The greatest loss of all
Summer of 09 has been marked by loss. The death of Ted Kennedy, the last son of an iconic generation of Kennedys who were admired and loved all over the world was, for many, the passing of an age. The memorial service that was broadcast live on TV was impressive in its pomp, formality and congregation of VIPs. The wealthy and powerful had gathered to say farewell to one of its own, a favorite son. As I looked at the possessors of wealth and welders of power, I was struck again by the magnitude of President Obama’s achievement. He and Michelle were highly noticeable and the exceptions, the only African Americans in the huge cathedral of easily over a 1000 people. (except for one or two unrecognized government or public official) In the front right section of the church, the Kennedy clan occupied a block of what seemed like two hundred or so seats. As we move away from old prejudices, can I hope for some diversity or inter racial marriages in the Kennedy grandchildren?
Senator Kennedy’s memorial service was held on Michael Jackson’s birthday. The contrast between the highly formalized, archaic funeral ceremony and the Michael Jackson birthday dance party could not have been greater. The birthday party was outdoors in Prospect Park and it was attended by everyone – old, young, poor but mainly black. On a stage set in the middle of Prospect Park, DJ spinner did his thing. Michael’s voice carried over the park and within minutes there was a huge crowd of thousands. Spike Lee and Tracy Morgan encouraged the crowd to sing along and to dance. Cameras moved through the crowd and the audience unabashedly showed off their moves.
For many of us Michael Jackson was like family. We grew up with him and we danced to all his songs. Its interesting what enters into you r life and becomes part of your family. How did a young Black kid half way across the world come to mean as much to me as the people I spend time with everyday? We loved his music and there was no doubt that he was hugely talented and musical. But we also watched him grow up from a precocious and adorable 6 year old who burst onto the world stage to an adolescent that became more loved, famous and successful then his older siblings. He captured our hearts and even though we never met him physically, he was as familiar to us as our own family members are.
On the other hand we can be in the same room or space with someone on a daily basis and not feel the same sense of loss when they are gone. With office colleagues, you work side by side for several years and one day the cubicle is empty and you are told of an unexpected death. There is a sense of shock over the untimeliness. And it brings home your own mortality. But I do not experience grief or weep tears. How can that be when the colleague has been such a constant presence and there have been many interactions? Does this mean that loss is really loss of happiness? Not familiarity or how much time spent together but whether you associate the person with happiness and happy memories. But of course work places are often fraught with conflict and pettiness and you fairly or unfairly associate the person with the environment. Sometimes the thing that makes one happy is a concert or a song that you hear on the airwaves constantly and that you and your friends dance to at every party.
At other times it’s an adorable puppy that you’ve adopted and lavished time, attention and love on. I watched our little ten month old puppy grow from a shy, timid, easily scared pup to a confident sassy dog. I still can’t really write about how she ran out of our front yard Monday evening May 11th and we have not seen her since.
The first time we saw her, she was sitting in the middle of her cage shivering with fear. She is caramel colored with big eyes and droopy years, a pug beagle mix. The staff at the shelter told us that she had just arrived that very same day and decided to name her Sophia. We named her Sonnet. Her loss is traumatic. I never imagined that a pet could have such a hold over me, that I would grief for months; in fact still grief for her. But the pet has become a family member – you have cared, walked and fed it. You, your husband and his kids have laughed at her tricks and antics. It is a asimple relationship but one that has brought unexpected and tremendous joy. The greatest loss occurs where the most joy has been.
Sunday, September 27, 2009
Monday, May 25, 2009
The Visit
a short story by T. S, Raman
Reshma walked out of the elevator and turned the corner to the lobby. A woman was sitting in one of the armchairs, composed, her head down bent. Her thick black hair, parted in the center, fell straight to her shoulders as she looked down at a book in her lap. Reshma hesitated, not recognizing her childhood friend in this closed woman. She looks unhappy but perhaps she’s just tired from the flight? Well at least she doesn’t look middle aged Reshma thought, with a twinge of relief.
“Lena” Reshma sang out, smiling.
The woman looked up, her face expressionless. Without a perceptible change in expression she said ‘Oh Hi. You look like Rose now. Just like Rose” referring to Reshma’s older sister. Her voice was pleasing, soft yet clear and carrying. A teacher’s voice, pitched to carry to the back of the class.
“Are you trying to tell me I’ve put on weight? ” Reshma smiled. “I can’t believe you’re here, so out of the blue. I’m so sorry we couldn’t come to the airport. How was the ride? “
Lena nodded, “Fine. I was in Raleigh at a conference and I thought I have six hours in New York, let me try. If I get to see her, then I was meant to see her. So, I called Rose in Singapore and she gave me your number and I called you.”
It was no exaggeration to say they had known each other from birth. The families, immigrants from the same town in Kerala, in South West India, lived right next door to each other in Singapore. Their mothers had conceived, gone into labor and delivered on the same day in the same hospital. Reshma’s mother always complained about her difficult labor with Reshma. “Of all my seven children, Reshma gave me the most trouble. Coming out with her legs first. Silly girl. All the others were easy.” It was a nice way of saying that she had come out flashing her vagina, proudly proclaiming her sex. What did you expect Reshma thought – I probably knew in the womb that my father wanted a boy.
When they were babies, Reshma and Lena spent every afternoon together. One of the mothers would look after the two babies while the other mother got some time to herself for a much needed nap, or a quiet cup of tea or, more likely, for the myriad chores that needed to be done. By age five, the girls had become constant companions, playing together everyday, sharing meals, sleeping in each other’s beds. When it came time to go to school, they walked to and back from school together every day, and in class, they sat next to each other. This was the pattern right up to high school.
