On identity

Tags

identity, Indian identity, nationalism

Listening to this podcast, I was transported to my childhood, to a geography of bakeries – of freshly baked bread that earned my community the moniker ‘macapao’ to more hybrid offerings – springs rolls doused in crimson Szechwan sauce that no one in the Sichuan I visited this summer would recognise and the most perfect salted wafers. More than the food, it was the cadence of speech that called to me in the podcast, the tangential telling of stories, the “I tell you” and “men’.

As I ponder the question of belonging and the irrelevance of nationalism except for the most prosaic and political purposes, I realise that, new yuppie cafes and restobars notwithstanding, it is this corner of the world, this suburb where even the grocer spoke to us in English, is where I can claim to somehow forever belong to. At heart, I am a citizen of Bandra.

***

I sent a message about dance classes for the children to the wrong member of the Indian ladiz whatsapp group of my estate.

“Who is this?” she asked.

“C, from the Indian whatsapp group,” I replied.

“C is not an Indian name. Are you Indian?”

“Yes.”

“But were you born in Hong Kong.?”

“No.”

“Which tower do you live in?” As if I would fake being Indian to be a member of this whatsapp group.

Isn’t it curious how the people who demand patriotism from minorities never also fail to other us?

***

“Where are you from?” My children are asked.

“Hong Kong.”

“No where are you really from?”

They name the suburb of Hong Kong we live in.

My children’s geography of taste is also different. When they are in India, they tire of the local food and ask grandma, “can we get siu mai?”

***

I read that Portugal is one of the few European countries soliciting migrants.

“Hmmm, maybe I should apply, then at least I don’t have to explain my name.”

“Who do you have to explain your name to?” my Indian colleague asks in surprise.

I roll my eyes. The idea of India has grown smaller and smaller.

***

I listen to this podcast and learn that middle-class Muslims in India are thinking twice about giving their children Muslim names to avoid the inevitable bullying on the playground.

This is what we have come to.

***

Hong Kong was where I lost both my religion and nationalism (nationalism to my mind is a kind of religion in the “opiate of the masses” sense anyway). I recall reading about an artist who was invited to participate in the national pavilion of another country and her saying that she accepted the invitation expressly because it was not linked to national boundaries (I believe it was Dayanita Singh at the German pavilion of the 2013 Venice Bienale but I can’t be sure). I remember thinking that this was a sensibility I aspire to, even as I struggle not to root for countries at the Olympics and World Cup.

Five years ago, I wrote about how my sense of nationalism has faded. What has changed since then or while my affinity to the idea of the nation has eroded, ironically at a time when the idea of Hong Kong nationalism has been floated, my sense of belonging to certain places, my safe places – one dot in the corner of India’s west coast and one dot on China’s southern coast – has solidified.

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Staying alone

The irony if part-time teaching is that while the husband with a full-time job could take off for a two week vacation without much thought, I couldn’t swing that much leave. For one, I had an exam to invigilate and grading to do so I couldn’t take off early. And if I was teaching the next semester, I’d have to prep for that so I needed to be back early.

Not that I was gutted about this in practice. This is the first year in which going to India did not seem to matter as much as it used to. I want to see my parents, but I don’t need to see them in India anymore. Ditto to friends, most of whom are not in India anymore anyway. I feel a sense of detachment, which has been my general state of being for about six months, exacerbated by the stress of the past few months. But I think also that my rootedness in Hong Kong has grown to the extent that I feel a certain detachment from India itself. Of course, there is a connection that can never be severed with the place one grew up, but it has become that to me, a past.

So I bid farewell to the kids, my helper E and V as they left for India five days before me. I have to say that I had not been dreading this moment. For one, I had a ton to do. But also I was looking forward to the peace and quiet. It wouldn’t be an entirely empty house as our helper J was staying back. But basically, I’d be left to my own devices.

For a person, who a decade ago learnt to dread solitude due to a stint of too much of it, I’ve come full circle. I found that the stretches of time empty of much human company initially a bit weird and, then, nice.

