White February

Not many know that the sight of snow - maybe a daily humdrum occurence for say the Lapps - can send certain others into a delirious tizzy.


Last winter, the family trudged up under the weight of snow boots, jackets and tons of expectation to Hokkaido in North Japan (across from Siberia) . A 3 hour flight from Tokyo and our inner compass swung to roughly 43 degrees N latitude. We had arrived in Hokkaido's capital Sapporo.



The landscape needed some mental adjustment at first. From the warmth of the subway train, Sapporo was like a scaled down model town with fluffs of cotton stuck with QuikFix. White was a great leveller. Everything seemed light and happy. Jaunty mounds of snow lay scattered from a recent snowfall. Houses and cars sat like frosted cup cakes. People in thick 'eskimo' layers.



I'll be darned , snow was for real.

Every February, Sapporo (Hokkaido's capital) hosts the Annual Ice Festival. A virtual tourist stampede out to watch the display of ice sculptures while trying not to slip on its icy sidewalks. The creations were mostly beautiful, some even awesome. But Sponge Bob Square Pants in ice? I drew my line there.



Next morning. Just another day, another town. As we sliced open the curtain....shweeeck.... outside our window....a scene straight out of a fairy tale. Flakes of snow silently shimmered down like white glitter.. It was raining cotton. The spire opposite our hotel looked cold and Victorian. Down below, the streets and sidewalks were fast gettiing covered in white, like powdered sugar.




Somebody had to stop this flood of similes.



It was all exactly as I had seen/read/imagined from books and movies. Pickled stereotypes were having a wild party in my head - Santa and his sleigh. Sad little match girl down to her last match stick. Jingle bells. Reindeers. They had to be the missing pieces.


Gawd, its early Feb. Christmas long gone. Got to get a hold.





I wanted to slit open my senses and cram in all the sights to last for the rest of my life. And also tell my sweaty cousins back home that it was all not a trumped up story.


In the absence of any previous experience in these matters, the family relied on pure ancient wisdom acquired from reading Archie and other literary masterpieces to make snowballs and throw at each other. So the secret was out : if unchecked, we an otherwise decorous family were capable of some pure silliness.



Many frost bitten toes,numb fingers and mugs of hot chocolate later the family huddled together. The three men in my life had had enough of my misty eyed rambling about snow and its many poetic aspects. Get more real they growled and hit some manly snow mobiling in beautiful mountainous terrain.Must admit it was a befitting climax to our snow experience.




I will carry with me forever that first magical glimpse of a snow fall, from a hotel window. Simple pleasures. Loads of pay off. Just the way I like em.


Whazzat? Frozen toes, slush and shovelling driveways? I dont have to get real do I. I like my distance from it all and thats the way I intend to keep it.


Meanwhile here I am, I think punch drunk forever on memories of 'that lovely February morning the snow fell'...

Time to renew

Its easy to get poetic when you are surrounded by an edifying chill in the air that you simply want to breath in a good lungful of and go "suzushii" (cool)!! Ah!

All that was familiar has gone.Its the Order of Change.Time to Reboot. A.k.a The Magic of Seasons.

At a time like this, its also easy to summon all non existent talents (poetry, singing, art...get it?) one posseses/doesnot posses, in praise of God's creation. How something wholly beyond our control happens with stunning regularity year after year. I may sound like a stuck record but now that I know of its existence, I refuse to budge from my stance. The 'season' story is worth a hearty song and dance anytime, anyplace.

The air has gone silent after the frantic sounds of summer; the birds and cicadas have vanished to renew and restore for the next cycle of life. Only the big fat crows remain singing their lonely guttral song.

Temparatures officially dipped in Tokyo and voila the rules of the game changed. Life and our wardrobes will be reordered.Our brazen summer steps tempered. On the bright side, my lovely morning walks toasted under the winter sun are back.Joy.

So then the change of seasons is a humbling experience. Makes you aware of a Higher Order that is really calling the shots. All you, as a speck of humanity can do is show up, on cue, in the right gear. Philosophy. See what I meant about non existent talents?