It was Lena’s first time in New York, in fact her first time to the States. To Reshma’s surprise her husband, Sean, offered to drive them around the city. “Don’t we have the kids this weekend? “ referring to Seans’ kids from his first marriage, Brian and Barbara. She knew how much he treasured his time with them. “They can come with us - she’s your first childhood friend that I am meeting.” He drove them around the East Village, West Village, Chelsea, Times Square, and Central Park. Barbara, who was seven, was excited to be allowed to sit upfront on Reshma’s lap. Sean created his own personal map and history of the city, kept up a running commentary, shared private memories, referred to all the places that he and Reshma had visited together. Reshma pointed out landmarks and sites of interest: Washington Square Park, NYU law school, Cooper Union. When they drove through Tribecca, she pointed out Bubby’s where they had celebrated their wedding with a champagne brunch.
Besides her occasional remarks and Brian and Barbara's teasing volleys at each other in the back seat, it was quiet in the car. Reshma thought back to her first few months in New York and how overwhelmed she had felt by the constant demand to be articulate, to have interesting insights, to have a verbal response to everything. She had found it exhausting. When had she grown used to it she wondered? Now, it was the quiet in the car that seemed strange. It wasn’t uncomfortable exactly but now she realized how she must have appeared when she first moved to New York: unfriendly or uninteresting. She glanced at Sean who smiled and squeezed her hand.
In the West Village they stopped at Kati Roll on McDougal Street so Lena could get a snack while Sean and the children waited in the car. Seated across from each other on wooden chairs in the small space, Lena opened up, complimenting her on her new family, her friendly husband. Over chicken tika rolls Reshma looked at pictures of Lena’s family, dressed up for a niece’s wedding. Lena was beautiful in a highly ornate green sari, heavy jewelry around her neck and a thin chain running through her center parting, ending in a small disc on her forehead. The girls flanked her on both sides, two sizes of the same girl; pretty and smiling eleven and thirteen year olds. A casual early morning shot of her husband, Raj with the two girls, smiling, tousled hair, rumpled bedclothes.
“You’re still so slim” said Reshma “even after two kids. I can’t believe I’ve never met your daughters. What are their names?”
“You are still so lovely - I have to call your mother when I get back. Bharati and Beena .
Oh, the B thing – just like my step kids.
Yes, I was thinking that when I heard their names. Your mother looks so young – she was at Hema’s, my niece’s, wedding. When was the last time you saw her – and your other family? ”
“Last year – they all came for the wedding. I should have brought photos. Mum has them, you can ask her. “
Lena asked several questions about the wedding, so Reshma described the brief Buddhist ceremony, her orange sari and the Country Club. Reshma debated whether to bring up Lena’s mother who had died several years ago. Truth be told she could not remember when it had happened, felt that it must have happened when she was away, living in Copenhagen but she was not entirely sure. Reshma remembered Lena’s mother as a sickly, timid, fussy woman who was always cautioning her children against dangers, real and imagined. So much so that they stopped paying her any heed. As a child, Lena had been envious of Reshma’s mother: young, beautiful, healthy and unconcerned about her daughter playing in the alley behind the apartment until dusk or walking to the store by herself. When Reshma asked for a photo of the girls, Lena smiled, perhaps for the first time that day.
Are you working? Lena asked with an intent look on her face.
Reshma looked down for a moment. Of course she would know about her struggle to find work, the long bouts of unemployment.
Yes, its going well. It wasn’t easy at first – you might have heard from my Mum. I just had a hard time breaking in. Even after grad school, it took a while but now I work in a theatre close to Times Square. Its only administrative – and marketing - but it’s a well known company and the work is very interesting. I feel pretty lucky.
What do you do?
Well, I organize the events and support the membership. I deal with the donors and patrons.
You are so outgoing – it sounds like a good fit.
Thanks – what about you? You are still teaching of course? How is it?
Lena was teaching in the same school since her graduation, one of the top three schools in the country. There was tremendous pressure to make sure that all the students performed well during exams. They were implementing a new science curriculum and she was here for teacher training. She had met with some of her counterparts at the conference and it was an eye opening experience to hear the amount of input they were given into the curriculum. In Singpaore, it was standard curriculum mandated by the Ministry of Education. That was sort of why her husband had left teaching – the bureaucracy. He had been working as the PR rep for a multi national company in Singapore but they had down sized and now he was looking for work.
After dropping them at Times Square, Sean had to leave to take the kids back home as it was a school day the next day. Lena thanked him warmly, saying how special she felt to be given such a detailed tour of the city, how her daughters would be green with envy, how nice his children were.
As they walked along Times Square to the souvenir shop, Lena asked if she missed Singapore.
“What is there to miss? The overbearing, interfering government? The rude, coarse people? The lack of interests – the obsession with money and material goods? What is there to miss? My family, yes I miss them but other then that no.” Almost as soon as she had spoken, Reshma regretted her remarks. The angry words had just flown out of her mouth. She had learned not to be critical about Singapore with her sisters who would be offended, and become defensive and sometimes retaliated by making fun of her. She waited apprehensively for Lena’s response.
Lena nodded calmly. “I tell my girls to leave Singapore. I tell them to go elsewhere. We have taken them to Australia and New Zealand several times on holidays. We’ve even visited Kerala where their grandparents are from. And Indonesia - so they can see other parts of Asia. “
After a pause,
“You have friends here?”
“No, not really. One or two. My Buddhist group. My husband’s friends.” Reshma shrugged. “It was difficult at first. Now it’s OK.”
Another pause,
“What about you? Do you keep in touch with your school friends? “
“No” with a laugh
Oh, how about university friends ?
“No” again with a laugh and shake of the head.
They stopped at the MTV store and Reshma pointed out a black T-shirt with the letters MTV in sequins.
“Oh, they would like these’ said Lena referring to her daughters. “That’s all they wear these days. Black – preferably with holes. Nothing sweet or pretty anymore.” She looked at the price tag, $24 “Oh, I don’t spend that much on them.”