I did have a social life and I could order it as I pleased. The night everyone left I met a couple of friends for dinner and drinks. One of them told me I was free to join her and other people for dinner the next night, but I wasn’t really keen. As it happened, someone else asked me to dinner, but had they not, I would have been fine. The next night, I caught the latest Star Wars flick after a traipse around the mall (and discovering to my horror that Gap and Mango had disappeared from their usual spots) and a quick bowl of noodles for dinner. I’ve long ceased to see a movie as a social event, because really you can’t interact during  a movie so what’s the point in company in a situation in which safety in numbers doesn’t apply? One day, I had lunch with a friend who I owed a lunch treat.

I found time to exercise. V joked that I was making a last ditch attempt to get in shape before India and part of that was true, but basically, I finally had the time. The thing with kids (and husband) being around is that the time I have to work is unpredictable. Anything could and would come up and disrupt my plans, not to mention the general claims on my attention. Now, I blank days to order as I wished.

I also gained control of the TV remote and watched a programme of my choice on the TV after ages. Season 2 of The Crown if you must know.

I cooked! Mixed results, but an improvement overall. Stuffed mushrooms with garlic bread that was lip-smacking if I may say so myself. An Indianized version of Thai curry that was not. And a pasta with marinara sauce out of a bottle, but I added accoutrements that made all the difference. So I can indeed survive on a desert island.

I did miss the kids, but mostly, it was a revelation how I enjoy being on my own. This is a big change for me, one that I’ve been sensing but that has not really been confirmed till now. Again, I do make plans with people, but I know that the silence does not spook me anymore like it used to.

 

 

 

Home can be two

10 March is Tibetan National Uprising day. A friend posted this poem on Facebook:

The Tibetan in Mumbai
is not a foreigner.

He is a cook
at a Chinese takeaway.
They think he is Chinese
run away from Beijing.

He sells sweaters in summer
in the shade of the Parel Bridge.
They think he is some retired Bahadur.

The Tibetan in Mumbai
abuses in Bambaya Hindi,
with a slight Tibetan accent
and during vocabulary emergencies
he naturally runs into Tibetan.
That’s when the Parsis laugh.

The Tibetan in Mumbai
likes to flip through the MID-DAY,
loves FM, but doesn’t expect
a Tibetan song.

He catches the bus at a signal,
jumps into a running train,
walks into a long dark gully
and nestles in his kholi.

He gets angry
when they laugh at him
“ching-chong-ping-pong”.

The Tibetan in Mumbai
is now tired,
wants some sleep and a dream.
On the 11pm Virar Fast,
he goes to the Himalayas.
The 8.05am Fast Local
brings him back to Churchgate
into the Metro: a New Empire.

— Tenzin Tsundue

It’s a reminder of the alienation that exiles feel. And the complicity of ‘locals’ in that.

Strangely, when I read the poem, my dominant feeling was homesickness. [And I fully recognize here that there is no parity between my homesickness and that of the Tibetan in exile. My homesickness is marked by the transnational privilege to return – home for me is a just a flight away, an expensive one that precludes frequent returns, but the possibility is open.]

There was a time when this homesickeness would trouble me, not for the fact of it, but because when I moved to Hong Kong, I felt the need to pick a side. And after five years in Hong Kong I picked Hong Kong. The end. Or so I thought.

Last month, I gave a lecture on Salman Rushdie’s essay Imaginary Homelands, in which he talks about writing in the diaspora. I reflected on an incident that happened when I was in Bombay in December. Or rather, as I was leaving Bombay. As the plane was taking off, I pointed out the city spread out below us to Nene who was peering out of the airplane window. Suddenly, I trailed off. V, who was sitting in the row behind us, poked me and whispered, “Are you crying?” And I realised that I was. Ten years after leaving Bombay, I realised that some roots are never severed. Something is always left behind.

I have finally realised that home can be two or more places. On does not have to pick a side. When I leave Hong Kong, there will be a part of me that will keen for it. I have put down roots here too. My ties to Bombay are the ties of birth, the ties of familiarity, of blending in, of roads that can be navigated unconsciously. My ties to Hong Kong are the comfort of safety and ease, the exhileration of the aesthetic beauty of the skyline and the buzz of the international, the jolt of the strange, and the nostalgia of the early years of marriage and learning to be an adult. If Bombay is family, Hong Kong is a friend.

I lived two years in Hyderabad too. I should have put down roots there. But I didn’t. The city didn’t take to me and I to it. I fled every opportunity I could, and when I had no reason to be there any longer, I packed my things and never looked back.