An ode to the Japanese woman

Life isnt always fair.When God dealt a hand He obviously didnt mean it to be equal.

Even at the height of a nasty Tokyo summer - when sidewalks sizzle and you are ready to plonk into the next watering hole with the indignity of a panting Retriever, looking like a charred eggplant - there is a species that still looks fresh as dew, not a clogged pore, fashion basics in place , all the above plus emitting 1000 W radiant beauty.And that is the Japanese woman.

Yes sistahs, this ethereal creature exists, in abundance, not in my husbands fantasy but in downtown Tokyo. The injustice of it all. So this creature commits no fashion faux pas, has not a single bad hair, skin or toenail day and is perfection itself in the beauty department. She walks in and out of Vogue and Vanity Fair and spills onto Tokyo's sidewalks - all of her poised, well shaped self plus 6 inches(heels).

Her favourite accesories could at times be a well coiffured poodle with pink strawberry clips, sitting (the poodle) in an elegant bag slung around an elegant arm. A powder blue convertible. An optional hunk at the wheel. And to complete the pile of injustices : all the above sometimes.

She rustles past you in a taffeta skirt , her clicking stilletos providing the beat to the catwalk.Oh so subtle pink foundation accentuating her ah so translucent cheek bones.A chignon never looked better. She could be sitting pretty in a cafe silently upping the 'beauty' quotient of the already laden atmosphere . Or she could be giggling with her beautiful friends, probably laughing at all the broken 'gaijin' (foreigner) hearts they left behind..stupid men.

Oh how I hate the species.

Watching Japan tear by..

Travelling in bullet trains - those sleek white tubes - quickly become a way of life when you live in Japan. They are the quickest way to get from A to B, without grimy nails or ruffled hair. Sitting in a 'shinkansen' (bullet train) as the train silently tears through the gut of Japan, ranks high on my list of quintessentially Japanese experiences - up with kimonos and sushi.

It all starts at the platform where digital boards flash train schedules of the three services - 'Nozomi', Hikari or Kodama. Time is gospel of course. You know you have no buffers.You get in quickly and sink into one of the soft spacious seats, cut off from all outside sounds...


..I come from a country where train travel always meant an assault of unsynchronised sounds - tea/coffee (depending on which part of the country the train is in) sellers shouting and clanking cups ,lustily bargaining coolies(porters) in red, relatives seeing off their dear ones- getting as excited about the journey as the ones departing....an unentangleable morass of sounds merrily clashing into each other. Such is the fanfare surrounding train departures (and arrivals) in India....


Here...the bullet rain leaves on the dot - silently - without warning (if you cant keep time, why live). Coldly efficient and downright unemotional. Inside, methodical announcements start - in polite Japanese from a thin Japanese female voice- rolling out oh-so-Japanese names of cities - Shin-Yokohama, Nagoya, Shin-Kobe, Osaka,Kyoto - all rattled off with exact times of arrival - you can set your watches to them. As it pulls out with an inaudible rumble, passengers around open their bentos (food in packed boxes) and gently prod their chopsticks into rice and fish breakfasts.. A business man/executive across the aisle taps softly at his sleek laptop.The train purrs on. Business is as usual.

I look out of the expansive glass window and watch Japan tear by - 'on mute' . It is beautiful. Lush never ending mountains ('yama' in Japanese) green in summer and who knows what fantastic shades in autumn and spring. But there is one more thing that never leaves you. The crushing sight of human habitation. Miles and never ending miles of box houses meshed with overhead poles and cables.Spread like a carpet in Japan's scenic countryside (what once might have been untouched). I take note. From Kobe to Tokyo ( about 3 hours) there is virtually no respite- never once - from houses, factories or pachinko (slot machines)parlours. This is the island of Honshu - one of Japans most densely populated and industrial regions.

If you think etiquette can be done away with on a train, think again. Not in Japan. Not on a shinkansen. Girls in uniforms, with the polish of air stewardesses push snack carts ( gentle voices reminding us of the "nomi-mono" - drinks -and "sandowicho" on sale). Ticket collectors quitely enter to check. All follow an invisible script - enter carriage quietly, mutter a string of words (an apology?) , full bow and on with their jobs.