“Hmm” said Reshma thinking of the “Build a Bear” workshop that she had felt pressured into buying for her stepdaughter, Barbara, two months ago - $50 for a toy for a seven year old. Ahh, for the simple life of motherhood…
They moved on to the souvenir store where, after looking through all the T shirts, Lena bought two T shirts with New York City on it for her daughters. Reshma pointed out a refrigerator magnet with the Statue of Liberty that her mother had bought the last time she was in New York, and Lena bought it for her mother in law. They discovered that the Empire State building models were on sale and she bought four for her colleagues. And two more gifts for her daughters, two wallets with New York City on it.
When they passed Madame Tussard’s there was a crowd around the Michael Jackson model. Reshma took a picture as Lena posed next to it. They entered the lobby looked around, checked admission prices and left.
It was already five pm and Lena had to be at JFK airport by 6 pm. They decided to take the risk and squeeze in a visit to the Empire State Building. As they were trying to flag down a taxi, a pedicab driver came up to them and offered a ride for $10.
“I don’t even know what this is called” said Lena as they climbed in
“A pedicab” said Reshma as they started moving. “.I’ve never been in one before either. Wow, I feel really exposed, oh, I feel really vulnerable.” They weaved in and out of traffic and it felt odd, yet liberating, to be in the middle of traffic, yet not in a car or bus.
He turned out to be a good driver and guide pointing out landmarks and views. He had been in the city twenty years he said and had just started driving a pedi cab. He really liked it. He was scrawny with muscular legs and arms. As they arrived at the Empire State Building, he asked them to look behind. They had an uninterrupted view of thirty fifth Street stretched out behind them, buildings on both sides. Reshma let Lena pay and suggested that she add a $2 tip. She said that she would also give him a $2 tip.
“Oh, so he will think you are a nice lady” said Lena.
“Uh” , said Reshma. “There I was thinking I was doing it out of the goodness of my heart.”
In the lobby, the sign said that there was a 15 minutes to thirty minutes wait. Again they hesitated, checking watches. Then they rushed up.
It was mild, breezy and pleasant on top.
“It’s nicer then I expected. Its quite fun isn’t it?” Reshma asked.
Lena nodded and took another photo when some people in front of them moved away. There were still crowds of people around.
“Well, what about our old friends from Trafalgar school?” Reshma asked referring to their elementary school.
“Some of them were at Hema’s wedding. In fact her husband is related to Pandan – do you remember him? And I saw C. Suranaim at the wedding.”
“I don’t really remember him. But how was he? “
“We talked about you. He said that you and I were bullies. That I, and my friend, made his life miserable.” Lena looked her in the eye, delivered the words very matter of factly.
Reshma and Lena looked at each other in silence.
“I don’t really remember it…” said Reshma. She stopped, not finishing her sentence. The words sounded stiff and false in her ears.
“No” said Lena . They were silent for a minute.
“Anyway, it was a long time ago. We were kids.”
Lena nodded.
Reshma said “ I think about it sometimes – how we bullied the other kids. But we were just kids, right? It was what we knew from home. Anyway, we are nice to kids now isn’t that what counts?”
The elevator trip back down was quick and smooth. They hailed a cab and as Lena moved to get in, Reshma placed an arm around Lena’s shoulders and gave a quick hug. The usual platitudes of farewell raced through Reshma’s mind– “great seeing you”, “keep in touch”, “do you email?”
Reshma said “Thanks for calling.” She stood and waited until the cab moved off. Her last glimpse was of Lena looking down at lap.
Reshma walked out of the elevator and turned the corner to the lobby. A woman was sitting in one of the armchairs, composed, her head down bent. Her thick black hair, parted in the center, fell straight to her shoulders as she looked down at a book in her lap. Reshma hesitated, not recognizing her childhood friend in this closed woman. She looks unhappy but perhaps she’s just tired from the flight? Well at least she doesn’t look middle aged Reshma thought, with a twinge of relief.
“Lena” Reshma sang out, smiling.
The woman looked up, her face expressionless. Without a perceptible change in expression she said ‘Oh Hi. You look like Rose now. Just like Rose” referring to Reshma’s older sister. Her voice was pleasing, soft yet clear and carrying. A teacher’s voice, pitched to carry to the back of the class.
“Are you trying to tell me I’ve put on weight? ” Reshma smiled. “I can’t believe you’re here, so out of the blue. I’m so sorry we couldn’t come to the airport. How was the ride? “
Lena nodded, “Fine. I was in Raleigh at a conference and I thought I have six hours in New York, let me try. If I get to see her, then I was meant to see her. So, I called Rose in Singapore and she gave me your number and I called you.”
It was no exaggeration to say they had known each other from birth. The families, immigrants from the same town in Kerala, in South West India, lived right next door to each other in Singapore. Their mothers had conceived, gone into labor and delivered on the same day in the same hospital. Reshma’s mother always complained about her difficult labor with Reshma. “Of all my seven children, Reshma gave me the most trouble. Coming out with her legs first. Silly girl. All the others were easy.” It was a nice way of saying that she had come out flashing her vagina, proudly proclaiming her sex. What did you expect Reshma thought – I probably knew in the womb that my father wanted a boy.
When they were babies, Reshma and Lena spent every afternoon together. One of the mothers would look after the two babies while the other mother got some time to herself for a much needed nap, or a quiet cup of tea or, more likely, for the myriad chores that needed to be done. By age five, the girls had become constant companions, playing together everyday, sharing meals, sleeping in each other’s beds. When it came time to go to school, they walked to and back from school together every day, and in class, they sat next to each other. This was the pattern right up to high school.
It was Lena’s first time in New York, in fact her first time to the States. To Reshma’s surprise her husband, Sean, offered to drive them around the city. “Don’t we have the kids this weekend? “ referring to Seans’ kids from his first marriage, Brian and Barbara. She knew how much he treasured his time with them. “They can come with us - she’s your first childhood friend that I am meeting.” He drove them around the East Village, West Village, Chelsea, Times Square, and Central Park. Barbara, who was seven, was excited to be allowed to sit upfront on Reshma’s lap. Sean created his own personal map and history of the city, kept up a running commentary, shared private memories, referred to all the places that he and Reshma had visited together. Reshma pointed out landmarks and sites of interest: Washington Square Park, NYU law school, Cooper Union. When they drove through Tribecca, she pointed out Bubby’s where they had celebrated their wedding with a champagne brunch.