 

 

 

Did I have an arranged marriage?

Okay so this is somewhat facetious. So take it with a pinch of salt and hear me out.

I just read this book Hitched, about women in India and arranged marriages. It’s a topic I’ve been intrigued by, because till quite recently no one in my immediate family or friends circle had had one to my knowledge.* The whole idea of meeting someone briefly and getting married based on barebone facts made me very curious, and okay, uneasy. I wondered how it worked, and why educated, modern women continue to (sometimes) choose this route. As my friends and I hit our mid-20s, I saw more people in my immediate circle flirt with the arranged system but no one I knew went the whole hog, so I only got the most superficial glimpse.

The book is a series of interviews with women about their arranged marriage, mostly the whys and wherefores. I enjoyed it because I enjoy listening to jab we met stories. As expected, even though all were arranged marriages, each one was different. And yet, there were some commonalities:

1. It seems that 23 is the golden age at which the hunt begins, possibly so that the “girl” will be married by 25?
2. Many met in person only a couple of times before the engagement, and only after that did they meet more often, and were married within a year. In between, there were conversations on the phone or on chat/email.
3. They usually moved to the husband’s place, if not his parent’s home, when married. Though there were refreshing exceptions, I’m speaking in generalities here.
4. They selected their spouse based on instinct, a general sense of how he felt right.

When I was telling V about the book, and mentioned point 1, he said, “oh that’s like you.” And that got me thinking.

I met V when I was 23 and was married when I was 25. That’s a longer courtship than the typical arranged marriage, but a major part of it was spent separated because V had to move for his job. So we essentially spent one intense month in the same place. Then, like arranged marriage couples, we did a lot of telephone calls.

Okay admittedly, we visited each other once a month, and then I moved to Hyderabad so we could be nearer and we’d see each other every week, but then he moved to Hong Kong so it was long distance for a good 10 months again.

The point is, we knew each other for a couple of months before we decided to get married. And when we decided to get married, I was happy to get married the next week or the next month or whatever. And I decided to get married based on very little information and not a long association.

When V asked me to marry him, I said yes immediately based on a gut feeling that I had never had about anyone else. The same feeling a number of arranged marriage couples spoke about, about feeling right about the person. This is not a love at first sight feeling. I did not love V or even think he was perfect at first sight. But on third sight, I figured he was a solid bet. And he came closest to my ideal type.**

However, like some arranged marriage couples, I still felt the need to ask V if he could afford a house. Because at 23, working as a journalist, I sure as hell couldn’t. When I told a friend that I had agreed to marry V, she said, “What? What do you know about him? What does he do exactly? How much does he earn?” Urged by her, I asked V his salary. It was embarrassing, but although I was 23, I knew I couldn’t marry on love and fresh air. If I had dated someone from our neck of the woods, we’d be able to peg him somewhere. But V was from a different social milieu, my friends had barely met him, and so it became necessary to ask things one might not have someone from our neck of the woods.

It was understood that I’d move to Bangalore after we got married, mainly because V loathed Bombay, and I agreed partly because I realised I could not afford the lifestyle I’d like in Bombay. After we were married, I lived in my in-law’s place. Only for four or five days, after which V went back to Hong Kong and went to Hyderabad, but I’m trying to stretch an analogy here okay?

Now, obviously V and I did not have an arranged marriage. We met in a nightclub, our families did not know jack about each other until we presented them with a done deal and even then they didn’t know much because we are from different communities, we spent only over a month together in the same place, but we spent practically every moment we were not at work with each other even though I worked a night shift.

But the fact that V was a complete and total stranger when I met him, and I agreed to marry him at the age of 23 after knowing him for little over a month made me think that what we did had some similarities to an arranged arrangement, even if we did arrange it ourselves.

 

*Possibly the odd aunt or uncle, but even they were introduced and then sort of dated which is more liberal than some arranged marriages today sound like, even though they got hitched more than 50 years ago.

** An interesting thing someone in the book said: In your 20s, you seek out someone who is a replica of you – who shares your taste, your interests, etc. And when you’re older, you look for someone who is different from you but complements you. I’d like to think I was unusually mature in this respect, because even in  my 20s, I never dated anyone who was similar to me which is where there is a dire absence of men who read in my life. V was different from me in positive ways, he was organised, sorted, calm under stress, good with numbers.

