!!
Thursday, July 14, 2011
How to Cure Boredom
It's been a bit of a dry spell here at the office for the past couple of days. There haven't been many stories a foreign writer like myself can report on. So I did what any aspiring journalist would do, and sought out stories for myself.
Today my yoga teacher was repeating to me the importance of good posture. And since I technically have a desk job at the moment, I looked around at my coworkers today and noticed that only a select few practice a proper sitting technique.
I thought about how many people in Bangalore have desk jobs. Being the IT center of India, I figured a lot. This idea would attract a large audience.
So there's the story: The Benefits of Proper Posture
The angle? Finding workers on the street who sit for long hours of their work day, and asking them if they practice good posture, and if yes, why they do it, and if they have any tips for those finding it hard to maintain the pose. I got some pretty unexpected and funny answers.
My coworker noticed me on the street talking to an auto-rickshaw driver who went off about pharmacies who want to profit off of other people's pain, and he asked if he could walk with me back to the office. Delightful chat, and it's nice to get to know coworkers not working in my direct vicinity. He is a photojournalist, and his name is Namish. I will definitely hit him up when I need some photos taken on a story I have yet to consult my editor about.
The result? A piece ready to be published, and an okay for print tomorrow. We'll see what happens after they read it...
Ever look over at your co-worker and realize they’re slouching, which causes you to rethink your seated position?
In a city where desk jobs are a constantly rising trend, it’s important for workers to be conscious of how they’re sitting. Not only is bad posture unattractive, but twisted spines can lead to chronic back pain and encourage serious breathing problems.
But enough with the consequences, what about the positive results of active engagement? Persevering will relieve neck and back pain, increase breathing and practitioners will exhibit more energy and better concentration. For those mentally exhausting desk positions, the advice is not only beneficial: It’s almost necessary.
Rickshaw driver Abdul Majid, whose job averages 13 hours of sitting time a day, is wary of pharmaceutical practises and their expenses. He hopes his proper posture will reduce his chances of ever having to participate.
“They want to profit off of pain, and I don’t want to contribute to that,” he said.
Requiring medical attention for back pain is a last resort, and sitting right is the ideal preventative measure.
“I know my back should be in proper position. And today I’ve experienced no back problems,” said Vijay Yadav, worker at LUNDbeck India, who sits on average six hours a work session.
Consciously maintaining a healthy sitting position can cause an annoyance in its dawning stages, but this is in part due to poorly developed back muscles, which will strengthen if given enough time and effort.
It is a myth that good posture means having a perfectly straight spine. In trying to do this, it could be straining the back more than helping it. Instead, make sure the bottom curve and top curve on the back are forming reversible C’s, creating an S-shape.
Many workers falsely believe that an exercising routine alone will keep their limbs nimble, reducing the need to stay physically conscious in their chairs.
“I do a lot of exercise, but I have observed that sitting continuously can still be problematic,” a banker, who prefers to remain anonymous, commented on his nine hour work day. “To keep sitting upright, I take a loop around my cabin and roll my shoulders and neck. It works.”
He also advises doing yoga to nurture the proper sitting pose. Sitting right is a holistic practice.
“I tell you, it’s a job requirement to sit right,” he said.
And a few more (serious) stories to pitch if this dry spell is ever to occur again...
Today my yoga teacher was repeating to me the importance of good posture. And since I technically have a desk job at the moment, I looked around at my coworkers today and noticed that only a select few practice a proper sitting technique.
I thought about how many people in Bangalore have desk jobs. Being the IT center of India, I figured a lot. This idea would attract a large audience.
So there's the story: The Benefits of Proper Posture
The angle? Finding workers on the street who sit for long hours of their work day, and asking them if they practice good posture, and if yes, why they do it, and if they have any tips for those finding it hard to maintain the pose. I got some pretty unexpected and funny answers.
My coworker noticed me on the street talking to an auto-rickshaw driver who went off about pharmacies who want to profit off of other people's pain, and he asked if he could walk with me back to the office. Delightful chat, and it's nice to get to know coworkers not working in my direct vicinity. He is a photojournalist, and his name is Namish. I will definitely hit him up when I need some photos taken on a story I have yet to consult my editor about.
