The Bigot Within

A couple days ago I received a phone call from a courier company.  They had a package for me that they had attempted to deliver to the service apartment in Bangalore I was staying at, but the front desk had refused to accept it.

I wasn't expecting a package from anyone, so I was surprised.  Where was the package from, I asked the guy.  Namakkal, he said.  I was now very puzzled. Namakkal is a town in Tamil Nadu, and I don't know a soul in Namakkal (not counting Ramanujan).  What kind of package was it, I inquired.  The size of a box of CDs, he said.  Who was the package from?.  The guy at the other end apparently couldn't figure out the name, so his response was halting.  Zia, he said, a bit uncertainly.  I was spooked.  I figured that the name must be a handwritten scribble; why else would he have a hard time reading it out?  The name threw me for a loop:  I visualized a bearded fundamentalist shipping me a deadly letter bomb.  I asked the courier guy to hold off delivery.

I thought about it for a few minutes, and thought the better of postponing delivery.  I called the courier company back, and asked them to attempt a second delivery the next day.  It is said that doing the same thing again and expecting a different result is the definition of insanity.  Nevertheless, I asked him, again, who the sender was.  Again, he strained to read out the name.  It was different this time:  Jeeva Puthalyan, he mumbled.

Instinctively, I typed "Jeeva Puthalyan Namakkal" into google.  Halfway through typing, google autocompleted it to Jeeva Puthakalayam.  That's 'Jeeva Bookstore' in Thamizh.  That sparked a recognition: I had ordered a few Thamizh books for my mother from Amazon India.

I try to be thoughtful and fair-minded on issues relating to race, religion, gender and ethnicity.  Apparently, evicting the Inner Bigot is easier said than done.

Green, Going Colorless?

It's my second Diwali in India in the last two years.  I am afraid I am just not feelin' it.

My memories of Diwali are from over thirty years ago.  They were the Tamizh Deepavalis of my childhood in Ramakrishnapuram, the South Indian enclave in New Delhi.  These were frenzied, magical affairs that took place in the pre-dawn darkness, not the leisurely evening celebrations of our North Indian neighbors.  I remember the signature smells: the scent of the oil that mom applied on our heads for an early morning oil bath; the smell of the coal burning in our water boiler (yes, I am that old);  the aroma of phosphorus-laden firecracker fumes.  Sometimes we had relatives visiting, so bathroom queues moved slower than US green card applications.  There was a limited budget for (fire)crackers, and one had to optimize use of it: shopping was an exciting affair that we looked forward to for the many weeks preceding.

Sleeping was difficult the night before: in part it was the anticipation, and in part it was the scary thought that the whole family might just sleep through the thing, and wake up after dawn.  (As we've all observed about so many other things much of the pleasure is in the build up.)  Then the rounds of sharing sweets and snacks with the neighbors, and the visit to the Shiv Mandir for darshan and, of course, for their superb lemon-colored, sweet and sour boondis. And, finally, that sad, empty feeling from the realization that there was going to be a year's wait before the next one.

Now, as I walk down the street in Bengaluru dodging the fire crackers --  the anaars and the bombs -- I can't help but notice that this feels like a much more subdued affair.  No Beirut, this.    Diwali is going green, everyone says. I think it's a great idea, but for me, sadly, it's turning colorless.  May be I can't feel the excitement because I am witnessing this from the wrong perch: no small children, no crowded household.  Perhaps, my mind has built up the nostalgia well beyond the romance of the original thing.  Most likely, it's all in the mind: you can have a fifty-year old body, but if you want a colorful, spirited Diwali you can't carry around a fifty-year old mind.