Reflections on 100 Happy Days – 1

I decided to do the 100 Happy Days Challenge for a lark and because I want to take more photos with my phone for the blog and Instagram and I find I need a structure for that. Also, I’ve been accused of having a negative view of life, and I figured this might be a way of striking a balance, highlighting the bright spots, especially at a time of great emotional turbulence.

I found that the mere mention of the challenge made several people want to sneer. I never advertised that I was doing the challenge except on the blog and Instragram where I’m mostly followed by people who don’t know me in real life and therefore I’d presume could easily look away from any annoying exhibitions of joy I might post. However, I was observed by friends and family taking photos of stuff at odd moments and when asked about it, instead of lying, I mentioned the challenge which was a cue for such questions as: “Do you really think it’s going to make you happier?” (That wasn’t my aim, see above),“Are they really happy moments every day?” (Yes! I knew this even before I started the challenge. Maybe you need to do it) and “It’s so annoying all these people pretending to be happy” (Pretending? How do you know? Why does it annoy you?) Even on this blog, there were those who felt obliged to make the odd dismissive comment.

Naysayers notwithstanding, I plodded along. And here’s what I think on the other side:

1. Did it make me happier? The challenge website suggests that people who completed the challenge found it had a positive impact on overall happiness. I think the idea is related to positive psychology. While I’m happier having completed the challenge, I can’t definitively say this is because of the challenge. It just so happened that in the last week of the challenge something big shifted in my marriage. With this big stressor removed, I feel lighter and happier. But I can’t say that the challenge didn’t help me cope during a difficult time either. Focusing on and treasuring happy moments in the day should have some, if only momentary, positive effect.
2. I was surprised that people seem surprised that one could find a happy moment every day. Someone even asked me: “Do you plan (i.e. set up) the moment?” No, I don’t, because I don’t need to. Something happy, however small, does happen almost, if not every, day. I already knew this because I was already in the habit of treasuring the small stuff. In that sense, the impact of the challenge might be more greatly felt by those that don’t do this regularly. For me, it’s normal to savour certain moments in the day, the difference with the challenge was that I stretched it out longer because I photographed it and also thought about which moment to feature.
3. My methodology was to intermittently think about which moments I could feature. If something pleasant happened, I’d mentally file it away as a contender. In that sense, it was a little like a mini daily happiness Olympics where at the end of the day, I’d decide which was the most meaningful moment to share. It became a way of reflecting upon not just one, but many good times.
4. It was interesting to see how something that at the beginning of the day I was quite sure was going to yield the happiest moment, might not necessarily do so. For example, one day I was quite sure that a dinner with friends was going to be my happy moment for the day, but when I was taking a photo of the food to represent it, they had so many annoying comments that I ended up posting something else. Another time, I was sure a birthday party my kids attended would be the happy moment, but it turned out to be something else quite small.
5. I recorded a moment for each day diligently, though sometimes I’d forget to do a photo, and then go back and take something to represent the day. Only in the week that I was in Bombay did I skip this daily record because every single day was so filled with joy and it was too hectic to record individual moments. There were only a couple of days when I cheated and used a happy moment from one day to cover the next day, either because there were two standout moments in the day or because a particular day was flat with no moment to highlight (this happened literally twice).
6. Contrary to what I’d been hearing, I didn’t see a lot of people doing the challenge with me. In the blog world, just one. And on Instagram, a handful. None of these posted show-offy or clichéd photos and they’re from different parts of the world so it’s quite sweet to see slivers of their lives.
7. The challenge did get me into Instagram, which I’ve wanted to get into but never knew how. As a side effect, I’m now following a lot of models and getting my fashion fix. I’ve also always had something to post on the blog, even if readers might not have loved these kinds of posts. It brought back a bit of the diary element to the blog.
8. There were moments in between when my enthusiasm did flag and I began to think 100 days was very long. But I’m one of those disciplined people that rarely gives up on a project embarked upon, especially if I chose it. And now that I’m done, I’m feeling a void. In fact, I might pick up another feel-good project – either the What Went Well exercise suggested in the Brain Pickings article or this .