Everything must have a way.

India -Japan, bhai-bhai..

So what are the best known Indian 'imports' in Japan? Curry,Vedic Maths,Rajnikant and Radha Binod Pal. An odd collection which I wouldnt have guessed in a million guesses!



Curry - 'kare' (car-eh) in Japanese. The Japanese love it and have embraced the spicy concotion with unconditional devotion. The dish has acquired its own meaning in Japanese cuisine - indigenised to the horror of purists.Much like what we Indians have done with 'Gobi Manchurian' (Indian Chinese) and paneer Pizza (Messrs Dominoes) among other unspeakable horrors. The 'kare' is thicker and sweeter and includes pork and beef. There are exclusive 'kare' eating places.Curry powder occupies supermarket shelves.And I am sure the 'kare' enjoys equal status alongside miso soup and noodles on Japanese dining tables.




Vedic maths - what?? Yes apparently word has got around that Indians are a bright lot when it comes to numbers. Atleast three cab drivers and two others in Tokyo have accosted me with this flattering trait my race allegedly posseses. Glowing references were made to our head for numbers! Cab driver: "Jozu desu" = meaning 'skilful at' (maths). Or head in general- "atama ga ii desu" = literally "good head/brains"!! Me as humbly as possible : "jozu-janai desu" = (I am) not skilful. Or to make a stronger point "zen zen dame" = not at all/not in the least! Apparently multiplying two figured numbers in our sleep is what we Indians do best! Wish.




Rajnikant - if you are a movie snoot who smirks at the 'Thalaivar's ('leader in Tamil) zero gravity leaps , you might be out-voted here in the Far East. He is the loved 'Odori Maharaja' (Dancing Maharaja) and his movies 'Muthu' and 'Chandramukhi' created waves here. So I've heard. He is probably some sorta exotic Indian manga hero in their eyes! 'Naruto-Thalaivar' anyone?




And...RadhaBinod Pal. Come again? Prime time Japanese TV it seems recently ran a programme on the life and times of Binod-da. Japanese PM Shinzo Abe visited his family on his recent trip to India and he is seen as a 'friend of Japan' . For the ignoramus - he was a jurist on the international panel that tried Japanese war criminals, post WW II and gave them a clean chit. He certainly had a soft spot for the Japanese (and vice versa).


And the more I look at the above list the curiouser and curiouser it gets!

Wanderlusters

Artist/writer Doug Coupland in his book 'Generation X describes a condition called 'terminal wanderlust'. The founder of the 'Lonely Planet' guidebooks Tony Wheeler picks up on it and feels he is probably "infected" by it.


It is a state of being, where one is disconnected to any place in the world and everywhere is home. No deep attachements to one place, happy in any place. That sounded familiar and explained a lot of things about me. But it also triggerred an avalanche of thoughts.


Am I a terminal wanderluster? I grew up in India, have lived out of it for 7 years in two countries,travelled many more and would be perfectly happy hopping around destinations, if I could.Even as a kid I was never in one place for long. I grew up in various parts of India never really anchoring in one place.


My husband on the other hand, was born, grew up, played street cricket , went to college, had his first crush - all the above in one city,one area. He moved out of the city only when he was thirty five and fully grounded. His memories have a shape - during our yearly visits to Mumbai he can see the lanes he walked and played in, meet neighbours who watched him grow and grew with him, relive all his memories 'on location'! Sites of my childhood games are scattered , lost forever, existing only as memory bytes inside my brain. In India I have no place that I can stake my claim on as truly 'my territory' (though my parents home is now 'home'). And living overseas - I was happy in Singapore, equally gung ho in Tokyo.Tomorrow Bulgaria? Why not.


If that makes me a tramp, a vagabond so be it. I like the liberating feeling of 'being happy' in any place and not having to invest too much emotional energy into one place. Always being an 'outsider' (ah the freedom) , never getting flustered at the thought of uprooting..

