Chivalry is a big word

This post is not intended to be inspired by arrogance. In case it may seem so, I offer my deep apologies for the same.

When I returned after living ‘outside’ for over a year, I felt myself feel a paradox around the idea of chivalrous men. 

Men, in general, hold the door for you: and this, whether or not they know you, whether or not you are the center of their date night, whether or not they want to impress you. It just seems like the right thing to do and they do it. Their gesture makes you feel warm inside, and you smile with a twinkle in your eye. 

A similar thing happened to me this evening, when I went I was leaving a local eatery and the man who was entering at the same time, decided to hold the door for me and my mother. I smiled at him with the same twinkle-in-my-eye expression and was about to say ‘thank you’ until he exclaimed he was not the security guard! Oh well! I thought I was just returning the courtesy! 

When I was ‘there’, I often noticed men taking the passenger seat in a car to let the women drive. Whether the woman was his wife, girlfriend, mother, friend or colleague is an analysis for another day. But there didn’t seem to be much attention to the sex of the person behind the wheel. ‘Here’, even some of my male friends pass a derogatory remark when they see a girl driving the vehicle. At the end of the day, its an operating machine which needs to be ‘manned’.

When I was ‘there’, it was most polite, decent and commonplace for the men of the house to trash the day’s garbage in the unit’s garbage room , at the end of everyday. Here, if my mother was to tell my father this (I don’t think she would!) my grandparents’ generation might throw a major fit. Well, if you ask me, its a bag of waste which was gathered from collective use and who throws it is not relevant because its not like the germs differ their contaminating powers based on race and gender. 

Today, I’ve touched the one month mark of being back in my city of birth, and I still notice points of differences everyday. These are questions that I didn't raise in the first 20 years of my life because I didn't think there was another side to this coin. It was only when I dropped the coin and it landed on the other side, did I realize that there is more to this than meets the eye! 

The brain is striving to keep pace

I clicked on the link I had carefully saved in the Drafts of my mailbox. Google popped up a message which requested me to request access for the map I was trying to log on to. This was a map I had created myself, just a couple of hours ago and I didn't expect Google to let me down on this one! I had authored the map, carefully drafted the .csv file and plotted the geo coordinates with utmost care. I had even ensured that I wouldn’t lose the link in the historical data of my browser because I knew it was well past half day and my browsing history would seem longer than the longest suspense thriller story. 

Well then, was Google erring somewhere? 

Even writing out the above question seems like a crime to me, let alone believing that the know-it-all engine could be wrong. What had happened was: the map was created on my personal Gmail ID and I was now using the link while being logged on to my official Gmail. As simple as it sounds, it took over twenty minutes for me to realize the difference in the profile icon - a photo of myself, which smiled back at me from the top right corner of my screen. 

This is how I spend my days: staring at the laptop screen, typing and clicking various things, opening and shutting tabs, shutting and opening windows, restoring and refreshing files, reinstalling and downloading Apps. That is my typical day. After having been at this for a while now, it seems as if my mind works faster than the internet: no matter where I am connected. I feel as if I am living in a constant dejavu: my thoughts always few steps ahead of my actions, ideas evolving faster than my fingers clicking at the soft keys of my laptop. It feels as if I could do that while this would load, and this while that is restored. Such is the cycle of activity which goes one for any person who decides to spend the rest of their life with the laptop. 

We all multi-task. We might be good, bad, ugly at it. Nonetheless, we all do it. The brain, I think, is not equipped to do one thing at a time. If it was meant to be so,technology has changed it. The way I look at it: people like Steve Jobs and Mark Zuckerberg (and other lesser popular ones of the same league) gave more and more power to technology and the brain, in a bid to outdo the competition has also evolved with time. After all, we are taught in junior school that the brain is faster than the fastest machine and better than the best tools. 

Therefore, its not directly a Google v/s Brain generation but the brain is still striving to keep pace and retain its lead. Let’s hope it succeeds. 

Missy to Mbak

When I first came to this big city in a large archipelago, people called me ‘Missy’ . Now, its been over a year, and they use ‘Mbak when they address me. In translation: Missy and Mbak are about as different as ‘a young girl’ and ‘a lady’. 

That’s what this place has done to me. 