Besides her occasional remarks and Brian and Barbara's teasing volleys at each other in the back seat, it was quiet in the car. Reshma thought back to her first few months in New York and how overwhelmed she had felt by the constant demand to be articulate, to have interesting insights, to have a verbal response to everything. She had found it exhausting. When had she grown used to it she wondered? Now, it was the quiet in the car that seemed strange. It wasn’t uncomfortable exactly but now she realized how she must have appeared when she first moved to New York: unfriendly or uninteresting. She glanced at Sean who smiled and squeezed her hand.
In the West Village they stopped at Kati Roll on McDougal Street so Lena could get a snack while Sean and the children waited in the car. Seated across from each other on wooden chairs in the small space, Lena opened up, complimenting her on her new family, her friendly husband. Over chicken tika rolls Reshma looked at pictures of Lena’s family, dressed up for a niece’s wedding. Lena was beautiful in a highly ornate green sari, heavy jewelry around her neck and a thin chain running through her center parting, ending in a small disc on her forehead. The girls flanked her on both sides, two sizes of the same girl; pretty and smiling eleven and thirteen year olds. A casual early morning shot of her husband, Raj with the two girls, smiling, tousled hair, rumpled bedclothes.
“You’re still so slim” said Reshma “even after two kids. I can’t believe I’ve never met your daughters. What are their names?”
“You are still so lovely - I have to call your mother when I get back. Bharati and Beena .
Oh, the B thing – just like my step kids.
Yes, I was thinking that when I heard their names. Your mother looks so young – she was at Hema’s, my niece’s, wedding. When was the last time you saw her – and your other family? ”
“Last year – they all came for the wedding. I should have brought photos. Mum has them, you can ask her. “
Lena asked several questions about the wedding, so Reshma described the brief Buddhist ceremony, her orange sari and the Country Club. Reshma debated whether to bring up Lena’s mother who had died several years ago. Truth be told she could not remember when it had happened, felt that it must have happened when she was away, living in Copenhagen but she was not entirely sure. Reshma remembered Lena’s mother as a sickly, timid, fussy woman who was always cautioning her children against dangers, real and imagined. So much so that they stopped paying her any heed. As a child, Lena had been envious of Reshma’s mother: young, beautiful, healthy and unconcerned about her daughter playing in the alley behind the apartment until dusk or walking to the store by herself. When Reshma asked for a photo of the girls, Lena smiled, perhaps for the first time that day.
Are you working? Lena asked with an intent look on her face.
Reshma looked down for a moment. Of course she would know about her struggle to find work, the long bouts of unemployment.
Yes, its going well. It wasn’t easy at first – you might have heard from my Mum. I just had a hard time breaking in. Even after grad school, it took a while but now I work in a theatre close to Times Square. Its only administrative – and marketing - but it’s a well known company and the work is very interesting. I feel pretty lucky.
What do you do?
Well, I organize the events and support the membership. I deal with the donors and patrons.
You are so outgoing – it sounds like a good fit.
Thanks – what about you? You are still teaching of course? How is it?
Lena was teaching in the same school since her graduation, one of the top three schools in the country. There was tremendous pressure to make sure that all the students performed well during exams. They were implementing a new science curriculum and she was here for teacher training. She had met with some of her counterparts at the conference and it was an eye opening experience to hear the amount of input they were given into the curriculum. In Singpaore, it was standard curriculum mandated by the Ministry of Education. That was sort of why her husband had left teaching – the bureaucracy. He had been working as the PR rep for a multi national company in Singapore but they had down sized and now he was looking for work.
After dropping them at Times Square, Sean had to leave to take the kids back home as it was a school day the next day. Lena thanked him warmly, saying how special she felt to be given such a detailed tour of the city, how her daughters would be green with envy, how nice his children were.
As they walked along Times Square to the souvenir shop, Lena asked if she missed Singapore.
“What is there to miss? The overbearing, interfering government? The rude, coarse people? The lack of interests – the obsession with money and material goods? What is there to miss? My family, yes I miss them but other then that no.” Almost as soon as she had spoken, Reshma regretted her remarks. The angry words had just flown out of her mouth. She had learned not to be critical about Singapore with her sisters who would be offended, and become defensive and sometimes retaliated by making fun of her. She waited apprehensively for Lena’s response.
Lena nodded calmly. “I tell my girls to leave Singapore. I tell them to go elsewhere. We have taken them to Australia and New Zealand several times on holidays. We’ve even visited Kerala where their grandparents are from. And Indonesia - so they can see other parts of Asia. “
After a pause,
“You have friends here?”
“No, not really. One or two. My Buddhist group. My husband’s friends.” Reshma shrugged. “It was difficult at first. Now it’s OK.”
Another pause,
“What about you? Do you keep in touch with your school friends? “
“No” with a laugh
Oh, how about university friends ?
“No” again with a laugh and shake of the head.
They stopped at the MTV store and Reshma pointed out a black T-shirt with the letters MTV in sequins.
“Oh, they would like these’ said Lena referring to her daughters. “That’s all they wear these days. Black – preferably with holes. Nothing sweet or pretty anymore.” She looked at the price tag, $24 “Oh, I don’t spend that much on them.”
“Hmm” said Reshma thinking of the “Build a Bear” workshop that she had felt pressured into buying for her stepdaughter, Barbara, two months ago - $50 for a toy for a seven year old. Ahh, for the simple life of motherhood…
They moved on to the souvenir store where, after looking through all the T shirts, Lena bought two T shirts with New York City on it for her daughters. Reshma pointed out a refrigerator magnet with the Statue of Liberty that her mother had bought the last time she was in New York, and Lena bought it for her mother in law. They discovered that the Empire State building models were on sale and she bought four for her colleagues. And two more gifts for her daughters, two wallets with New York City on it.
