Desicritics Category: Culture: Personal History

A Lesson Finally Learned

Purba — Thu, 18 Mar 2010 08:10:55 EDT

Once upon a time people bought gadgets that lasted them a lifetime, well almost. Refrigerators, television sets, we almost grew up with them. They did retire, hurt, once in a while but after a brief hospitalisation would resume duty without a murmur of protest.

Our first family car was a second hand, sky blue, Premier Padmini. It was tantrumy, would start at will and stop without warning causing distress, embarrassment and traffic jams. We had many a good Samaritan coming to our rescue, helping us out of sticky situations. Those days Delhi still had some nice people. When we finally sold it off, my Maa actually mourned for it. She loves mourning, animate inanimate notwithstanding.

Our first colour television, a Sony, lasted almost 25 years. Its images had become blurry, the controls cranky, but my parents refused to let go of it. They now have a 53 inch monster which conks off with alarming regularity.

Now that I have a household of my own to run, the gadgets have multiplied, look fancier, have mind boggling functions and come in daring colours. I can remove lint in a jiffy, colour my whites a ghastly orange in the washing machine and place my cup of tea on the warmer lest it get cold. I get cooled, warmed, entertained at the click of a button. But the life time bond is a thing of the past.

The Ray household does not acquire gadgets in haste. We follow a specific order. It starts with a thought. Yes, we need to upgrade our music system. Once the thought has germinated we nurture it. Sometimes we mull over it for over a year. The husband researches, compares and researches some more. We finally settle down for a state of the art music system. But the pleasure doesn’t even last a season. Within months a sleeker model with never-before-seen features makes a glitzy splash in the market, making our existing one look redundant. We start pondering again.

God forbid if any appliance conks off. I have been residing in Gurgaon for the last six years. Many errant appliances later, I can say with conviction that the millennium city has by far the worst technicians this side of the equator. But, the eternal optimist I am, I seldom learn from my past mistakes. I am always in the fond hope of an experience that will not be traumatic and have me close to a nervous breakdown. Every time it is the same sob story: a breakdown, frantic calls to the service centre, the reassurance that things will be taken care of in a jiffy (I wish they wouldn’t say that). It takes half a dozen trips by the technician, two dozen calls in varying decibel levels, threats, arguments, to finally get things back on track. By the end of it I have a hoarse throat and Rathore, Salim and Pandey jee in my speed dial list. Each ordeal later I sit and wonder, wouldn’t things have been much simpler if we had just dumped the damn thing and bought a newer model!

Ironically life is not meant to be simple, it gets insipid otherwise. We thrive on ordeals and challenges, we crib and we cope.

The spice came from unexpected quarters this time. My otherwise well behaved washing machine conked off after managing eight years of glitch free service. One freezing wintry morning, it let out a series of alarms and the heating function stopped working. Since it didn’t appear to be a major fault I decided to call the service centre and made the stupidest mistake of my life. To be fair the service engineer arrived promptly for diagnosing the problem. The circuit board needs to be replaced he announced. It will be fixed in an hour or two. Seven hours and a lot of chaos later it was discovered that the thermostat needed to be changed as well.

When you need something desperately it is always located in a far off city. This time it was Pondicherry. The thermostat finally did arrive after a week of reminders. Thank God, I can finally warm wash my laundry again, I mused. Famous last thoughts. Like King Bruce the technician kept trying to fix the apparently minor problem, and I kept rekindling my hopes. I would switch on the machine, a few minutes later the circuit board would get all hot and sultry and go up in smoke. My teeth had become blunt with all that gritting, my hair sparse from all that pulling. A second opinion was sought. It was discovered that we now needed a new thermistor as well.

A lot of heartburn and a few thousand rupees later our washing machine is finally working. It has become noisy, the heating element is temperamental. And here I am pondering yet again, would it not had been simpler had we just dumped the damn thing!

Last week our geyser started leaking again. I did not call the service centre, instead the husband dismantled it and we sold it to our scrap dealer for a princely amount of Rs 60. We have finally learned our lesson.

To My "Little Women"

Cee Kay — Tue, 9 Mar 2010 21:15:09 EST

Dear M and S,

Yesterday was International Women's day. I wanted to write this for you then, but better (a day) late than never, right?

You, my beautiful little ladies, are the reason your dad and I find each day worth living to our fullest. Before you came into our lives, we had no idea that we lacked something (or two special someones) in our lives. But now we cannot imagine not having you in our lives. I shudder at the thought of sending you to college. I will probably be the helicopter mom personified, literally hovering over your dormitories and classrooms. I have no qualms about embarrassing you, my darlings. See, that is what we are saving for - your respective therapies that will be needed just for the fact that you have been subjected to your dad and me :)

That apart, here is something I want you never to forget. You are going to grow up into beautiful, confident women. Your dad and I will make sure of that. The world and its uncle will try to tell you how a woman should behave, think, dress or live. Before they get to you, I want to imprint a few things on your minds.

1. You DON'T have to please everyone all the time. You DON'T have to please ANYONE at all, if you don't feel like it. Sure, nice people sometimes do some things for others that make them (others) feel good. I am all for such niceties. But remember - NEVER be forced into doing something, anything for someone if your heart, gut or mind says no. Listen to your "self". I am not condoning selfishness. I am just saying that do not give in to someone's "Good girls make sure their parents/husbands/boyfriends/friends/God/whoever are happy". Remember, a happy and contented self is much better than a happy anyone-else. But diplomacy sure does make life easier - remember that!