It’s interesting to look back on the posts and see a pattern in the things that make me happy. I did a chart and will post my analysis tomorrow. (Yeah, you’re not done with hearing my drone on about this).

Schooling dilemmas

So. When we finally decided on a school for Benji, I thought I was done with the angst-ridden admission process. Apparently, such luck was not on the cards for me.

Benji never quite took to school. After the first couple of weeks which kids naturally take to adjust, he was still unhappy to go. He seemed disoriented and never really told us what was going on. Increasingly, we got the impression he didn’t like his teachers. I put it down to his shyness and retiring personality, and figured there was not much I could do. We had one episode which disturbed us enough to go to the school and talk to the supervisor, and while not entirely satisfied with their handling of it, we let it go and hoped for the best.

A few weeks ago, I met the mother of an Indian child in Benji’s class. I asked her how her daughter was liking school. She hesitated and then said that her daughter didn’t seem to enjoy school anymore. I was surprised because this little girl was one of those who skipped to school on her first day and never shed a tear when her father left the class. She is very confident, outgoing and articulate, the polar opposite of Benji’s personality. Yet, she was unhappy.

Her mother told me a couple of incidents in the school relating to the class teacher. What she said coincided with my impression of the teacher from Benji. Since this girl is much more articulate, I got a clearer picture. I realised that while Benji’s personality might have something to do with his unhappiness at school, there was a problem with the school itself. The teacher was probably inexperienced and scolded the kids excessively to maintain order in the classroom. While this might be par for the course, if she managed to browbeat a child like that little girl into disliking school, it gives me pause.

The fact is I knew from the start that the school was traditional and the teachers might not be the finest. However, the school had a good reputation and I was hoping Benji would be fine. Unfortunately, he has not been, and I realised from that conversation that it was not just him.

So I began to look at other options. Both the husband and I want the kids to go to preschools in our district or nearby, so that restricts our choices. We are willing to raise our budget but do not have an unlimited budget. Finally, the only candidate I found suitable was a new school that opened last year and seemed to be more international, though it substantially more expensive.

Just after I set up the interview at the new school, Benji seemed to have miraculously settled into his old school. This doesn’t mean that he’s loving it, but he doesn’t seem actively unhappy to go. Give him a choice between staying at home and going to school and he’ll choose home, but he’s not howling every morning before going either. He seems more willing to talk about what he’s doing at school though still not super enthusiastic.

After some discussion, V and I decided we would consider the new school only if they were willing to let Benji repeat Class 1. Our reasons for this are twofold: 1) I finish my PhD in three years, and V wants to move back to India. If Benji goes into Class 2, he’ll finish preschool in two years from now and we’ll have to find a primary school for him, and then shift him to another school in India one year later. We’d prefer him to just spend three years in the same school. 2) Benji just about made the age cut-off for Class 1 when he started last year. According to his class teacher, he is behind on some things. We were thinking it would benefit him to be the oldest in the class rather than one of the youngest.

At the interview, however, Benji performed very well and shocked even us by answering almost all the questions correctly. We were surprised mainly because Benji normally clams up in front of new people. It was testimony to the skill of the principal of the school who drew him out very gently, which is one of the things that gives me a good impression of the new school. Also, we were impressed by how much he knew. Clearly, in terms of learning, the old school had done its job. However, I was never in any doubt of that, though since the impression they gave me was that Benji is behind on stuff, I was proud of how much he knew and confidently he answered.

Although the principal recommended that Benji could start in Class 2, she was willing to put him in Class 1 and we could revisit it in December and see if he could be moved up. So we got our wish, except we’re not sure anymore.

Pros of the new school

1. Principal who seems experienced and to understand schooling and children. This is my impression. I am not sure of her exact qualifications because there is not much transparency on this.
2. A more international approach, which means less expecting kids to be automatons and better communication with parents.
3. A better curriculum and pedagogy (though I’m not unhappy with the curriculum at the old school).
4. Very nice facilities and a bright and cheerful environment. (All things being equal, this is high on my priority list, though it’s nice to have).
5. We can keep Benji in Class 1.
6. Almost all parents who have visited have been impressed with the school, and I have read one good review from a parent of a child who goes there.