The result? A piece ready to be published, and an okay for print tomorrow. We'll see what happens after they read it...
Ever look over at your co-worker and realize they’re slouching, which causes you to rethink your seated position?
In a city where desk jobs are a constantly rising trend, it’s important for workers to be conscious of how they’re sitting. Not only is bad posture unattractive, but twisted spines can lead to chronic back pain and encourage serious breathing problems.
But enough with the consequences, what about the positive results of active engagement? Persevering will relieve neck and back pain, increase breathing and practitioners will exhibit more energy and better concentration. For those mentally exhausting desk positions, the advice is not only beneficial: It’s almost necessary.
Rickshaw driver Abdul Majid, whose job averages 13 hours of sitting time a day, is wary of pharmaceutical practises and their expenses. He hopes his proper posture will reduce his chances of ever having to participate.
“They want to profit off of pain, and I don’t want to contribute to that,” he said.
Requiring medical attention for back pain is a last resort, and sitting right is the ideal preventative measure.
“I know my back should be in proper position. And today I’ve experienced no back problems,” said Vijay Yadav, worker at LUNDbeck India, who sits on average six hours a work session.
Consciously maintaining a healthy sitting position can cause an annoyance in its dawning stages, but this is in part due to poorly developed back muscles, which will strengthen if given enough time and effort.
It is a myth that good posture means having a perfectly straight spine. In trying to do this, it could be straining the back more than helping it. Instead, make sure the bottom curve and top curve on the back are forming reversible C’s, creating an S-shape.
Many workers falsely believe that an exercising routine alone will keep their limbs nimble, reducing the need to stay physically conscious in their chairs.
“I do a lot of exercise, but I have observed that sitting continuously can still be problematic,” a banker, who prefers to remain anonymous, commented on his nine hour work day. “To keep sitting upright, I take a loop around my cabin and roll my shoulders and neck. It works.”
He also advises doing yoga to nurture the proper sitting pose. Sitting right is a holistic practice.
“I tell you, it’s a job requirement to sit right,” he said.
And a few more (serious) stories to pitch if this dry spell is ever to occur again...
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
Contemplating the Afterlife
In India, more people die due to road incidents than anywhere in the world. A more astonishing statistic: 13 people every hour die in road accidents. And, being India, we know there's more than what's being reported. The most common deaths occur in bus accidents, which kill civilians en mass.
So riding in rickshaws, on motorbikes and in buses can be an exhilarating as well as terrifying experience.
Below is an example of my interior experience of riding an overnight bus:
I did not contemplate the afterlife until the bus would tip this way and that at every slight turn, hitting potholes every few seconds. I swore at one point I could feel the bus relying on only the left wheels. It was probably my imagination- my fear grabbing onto the best of me, but nevertheless it sparked an unusual interior dialogue.
Instead of sleeping, the ride started a whole whirlwind of topics in my head. "Maybe this is why so many people turn to religion because they're in the face of death all day and they need a way to accept their fatal future oh my god the bus is turning will it flip over I wonder what would happen if I were the only to survive a toppling bus tragedy would I be like Bruce Willis in Unbreakable, would my mind create the illusion that I was some sort of superhero I wonder how long the news of my death would take to travel home, is this something I'll think about the entire time I'm here? Well it won't stop me from leaving the house and traveling on buses so I might as well get over it but it's fun to contemplate things such as this so maybe that's why I actually NEED to take buses and if you think about it there are 1.3 billion people in India and that's only according to the census and I bet there's at least 100 million more not registered so in actuality not that many people die per capita, fuck that, hearing about at least one death a day is still a shitload of people".... Phew. Sleep.
Since that bus ride, the theme of death has been staring me in the face. Upon returning home my host mom informed me of a death of a friend. Everyday there's an article on the front page of The Hindu talking about a tragic accidental death, from being electrocuted by a wire near the bus stop to being crushed between two buses while crossing the street.
I can't stop my mind from stumbling on the topic, but I can change how I react to these thoughts. Every morning when I dread stepping onto the dusty floor, putting on my sports bra and heading down the street to pray and practice some yoga poses I contemplate the benefits of doing so.