2. Stand up for yourself. Because no one else will, if you don't. Don't be bullied into doing something you don't want to. If you think what you are offering someone is reasonable and fair, it probably is. If they don't agree, negotiate. But DO. NOT. BE. BULLIED. INTO. SUBMISSION!! It is possible to be pleasant and yet stand your ground. At the same time, never be hesitant in unsheathing your claws when you have to. Sometimes you HAVE to show people what you are really made of in order for them to take you seriously.

3. Remember good men don't hit women. They don't terrorize women, humiliate them or coerce them into doing something they don't want to do. There are plenty of good men around. You DON'T have to settle for anyone less than "good". Not even for "good enough". It is better to spend life alone than to put up with an abuser just because "Good" didn't come along. Have the confidence to go on your way alone and I am sure you will find someone who is just right for you. Even if you don't, remember YOU are perfect for you! Remember how your dad loves and respects me. Always remember - you deserve such a partner too. Never settle for anything less.

4. Be financially independent. No matter how loving a husband/partner you have and even if you are well taken care of, make sure you have at least one UPDATED skill that can get you gainful employment whenever you need. You never know what curveball life will throw at you next year, next month or next moment. Be prepared. If you WANT to work, never let anyone tell you that good wives or mothers don't. Never let another person dictate whether or not you should work, or where for that matter. There is no blessing greater in this world than to be able to do what you want to do in life. And don't let any idealist tell you that working to "earn money" is inferior to any other goal. Don't let money be your be all, end all. But do make some money. You will realize a healthy bank balance brings along mental peace and allows you to focus on the more important things in life - like family. Don't undervalue money, but don't overvalue it either.

5. Take good care of yourselves. Take time out for yourself, no matter how crazy life is and no matter how many responsibilities you have. Even if you are with someone, make sure you take out time for YOU. Alone. Very important for your "self" AND for any relationship. Eat healthy, exercise, be active. Have some hobbies that take you outdoors and allow you to be physically active. Mental agility is good too. Try and strike the balance between the two.

6. Be cautious. In unknown locations, uncertain situations and around unknown people. ALWAYS be on your guard! Safety should be a habit, not a "hobby". I cannot stress this enough.

7. Learn everything there is to learn to survive AND to live comfortably. Learn what it takes to progress in your professional fields, learn to cook, to sew, to change a flat tire, change a light bulb, repair a fuse, fix a toilet. In short - anything that you might need to do one day. Or earn enough to be able to pay others to do all this for you. But I'd still say knowing how to do all these things is a good idea - then you will know if someone is trying to rip you off by charging, say, 50 bucks to fix a fuse.

8. Don't hold regrets and grudges. They poison minds, hearts and relationships. It is a difficult thing to learn. I am still learning it. But I hope you will do a better job of it than me. Talk things out. Don't let a little disagreement fester into a big one. Learn to apologize when it is your fault, but don't be apologetic all the time. Learn when to say "I understand you feel this way, but I think I am right".

9. Take a long time to make friends and even longer to end friendships. Remember it is hard to undo the hurt of a mean word or gesture. But also know when to let a relationship go. If it is preying on your mind and being, but going nowhere, you are probably best OUT of it than in.

10. Be competitive. Healthy competition builds character. Don't let the pacifists tell you that participation is good enough. Participation is good but winning, or trying to win, is better. I don't mean to tell you that your efforts are worthless if you don't win. What I mean to tell you is put in your 100% efforts and then some more. If you win, good, if not at least you know you tried your best.

11. Love each other unconditionally. A sister (sibling) is our first and ever lasting best friend. Sure you will have differences. Who doesn't? But learn to resolve those differences amicably. In the end, when your dad and I are gone, you will only have each other to lean on.

There! 11 things - one for each year that I have been a mother. There are many more things I want to tell you, teach you. More later!

From Ashes

IdeaSmith — Fri, 26 Feb 2010 09:11:32 EST

This is for Dee, the editor I'd like to have, who quite literally showed me the way.

~O~O~O~O~O~Where do stories come from? she wondered. Her editor had told her that her writing had a quality of finesse in it. But, he said, the spark was missing. She wanted to protest, it had been such an effort to get to here after all. But anticipating just that, he had moved his hand in a wiping gesture, as if trying to clear away a fog around her.

“It’s that madness, that raw energy that used to make one want to read. Bring that back. It’s you. Unleash it in your writing.”

She brooded over it for a long time, all through the book-browsing date and the high tea that followed. Then she decided to take a walk. Taking long walks and watching people and noting down what one saw seemed to be the right things for a writer to do. The sea had always held appeal. But somehow, the effort of crossing the road, dodging bratty rich kids in their oversized cars only to scrounge a garbage pile of people on the other side, for seating space…wasn’t an appealing thought at all.

The city is no place for an artist, she told herself. How was one supposed to be inspired by this relentless struggle? It didn’t even have the elements of drama like a war or a revolution or an uprising, a famine or a flood. It was just everyday, niggling grievances. Who would want to read about those? Who would want to write about those, she retorted inside her head. Then she shook herself. Arguing with oneself is the first step into insanity and she’d be damned if she was going to live up to that pathetic stereotype of a writer-gone-crazy before she was even published.

The girl hopped off the last bogey, the one that she had just managed to jump into as the train pulled out of the station. In one hand she clutched a little notepad and a magenta pen, her chosen colour for the day. She did have one thought that should be captured before it vanished into that abyss of forgotten inspiration. One hand holding down the page, she expertly popped off its lid with her mouth and twirled it around to cap its end with practiced efficiency. Rapidly she wove a messy magenta web over the ideas that had caused her to almost miss her train.