When they passed Madame Tussard’s there was a crowd around the Michael Jackson model. Reshma took a picture as Lena posed next to it. They entered the lobby looked around, checked admission prices and left.
It was already five pm and Lena had to be at JFK airport by 6 pm. They decided to take the risk and squeeze in a visit to the Empire State Building. As they were trying to flag down a taxi, a pedicab driver came up to them and offered a ride for $10.
“I don’t even know what this is called” said Lena as they climbed in
“A pedicab” said Reshma as they started moving. “.I’ve never been in one before either. Wow, I feel really exposed, oh, I feel really vulnerable.” They weaved in and out of traffic and it felt odd, yet liberating, to be in the middle of traffic, yet not in a car or bus.
He turned out to be a good driver and guide pointing out landmarks and views. He had been in the city twenty years he said and had just started driving a pedi cab. He really liked it. He was scrawny with muscular legs and arms. As they arrived at the Empire State Building, he asked them to look behind. They had an uninterrupted view of thirty fifth Street stretched out behind them, buildings on both sides. Reshma let Lena pay and suggested that she add a $2 tip. She said that she would also give him a $2 tip.
“Oh, so he will think you are a nice lady” said Lena.
“Uh” , said Reshma. “There I was thinking I was doing it out of the goodness of my heart.”
In the lobby, the sign said that there was a 15 minutes to thirty minutes wait. Again they hesitated, checking watches. Then they rushed up.
It was mild, breezy and pleasant on top.
“It’s nicer then I expected. Its quite fun isn’t it?” Reshma asked.
Lena nodded and took another photo when some people in front of them moved away. There were still crowds of people around.
“Well, what about our old friends from Trafalgar school?” Reshma asked referring to their elementary school.
“Some of them were at Hema’s wedding. In fact her husband is related to Pandan – do you remember him? And I saw C. Suranaim at the wedding.”
“I don’t really remember him. But how was he? “
“We talked about you. He said that you and I were bullies. That I, and my friend, made his life miserable.” Lena looked her in the eye, delivered the words very matter of factly.
Reshma and Lena looked at each other in silence.
“I don’t really remember it…” said Reshma. She stopped, not finishing her sentence. The words sounded stiff and false in her ears.
“No” said Lena . They were silent for a minute.
“Anyway, it was a long time ago. We were kids.”
Lena nodded.
Reshma said “ I think about it sometimes – how we bullied the other kids. But we were just kids, right? It was what we knew from home. Anyway, we are nice to kids now isn’t that what counts?”
The elevator trip back down was quick and smooth. They hailed a cab and as Lena moved to get in, Reshma placed an arm around Lena’s shoulders and gave a quick hug. The usual platitudes of farewell raced through Reshma’s mind– “great seeing you”, “keep in touch”, “do you email?”
Reshma said “Thanks for calling.” She stood and waited until the cab moved off. Her last glimpse was of Lena looking down at lap.
Sunday, April 19, 2009
United States - home to the world?
The Immigrant experience
By Sujatha Raman
I’ve been looking at the pictures of Jiverly Voong, the immigrant that shot and killed 13 people in Binghamton before killing himself. Here is the underbelly of the American dream: the immigrant that does not make it in the New World , whose isolation is not mitigated by achievement, whose anger at a lack of social acceptance is fueled when he loses his job and his wife and kids leave him.
What propels anyone to move thousands of miles away to a strange land, an alien culture, isolated from anyone that they know, and anything familiar? It must be a strong overpowering desire that beckons a person to move away from the land of their birth. Or perhaps it’s the refusal to accept the limits and constraints of your current landscape and cultural boundaries, the deep yearning for a space or place to truly be yourself or true to yourself. A moving away rather then a moving towards…
In moving towards something – creative fulfillment, better professional options, marriage – the goal is clear. You’ve moved a million miles, often paying a dear price, so you break your back trying to achieve your goals or dreams. You do what it takes. This can often mean going back down the job ladder and starting fresh maybe even as an intern. This was the case with my friend Malina who had moved to New York from Singapore when her husband got a job here. She had a prestigious job in the Singapore Foreign service as a Diplomat but despite years of experience and a great education, she found herself, at 35, fighting for an intern spot in one of the large Human rights firms in New York. For the first five years or so in New York, she led a bi-continental life, supporting herself through free lance consulting or writing with organizations in Singapore while she worked as an intern or volunteer in New York to build her resume here. But her struggle was softened by a happy marriage and a successful husband as well as an interesting social life not to mention support from former employers and network.
Similarly, the overwhelming presence of South Asian and Asian computer professionals in the US speaks to the successful immigration of highly skilled young professionals. In Silicon Valley and some suburbs in Seattle, you might be forgiven if you thought you had been transplanted to India. The buying power of large numbers of successful immigrants have transformed food outlets and choices, entertainment options and lifestyles to give the new inhabitants a comfortable replica of their homeland. Successful immigrants are also able to replicate social networks from their homeland. They bring parents, siblings and other relatives, and sometimes they even import maids.