In America I would think about yoga in terms of it helping me succeed. It would give me enough energy to make it through a 14 hour day. It would rid me of guilt that I haven't exercised in weeks and allow me to focus on other matters. It would be a midday break from the bustle of campus. Even after all those beneficial reasons would wash through my head, I still sometimes would not go to yoga class. "Well I work 14 hours a day, why not cut that down to 13 and chill in the park, or grab a coffee? That'll work just as well." Yoga was a task.
Here, I think, if I go to yoga today, it will increase my changes of survival. I will be quicker to respond to tentative dangers on the street. I will notice and avoid the stray power lines lying on the ground more easily. I will be more strategic in crossing the what-would-be six lane street... if cars stayed restricted to a lane.I will be more assertive to toward my auto rickshaw driver and arrive to work on time without being scammed of my money. The rice will digest more easily, and I won't feel sick while at work. These reasons hold much more weight. I get my ass up, and I go.Yoga is an aid.
When we take action as a response to the need to survive, more can be done. Laziness takes a nap.
In situations I can't control, mainly transportation, I have begun to learn to let my thoughts ride on through. I wish them away, watching them wither in their ascension. Possibly one of the most humbling experiences is routinely realizing your own mortality.
**************************************************
Today on the way to work a woman and her son approached my auto-rickshaw begging for money. I looked over and shook my head. That is what we're taught to do. Then I looked over at her son. He was burned from head to toe with one eye gouged out and scars indenting the top of his skull. He had his hand out, and before fully registering the image I pictured his hand crumbling into ash and forming a pile on the street, and for lack of a more original reaction, a shiver ran down my spine. I looked down and saw goosebumps--caught my breath. When I looked back up, the two were being refused at the next car.
The whole scene made me wonder. Am I more afraid to die, or afraid to suffer?
Apologies for the dark post...
So riding in rickshaws, on motorbikes and in buses can be an exhilarating as well as terrifying experience.
Below is an example of my interior experience of riding an overnight bus:
I did not contemplate the afterlife until the bus would tip this way and that at every slight turn, hitting potholes every few seconds. I swore at one point I could feel the bus relying on only the left wheels. It was probably my imagination- my fear grabbing onto the best of me, but nevertheless it sparked an unusual interior dialogue.
Instead of sleeping, the ride started a whole whirlwind of topics in my head. "Maybe this is why so many people turn to religion because they're in the face of death all day and they need a way to accept their fatal future oh my god the bus is turning will it flip over I wonder what would happen if I were the only to survive a toppling bus tragedy would I be like Bruce Willis in Unbreakable, would my mind create the illusion that I was some sort of superhero I wonder how long the news of my death would take to travel home, is this something I'll think about the entire time I'm here? Well it won't stop me from leaving the house and traveling on buses so I might as well get over it but it's fun to contemplate things such as this so maybe that's why I actually NEED to take buses and if you think about it there are 1.3 billion people in India and that's only according to the census and I bet there's at least 100 million more not registered so in actuality not that many people die per capita, fuck that, hearing about at least one death a day is still a shitload of people".... Phew. Sleep.
Since that bus ride, the theme of death has been staring me in the face. Upon returning home my host mom informed me of a death of a friend. Everyday there's an article on the front page of The Hindu talking about a tragic accidental death, from being electrocuted by a wire near the bus stop to being crushed between two buses while crossing the street.
I can't stop my mind from stumbling on the topic, but I can change how I react to these thoughts. Every morning when I dread stepping onto the dusty floor, putting on my sports bra and heading down the street to pray and practice some yoga poses I contemplate the benefits of doing so.
In America I would think about yoga in terms of it helping me succeed. It would give me enough energy to make it through a 14 hour day. It would rid me of guilt that I haven't exercised in weeks and allow me to focus on other matters. It would be a midday break from the bustle of campus. Even after all those beneficial reasons would wash through my head, I still sometimes would not go to yoga class. "Well I work 14 hours a day, why not cut that down to 13 and chill in the park, or grab a coffee? That'll work just as well." Yoga was a task.