Cons of the new school

1. It’s newness. This is the biggest one. It’s not so much the track record or the primary school placements that worry me, than whether the school can remain financially solvent with less students and the crazy rents. Recently, there was a case of a school (ironically one under the management of Benji’s old school) losing its premises due to increased rent. With a school that has been around for ages, this is not something one would think about. But what if the new school shuts down? Am I crazy for giving up a place at a stable though not ideal school for a fledgling one?
2. It is more expensive (but we can manage this)
3. It is further away (but not unreasonably so).

Pros of the old school

1. Well established
2. Decent curriculum and facilities
3. On the cheaper end of the fee scale.

Cons of the old school

1. Very local approach in terms of expecting kids to be super disciplined. Not great communication with parents, or admin system.
2. We can’t keep Benji in class one.

Okay, so it’s looking like a choice between a mediocre but well-established school that Benji is not that happy in versus a start-up that looks really exciting but doesn’t have a track record that I instinctively feel Benji will be happier at. Also the relative merits of keeping him in Class 1 vs crossing the bridge of where to place him in 2016 hence at that point (though I would have start looking into that fairly soon if we let him proceed to Class 2). The choice was much easier when Benji was visibly upset by his existing school. Now that he’s not obviously upset, all the other factors magnify themselves.

Opinions anyone?

Mumbai musings

• Either Mumbai has changed or I have changed, or both. But things seem to have settled down. The infrastructure seems better. The roads are less pothole ridden if not pothole free. The pavements are walkable on. Granted I basically stayed in my neck of the woods, Bandra, except for the one rogue trip to Mumbai Central via a local train to pick up MinCat, but that’s my impression.
• Things are expensive but I have wrapped my head around it. Also the dollar is in my favour.
• Holi is not as crazy as it used to be, again in Bandra. I did read the now expected report about a woman hit in the eye while commuting to work by train. But I was not pelted with balloons while walking on the streets even the day before Holi, which is a change.
• The highway to the airport blew me away. Admittedly, it was Holi and so traffic was probably lighter than it might otherwise have been. But 15 minutes from Bandra to the airport is insane. In a good way.
• The airport itself is gorgeous. I noticed this on the way in where there are these beautiful installations showcasing the cultural diversity of Maharashtra, but it’s on the way out that you really get a sense of it. The building is beautiful, and so different from typical airport architecture and inside are all these striking columns and lovely chandeliers. Only problem is the mosquitoes, which are present even inside. I was complaining about this when I came in and my uncle jokingly advised me to carry one of those electric racquets. So imagine the hilarity when on my way out of Mumbai, at Immigration, one of the officers stood up and started swatting the mosquitoes with exactly such a racquet. Although our queue broke into laughter, mosquitoes are not funny as I know too well, having nearly died of malaria.
• As always, I come away from Mumbai feeling fuzzy about the warmth. It’s not just the people I run into who know me, and who often greet me with “How are you, darling?” as if I’m still five years old. It’s even the regular shopkeepers, waiters, people on the street, etc. Maybe this is because I am obviously priviledged looking and reek of money. But I see these same courtesies extended to everyone. Probably not at rush hour on a local train. But almost everywhere else.
• I did not get the slightest creepiness from anyone on the street no matter how I was dressed. It may be the extra kilos, though I must say I still cut a vaguely slim figure in India. But I did not warrant a second glance from the men on the streets and for that, I am truly glad.

It makes me feel a tad better about moving back to India someday.

 

We’re special. Not.

Mincat sent me this post about unhappiness in Generation Y. It has stirred up some backlash in the US with many young people claiming that their angst stems more from unemployment in an economic downturn than any delusions of specialness, which may well be true. But some of what that article says does seem true to my peers by which I mean urban upper-middle-class 20-and-30-somethings in India.

What my peers seem to expect of their careers is money, a position of some status, and fulfilment. And they want this fast. It doesn’t help that some people seem to have achieved this and posted their success on Facebook. It also doesn’t help that the mantra we hear all around us: if you work hard enough, or even better, if you want something bad enough, it shall be yours (possibly because the Universe will conspire to make sure you get it).

I’m not sure if I grew up hearing that I could be whatever I wanted to be. Even if that message was as pervasive then as it is now, I never internalised it.* Either I was born with the humble gene or I learnt it from my parents who were neither grand nor had delusions of grandeur. I did hear that I should work hard and my parents would support me. That is all.