What about immigrants moving away from their homeland because of personal loss or failure? A divorce in some countries still has shame attached to it and can be the catalyst for a search for a new place to make a fresh start unfettered by painful memories or a sense of failure. My father was a scarce fifteen when he stealthily left his home town in India and travelled hundreds of miles to the nearest port to board a ship to Singapore where his brother was living. He had just failed the equivalent of high level exams and was unable to face his father, a very autocratic man who prized academic excellence over all else. His father had built and ran two schools and had high hopes for my father who he considered his star pupil. My father excelled academically but the stress of preparing for exams had taken a toll on a sensitive stomach; he had become sick just before the exams and been unable to complete them. My grandfather was widely respected as a pandiji (a wise man) because of the schools and his career as a school teacher and principal. His own son failing his high school exams was an unbearable embarrassment. Although he would return to India for visits, my father lived the rest of his life as an immigrant in Singapore. He worked as a clerk in the British Civil Service and I remember his immaculate, starched, long sleeved white shirts and perfectly creased pants, his hair smoothed back with hair cream. Even though he came from a small village, my father was literate, in fact well-read and had a perfect British accent. He always felt that his job was beneath him; that he was destined for better things. While his compatriots who immigrated from India enjoyed promotions and were able to move from one room apartments to houses with backyards, my father stayed in the same job all his life, finally retiring early at 50. He was similarly disappointed with his family life. Even though his young bride had been the toast of her village and considered a beauty, he soon became alienated when she produced five baby girls. My father often expressed anger and disappointment with his chosen land.
Jiverly Woong lived in a country where violence often broke out. I had just moved to the States when Columbine happened and I remember the outcry and sense of shock that reverberated through the country. In a school? By School kids. We were unable to comprehend how it could have happened. It was a tragedy of epic proportions and today ten years later we still feel haunted by the despair and unhappiness that drove two young teenagers to kill their fellow school mates.
President Obama is taking on the thorny problem of the broken immigration system. By trying to come up with a path to help long term immigrant residents become legal, he hopes to take them out of the shadows and give them a clear place. To those concerned about the already high unemployment rate, he points out that his solution will not increase number of immigrants but address those already in the country.
While poor immigrant families have found economic success in the past, many analysts say today’s generation faces steeper hurdles, especially because good jobs now require more education. The children of those with the least education — most notably Mexicans and Central Americans — are considered especially at risk. ( New York Times) But obviously there are risks in schools as well, as evidenced by the shooting at Columbine and the American Civil Association in Binghamton.
Today, one in eight Americans is an immigrant. In our individual search for the American Dream, we have to work together to come up with a system that recognizes that everyone – whether immigrant or citizen – is accepted by virtue of being here.
By Sujatha Raman
I’ve been looking at the pictures of Jiverly Voong, the immigrant that shot and killed 13 people in Binghamton before killing himself. Here is the underbelly of the American dream: the immigrant that does not make it in the New World , whose isolation is not mitigated by achievement, whose anger at a lack of social acceptance is fueled when he loses his job and his wife and kids leave him.
What propels anyone to move thousands of miles away to a strange land, an alien culture, isolated from anyone that they know, and anything familiar? It must be a strong overpowering desire that beckons a person to move away from the land of their birth. Or perhaps it’s the refusal to accept the limits and constraints of your current landscape and cultural boundaries, the deep yearning for a space or place to truly be yourself or true to yourself. A moving away rather then a moving towards…
In moving towards something – creative fulfillment, better professional options, marriage – the goal is clear. You’ve moved a million miles, often paying a dear price, so you break your back trying to achieve your goals or dreams. You do what it takes. This can often mean going back down the job ladder and starting fresh maybe even as an intern. This was the case with my friend Malina who had moved to New York from Singapore when her husband got a job here. She had a prestigious job in the Singapore Foreign service as a Diplomat but despite years of experience and a great education, she found herself, at 35, fighting for an intern spot in one of the large Human rights firms in New York. For the first five years or so in New York, she led a bi-continental life, supporting herself through free lance consulting or writing with organizations in Singapore while she worked as an intern or volunteer in New York to build her resume here. But her struggle was softened by a happy marriage and a successful husband as well as an interesting social life not to mention support from former employers and network.
Similarly, the overwhelming presence of South Asian and Asian computer professionals in the US speaks to the successful immigration of highly skilled young professionals. In Silicon Valley and some suburbs in Seattle, you might be forgiven if you thought you had been transplanted to India. The buying power of large numbers of successful immigrants have transformed food outlets and choices, entertainment options and lifestyles to give the new inhabitants a comfortable replica of their homeland. Successful immigrants are also able to replicate social networks from their homeland. They bring parents, siblings and other relatives, and sometimes they even import maids.
What about immigrants moving away from their homeland because of personal loss or failure? A divorce in some countries still has shame attached to it and can be the catalyst for a search for a new place to make a fresh start unfettered by painful memories or a sense of failure. My father was a scarce fifteen when he stealthily left his home town in India and travelled hundreds of miles to the nearest port to board a ship to Singapore where his brother was living. He had just failed the equivalent of high level exams and was unable to face his father, a very autocratic man who prized academic excellence over all else. His father had built and ran two schools and had high hopes for my father who he considered his star pupil. My father excelled academically but the stress of preparing for exams had taken a toll on a sensitive stomach; he had become sick just before the exams and been unable to complete them. My grandfather was widely respected as a pandiji (a wise man) because of the schools and his career as a school teacher and principal. His own son failing his high school exams was an unbearable embarrassment. Although he would return to India for visits, my father lived the rest of his life as an immigrant in Singapore. He worked as a clerk in the British Civil Service and I remember his immaculate, starched, long sleeved white shirts and perfectly creased pants, his hair smoothed back with hair cream. Even though he came from a small village, my father was literate, in fact well-read and had a perfect British accent. He always felt that his job was beneath him; that he was destined for better things. While his compatriots who immigrated from India enjoyed promotions and were able to move from one room apartments to houses with backyards, my father stayed in the same job all his life, finally retiring early at 50. He was similarly disappointed with his family life. Even though his young bride had been the toast of her village and considered a beauty, he soon became alienated when she produced five baby girls. My father often expressed anger and disappointment with his chosen land.
Jiverly Woong lived in a country where violence often broke out. I had just moved to the States when Columbine happened and I remember the outcry and sense of shock that reverberated through the country. In a school? By School kids. We were unable to comprehend how it could have happened. It was a tragedy of epic proportions and today ten years later we still feel haunted by the despair and unhappiness that drove two young teenagers to kill their fellow school mates.