Here, I think, if I go to yoga today, it will increase my changes of survival. I will be quicker to respond to tentative dangers on the street. I will notice and avoid the stray power lines lying on the ground more easily. I will be more strategic in crossing the what-would-be six lane street... if cars stayed restricted to a lane.I will be more assertive to toward my auto rickshaw driver and arrive to work on time without being scammed of my money. The rice will digest more easily, and I won't feel sick while at work. These reasons hold much more weight. I get my ass up, and I go.Yoga is an aid.
When we take action as a response to the need to survive, more can be done. Laziness takes a nap.
In situations I can't control, mainly transportation, I have begun to learn to let my thoughts ride on through. I wish them away, watching them wither in their ascension. Possibly one of the most humbling experiences is routinely realizing your own mortality.
**************************************************
Today on the way to work a woman and her son approached my auto-rickshaw begging for money. I looked over and shook my head. That is what we're taught to do. Then I looked over at her son. He was burned from head to toe with one eye gouged out and scars indenting the top of his skull. He had his hand out, and before fully registering the image I pictured his hand crumbling into ash and forming a pile on the street, and for lack of a more original reaction, a shiver ran down my spine. I looked down and saw goosebumps--caught my breath. When I looked back up, the two were being refused at the next car.
The whole scene made me wonder. Am I more afraid to die, or afraid to suffer?
Apologies for the dark post...
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
Travel Essay to Kerala
Paddling through narrow passageways and greeting local fisherman while watching women rinse off breakfast's residue plastered on pans and plates, and children jump into the water for a quick dip, was when it hit me: This is paradise.
Kerala: God’s own Country, the Venice of the East, and one of National Geographic’s top ten paradise destinations twelve years running, I knew when I came to live in Bangalore I must visit this paradise many Americans only dream of seeing. After a 15-hour overnight bus ride, all I had to do was look up at the place where clouds puff perfectly and palm trees fall in limbo to provide salvation from the tropical sun.
The state of Kerala is the west coast of the subcontinent’s southern sliver, with its own food, culture, politics and rich traditions. Kerala has experienced Portuguese, Dutch and British rule due to its attractiveness in natural resources and easily accessible trade routes, so travelers will find the colonial remnants in many of the towns. It’s the state with the recently discovered treasure trove beneath a Hindu temple, which has become the largest in India.
This time of year is considered the off-season, but apart from the colossal waves of the Arabian Sea crashing into shore, the weather was watching out for us: We found ourselves to be lucky in the monsoon season.
Our deep-water boat trip treated us no differently. While roaming through the canals we gazed at the beautiful houses and their inhabitants, which were visual obstacles for seeing the rice fields that lay out behind them.
The captain of our canoe was a villager named Anil who took us through the winding canals before stopping at his three-room brick home for lunch- a home he built for his family with his own hands.
"Small fish!" Anil’s son yelled as he repeatedly ran through the yard to dump the mortal creatures into a bucket. Stuck in wonder, the boy would proceed to squeeze them between his thumb and index finger before returning the carcasses to the water.
These small fish were of the same family that landed on our lunch plates. I watched their vertebrae enter my mouth, paying close attention to each crunch.
Inside, Anil sat beside the bed, hands folded in his lap, while my friend and I devoured the traditional Kerala meal in the traditional manner: Complete with fresh seafood and fried bananas, we used only our hands.
“Full tummy,” Anil would say while plopping more heaps of food on the plate.
His wife stood in the doorway as well, checking in frequently to see if we enjoyed the food she prepared. And we did. It was one of the tastiest meals I’ve had in India.
After a few minutes of relaxation with the family we got back inside the canoe for the last leg of our ride back to the ferry. But as with any widely heard-of tourist destination, paradise can become threatened. The peace was interjected at points with oversized motors of houseboats--another tourist mode of transportation--ripping waves under our lofty canoe, pushing us toward the shore.
These canals are the source of running water for the majority of villagers, and while some are profiting from guiding tours, their livelihoods are becoming threatened. There have been efforts made by the locals to make the tourism more eco-friendly, and I hope other travelers embrace these options.
On the bus back to Bangalore, mosquito ridden and swollen from the heat, I knew this experience would stay in positive retrospect for years to come. And I would like others to experience what I have, with the diverse ecosystem and happy villagers in tact.