But is it that simple? The scale has changed today. We are moving whole countries and cultures. In these times the definition of 'roots' has become more thorny. When living abroad there have been moments when I have had to answer, even if to myself, the question of my 'roots' or 'home'. I am lucky - the answer comes easy to me.I feel firmly rooted in India no matter where I wander in the world. I carry with me that vital piece of my being that will be with me forever. Ergo I am a 'wanderlsuter' with roots. A tramp with a home.


But what about my sons? They have grown most of their lives till now, abroad - Singapore, now Tokyo. They remember little of their early years of living in India , visit India every year on whirlwind romantic visits that leave them spinning and happy, but little else (I presume). They have seen foreign cultures upclose yet never assimilated into them. If we continue moving country to country for the rest of their growing up years are we raising true wanderlusters? Will my children grow up vaguely feeling Indian but not quite having any concrete associations with the country ? Is that good or bad?


Being called 'Third Culture Kids' (TCK) is all fine as a New Age tag but are we only making it more difficult for them to answer that question in later years of 'where is home for you'? Are we depriving them the rock solid feeling of belonging to a place called 'home' which is so needed in moments of self doubt and confusion? I guess some questions just dont have clear 'yes/no' answers.


Anyone?

Lost innocence

Theres something about 'development' that just doesnt add up in my mind. It kills innocence and makes life a trifle more sterile. And why did I think of this in Vietnam?

Hanoi, on my recent visit, still seemed to have the simplicity and guilelessness of a small town or a city on the throes of 'globalisation', but not quite yet (thank God). So it had none of the swagger of a city that has tasted the seductive fruit of 'progress'. Maybe its poised in the best place ever in its history - emerged from years of crippling war and isolation of a closed socialist economy , but just before the raid of Big Mac.

Jayashree was right when she commented on one of my previous posts- "... Vietnam has its own rustic charm and tranquility unlike the plastic beauty of the so called 'developed' countries of the world".

So what does that mean? Elementary , my dear Blackberry toter . Hanoi's cool dudes are not yet strutting about thinking how lucky they are to be born in the Age of Choice. No Mac Donalds and Starbucks. No flashy malls, no fancy cars (mopeds are fine thank you).

Any society that tastes economic success eventually rues its lost innocence I think. Older Singaporeans reminisce about the simple life in 'kampongs' (village). In some places in the city there are exhibits of a life that was more spontaneous.The bronze sculptures of naked urchins jumping into the Singapore River for a happy dip is one of my favourites. It stands dwarfed and almost irrelevant in todays plush business district.

In some ways I find the strain of 'progress' showing through in India too. Not quite as sterile as a Singapore or a Tokyo yet (maybe never will) but there are precious things that are threatening to fade out. With the Wal Marts and Reliances coming in, conversations with 'our family bhaji wala' (vegetable seller) - whose life's ups and downs came gratis everyday with the chillies and curry leaves - may well die out. Shopping would just mean zipping around with trolleys down well signposted aisles and picking out vegetables -labelled and weighed to the milligram.Espirits' S,M,L,XL,XXL has made the lovably tardy tailor (for whom deadlines were just abstract concepts) redundant.

With 'progress'/globalisation/technology/'all those certain somethings we call development' , day to day experiences just lose out on warmth and get coldly standardised.

I am no 'jhola' toting Left leaning socialist. I enjoy my speedy Internet connection as much as anyone else. And a swig or two from my can of Cola doesnt exactly shake my moral foundation. But somewhere deep down it just doesnt gel. I am thankful I grew up when I did - when there was no TV and not much choice. It is my sons who I feel sorry for and want to tell them 'how you are missing out on LIFE'. (I know they would repartee 'you dont know what you are missing out' babe'!)

Back to the point...does Hanoi's "rustic charm" amount to anything at all then? Atleast people and life seemed real there. Ha who am I kidding with those big empty words. Afterall isnt there a thin line between 'old world charm' and hardship? No one knows it better than the Vietnamese themselves.

Vietnam is one of Asia's fast growing economies. Its people deserve their share of "progress" after years of struggle.Who am I- tapping away on my laptop- to grudge it? Uncle Mac will catch up soon. Just hope the deft fingers of Vietnam's semstresses dont go cold then.