http://gu.com/p/xk95m/stw


the interview is still running in my head.

Fathers

A touching episode of 'This American Life' from years ago. and it includes a beautifully honest narration in the form of a reading from 'You're not doing it right'.

I still wonder if 'love' is the word that describes what I feel for my dad. and I don't think I've ever said 'I love you' to him. in fact, even writing it right now while thinking about him, makes me feel really awkward. and I do not remember him ever saying it to me.

when I look back, I think I've gone from feeling fear and awe for him, to detachment, to anger and blame and (probably the natural teenager emotions) a longing to leave him and home and to never need his help, even revulsion and shame, to sympathy and prayers, and now finally to a mixture of acceptance, shame, gratitude, blame, affection, admiration, pity, and a strange urge to want to educate him in all that I feel his upbringing left out. more than all, I would so love to have a real, calm, and deep conversation with him, about life and things that matter. but I can hardly ever get out of him anything beyond rhetoric and cliches and borrowed phrases and repeated-till-they're-annoying opinions.

yet, I know he loves me, in some way. and I feel he shows it with all the financial help he keeps giving me, often without asking, even now. and sometimes - once or maybe twice, I've heard it in his regret that he wasn't rich and didn't give us more; although I never felt like I was deprived of anything, materially. and then I feel guilty for letting him live with that regret, for being unable to take it away from him; of course I've told him that I never needed anything more, that he gave me everything I ever wanted, but there's something about saying this after a regret to the contrary has been expressed - it doesn't feel sincere, anymore.

I haven't been grateful enough, and yet, even now, I want him to be the father I want him to be, not the one that he is.

new note #walkDC

Every day I learn of something else in DC so far unexplored, and although the weather has been really muggy, reminding me of bombay summer, once in a while I fight it and set out, again.

A friend of a friend I met recently in NYC, a girl also from India and with similar background as mine - smallish-town parents but she lived and grew up in multiple cities and locations in the Indian sub-continent - happened to mention that the NYC-DC contrast was analogical to the Bombay-Delhi contrast, in that order. I smiled and agreed. In my first few years in this country, I loved NYC, cos it was the closest to the chaos and crowds of India. But now I can without doubt say which city feels like home to me. NYC is perfect for a visit, but I always want to come back to the greenery, space, elegance and elaborate architecture of DC. I'm sure the seat of the capital has a lot to do with the analogy between the city comparison too - it lends to a certain idea and space planning, adding a spatial ambition, keeping the pomp and glory of the government uncluttered (which also has its flip-side, of course) and beautiful.

So this time it was Dumbarton Oaks gardens, one of the best in the world. Sadly, I learned of these after spring, and therefore my visit isn't really complete; will have to go next year at the right time. But a cloudy summer day wasn't half as bad, for the hour spent walking around these beautifully kept gardens. The mansion within the grounds is spectacular, the lovers' lane pool enchanting, the terrace gardens little joys of discoveries, and the lush lawns are soothing beyond words. The link below has a map, and of course, I add some phone pictures.

http://www.doaks.org/gardens/virtual-tour





I would have like to lie down and spend hours in some shady corner in the gardens but there is a reverent air among the handful of tourists who walk around in a hushed wonder, and that would seem like sacrilege.

The city tricked me that day into a long unplanned walk, after the gardens, in my flimsy sandals meant only to keep my feet breathing. The university route bus that I rely on whenever roaming around Georgetown did a vanishing act and a random co-sufferer informed me of the Capital Pride parade that was the cause. I was surprised as I hadn't heard the parade mentioned at all otherwise. so I trudged on, on P street, passing an adorable under-5 baseball game that made me smile and clap enthusiastically, and eventually walked head on into the parade. It was an awesome sight, although the only topless people were male. rainbow flags all around, and clothing the semi-clad. motor vehicles blocked from before Dupont Circle to around Logan Circle, and the procession driving and marching by, welcomed by the city turned out in support, cheering and hooting. I caught a pack of candy and a flashy blue necklace too, ate and wore respectively, bought a bottle of water to survive and replenish all that salt and water coming out as sweat, smelt that weird combination of crowd sweat, and walked for 4 miles, circling the parade. Oh yeah, an african american teenager near Columbia Heights also yelled out an obscene comment at me (those rare instances in this country when I get these, when they probably mistake me for one of them, esp when my Indian eyes are masked behind my sunglasses). I ignored him, not because I was scared (as would be in India) but because he was a kid, and because I know by experience that the approach to Columbia Heights isn't one of those places where I expect chivalry.

all in all, an awesome walk in a beautiful city, that left my feet sore. but at least I came back to hubby cooking spaghetti with meatballs. totally worth it.

Character #2 (and #3)

how could he have known that civilian life would be so isolating. all those years of youth spent (wasted?) in the army had left him now the oldest student in his classes. he just did not identify himself as one of them. always, always felt left out. it wasn't as if they weren't friendly, and it wasn't only that he himself was quite an introvert - at first at least. it was inexplicable. he didn't share their joy at living from day to day, lacked their enthusiasm for company, conversation, hanging-out as they called it, thought them to be juvenile. in fact, their presence almost infuriated him. and often he felt superior, in an accusatory and defensive way, if you know what I mean. like you do sometimes when you feel like your past, very different from those around you, defines you, and separates you from others, especially if you feel the others have been fortunate in ways that you didn't have the fortune to be.

so he determined himself to just pass through college, get his degree, and wait for life to happen outside, among grown-ups like himself, maybe.