Monday, July 11, 2011
Expatriates
Last week I was sent on an assignment to write a review of the Bangalore Expatriate Club meeting. Well, it was more of a gathering over fine drinks and western food than a "meeting." Having no idea what to expect, I stepped inside what is probably the most glamorous hotel I have ever seen. While I was riding the elevator with the bell-boy all I wished was that I could point out the irony that the parking lot next door was home to some of the poorest in Bangalore, but I thought that would be inappropriate. Instead, I silently wished someone was with me to share the moment. So I stepped off and immediately opened my journal.
Since I was unaware of the distance from my office, I left early and found myself to be the first person at the event. The bartender was preparing the drinks and poured me a glass of scotch as I sat in an overly decorated ballroom, the bow on the back of my seat causing a disturbance to my comfort.
Then, Ema Trinidad, overly excited, media savvy "spa treatment guru" and club's coordinator walked briskly inside the room, flailing her arms, and caught me out of the corner of her filipino eyes.
"OMGG TARAA! Here, get up, let's grab you a name tag so you can meet our guests more easily!" She said while pinching my arms and motioning me to the front desk with her perfectly painted pink nails. I maintained a fake smile, one that anyone who paused and stood outside of themselves for a split second would realize in an instant.
"What had I gotten myself into...?" I wondered.
As members of the club poured in, Ema would introduce me as "The foreign journalist writing a story on the event." And conclude with a "that means YOU!" followed by a rough pat on the back. Conversation spawned from this statement multiple times throughout the evening, and we would compete with Akon and R. Kelly blaring through the speakers, shaking the crystal chandeliers overhead.
For those who don't know, an expatriate is someone residing temporarily or permanently in a foreign country, usually professionals sent abroad by their companies.
So there I found myself, walking through a cloud of four-inch stilettos in my traveler's flip-flops trying to maintain delightful conversation and picking up the purposes of stay of each member. Since I couldn't really relate to business execs on proper management in the telecom sector, I would point out the menthols in their pen-pockets, ask about their living circumstances provided by the company and regale them with tales of my own. I clearly stood out in the crowd, and it was my job- my profession- to make that stance a positive one.
Then Ema came on the loud speaker, and thought it appropriate to introduce important attendees. Japan claimed they could make the best noodles in all of India--clearly they had already sipped on a few drinks. The crowd giggled, clapping their hands as best they could with one hand on their own glass.
Then she introduced me, and told me to give a full-circle wave. A spotlight that defeated my "fly on the wall" anticipations.
So for dinner I sat with a consulate member of Switzerland and told him the story of my difficulties attaining a visa to India. Apparently, he would have rather talked to me than the psychologist to his left. A woman he arrived with looked over and said, "Oh honey, you don't need to worry about extending your Visa here."
Not long after dinner was finished, Ema came and whispered in my ear.
"You're invited to the exclusive after-party, I've hired a driver to take you home."
I took the invite, and rode in the car, an Irish man belting the national anthem in the seat behind me, to a multi-million dollar mansion owned by a coffee plantation owner, who looked like he awoke from slumber to accept us in. Ema clearly has a way with words.
Ema and the only other female riding the exclusive train took me by the elbows and sat me down poolside, wondering about my life. Thankfully their attentions only spanned the course of a minute and I was able to escape and pour myself another glass of whiskey.
I sat by the bar, hoping to find a bit of intelligent conversation, steering clear of the obvious drunks who were making absolutely no sense in their storytelling. I found an Indian man who genuinely wished to protect me from the Europeans who were poking at my neck tattoo, lifting my feet to catch a better glimpse at the compass. I don't think I gave off the impression of feeling unsafe, just rather annoyed.
So I sat with the Indian man and explained how I'd become my own best friend in recent years, a thought that surfaced with more clarity that evening. He nodded in understanding agreement, and told me I was well on my way to finding the key to happiness. I don't know if I believe that, but at that point in time I thought to myself, finally, a conversation stripped of technical dialogue and a boasting of success.
As the party waned, and the women drove off with their hubbies-of-the-night, I rode home with my driver in silence through the slums bordering my quaint neighborhood. I wondered how an expatriate club, mainly of men, could rest so easily among all of this. How could their meetings only consist of fine drinks and finding their ways to parties? Why aren't they using this time to collaborate on ways in which their expertise could help curb the shortcomings of the city and country where they have been sent?