I’m always confused which generation I belong to. I think it’s X, and that may account for the watered down message. Our generation was susceptible to the message that we should find our passion and pursue a career in that. Even that was tempered by parents who were first or second-generation strugglers and therefore prone to steamrolling their children’s passion into more practical goals like a career in engineering or medicine. My parents did let me pursue my passion, but in retrospect I can see that they emphasised the work hard part more than the passion or the returns. They supported me in the rough times that come as a result of not quitting. (eg, when my boss was being an asshole and I really wanted to quit my job, my dad drove me to work every day).

But this is not about me. It’s about people around me. It’s one thing to discover what you’re passionate about and make a go of realistically building a career in it. It’s another to expect that said career is your birthright. It is not. Nor is it guaranteed that if you work hard you will be successful. There are millions of people who work hard and are not successful. There are also some lucky souls who do not work hard and are  successful.

There was an interesting article I read on Chinese graduates doing internships at the start of their careers and their chances of success. The children of professionals and connected parents had the highest chance of success simply because they already knew how to function within The System. The earnest and hardworking children of poor peasants rarely got offered internships. Nevertheless, it’s the stray success stories from adversity that get highlighted to us as role models, as if hard work alone guarantees success. If only. The wisdom we pass our kids should be more like this: If you’re not from a wealthy and influential family, work hard and you have a better chance of being successful if you’re lucky.

Whenever I hear of people pursuing offbeat careers and leading a comfortable life, I always try to get the backstory. Who is propping them up? Often, someone is. Very rarely does someone do something alternative without extreme sacrifices and lifestyle compromises which most of us would be loathe to make anyway. Getting the offbeat jobs that pay well takes some social capital, it’s rarely “individual merit” alone, but that’s the myth we are all fed. This is not to discourage anyone from pursuing their dreams, just that you need to have a realistic idea of your chances of success that are not gleaned from the shining examples around you. And sometimes the financial risk might not be worth it, and that’s okay. At least for most of us in the upper-middle-class, it is not occasion to whine about how unfair life is. Life is unfair, but it is actually less unfair to us so suck it up.

The other thing my peers seem to want is for all this to happen fast. There was a survey of Hong Kong graduates that elicited much derision because most of the graduates said they wanted to be CEOs in 10 years or some such. Dream big and all, but unless you have a godfather or your exceptional talent is coupled with fantastic luck, you are probably going to be spinning in the wheel for quite a while. And maybe that’s okay?

We also seem to think that because we’re special in one area, we’ll generally be successful. So I’m good at academics and aced almost every test that came my way. But I’m not naturally good at math (though I can do well on tests I study for), can’t speak the local languages, don’t like high stress, and not that interested in corporate schmoozing. So I’m probably not going to get to the top. And I’ve accepted that and moved on. Your one big talent might not translate into untold riches and fame. Accept your limitations or put in some serious work to overcome them.

A lot of people my age are angsty, and that may be due to being in the workforce for close to a decade and it losing its sheen. That’s natural. But the angst gets compounded when we think that somehow we deserve better or that there is some magical and not-too-efforty solution that will resolve this. Most of us actually are fortunate enough to have some options and wiggle room so maybe we should focus on that instead of letting hearing about the next person in their peer group who just published a book to fabulous reviews or opened their own kitsch little bookstore get us into a funk.

*One area in which I acquired some arrogance was academics. I was effortlessly academically successful and that give me the impression that I could always easily enter institutes of higher learning, but there too I was disillusioned early on and was fortunate enough to be around people of increasing intellectual calibre as I grew older. In fact, I was and still am, loathe to take up positions I feel I am not experienced enough to handle well.

Independence Day

[Inspired by this post by Dewdrop Dreams]

Recently, I mentioned to V that I didn’t feel a strong tie to India, even Bombay, anymore. I will always feel warmth and nostalgia for India, and by that I mean Bombay, in particular, and to a lesser degree the other places I have ties to in India like Goa, Hyderabad and Bangalore. Those places will always hold a special place in my heart because that’s where I grew up, where I still have close family and dear friends. I also love certain aspects of it, like the food and the much clichéd “warmth of the people” (but frankly I feel that way about Thailand as well). Do I feel I would want to live there, that I would die for the idea of India? Um.