college was fun though, apart from the people. he was doing well in his major, computer science. and the compulsories weren't bad either. economics sometimes felt so futile and removed from real people and markets. and yet there were days where it would strike a chord with someone in class and start a discussion. or when he himself caught the instructor after class to just talk about the economics in the world outside. she wasn't much liked, he felt; not by the other students. she tried to create a hierarchy between herself and the students, probably more so cos she was so small in stature and needed something to separate herself; probably cos she was too young and from a different country and didn't know otherwise. whatever her purpose, she managed to create hostility if not heirarchy; something of a separation at least. but he didn't mind her. maybe because he felt like she was on his side, against these young foolish teenagers.

in fact, even after her course was over and forgotten, he kept bumping into her on campus. and then he saw a different her, a more open, relaxed and friendly person; a younger girl, almost. was it the confines of the classroom that brought out the devil in her? or was it that now that he had successfully completed her course, he was a little more her equal? she always remembered and recognized, and would ask about him beyond the mindless and numb 'how are you's of most people.

he did get his degree one day, a really happy day. and looked at himself in the mirror. he had already nearly gone bald. and his thick spectacles made him look scholarly way beyond his education. could he see in the mirror that most people found his eyes very shifty? that most of those who knew him would never remember what color his eyes were? he saw not a college graduate but a middle aged man, just as lost though as a juvenile young adult about his life ahead. for a minute he was suddenly seized by an urgent need to share this moment with others, to maybe go out drinking with back-slapping guys. but he hadn't made too many friends, none so intimate.

working life absorbed him, almost suddenly and completely. and then one saturday evening, tired of the television and the pizza that he had ordered and unable to think of anyone at work he wanted to spend some time with, he started racking his brain for memory of friends in the city. and then suddenly, he wrote an email to her. to reconnect and maybe get to know her. 'would she mind catching up? just getting to know each other. didn't have to be a date'. he thought about it, it shouldn't be a big deal or anything. he wasn't her student anymore, so no conflict of interest, etc. etc.

I have been reading the epic-sized novel 'A suitable boy' by Vikram Seth for months now. after owning it for a little over six years. it took great determination to start it, not because I did not want to read it - quite the opposite, but because I couldn't picture myself successfully finishing its 1350 or so pages. it is an amazing story though, that seems almost to take over and tell itself, creating images and emotions in the mind's eye, despite its long list of characters. its a good time too, to be reading this, as the world waits anxiously for Seth's sequel to it.

so I picked it up again today, anxious to get to more of the story, to work my way through this universe of people in newly independent India. and within minutes, after a slightly knit brow reading and wondering about the aftermath of the stampede and stabbings (by angry and trapped naga sadhus) in a suddenly stalled Pul Mela procession in the story, I put the heavy book down. there's this section in the story soon after the disaster, that describes the Indian condition and reaction (then and now) so well; I just had to pen it down:


"The newspapers, which had been consistently lauding the 'commendably high standard of the administrative arrangements' came down heavily on both the administration and the police. There were a great many explanations of what had happened. One theory was that a car which supported a float in the procession had overheated and stalled, and that this had started a chain reaction.

Another was that this car belonged not to a procession but to a VIP, and should never have been allowed on the Pul Mela sands in the first place, certainly not on the day of Jeth Purnima. The police, it was alleged, had no interest in pilgrims, only in high dignitaries. And high dignitaries had no interest in the people, only in the appurtenances of office. The Chief Minister had, it was true, made a moving statement to the press in response to the tragedy; but a banquet due to be held that same evening in Government House had not been cancelled. The Governor should at least have made up in discretion what he lacked in compassion.

A third said that the police should have cleared the path far ahead of the processions, and had failed to do so. Because of this lack of foresight the crowd at the bathing spots had been so dense that the sadhus had not been able to move forward. There had been bad coordination, poor communication, and under-staffing. The police had been manned by dictatorial but ineffectual junior officers in charge of groups of policemen from a large number of districts, a motley collection of men whom they did not know well and who were unresponsive to their orders. There had been less than a hundred constables and only two gazetted officers on duty on the bank, and only seven at the crucial juncture at the base of the ramp. The Superintendent of Police of the district had been nowhere in the vicinity of the Pul Mela at all.

A fourth account blamed the slippery condition of the ground after the previous night's storm for the large number of deaths, especially those that had taken place in the ditch on the edge of the ramp.

A fifth said that the administration should - when organizing the Mela in the first place - have used far more of the comparatively empty area on the northern shore of the Ganga for the various camps in order to relieve the predictably dangerous pressure on the southern shore.

A sixth blamed the nagas, and insisted that the criminally violent akharas should be disbanded forthwith or at any rate disallowed from all future Pul Melas.

A seventh blamed the 'faulty and haphazhard' training of the volunteers, whose loss of nerve and lack of experience precipitated the stampede.

An eighth blamed the national character.

Wherever the truth lay, if anywhere, everyone insisted on an Inquiry. The Brahmpur Chronicle demanded 'the appointment of a committee of experts chaired by a High Court Judge in order to investigate the causes of the ghastly tragedy and to prevent its recurrence'. The Advocates' Association and the District Bar Association criticized the government, in particular the Home Minister, and, in a strongly worded joint resolution, pronounced: 'Speed is of the essence. Let the axe fall where it will.'

A few days later it was announced in a Gazette Extraordinary that a Committee of Inquiry with broad terms of reference had been constituted, and that it had been requested to pursue its investigations with all due promptitude. "



Notice how the section is descriptive not only in its content, but also in its length - of just a page - describing accurately, the abrupt end of such post mortem discussion as it always happens in India, with a unanimous call for the capitalized 'Inquiry'. And the narrative of the story moves on, to other things.