When I packed my bags and made my way here over a year ago, I hadn’t expected my stay to be a year long. What I had not expected even more, is for this place to affect me the way it has. I have learnt a whole lot of life lessons: some grave and some petty ones. My learnings have ranged from knowing when to raise my voice to assert myself to developing the trick of chasing lizards away. 

In due course of time, I realized various aspects about myself which I would have otherwise never known. I am OCD about keeping things in place, and keeping my house clean. I like to cook for myself, by myself and I experiment with recipes. I love Mexican food and sometimes even more than Indian dishes. I like typical Bollywood music, and my favorite song(s) play on repeat for days at length. Even my taste in books can pronounce me as a hopeless romantic. I like traveling, but I panic if you put me on a last minute schedule. When my head hits the pillow, the following day’s to-do’s jog around in my mind but the next morning I snooze the alarm at least five times until I finally get started. I use an old oregano container for holding my tooth-brush, and I sometimes forget to store peanuts and chips in air-tight containers. I leave my clothes in the balcony for just the right amount of time, lest they get dirty again due to the pollution.I change and wash my bed linen every weekend. I like to eat and drink alone. I don’t think its a sign of depression: its just quality time you spend with yourself. I have found my favorites in lotions and creams, herbs and spices; figured that my favorite pieces of garments are scarves and socks and even realized that I cry easily when I am alone. 

I have learnt, figured out and realized all these aspects about myself when I stepped out from ‘Joy’ into Jakarta, and created memories which are dearly tagged #jakartajoys on my social media. The hashtag, I realize now: is the perfect amalgamation between where I came from- the City of Joy, and where I came to. It makes much more sense now, on retrospect. 

As I pack to leave this place and go back to where I belong, I feel a slight pull in my heart for what I have shared with this not-so-foreign city. They say you pick up survival strategies when you live outside home. I think mine were more than just survival. I enjoy keeping lists  and if I were to list out the odd habits I have picked up here, I think collecting tissues and coasters would top it all. I am not sure when the habit started, or from which restaurant specifically but I think I did it because that is my favorite pastime: eating out. I will easily be the most unhealthy person you have seen around, and when I eat I don’t give a dime about the effect caused by all the cheese, chillies and chips, dressings, drinks and dips. I have tissues from most diners that I have visited. Trust me, the pile of tissues I am carrying back home does not fit into one, single envelope. If I am searched at Customs, I’m not sure they will believe me when I give them my reasons. In fact I am not even sure what I will do with all these tissues that I take back! 

I have made friends who have seen me grow tremendously. If God uses technology and fancy diagrams to record each person’s life, the graph of my growth will be most steep over the last one year. Most of my friends are from my workplace. They are the coolest set of people you will meet in this city. Each of them is different from another. Yet, how we manage to spend several hours together in one peaceful room, is a mystery to us all. During my time away, I explored the option of meeting strangers and took the safe way out when I used www.meetup.com.  It helped, and worked partially towards adding to my local network. I found myself at nearby islands on three weekends in the last one year and I think this specific piece of statistical information says a lot about who I am. Nonetheless, they were fun trips that can plot nice memories on my graph of life. 

As I bid adieu to this city, I look back at the past year well-spent and I can literally scroll through the moments in my mind. I can remember the times I have strived for vegetarian food in this all-eating place. I recall the various instances when I picked up the local language to make my point and I also reminisce the times when I got the translation completely wrong! As I head back, I hope I don't continue to use the Bahasa word for Thank You. (If I do say "Terima Kasih" in thanking someone, I hope I say both the words in unison!)

This is an ode to this city that will always be the city of my youth: to the times well spent, the hard lessons learnt, the well-served food at fancy bistros and the polite conversations struck in every BlueBird! To all the friends, I met here: I will see you, when I see you! :D 

Pinterest

If you could get inside my head and see my thoughts, you’d easily nominate me for the crazy person of the year award. I am OCD as far as cleanliness goes, and planning is a hobby. I plan everything. If you would snoop around on my phone, you would find an App dedicated to making lists. I make lists for things I want to carry to and from India. There are lists for things I plan to cook over the weekend, lists for e-mails that are due to be written, a check-list of to-dos and reminders and of course, then there are grocery lists too. Above all this, my favourite: is my list of dreams. That is the one which brings a big, broad smile on my face and the one which provides the sparkle in my eyes.