President Obama is taking on the thorny problem of the broken immigration system. By trying to come up with a path to help long term immigrant residents become legal, he hopes to take them out of the shadows and give them a clear place. To those concerned about the already high unemployment rate, he points out that his solution will not increase number of immigrants but address those already in the country.
While poor immigrant families have found economic success in the past, many analysts say today’s generation faces steeper hurdles, especially because good jobs now require more education. The children of those with the least education — most notably Mexicans and Central Americans — are considered especially at risk. ( New York Times) But obviously there are risks in schools as well, as evidenced by the shooting at Columbine and the American Civil Association in Binghamton.
Today, one in eight Americans is an immigrant. In our individual search for the American Dream, we have to work together to come up with a system that recognizes that everyone – whether immigrant or citizen – is accepted by virtue of being here.
Sunday, March 22, 2009
A journey of Food in Singapore
Food Glorious Food – a journey around the food courts in Singapore
By Sujatha Raman
I landed just after 7 am on a Saturday morning at Singapore’s ultra modern Changi Airport and was met by my sister who greeted me with “ You know there is a food court here at Terminal Three – want to see if there is Char Kway Teow?”
Without further ado, we made a beeline to the food court, bags, trolley and all. The food court was everything a food court needed to be: a wide variety of stalls, clean, bright and happily all the stalls seemed open at this early hour. The original plan was to make a food stop at my fave CKT stall in Marine Parade on the way home. But the stall only opened around 11 am in readiness for the lunch crowd.
I surveyed the food court and spotted the large black cast iron kwali (a large wok) that was used to stir fry the kway teow and headed over. Since they also offered chye tow kway aka carrot cake (not to be confused with the American cake by the same name) I ordered a plate of that as well. Leaving my sister to wait for the food, I moseyed along to the other stalls. I ordered a fragrant bowl of fish ball soup and looked longingly at the dim sum and vadei but contained myself. I had a week after all.
The char kway teow was delicious with fresh, warm, smooth noodles stir fired with black sweet soy sauce and peppered with small bites of chicken and succulent clams. I’m actually a fan of the method that blends yellow round noodles with the flat, broad, white rice noodles and sir fries with oodles of pork lard and egg but after three years away, I was very appreciative of the quality of the dish I was gobbling down. The chye tow keow which is puzzlingly nicknamed carrot cake is actually made of flour and grated radish. It was slightly crispy on the outside and light and moist on the inside and refreshingly oilfree. The fish ball soup was a perfect complement to the two stir fried dishes, the savory broth mild and tasty and the fish balls slightly springy.
My family loves to tell the story of the time my sister brought char kway teow to New York for me. I had been in New York for three years and was hankering after some good local hawker food when my sister called to inform me that she would be coming to New York. I managed to persuade her to bring some packets of char kway teow with her. On the day of her flight, she dove to my favorite stall in Marine Parade and bought three orders of the noodles for me. When she got home, she opened the plastic containers and aired them until they were room temperature. Then she cellophaned the containers, packed them in plastic bags and placed them in her check in baggage. The idea was that they would keep fresh in the cold cargo hold for the 20 hours of the flight. When she got into New York, I placed two packets in the fridge and warmed up one and ate it with great relish.
I made determined efforts to load up on my favorite dishes during the week which flashed by. This included nasi padang, a Malay speciality of rice and various side dishes, at one of my old school haunts Rendevous which used to be in a unassuming shop house across from the National Library. Now it is located on the first floor of a fancy hotel by the same name. The large prawns coated with spicy sambal paste were especially delicious , and for dessert I had an incredible chendol made with fresh coconut milk, dark brown sugar syrup, sweet red beans and green flour pieces.
The next day I was hosted at the well known Banana Leaf Apollo restaurant in Little India, where I ate with my fingers off banana leafs. The fragrance of curry and spices lingered the whole day. The food was extraordinarily delicious and I enjoyed sharing it with family and friends that I had not seen in a couple of years.
It was also heavenly to swim in tropical water. The day after I arrived in Singapore, I woke up and took a cab over to my sister’s condominium and swam in her pool. The water was just cooler then body temperature and it was extremely pleasurable to swim in a pool with green trees around it and a pleasant breeze. I have enjoyed swimming all my life but in New York the activity has lost its charm. Even though there is a heated indoor pool in the gym close to me in Brooklyn, shedding layers of winter clothes, and then bracing for the cold air after the swim was too daunting. On the last day of my stay in Singapore, I met a friend from high school who drove me to her club on Sentosa Island where after our swim, we drank freshly squeezed juices sitting on chairs in the pool with a view of the sea and boats tethered close by. It was the perfect end to an idyllic week.
Sunday, February 8, 2009
Letter to my heart
on your special day
How are you dear heart? I feel that we are a bit out of touch these days, don’t you? Used to be that you were always feeling things very strongly and wanting me to know about your feelings immediately. I remember in the early days ,oh when we were about 10 or so, you used to get very upset about poverty and injustice. You used to ache so much whenever you heard or read about people starving. You made me do research into poverty and its causes and you were horrified when I found out that in fact we have enough food to feed everyone in the world. Just that some people live in countries where they have limited access or are denied access. I tried to understand why any government would destroy crops and food in times of abundance, instead of sending it to the places where people were seriously malnourished ad struggling to get by on a handful of rice. Just so that prices would not fall. I couldn’t understand why it was more important for wallets to be full rather then stomachs? You were very unhappy and sent me on a journey from Singapore to London, Copenhagen and finally New York in efforts to change things. At first I thought that you would be happy if I worked in theatre. You lifted and expanded and burst into song whenever I worked on a new play or creation. But even though you were full of zest, the rest of me had a hard time. My stomach protested at the careful skimming, my body wanted a nicer warmer apartment and so we decided on a compromise.