Mumbai Metaphors

I stood on the opposite side of the road that runs along the seaface. It was the wrong side, not the one that had the seating parapet along its entire length but the junction of the seaface road and the arterial conduit to the station terminus.

I stood under the tree that has survived attempts to build bigger and more buildings, broader roads and wider pedestrian walks. The same gnarled tree that stands on the side of the road like a senior citizen with memories of a slower, more human-paced city but no energy to brave the pace of today.

The sky was just turning that indefinable shade of evening like the colour of the last dregs of black tea in a chipped white saucer. Sepia, the colour of nostalgia, that one extra element that changes the picture of a dirty, overcrowded metropolis to the magical visage of home.

A rare wind was blowing all around me. February in the city picks you up as gently and playfully as the waves and takes you to the edge of the shore of winter. I felt like I was standing in the middle of a swimming pool, only it was filled with moving, insistent air around me instead of water.

When she looked up, she was standing at the threshold of light, surrounded by darkness. The very edge of a station, flowing slowly into light at the other end. A rusty carriage sat on incomplete tracks, a long discarded project of the metropolitan train network and peered at her through unpainted metal bars. On the other side, across the tracks and the other well-lit platform, high over their roofs rose the skeletal inner beams of discarded mills. Like a will being contested over the rotting body of a dead person, the future of the land they stood on was being dueled over, with no thought to the buildings that still were.

Places have memories, don’t they? Memories of lives that have passed, of habits that were housed under these roofs, hidden behind these walls. The paan-stains, the half-buried cigarette butts, sneaky but woeful reminders of escapes, of stolen glee. And then the finality of ashes that came from burning who knows what? Paper? Cloth? Oil? Human beings? There were stories that led to the ashes but there was no way to trace them back. This place had its endings but not all it was in ashes. Everything else was memories that could be traced by anyone who cared to listen, to pick up those strands and imagine where they led. They were stories to be told.

She looked down at her book again, an abrupt swooshing action. The white pages even with their magenta words glared back at her in defiance. Those words meant nothing and in her mind’s eye, she imagined the magenta whorls and lines slide off the pages. Blood, the only thing that would stick. Hold a pen to a nerve and write, he had said. So she turned a page and begun,

Something was burning.

The Blizzard of 2010

smallsquirrel — Wed, 10 Feb 2010 11:54:38 EST

I have not been out of the house since last Friday.

OK, so that is not exactly correct. I have gone to shovel out the car. I have helped neighbors shovel out their cars. And finally the other day we had to venture out and walk to the grocery store to stock up for round 2 of the storm. But honestly, I have not been able to get to work since last week, and there is little hope in sight of me reaching my office any time soon.

The entire Washington DC metropolitan area has been slammed with a winter storm that most people here have never seen in their lifetime. I grew up in a place much, much colder and snowier than this, so it doesn't faze me much. The problem with contending with the weather here is that the area is not suited for it. There are not enough snow plows, not enough salt and sand for the roads, and the infrastructure cannot handle it. There are literally thousands and thousands of people without power here. And while that might not be a huge deal for most desis, in the US when you do not have a generator and the snow is piled 4 feet high, having no power for more than an hour or two becomes a dire condition.

The other issue is that after 1-2 days, being stuck inside stops being quaint and starts being just plain annoying. There are only so many cups of hot chocolate with marshmallows and on-demand movies one can take in. I have cooked pots of chili, pans of cornbread, fluffy biscuits and lovely omelettes. We have had too many cups of tea (if there is such a thing), and every toy has been played with a million times over, in hundreds of permutations. Actually, the only plus of the snowstorm is that it has allowed us 6 days in a row during which we have almost completed potty training our daughter.

It would be nicer if we lived in the city. Last Saturday there was a snowball fight that drew crowds of thousands of bored people. My friends who live in the city are telling tales of lounging in quaint coffee shops and strolling down snowy and deserted streets. Me? I am looking out from our 3rd story balcony at white-out conditions and wishing that my daughter had a playmate that lived in walking distance. Hell, I wish I had a playmate within walking distance! (after being stuck in the house with one's spouse for a week, they no longer qualify. No offense, as I am sure he feels the same way.)

So there it is. I am going a bit mad. Time to make lunch and plan the afternoon's activities. Or maybe I will just relent and let my daughter watch Kung Fu Panda for the 4,000th time.

Oh Calcutta!

a traveller — Tue, 2 Feb 2010 04:34:10 EST

When friends, particularly non-Bengali ones, visit Calcutta, I'm usually filled with feelings of jealousy. But when they come back with tales of Park Street, the best continental or Italian restaurants in the city, partying nights, or having luchi-aloo at Oh Calcutta (!!), I invariably feel like they're talking of a city I've never been to.

In all the years I've been to Calcutta, I've visited Park Street exactly twice, and the promised visit to Flurry's has never yet happened. Calcutta for me has always been about relatives and my mother's college haunts. Visits there tend to get restricted to the same beloved places.