It quickly dawned on me that it's because they spend too many hours of the day dictating native Indians without providing to them the skills necessary to move up in the field in which they're working. And they need a release from that. They need to be reminded why they left their wives and children at home; to accept their recent divorce. They need fine dining and flirting with rich, ripe women: They need to be reminded of the power they hold in the world.
"It's the nature of the world, it's just how it works," my driver said.
I refuse to rest at peace with that statement.
Since I was unaware of the distance from my office, I left early and found myself to be the first person at the event. The bartender was preparing the drinks and poured me a glass of scotch as I sat in an overly decorated ballroom, the bow on the back of my seat causing a disturbance to my comfort.
Then, Ema Trinidad, overly excited, media savvy "spa treatment guru" and club's coordinator walked briskly inside the room, flailing her arms, and caught me out of the corner of her filipino eyes.
"OMGG TARAA! Here, get up, let's grab you a name tag so you can meet our guests more easily!" She said while pinching my arms and motioning me to the front desk with her perfectly painted pink nails. I maintained a fake smile, one that anyone who paused and stood outside of themselves for a split second would realize in an instant.
"What had I gotten myself into...?" I wondered.
As members of the club poured in, Ema would introduce me as "The foreign journalist writing a story on the event." And conclude with a "that means YOU!" followed by a rough pat on the back. Conversation spawned from this statement multiple times throughout the evening, and we would compete with Akon and R. Kelly blaring through the speakers, shaking the crystal chandeliers overhead.
For those who don't know, an expatriate is someone residing temporarily or permanently in a foreign country, usually professionals sent abroad by their companies.
So there I found myself, walking through a cloud of four-inch stilettos in my traveler's flip-flops trying to maintain delightful conversation and picking up the purposes of stay of each member. Since I couldn't really relate to business execs on proper management in the telecom sector, I would point out the menthols in their pen-pockets, ask about their living circumstances provided by the company and regale them with tales of my own. I clearly stood out in the crowd, and it was my job- my profession- to make that stance a positive one.
Then Ema came on the loud speaker, and thought it appropriate to introduce important attendees. Japan claimed they could make the best noodles in all of India--clearly they had already sipped on a few drinks. The crowd giggled, clapping their hands as best they could with one hand on their own glass.
Then she introduced me, and told me to give a full-circle wave. A spotlight that defeated my "fly on the wall" anticipations.
So for dinner I sat with a consulate member of Switzerland and told him the story of my difficulties attaining a visa to India. Apparently, he would have rather talked to me than the psychologist to his left. A woman he arrived with looked over and said, "Oh honey, you don't need to worry about extending your Visa here."
Not long after dinner was finished, Ema came and whispered in my ear.
"You're invited to the exclusive after-party, I've hired a driver to take you home."
I took the invite, and rode in the car, an Irish man belting the national anthem in the seat behind me, to a multi-million dollar mansion owned by a coffee plantation owner, who looked like he awoke from slumber to accept us in. Ema clearly has a way with words.
Ema and the only other female riding the exclusive train took me by the elbows and sat me down poolside, wondering about my life. Thankfully their attentions only spanned the course of a minute and I was able to escape and pour myself another glass of whiskey.
I sat by the bar, hoping to find a bit of intelligent conversation, steering clear of the obvious drunks who were making absolutely no sense in their storytelling. I found an Indian man who genuinely wished to protect me from the Europeans who were poking at my neck tattoo, lifting my feet to catch a better glimpse at the compass. I don't think I gave off the impression of feeling unsafe, just rather annoyed.
So I sat with the Indian man and explained how I'd become my own best friend in recent years, a thought that surfaced with more clarity that evening. He nodded in understanding agreement, and told me I was well on my way to finding the key to happiness. I don't know if I believe that, but at that point in time I thought to myself, finally, a conversation stripped of technical dialogue and a boasting of success.