In university, one of my friends stated that she found the whole concept of nationality silly, and that she felt no allegiance to any country in particular. I knew that what she said made sense, but I was uncomfortable with it. Then, I still felt the stirrings of patriotism.

Another friend living in the US said he identified more with a particular place, Bombay, than the whole of India which he felt he had nothing in common with. I argued with him then, that there was something people from the region of India had in common, and I still believe that. But that commonality extends to the whole sub-continent, Pakistan, Sri Lanka, Bangladesh, etc. What is India then? Anyway, outside India we are banded together as desis or South Asians, as we are called in Hong Kong.

I understand the practical reality of the need for borders. At some point, fences must be drawn and armies are needed to defend those fences, which one assumes demarcate an agreed upon way of life. Or something like that. Kind of like, you can only be here if you agree with us, or we don’t want to come here and share the riches we worked so hard to achieve, or unless your parents lived here or unless you’re a certain race. This sounds more petty than grand.

Living abroad has given me some perspective on the idea of nation and belonging. For one, Hong Kong is having its own crisis. It is part of China but a number of studies show that Hong Kong people, more than a decade after the handover, don’t really identify with China. In fact, in regular interactions, they take pains to distance themselves from the Mainland. Probably worried about this, an attempt was made by the powers that be to introduce the concept of national education in the school curriculum, which was viewed with great suspicion by Hong Kong parents, and when a textbook was found to contain lines that praised the Communist party and denounced other systems, all hell broke loose. It made me think about how we swallowed the nationalism fed to us in school, how trite it was, and yet, how effective. So effective that most Indians wouldn’t say that they were ‘brainwashed’ as children, the word Hong Kongers use for what is being attempted through the subject of national education.

Many Hong Kong people say they love Hong Kong because they grew up here, they like living here, they subscribe to the values of the society and the way of life (which doesn’t mean they don’t grumble and criticise their own values). Many people who didn’t grow up here also come to love Hong Kong after they move here (like me, and the electronics repair guy from Nepal I met who said he willingly pays taxes here, something he was loathe to do in India and Nepal where he lived previously).

I love Hong Kong because it treats me well, because it is beautiful and because it has a buzz. I love certain places in India for similar reasons. But now that I’ve lived and formed an allegiance to a place outside India, I feel I could do it again. There are other places I could live in and love. It’s situational and specific and related to experience, rather than related to an idea that is commemorated in songs and borders and a flag.

That said, yesterday, we played the national anthem. Benji listened and clapped at the end. I like the song and how it makes me feel, even if I don’t believe in the idea of nationhood anymore.

Period

One of the good things about being pregnant was not having my period for a while nine months. One of the good things about having my period is not being pregnant.

There are days when I’m standing in the train my shoulders hurting or huffing up a flight of stairs and I suddenly think: “Thank God I’m not pregnant.” There are days when I feel queasy and I think: At least I’m not pregnant.” Or I pass a bakery and think: “I don’t ever have to force myself to eat bread again.”Overall, I am not a fan of pregnancy, at least in the mode in which I experienced it. The first time around I was charmed by the process once I stopped throwing up. The second time my attitude was more of a “not again.”

This is not to say I don’t appreciate babies. I do. Though not the early infancy of them, the dreaded fourth trimester. I like toddlers best. I also like having two of them. No more.

Before each period arrives, I experience mild to medium-level panic that it might not. I know I will not go through with another pregnancy. But I dread being in that position.

This time my period was late. I had terrible PMS symptoms which can unfortunately also be pregnancy symptoms. The joy I felt when I saw blood on my underwear was unbounded.

For the first time in ages, I got my period on a holiday. I didn’t have to drag myself to work. I asked V to take over the kids and vegged all day. I sent him down for chips and chocolate and I stuck into them. I dosed myself with painkillers at regular intervals. I watched half a chick flick. This is how it’s supposed to be, I thought, as I lay on the couch finishing my book in peace because everyone else had gone down to play.

It’s been a long time since I have allowed myself to just rest when I have my period. It’s no wonder that I have fallen sick almost every time. I need to just call in sick next time.

Before I had kids, I thought my period itself was the worst thing ever. I agree it’s not pleasant still. But if I could just rest, I could handle it.