I now work for a community based organization in the not for profit world and you are satisfied by the feeling of doing good and helping others. The sense of a larger purpose seems to be fulfilling for you. And the disappointment you felt when I got divorced has faded. You’ve bounced back and even allowed yourself to be open to new romance. It took a while because I had convinced myself that I did not need love and that I was happy with friends and career. But you ignored me and let love back in. Thank you for bouncing back, for being so big and forgiving and leading me to a happy new life.
Sujatha
How are you dear heart? I feel that we are a bit out of touch these days, don’t you? Used to be that you were always feeling things very strongly and wanting me to know about your feelings immediately. I remember in the early days ,oh when we were about 10 or so, you used to get very upset about poverty and injustice. You used to ache so much whenever you heard or read about people starving. You made me do research into poverty and its causes and you were horrified when I found out that in fact we have enough food to feed everyone in the world. Just that some people live in countries where they have limited access or are denied access. I tried to understand why any government would destroy crops and food in times of abundance, instead of sending it to the places where people were seriously malnourished ad struggling to get by on a handful of rice. Just so that prices would not fall. I couldn’t understand why it was more important for wallets to be full rather then stomachs? You were very unhappy and sent me on a journey from Singapore to London, Copenhagen and finally New York in efforts to change things. At first I thought that you would be happy if I worked in theatre. You lifted and expanded and burst into song whenever I worked on a new play or creation. But even though you were full of zest, the rest of me had a hard time. My stomach protested at the careful skimming, my body wanted a nicer warmer apartment and so we decided on a compromise.
I now work for a community based organization in the not for profit world and you are satisfied by the feeling of doing good and helping others. The sense of a larger purpose seems to be fulfilling for you. And the disappointment you felt when I got divorced has faded. You’ve bounced back and even allowed yourself to be open to new romance. It took a while because I had convinced myself that I did not need love and that I was happy with friends and career. But you ignored me and let love back in. Thank you for bouncing back, for being so big and forgiving and leading me to a happy new life.
Sujatha
Saturday, January 24, 2009
A President for the World
I debated whether I should write about the inauguration – surely the last thing we needed was yet another article about the inauguration. There’s already a zillion covering every perspective possible from Oprah’s post inaugural celeb studded show to the ten year old aspiring journalist from Bed-stuy who travelled to DC on a quest to interview Obama. Let’s not even mention the endless coverage of Michelle’s clothes, Beyonce’s song and the kids concert.
But if this is not a moment in time that deserved momentous attention then what is? So here goes. We watched it with friends crowded around a large flat screen at Madiba’s, the South African restaurant on Dekalb Avenue in Fort Green Brooklyn. All the restaurants on the strip were humming as people kept pouring in feeling the need to collectively witness the historic moment. I ended up sitting on the bar, a mimosa in hand, my arm draped around my husband’s neck feeling incredibly happy. When Barak arrived loud cheers erupted. I had never seen him so serious – for once he was not Mr. super cool. He had the weight of the world’s problems on his shoulders. The speech was wonderful and I look forward to reading it again.
Right after the inauguration, we left to go to work and my husband said to me “congratulations hon” alluding to the months of canvassing and volunteer hours that I and millions of others had poured into the process. The irony of it is that my husband is African American, male, grew up in this country while I am none of the above. It’s clear why he identifies with this victory but why do I identify so much with this incredible feat?
I have nothing in common with the new President. I definitely would not photograph as well in a swimsuit and until last Spring I had never been to Chicago. I haven’t published a paper let alone three books and I definitely lack the savvy to be successful in government. But I too grew up in a huge family which is spread over the four continents including a brother in Hawaii, a sister until recently in Kenya, and I too want to do good.
Through this man, Americans have re- claimed their ideals, their way of life and as he declared in his victory speech ensured that “democracy is well and alive.” But his victory is not only an American victory. My brother who lives in Singapore when he is not elsewhere told me on the phone that after the election results in November, he saw several young boys carrying American flags, something he had never seen before in his country. Millions all over the world look at Barak’s victory and see doors where before they saw walls.
For those of us in the US, whose closest blood family are long plane rides away, Obama’s victory once again energizes the pursuit of our individual dreams. The sacrifices are worthwhile.
But if this is not a moment in time that deserved momentous attention then what is? So here goes. We watched it with friends crowded around a large flat screen at Madiba’s, the South African restaurant on Dekalb Avenue in Fort Green Brooklyn. All the restaurants on the strip were humming as people kept pouring in feeling the need to collectively witness the historic moment. I ended up sitting on the bar, a mimosa in hand, my arm draped around my husband’s neck feeling incredibly happy. When Barak arrived loud cheers erupted. I had never seen him so serious – for once he was not Mr. super cool. He had the weight of the world’s problems on his shoulders. The speech was wonderful and I look forward to reading it again.
Right after the inauguration, we left to go to work and my husband said to me “congratulations hon” alluding to the months of canvassing and volunteer hours that I and millions of others had poured into the process. The irony of it is that my husband is African American, male, grew up in this country while I am none of the above. It’s clear why he identifies with this victory but why do I identify so much with this incredible feat?
I have nothing in common with the new President. I definitely would not photograph as well in a swimsuit and until last Spring I had never been to Chicago. I haven’t published a paper let alone three books and I definitely lack the savvy to be successful in government. But I too grew up in a huge family which is spread over the four continents including a brother in Hawaii, a sister until recently in Kenya, and I too want to do good.
Through this man, Americans have re- claimed their ideals, their way of life and as he declared in his victory speech ensured that “democracy is well and alive.” But his victory is not only an American victory. My brother who lives in Singapore when he is not elsewhere told me on the phone that after the election results in November, he saw several young boys carrying American flags, something he had never seen before in his country. Millions all over the world look at Barak’s victory and see doors where before they saw walls.
For those of us in the US, whose closest blood family are long plane rides away, Obama’s victory once again energizes the pursuit of our individual dreams. The sacrifices are worthwhile.
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