It's about the pavements of Gariahat and the maze that is New Market. The Sardarji at the purse shop who always smiles in recognition when he sees the mother, remembering vociferous arguments and long-drawn negotiations in the years gone by. The rolls at Bedouins, the jhal-muri at Nandan. Convincing my grandmother to skip cooking a heavy Bengali meal for one day at least so we can take her to the Chinese shop at the corner - which we enjoy far more than any 5-star restaurant my uncle wants to take us to; I get that from her. Strolls down College Street, and cutlets at Coffee House. The tram rides where my uncle insists I sit in the Ladies section of the compartment, away from him and the brother - even though we three are the only passengers in the compartment. Riding the metro to Esplanade simply to ride up the escalator and come down again - it was the only station with an escalator in those days. Stopping to pick up Ujjaler chanachur on the way to the airport or the station, with the father looking grimly at his watch.

Visiting my mother's numerous relatives, all of whom exclaim how much I look like their niece - even though my mirror tells me I take after my father. Speaking on the phone with the numerous relatives I haven't been able to meet - and hearing in great detail every ailment they and their spouses have had in the past year. Hearing my grandmother's neighbours yell at each other from corner of their house to another - all of which can be heard through the open walls between the two houses. Going to her neighbour's house to visit Doctor Dadu and Didu - the elderly couple who've been in that house for as long as I can remember and who always manage to make me feel so loved, even though there is no blood connection between us.

I love Calcutta, I do. But more than four days there, and I'm yearning to get away from all the questions. But those four days are usually a little piece of heaven.

My grandmother moved last year from the tiny little house she's lived in for nearly three decades to a high-rise building. I haven't visited her there yet, and in some ways I'm dreading it. Calcutta with no music coming in from the neighbour's houses in the morning and the evening? What is that like?

Do You Believe in Santa?

rads — Mon, 21 Dec 2009 08:44:16 EST

In my opinion, Religion is and should be personal. For the longest time, religion was confused and mingled with rituals, and I did not particularly care for the religious aspect of it, as I'd rather be left alone than to follow the numerous strictures and disciplines that the rituals dictated. I learned to separate the two after a bit of thinking and I vividly remember 9th grade summer being quite the enlightening one. Fortunately for me, I landed in a family that subscribed to my views to a large extent. Letting me be and decide what and how I treated God and allowed His presence into the family, was and will always be the grandest right given to me as a daughter-in-law.

I studied in a Catholic institution all the way. From Kindergarten (UKG) to 12th grade. I wore the same white uniform with red tie, white canvas shoes, and with red ribbons in my hair from 1st class to 12th class. All school mornings started with school assembly, prayers and all lunch breaks ended with "O Father in Heaven".

I have attended mass on many occasions while in high school (6th grade to 12th). The Chapel's 2nd bench on the right of the altar has felt all possible expressions a teenager could possibly feel. Kneeling at the pew numerous times to look up at the Holy Cross, I've spoken with God and imagined His comforting reciprocation that my imagination could dream up. I wonder sometimes if that's where my brain has synapsed all those dialogs and alleys of possibilities that I now use in my words all around? But, I digress, so my prayers pretty much followed either one of the paths:

Exams

Freedom

Not necessarily one relating to the other or following the other, but completely and mutually exclusive. I did rather well in my exams(for the amount of time I spent time with my class notes, I just paid attention in class and daydreamed the rest of the time), so there was no need to escape from them. Freedom from the binds, rules, regulations, customs, traditions and expectations. Sometimes even God is forced to give up and even He can't do much once we are born humans I suppose.

Oh well.

So, when I was asked the question "Do you believe in Santa? Or when did you stop believing in Santa?" I obviously couldn't really answer the question, since we never really celebrated Christmas, except for going to mass along with my other catholic friends at school. There was always the lone star that hung in my neighbor's front porch, and the carols that got broadcast over the TV and the PA system down the road.

The Holidays and Christmas took on a new meaning when I got my first 5 foot Christmas tree in a box at Brico in Brussels, in the cold rainy winter of '93. I spent all weekend setting it up in the apartment near the large life size windows that overlooked the street 3 floors below. Novel good times, extending to buy a gift for the husband while tracking the tram down and venturing out by myself armed with my rusty French vocabulary and the map. Europe is so much more beautiful, festive and commercial-free than US is when it comes to the holidays. The spirit truly touches and fills the unexpected stranger's heart.

My children knew at different times that Santa really doesn't exist in the sense that he may or may not exist, but surely the person who gets you the gifts are your parents/uncles/friends. Fortunately for me, and I am unclear at this point how or even if either the husband or I ever consciously went about directing the train of thought, but my children have never really been gift-greedy, or have craved or wanted any particular thing. No, it is not indifference or irreverence that I speak of, it is the subdued acceptance of whatever that comes their way. On occasion it has caused a bit of dilemma on what to get them, and we take our chances. As with chances, the probability has always been 50% and that has indeed been the case, wherein certain boxes are never really opened, and the kids themselves offer it to be given away to the charitable organizations that we support on a rotating basis.

However, somehow giving's always been easier, or more natural. What one has, one gives. Warm apple cider to the carolers, the box of brand new legos we don't use anymore, to hardly used woollen jackets, to the teachers who don't teach them anymore, and to the friends who are more family than family is.

To give something and see the person's face light up, in surprise, in happiness, even puzzled on occasion, but always pleasant, is receiving.

I had earlier written about "giving" and how it comes naturally to a few. Whether we do it because it's expected of us or because we want to give, the nature of the act is expansive in its reach. By giving, one touches the person's heart, in an intimate way that drives a special and singularly private conversation and bond between the two. What happens after is irrelevant, but at that moment, it is precious and sacred even. A graciousness that can heal as much as bring on a heady giddiness, changing perspectives on the possibilities out there, to create new ripples in a quiet mind.