As the party waned, and the women drove off with their hubbies-of-the-night, I rode home with my driver in silence through the slums bordering my quaint neighborhood. I wondered how an expatriate club, mainly of men, could rest so easily among all of this. How could their meetings only consist of fine drinks and finding their ways to parties? Why aren't they using this time to collaborate on ways in which their expertise could help curb the shortcomings of the city and country where they have been sent?
It quickly dawned on me that it's because they spend too many hours of the day dictating native Indians without providing to them the skills necessary to move up in the field in which they're working. And they need a release from that. They need to be reminded why they left their wives and children at home; to accept their recent divorce. They need fine dining and flirting with rich, ripe women: They need to be reminded of the power they hold in the world.
"It's the nature of the world, it's just how it works," my driver said.
I refuse to rest at peace with that statement.
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
A Whole New World
"Most journalists are restless voyeurs who see the warts on the world, the imperfections in people and places. Gloom is their game, the spectacle their passion, normality their nemesis." -Gay Talese
There is nothing like writing for a professional media outlet. When arriving on scene, I am most often greeted with open arms and led to a strong source without hesitation; contrary to my preconceived notion that most people hate journalists. That said, the real challenge lies in those stories harder to report, and that's when one's journalistic integrity finds form. I have yet to experience that here, and probably won't during this stay, but I've dipped my feet in the water. Granted this trip flows through the same path it poured into, I can't imagine that goal falling far from site.
The conflict with this paper I can already sense is the lack of professionalism in design and editorial decision making.The paper reflects the city: Exceptionally busy and difficult to navigate. Opening a page is like visiting Tuesday Morning or some other low-end bargain shop. There may be a treasure if you take on the hunt, but in the media world an alternative option is too readily accessible. Advertisements are misaligned with one another, and images are off center and in disproportion to the story. Compromising space, paragraphs are pushed together, even putting quotes by two sources in the same one (that really bugs me). America--please recognize convenience.
I have written five articles so far in three days of work. One has been published, the other four will be coming in the next couple of days. So far I've covered topics from healthy eating and wise commercial consumerism to a screenplay seminar preview and an art exhibition. A couple of hours ago, I attended a press event at Harley Davidson. The first female woman in India to buy a high-end bike from the company, the community was impressed. The chick was pretty bad-ass, though only one tattoo of a buddhist scripture. I had less than an hour to write the story, so hopefully it was adequate enough for print. Modernity issues make up the most obvious theme here, but I will spare you of a rant. In this post at least. I will try and post the stories as they pop-up on the internet.
My photographer is a young freelancer whom I actually feel safe riding with (for the most part). He's been on a motorbike for 10+ years, since he was 12, and can weave through oncoming traffic with ease. And he uses a Nikon, which is an added plus. The first couple of times I was a bit tense--clenching my jaw and fearing for my life--but after riding with others I've found his expertise to be incomparable. Though I must admit, we hit an auto-rickshaw on the way back to the office today.
Since I've been here I've surprisingly not faced any gender discrimination, but my coworkers warn me it's only a matter of time. They all think I'm crazy for deciding to work here. "But America's so nice, and, in ORDER!" They say. But I'm loving the chaos of the densely populated city. The noise gets a bit overwhelming at times, especially when dog fights are competing with early morning salats at the nearby Mosque (I live in a predominantly Sunni neighborhood). All the noise problem is doing is simply spoon feeding me the challenge of ignoring the undesirable. The early morning yoga routine helps... I'll save the personal details for e-mails and journal entries.
There is nothing like writing for a professional media outlet. When arriving on scene, I am most often greeted with open arms and led to a strong source without hesitation; contrary to my preconceived notion that most people hate journalists. That said, the real challenge lies in those stories harder to report, and that's when one's journalistic integrity finds form. I have yet to experience that here, and probably won't during this stay, but I've dipped my feet in the water. Granted this trip flows through the same path it poured into, I can't imagine that goal falling far from site.
The conflict with this paper I can already sense is the lack of professionalism in design and editorial decision making.The paper reflects the city: Exceptionally busy and difficult to navigate. Opening a page is like visiting Tuesday Morning or some other low-end bargain shop. There may be a treasure if you take on the hunt, but in the media world an alternative option is too readily accessible. Advertisements are misaligned with one another, and images are off center and in disproportion to the story. Compromising space, paragraphs are pushed together, even putting quotes by two sources in the same one (that really bugs me). America--please recognize convenience.