Much of the items on this list are inspired/ stolen/ copied/ adapted from Pinterest. Pinterest is a favourite past-time of mine. If you’re not familiar with what it is you’re denying your brains some beautiful visual sense of serenity, peace, appeal and pleasure.

When I spend my hours on Pinterest, I find myself thinking I could be a far more interesting person than I am. I promise to buy myself certain specific outfits and accessories to look as pretty as those pictures. I copy paste recipes from here onto Springboard (my lists’ special agent) and I try out those fancy dishes over the weekend. I have tried my hand at a specific smoothie involving ingredients such as green apples and dates. I make myself fancy sandwiches because the regular butter and greens is too main-stream for my Pinterest-oriented mind. Sometimes, when I go shopping I don’t try out an outfit because it will not give me good pictures. That’s how my brain functions.

I am a 21^st century Pinterest kid! (er, adult!) 

Rape of a 6 year old

It is 1 AM in my part of the world, and I can't sleep. I have had a very long day owing to major changes at my workplace, and from my track record I can drop dead at the earliest possible instant after days like the one I had today.

However, what's kept my sleep away for the last two hours is actually the thought of the Bangalore rape case that I read about, this afternoon.

I just cannot get over it. I read it on Twitter amidst the hustle and bustle of various tabs open on my Google Chrome. But when I read the tweet by Times Now, my heart sank more than just a little. 

What is it that can 'attract' the sports teachers to a 6 year old! She would probably bend down to tie her shoe laces, and her frock would flicker around a little. How can a man be attracted to a girl that small, in as pervert a manner as this? How is it that when they're at it, conscience or guilt doesn't prick them? What happens to that idea of: having to pay penance, on which our religion resides?  How can one even get to the point of unzipping his fly before the little baby: who has seen so little of the world and even lesser creeps? 

Sitting in a further Eastern part of the world, in another country; I am dazed to this minute. Bangalore is a city, I have never visited and have no personal connections with the place. Even then; to know that such people exist somewhere, doing some crap or the other is a feeling that I cannot bear. 

When I shut my eyes and try to sleep, I am forced to think about just HOW that girl will grow up. I am not sure what goes behind this. It could possibly not be karma. If its destiny, then clearly we have crossed wires here. What this really IS about: is the failure of the race of a bunch of retards. A perverted bunch of sexed out creeps and one-tracked creatures who need to head back 'up there' to face the music now.

Today, for the first time I heard myself say that, I don't want to go back to this ravenous state of affairs. i don't want to go back home. Home is where the feeling of safe is.

We, who take pride in our Indian culture, heritage, history and past are reacting to this crass and cruel act with a mild protest outside the school. This is what happens in the land of Kamasutra: Men are born with their heads between their balls, and women are taught to deal with it from the minute they're conceived ! 

Foodie's Eyes

You come to a new city and you look out for touristy places. And then, you spend 10-12 hours a day looking at the city's 'restaurant oriented' data. You spend half your time dissecting the city into parts that would classify it in this way or that. You look at it like a lush green park, and wonder where to begin your morning run. Your efforts go into making restaurants' data collection do-able, possible, approachable and all the other adjectives that fit within this bracket! 

Gradually, you look at the city only through those eyes. People tell you "Oh! There is a pretty museum in XX area." And you reply saying, "Yeah we can go there some day and eat at the Spanish restaurant around that corner."

When you're charting maps and directions in your head to figure out the best route, your brains map is not the usual Google image. Your image of the map has tortillas and tacos at the crossings, pizzas and pastas at the turns and you missed the burgers and fries just 'cuz your destination led you to the left! 

That's what makes you a true blue foodie: The analysis of a city based on its restaurant density. You only think of fancy restaurants when people ask you what are the tourist places to visit in your city. People may expect to hear exotic locations when they ask, "Where are you going during this long weekend?" You come up with a long list of restaurants covering all your favourite cuisines, cutting across the length and breadth of the city; and all of those seem to make a better plan than a white sand, virgin beach somewhere afar. 