I don't receive very much. I've stopped thinking about why or if am worthy of it. It didn't matter for a very long time, as I really have very few wants. It's been a herculean task to name something, when someone on teh rare occasion asks me "what do you want?" I am not sure if it's perceived as a sign of low desire, or of exaggerated independence, or even maybe a snobbishness. It is none of the above. Perhaps I am not used to being asked, maybe my brain cannot visualize into artifacts of whatever my desire is. I am not above it all, and am by no means a content Buddha. I am a raw human being, a full blooded woman, and a child at heart, full of unspoken wishes, wants, most of simple in nature and of low monetary value. It's the small things that create the happiest of moments. Yet, somehow, to verbalize them has been impossible.

I am a giver, and I give in a selfish way. The kind that gives me more pleasure and the only return I expect is for them to share the excitement with me. Friday saw me standing in line at the PO (automated center, what with the snowstorm holing us in for the full weekend) for an hour (there's a longer painful story) to pack a bag of Belgian chocolates, some boorelu and a sketch I drew. My only hope is that it is received with as much happiness as was put into it.

So when I signed up to do Filmi Secret Santa at Beth's, I was excited about the whole concept of playing the role of "secret santa". Needless to say, it didn't dawn on me that I was also going to be at the receiving end of another "secret santa", until I got a youtube video of a Belly-dancing number as a surprise! It took me by surprise and so strongly, that I laughed and laughed heartily. Since then, I have gotten 2 more little surprises (gifts) in my inbox, and I am thrown into hysterical happiness. They aren't grand or personal, but there is thought in them, and there is this excitement of getting a surprise that has taken me over!

Now I know, how it feels to be at the receiving end of surprises and little thoughtful gifts. It's addictive. The happiness, it's addictive. How fortunate the pampered are?!

So now you see, when someone asks me "do you believe in Santa?" - I am going to say - "Yes, I do".

Santa isn't this one jolly round old man from the North Pole, that's just a symbol. Santa's in each of us. I am a Santa to someone, and my Santa sends me little links and pictures, through an anonymous email id, and each of us have played the role of Santa to someone dear and someone far off, a stranger too.

At the end of the day, Santa is that embodiment of giving in each of us when we reach out to another. Whose Santa are you gonna be these holidays?

Bad News at My Doorstep - Surprises After a Target Shoot

Ruvy — Fri, 11 Dec 2009 08:26:50 EST

A couple of weeks ago, I got a call at night. The conversation was in Hebrew but since most of you reading are not familiar with the language....

"Ruvy?" The fellow sounded familiar, but I couldn't place him.

"Yes?" I waited.

"Ruvy, we have target practice scheduled for next week. You have a choice between Monday the 7th and Wednesday the 9th."

I sighed. I really didn't need this. The target practice was to make sure I could still carry the M16 I use on guard duty for the village - which is now, for me, the effort to stay awake in a patrol truck between 02:00 and 05:00 in the wee hours of the morning. If I didn't go, I wouldn't be able to carry the weapon or go on patrol, and another 250 shekels would be added to my monthly taxes to the village of Ma'ale Levona. When I get rich, I won't care. In the meantime, I go on patrol.

I turned all this over in my head. I was busy on Monday. I had a meeting in Jerusalem to try to figure out what my oldest son, who is leaving high school, would do next year. On Wednesday, we was supposed to be in the south of the country for "parents day" at the pre-military academy our younger son is attending.

"Nu, Ruvy? What should I put you down for? Monday or Wednesday?" The security officer of the village, Itzik, like most Israelis, was extremely impatient.

"What time does it start?" I asked him. "About 17:00 - like last time," he answered me. Last time, I waited for hours for the idiots to get started. A pig in molasses moves faster than the IDF when it comes to working with civilians. Even the Israel Police are more efficient!

"Where will it be?" I asked, half knowing the answer. "It'll be in the same place as last time! Where else will we have it?" he expostulated. "Nu? Which is it already? Monday or Wednesday?" he continued to press. And I continued to dither. "I'm busy both days, Itzik. You sure this will be in the late afternoon-evening?"

"Yes, yes, I'm sure!" Itzik answered, his very short fuse nearly running out on him.

"Alright, Itzik", I relented at last. "I have a meeting on Monday morning in Jerusalem at 10:00. I can probably catch the bus leaving from Jerusalem at 14:00. So put me down for Monday." On Sunday, I got a formal notice from the Security Officer of the village saying that I was registered to go on Monday to target practice, pursuant to our conversation the previous week - at 14:00. The notice said "transportation is you own responsibility."

On Monday, I went to the meeting with my son, and after some haggling, we agreed to register him with National Service, where he would do "volunteer" work in lieu of not serving in the IDF. We were to come to another meeting the next morning, where he would meet with a Jerusalem coordinator of the National Service. We took a bus to the Central Bus Station, from whence my son would go home, and I would take a different bus at 13:00 to the village to the mitv�H - the target practice. I still had no idea how I would get home to Ma'ale Levona.

I got off at the village specified, and walked around some, asking directions for where the target practice was held for villagers who had to do patrol. There was a kid walking around with the same puzzled "am-I-in-the-right-place?"expression I must have been wearing, and together we progressed to a large field, about the size of a soccer or rugby pitch. At one end of the field was a shelter against the wind and the rain, and at the other was a sign in Hebrew - 25 meters.

We had indeed arrived. It was the place where target practice was done. It looked like the place I had gone to last year, and there were spent shells on the field.