I have written five articles so far in three days of work. One has been published, the other four will be coming in the next couple of days. So far I've covered topics from healthy eating and wise commercial consumerism to a screenplay seminar preview and an art exhibition. A couple of hours ago, I attended a press event at Harley Davidson. The first female woman in India to buy a high-end bike from the company, the community was impressed. The chick was pretty bad-ass, though only one tattoo of a buddhist scripture. I had less than an hour to write the story, so hopefully it was adequate enough for print. Modernity issues make up the most obvious theme here, but I will spare you of a rant. In this post at least. I will try and post the stories as they pop-up on the internet.
My photographer is a young freelancer whom I actually feel safe riding with (for the most part). He's been on a motorbike for 10+ years, since he was 12, and can weave through oncoming traffic with ease. And he uses a Nikon, which is an added plus. The first couple of times I was a bit tense--clenching my jaw and fearing for my life--but after riding with others I've found his expertise to be incomparable. Though I must admit, we hit an auto-rickshaw on the way back to the office today.
Since I've been here I've surprisingly not faced any gender discrimination, but my coworkers warn me it's only a matter of time. They all think I'm crazy for deciding to work here. "But America's so nice, and, in ORDER!" They say. But I'm loving the chaos of the densely populated city. The noise gets a bit overwhelming at times, especially when dog fights are competing with early morning salats at the nearby Mosque (I live in a predominantly Sunni neighborhood). All the noise problem is doing is simply spoon feeding me the challenge of ignoring the undesirable. The early morning yoga routine helps... I'll save the personal details for e-mails and journal entries.
Kerala trip
Leaving the office to cover an event, but here is a nice article. I will be on the overnight train from Bangalore, Karnataka to Cochi, Kerala, this Thursday. I will be publishing an article based on the travel experience, which I will post. More articles to post in the next couple of days. Being a journalist is busy busy!
Riding the Rails in India
Also read this one.
Pakistan's Spies Tied to Slaying of a Journalist
Riding the Rails in India
Also read this one.
Pakistan's Spies Tied to Slaying of a Journalist
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
Anticipation
In just a week from today, I'll finally be boarding the plane as an economy passenger and flying to India. A week from yesterday, I graduated college with a journalism degree. For the first two months I will be stationed in Bangaluru, a city in the southern region, which cultural critics consider the Silicon Valley of India. There I will be pursuing a lifestyle this degree is intended to award me with-- the life of a newspaper reporter. After those 320 hours worth of work fly by, I'll be acting solely on free will.
I've been told this stage of life can be, at worst, stressful and nerve wracking; exciting and free at best. To maximize the security of my freedom, I hope to extend this ticket abroad and dig my hands in different trades. I figure the 20s are for pure experience-- for finding what you like and what you could live without, in order to resist settling and slowly letting the passion fade away. I hope to never lose sight of this. I'm sure I'll make some sacrifices while in pursuit, but it's all part of the adventure. I am now, what they call, "riding with the wind," and it feels oh so good.
Whatever happens, however, I am sure of one thing: I will keep writing.
This blog will not just be a chronicle of my days in India, but also about the struggles a starting-out journalist faces in an increasingly competitive workforce as well as the conflicts of being a female reporter in a foreign culture.
Please expect to stay caught-up, informed and surprised.
I've been told this stage of life can be, at worst, stressful and nerve wracking; exciting and free at best. To maximize the security of my freedom, I hope to extend this ticket abroad and dig my hands in different trades. I figure the 20s are for pure experience-- for finding what you like and what you could live without, in order to resist settling and slowly letting the passion fade away. I hope to never lose sight of this. I'm sure I'll make some sacrifices while in pursuit, but it's all part of the adventure. I am now, what they call, "riding with the wind," and it feels oh so good.
Whatever happens, however, I am sure of one thing: I will keep writing.
This blog will not just be a chronicle of my days in India, but also about the struggles a starting-out journalist faces in an increasingly competitive workforce as well as the conflicts of being a female reporter in a foreign culture.
Please expect to stay caught-up, informed and surprised.
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