What do you see at your next turn? Is it puffs or rolls or the place that serves the yummiest Chinese food, you've ever had! 

Put on your food-lens and explore! 

An everyday ride in Jakarta

Every morning, I walk across the street from my building to take the mini-van that brings me to my work place. This mini-van, called an Angkot in the local language in Jakarta, is one among the few modes of public transport that this city offers. I hail one of these light blue coloured vans, and try to get on to it. There are days when it is empty, and then there are days when it is so full that one man is hanging off the door-less entrance. I think such transport systems are very typical to this part of the world. There is no dearth of similar sights back home, in India.

The sometimes-empty-sometimes-full nature of the Angkot seldom has a fixed pattern. It is not like I can step out of my house and assume that it is 8:15 and therefore it will be full. Nor can I tell myself that since it’s raining, it will be empty. There is no predictable pattern, whatsoever! And that makes the choice between a cab and an angkot even harder, everyday.

Nonetheless, I prefer the angkot over taxis. I choose to forego the air-conditioned comfort of the taxis, the smooth leather seats of the Blue Bird cars to enjoy my morning moments of people watching. (If you have ever been to Indonesia, you will know that people swear by Blue Bird as the safest company running the maximum number of taxis here)

The angkot, bigger than an Ambassador taxi in Kolkata, and smaller than a mini-bus: can ferry exactly 13 people at a time. They huddle on, to go in the same direction as their fellow travellers and soon find their spots to get off and along. It’s no fancy ride- no luxurious leg room, not enough room for your bags if you don’t want to rest it on your lap and if you’re sitting on the far end, the sun will shine down brightly on you. You may or may not like that but you will surely be happy to see how peacefully the group traverses the distance. People seldom know each other, though sometimes you notice acquaintances exchange niceties. Smiles come easily, and so do frowns. You will see groggy eyes, scarred faces concealing a story, dishevelled hair and then you will see people smiling into their phones, lost in thought or even catching a quick nap in the evening traffic. That’s the nature of any crowd, after all: diverse yet united, lost and unknown, oblivious yet careful in their own ways.

I enjoy people watching. On this ride, I do not get lost in conversation with my friends and colleagues. I look around; catch a glimpse of the young girl struggling to sit uptight in her skirt, the man who decides to give his eyes some rest, with his spectacles resting lightly on his long nose. I don’t peek into people’s phones but while they’re at it, I can’t help but notice their updates on Instagram, Path and Twitter. Every small detail goes up on News Feeds these days. Sometimes people are putting up pictures of the traffic.

I’ve had my own set of memorable experiences on these journeys. There were times when a girl in a bright yellow dress, was not comfortable and chose to sit close to the entrance. The driver wanted her to shift further in because she was giving his potential passengers the impression that the van was full. She couldn’t shift in, and therefore she simply got off, to avoid causing trouble for the driver.  There was a time when I thought I could read in the van on my way back and the dim light from the single lamp in the far end did not allow me to indulge in the murder mystery. When I shut the book sighing from my failed attempt, I raised my head to smiling faces. I realized they noticed how naive I was, in this simple act of ignorance. Then, there have been days when I have skipped the ride to evade traffic and walked the 2 kilometre distance back home instead. While on the vehicle, I’ve had my own share of feet being stamped by pointed heels, boxes of non-vegetarian food emulating a fishy smell and then there was one specific instance of translations gone utterly wrong:

My stop to get off the angkot, on my way home is actually at the start of a bridge. In Bahasa, the word for bridge is “Jimbatan” So, by way of urging the driver to stop at the spot, I need to call out to him saying “Jimbatan, Mus” and he will stop. However, for the longest time since I was here, I kept calling out to him saying, “Jambutan, Mus” There were times when he would smile back at me and nod his head disapprovingly. Sometimes fellow passengers would repeat the phrase for me in case the driver didn’t hear. At that time, I didn’t pay much heed to the difference caused by the few letters in a syllable or two. I was an expat and people were looking at me like that, smiling at me and even exchanging funny glances. I passed off all of that, assuming that it was probably because I was not a local. Until one day; a local colleague of mine accompanied me on the ride back home and laughed until her stomach hurt when she heard me use the word: Jambutan.

Jambutan means vaginal hair.