The kid sat himself down with a notebook, pencil and paper and started working on some school problem. I watched him absent-mindedly. I should have brought a notebook or book along myself, but I had been in too much of a hurry to catch the 7:30 bus with my son.

The kid sitting on the ground looked up at me, "at� m'dabér angl�t? "Do you speak English?"

Joy! Rapture! Of course I speak English! I wouldn't have to crack my jaws or stretch my poor overworked brain on Hebrew! "Yeah, I talk English," I answered him. The kid continued on in Hebrew.

"Can you help me with what I'm working on here? It's all in English, and I'm having trouble understanding..." I didn't waste time answering him. I walked over and took the paper from his hand and looked at it.

It was in English alright. But I didn't understand a single sentence. The kid was studying electrical engineering, and he wanted me to translate the problems he was working on. English I know. Electrical engineering? Forget about it! I didn't know the technical terms and couldn't translate most of them for him. I did translate one or two terms here and there and was about to give up altogether when I noticed a sheet of paper translating a whole series of terms from English to Hebrew. Like most Israelis, he hadn't bothered to look at the sheet.

I held the sheet in front of his face. "Use this!" I told him. "I don't know the technical terms, but this sheet will give you the help you asked me for."

I showed him the various terms he needed to know, and the vast majority of the terms he wanted were there. He returned to his book - and I returned to my ennui. A 6% solution of cocaine to inject in my veins would have been appropriate at that point.

We had arrived at 14:00 - the time specified on the sheet I had gotten in the mail - and still we were the only ones there. It was going on 15:00. I dialed up the Security Officer on my cell-phone.

"Nu, Itzik, where are you? Was this canceled after all?" I asked, glancing a the clouds that seemed to get heavier and heavier with each passing hour.

"I'm on the way," he answered. "Don't worry." Typical Israeli bluff and bravado.

By the time he had arrived a few minutes later, a whole bunch of others had also, so the first order of business was praying MinH�, the afternoon prayer. Then we waited some more. Suddenly a HUMVEE appeared with some soldiers in it. First it drove down to the far edge of the field, where some kids (soldiers) took out about 8 targets to shoot at, and set them in the ground. They left a whole series of small boxes at the corner. Ammo. Then the HUMVEE came by to the shelter and the same soldiers unloaded four small plastic items that unfolded to become long benches for us to sit on. Then, they took out a large table on which they set cakes, and a large container containing hot water. Teabags and coffee packets were also provided. You would have thought that this was a kidd�sh after synagogue on Shabb�t instead of target practice.

Itzik handed me an M16 and an empty clip. It is the standard banana clip that holds 30 5.56 mm bullets, the standard ammo of the M16 used here. It didn't register in my head immediately that the clip was empty. I checked the weapon to make sure there were no bullets in it.

A whole load of people who live in Ma'ale Levona had arrived, and I saw my possible ride - Barry. I didn't waste any time, and asked him if he had a spot in his car for me. He did! Suddenly, even though the clouds were descending lower and lower, the day was a lot brighter and sunnier for me. I would have a ride home!

The actual target practice was somewhat anti-climactic after all that waiting. There were two sessions - one where we shot 20 bullets standing, kneeling and prone, and a second session after dark where we shot ten bullets in any position we were comfortable in. It was beginning to rain when we shot at night, and I rushed through the routine and returned the weapon, and empty clip to the Security Officer and rushed onwards to see Barry already in his car ready to leave. It must have been 17:10 or 17:15 at night. A long day - and finally on the way home in the pouring rain in the Samarian mountains!

That is where the story should end. But it didn't end there.

Traveling up the road to Ma'ale Levona from Sinjil at 17:30 in the evening, the vehicle I was riding in was confronted with and the road blocked by two Israel Police vehicles. After some discussion, the police agreed to move the vehicles and allowed the vehicle I was riding in to pass. Traveling from there to the main road into the village, I could see a long line of traffic backed up on the main road. The following is reported live as dictated to my son, Shim'on, who typed this as I spoke.

At the entry road to Ma'ale Levona there is a tremendous road block. There are border guards in full combat gear, there are police, and Yassamnikim (SWAT team) in black. The main road into the village was blocked with stones and we ran over them at 17:40 this evening (7 December 2009). Fortunately the vehicle was not damaged. It is impossible to enter Ma'ale Levona at this second. The presence of police, military vehicles, and the stones in the road seem to indicate that there either is or has been a confrontation between forces of the state and the residents of Ma'ale Levona. This is confirmed by the presence of a large number of residents at the gate of the yish�v (village). A barrier of rocks is slowly being removed from the roadway and we are progressing home. Walking into the village, I was stopped by a kid who wanted to make sure I live here.

That is from the article I wrote for Blogcritics Magazine on the confrontation at Ma'ale Levona that had been taking place all afternoon while I was wasting my time at a damned target shoot!

Looking at the road leading to Ma'ale Levona I was wishing I had a laptop or notebook computer with a WiFi connection on it. I was staring at a news story, and was pissed off as all hell. Finally, it hit me to call up my son and dictate the basis of a newsflash to him, one that I could fix up when I got home and file. So I dialed him up, and Shim'on did me proud. He opened a Word document and typed what I told him to, and then typed in observations of his own.

When I got home, I sat down at the computer and began to work. There is no rest for the wicked.

Should The Girl Ask The Guy Out?

IdeaSmith — Mon, 7 Dec 2009 09:22:55 EST

It’s a question I posed to a mixed group of friends. The women were all united in their belief that it didn’t make sense to do so. Most men (and this is an opinion I share) aren’t used to the concept of someone else taking the romantic initiative. And even if there is the possibility of a relationship, their absolute bewilderment over the way the situation happens could very well ruin it. The male ego just doesn’t permit such a relationship, even if there is interest.

The only trouble is when a woman likes a guy, it’s a real pain in the ass to sit around waiting for him to ask her out. Ask any woman about the frustration of watching a guy eye you all evening, start to walk towards you and then stop and turn back. It’s an ARRRRGGGGGHH situation.

The men on the other hand were largely open to the idea. I was quite surprised to hear the things that some of them said,

“It would be really nice to have the girl take the initiative for a change.”

“Guys like compliments and receiving attention too.”

“I’m hopeless at setting up the whole romantic scenario. It would be so great if she’d take charge of that.”

And finally the clinching deal for their side was a male friend who had just announced that he was getting engaged.

“My fiancé proposed to me.”

Now honestly, I think it’s wise to try something out before passing a judgement on it. So yes, I have asked a guy out as well. Not once, several times. It was an enlightening experience.

For starters, it’s horribly nerve-tangling. The worrying about how to ask, where to go, what to do and what the other person will think of you. I felt a rush of sympathy for all the men who had summoned up the nerve to ever express an interest in me. It does take a lot of courage and planning.

The one thing that surprised me was how the entire effort consumed me. Like I told a friend,

“The thrill of the chase is something I could get used to. The not-knowing, even the slight panic…there’s a heady high attached to it.”

I must also add that being in the driving seat, so to speak, being the one bringing together the whole production somehow automatically switched me into a place of only thinking about the absolutely necessary. A friend of mine was goading me into taking things to a more serious level. I thought about it and I surprised myself by saying,

“When you ask someone for a commitment, you are also saying that you’re ready to commit yourself. I’m not sure yet if that’s the case. I just want to see where this goes for now.”

As I said it, I knew I sounded exactly like a guy. And yet, I wasn’t being commitment-phobic, I wasn’t planning on two-timing and I wasn’t ‘in it for the ride’. I really, honestly didn’t know where things were going and having taken up the responsibility to take it somewhere, I just wanted to take it slowly.

The one thing that stands out is that the person who takes the initiative is definitely setting himself (or herself) up for the possibility of rejection…but even more subtly he or she is saying yes to being in a place of uncertainty for at least some time.

Since I started telling a story, I should tell you the end. The man in question is involved with someone else, a fact that I discovered several weeks later and then too only on pushing him. That can happen. He says he wasn't sure if it was dates or just friendly meetings. What the truth is, is anyone's guess. Should one take the risk of being stood up or humiliated? There’s no answer to that, except that guys do it all the time (take the risk I mean, not just what this guy did).

As I see it, being the woman taking charge means one is playing an unusual role and there’s ample scope to be misunderstood. If the guy is a jerk, he could easily use the situation for maximum benefit and get a lot out of the girl without giving her anything back. But then again, falling in love is always a risk, every time, in every single situation. Besides the reverse is probably equally true, especially in today’s day and age. A woman can just as easily free-ride on a guy’s attentions and then walk away without a second thought.

So at the end I’m inclined to say that if you have the nerve for it, don’t let social norms stop you. If you’re a guy who agrees with what my male friends said, try not to be an ass or a jerk about it. In the long run, it’ll encourage more women to take the initiative and things will only get easier and pleasanter for you. If like me, you’re a woman who can’t stand to sit around looking pretty and waiting to be asked out, go right into the chase. Just keep your band-aids and chocolates and close friends about. Just in case.

My Looks Are Not Your Excuse

IdeaSmith — Sat, 5 Dec 2009 12:21:35 EST

I wasn’t a pretty child. Oily skin, stringy hair, gangly long limbs. Then puberty came along, and like a fairy godmother, bestowed me with a complete makeover. Suddenly I had the passport into BabeLand.

That was an eon ago, long enough anyway to make me wonder whether the fairy godmother was really a wicked witch in disguise…such is the two-sidedness of her gift. Let me explain.

~O~O~O~O~O~The love of my life was my dearest friend for many years. Then we got together and shortly afterwards broke up. It was a shattering experience and the final knife in my heart was his parting shot,

“Someday you’ll make some guy really happy…in bed.”

With that one statement he had reduced over six years of warmth and affection, of loyalty and empathy, of buried pride and caring gestures to something as frivolous and fleeting as my body. It still haunts me.

~O~O~O~O~O~Another time, my best friend who is one of those few people who was born beautiful, was at the receiving end of the attentions of a guy I knew well. She didn’t reciprocate and so didn’t bother prolonging the conversation with me. Later, I heard him complaining about what a frigid ice queen she was. I found myself chiding him with,

“You know that’s not true. I could never be friends with someone like that. She’s just reserved, that’s all.”

He shrugged and in a rare moment of honesty admitted,

“I suppose so. But no guy likes taking no for an answer. And if the girl is good-looking, it’s even more of incentive to bitch about what a cold creature she is.”

~O~O~O~O~O~I’ve had a chance to speak to someone I almost dated a few years ago. Almost I say because he ended it before it had begun, so to speak. Recently we got talking about the times back then. He said,

“I thought you were very attractive and I was tempted to give it a shot. But I knew it wouldn’t go anywhere so I decided not to. It wouldn’t have been fair on you.”

I always held him in high esteem and my regard for him grew even further after this conversation.

~O~O~O~O~O~For my final story, there’s someone else who I’ve gone out with a few times. I discovered that he is already in some sort of relationship. When I pushed him, he admitted to it. I was left in a quandary when he told me,

“I think you’re attractive. You are quite hot, you know. At least I didn’t kiss you or something.”

Yes, I am deeply grateful for that. But the fact remains that I am left feeling a tad humiliated as well as quite insulted.

~O~O~O~O~O~There’s a pattern I see in all of the above. Except for my wise never-boyfriend friend, all the other men have treated women as desirable objects, strong temptations. There’s a part of me, my vain, feminine side that basks in such glorious admiration. Unfortunately that’s only a part of me. I’m more than my face and my body and my sex appeal. What none of these men seem to have considered is that the woman, regardless of how hot she is, has actual emotions like any other human being. It seems basic but why don’t they get it?

A pretty face does not insulate you from being hurt. A great body does not protect you from feelings of rejection, abandonment and humiliation. My looks are not your excuse for bad behavior. And yet much of the bigger half of the population seems to think so.

Indian Hospitals: 3 Deaths, 24 Hours

Sumeet Trivedy — Wed, 2 Dec 2009 06:43:59 EST

I had a great Diwali vacation at my village Paikmal in Bargarh district of Orissa till Wednesday, October 21, 2009. Everything was going fine till my aunt called me in the evening around 16:00. I had to rush my uncle to hospital as he was very sick.

The doctor in my village asked us to take my uncle to a bigger and better Hospital. They suggested us to take him to Veer Surendra Sai Medical College Hospital ( VSS ), Burla. VSS is the biggest and most popular hospital of western Orissa.

We reached VSS around 23:30. We went to the causality ward and 2 young doctors came and checked my uncle and around 2 we moved him to the general ward. We requested for a cabin but we were told that we can not get one, as the senior didi (nurses in Orissa are called didi and this didi was in charge of cabins) will not be coming till morning next day. When we reached General ward, we saw the hall was overflowing with too many patients and attendants. It was difficult to recognize the patients from the attendants. It looked more like a railway platform than a general ward in Hospital. Forget about getting a bed there, it was impossible to walk on that Big hall. The stretcher guy who got us there asked us to spread the bed sheet in the floor. Yes, there was not even a bed for my uncle. I and one of my uncles protested, asking for a bed. We said that the patient was in a serious condition -- Can't a bed be provided? One didi angrily replied, "There are many patients in the hospital who are surviving on Oxygen and we do not have bed for them. Who are you?" That is it; I said to myself - Son, this is the condition of hospitals in our country.

I had never seen a dead body very closely before that night. That night I saw 2 and next day I saw one. I was sitting with my uncle, my father was sleeping on a table with 3-4 other attendants. My three uncles were sitting with my uncle, along with me. Two doctors came to bed behind us, checked the patient and covered his face with the bed sheet. A few minutes before one of my uncle had told me that the patient had taken his last breath. The son and the daughter-in-law of the patient took the dead body out of the ward. They came back to wake up the dead man's daughter who was sleeping. She did not understand what was going on. It seems they had not informed her about the tragedy. She gave a look to the bed where his father was being treated without finding him. She did not say a word but her eyes revealed that she knew what she had lost.

We were waiting for the night to pass. We all were very tired because of a long and tiring evening and night. We were heading out, frequently, for tea and bread in order to stay awake and energized. The hospital canteen was not open in the midnight. There was a small tea shop near the hospital gate and it was more than one mile from our ward. The person who was in charge of the hospital stretcher came to general ward to lift another dead body. The relatives of the dead person requested the stretcher guy to wait for few minutes as they were packing their belongings. The stretcher guy responded, rudely, "Make it fast, I have to go and pick up other bodies". He said, in an hour he picks around five bodies and he cannot wait even for few minutes. I realized that there is no sympathy for you even if you had lost a dear one.

It was early on the morning and our eyes were red like blood. My uncle finally got a bed, the one where the first patient had died. We asked for a bed sheet to one of the Didi because the one in which my uncle was sleeping was not in good shape. The Didi replied, "Why you can't use the one we gave you last night". We showed her the bed sheet and then after some buttering she gave us a clean bed sheet. Just when we were shifting my uncle to bed, a very sick patient came. The patient was very old and sick. He was in such a bad shape that you could easily count number of bones on his chest. He was nothing more than a skeleton. The instance we saw him, we knew he is not going to survive more than few hours or even minutes. As it happened to us and many more patient there was no bed for even that dying patient. It seemed he was suffering from heart attack. The doctors came and gave him shock treatment. They put him on drip and left. After sometimes, I saw him and I knew he was not breathing anymore. I knew he was dead but I could not find a way to tell his relatives about this tragedy. But to our surprise the patient's relatives were not aware of the same and they were trying everything possible to keep him alive. The doctors were coming and going but the relatives of the dead person did not bother them. The patient was dead and lying there for hours. I was attending my uncle in the afternoon with others. At that moment one of the most surprising things happened to me. I was very tired to keep my eyes open. Even a death body so near to me could not stop me from closing my eyes. After 4-5 hours of death of the patient one of the doctors came. Immediately he knew the patient is no more. He did CPR, knowing it won't help. He declared the patient dead.

I realized the conditions of our hospitals that day. Yet, I do not know how we all can improve the condition in hospital or even what our dear politician can do for this. That day I realized while we were busy in our day to day life there are people dying of disease.