India Railway Travel: Hours of Awkwardness and Entertainment (part 2)

Alas I made my bed, I must now lie in it. I much rather tuck myself away close to the ceiling than hear the rustling of the midnight passenger making their way to the hole and hoping not to fall in. I would be lying if I said I had a good night’s rest. But I was semi-sleeping until I heard the raucous in the seats behind me: the elder couple had awoken. The rest lay fast asleep.

The seat behind me was, once again, filled with another incoming fleet of passengers, this time it was early early morning, the sun had yet to wake up but you could hear her wrestling.  The elderly gentlemen had made himself comfortable in the incoming passenger’s seats. His old lady, found an empty inch on the bottom berth near me and sat on it as if it was the last remaining piece of seat in the world. Her chin buried deep in her palm and she gazed out in utter despair. Though I monitored the situation with great intrigue. I happily played asleep in my semi-comfortable train bed.

It wasn’t long before the conductor was called to rectify the newly embarked passenger’s frustrations.

“Listen, I need you to return to your assigned seat,” the conductor firmy said.

“What am I supposed to do? Everyone is sleeping, I don’t have anywhere to sit!” the elder gentlemen barked.

Very quickly the distinguished gentlemen who tipped the khooli generously melted into a taunted toddler. Yet the conductor continued to rationalize with him: “These are their seats, not yours.”

“If you remove this old blankets, WE’LL ALL HAVE ROOM! Pick them up.” Said the elderly not-so-gentle man.

The conductor, too, lost his cool and explained in a dauting volume and intonation that these are not his seats. And so a choir of maddened yelping and hawing began: “These are our seats, you belong in the seats down from us!” griped a passenger.

And now we were all up, tucked away in our seat-con-beds, pretending to sleep and ignore the tussling voices invading our space. His wife still balanced her bum on the end of the seat one of the passengers slept on. We really were within arms distance of each other. I cautiously kept my eyes closed catching intermittent glimpses of her head still sorrowfully hung on her hand.

The elderly gentlemen finally left the other seat and returned to where his wife sat, now charged up from not getting his way.  He rustled the two passengers sleeping on the bottom berth awake: “Get up! Get up! There is no space for us to sit!”

The other couple naturally looked at him in disdain. “Why are you causing such a commotion?” You bothered them and now you are bothering us. Just calm down.”

The elderly gentlemen remarked:

“I cannot sit there.

  I cannot sit here.

  I cannot sit anywhere.

 (said the cat in the hat).”

“It is morning time anyhow, this is the time to get up anyway,” he said.

 

I looked at my watch: 5:15am.

 

To my surprise, once again, the couple appeased him. They got up, undid their bed and made room for him to sit.

“Chai, coffee, chai, coffee?” our server chanted. The sun was just opening her eyes and us with her. We all sipped quietly, still feeling the aftershock of the man’s morning tantrum. However next to me sat the elder man and his wife contently sipping their chai. At some point, I believe I saw him literally feed her her biscuit; I mean actually place the biscuit into her mouth. She willingly accepted it.

This equal partnership of a man and wife upholding their roles in marriage and participating as productive members of society dissolved in front of me. I found myself wondering how one lives a life where a man dictates the environment you sit in, the food you eat, when you eat it, when you sleep, when you get up and everything beyond.

As I travel through India from my modern family in Delhi to my conservative family in Punjab to the very traditional villagers of Gujarat I see much of this shared value. Marriage is a position one is assigned in their lifetime. It is a greater part of the intricate workings of the fine machinery that is Indian society. To resist the role is to jam up the turning wheels under which everyone functions. It is not something you do because you want to or because you hope to one day. It is what you do. The power of this is system is demonstrated in the durability of Indian culture and the strong sense of family and social security I feel when I am there.

As I extract myself from my world in America I can look at our system more objectively. We hope to get married because we want to. We hope to find a person that we want to marry. The hope is that from that union rises greater personal happiness. As in America us, as individuals, are always of great priority. Marriage is one other way of attaining happiness. If marriage is not a means of attaining happiness we elect to not marry; if marriage is no longer a means of attaining happiness we may elect to end that marriage. With or without our marriage our family will still survive, our children may still see both their parents, we will continue to work at our job, we may even marry again.

I spent so much of my life trying to justify one system as better than the other. But just like mangos and papayas (I really don’t like apples or oranges that much) Indian and American culture and marriage just remain different.

India Railway Travel: Hours of Awkwardness and Entertainment (part 1)

            “What am I supposed to do? Everyone is sleeping, I don’t have anywhere to sit!” he barks. The bark turns into a tantrum as he yells irrationally waking everyone on the train up: “ This is the time to wake up and they are sleeping in the only place I can sit!”  I glanced at my watch: 5:15 AM.

            I am on route from Valsar, Gujarat to Delhi. The randomness of the overnight train experience is often entertaining at the least and thought provoking at best. In this case, it is the elderly couple sitting across from me that intrigues me. It is the way they handle themselves, handle each other and cope with having to climb up to the upper berths to sleep that is of particular interest.

            The first time I saw them they came with a khooli. In India a khooli comes with a mixed review: partly opportunist waiting to sneak an extra buck off you, partly the extreme poor forced to do extreme tasks in order to survive. I often see two bags on a head, a suitcase in the right hand and a box being dragged by the left. Whatever one’s feeling is, after watching Amitabh rock the movie “Khooli,” I’ll always have a soft spot for them. I have learned to circumvent my guilt vs.“I-won’t-get-ripped-off” internal turmoil by carrying my bags myself. It’s actually not that hard. I pull out the handle and roll the bag behind me.

            It is rather Indian to take a seemingly simple task and make it more complicated for the sake of providing human labor. I’ve had quite a few khooli’s resistant to using the “pulling contraption” on the suitcase, just to pick it up and put it on there head. Munish and I used to remark about the seven person line required to pass a crate of dirt 3 yards down the road.

            The elder couple came in with the khooli. I watched with great interest; waiting for the money haggle to begin. The elderly gentlemen opened his wallet and pulled out some cash. The khooli opened what he was given and quickly began to thank the elderly gentlemen with great gratitude. “I moved your bags okay? Can I shift them anywhere else?”

            I love watching people do surprising good deeds, as the satisfaction is even greater. The truth is that in India the opportunities are abound and the deeds done are many. I couldn’t help but think about what a sophisticated man this is. His wife followed close behind him.

The husband and wife sat down as the train began to pick up steam. Images of the lush greenery of South Gujarat flashed by us. We all peacefully stared out our windows, lost in our own thoughts.

“Chai, coffee, chai, coffee,” the lanky train food server chanted breaking me out of my daze. Soon after he brought our meals: roti, yogurt, lentils, rice, paneer, vegetable curries and dessert. To the airline travel-starved American, this whole service is like riding first class for free. 

I glanced over at the elder couple across the aisle from me. The elder gentlemen not only ate his meal, but watched with great caution that his wife ate in comfort as well. For all the negative hype traditional, pre-arranged couples get, there is a certain beauty in watching two people maintain their assigned roles in support for each other.

Dinner finished and he quickly began to prepare his space for him and her. His wife sat on the lower berth, doubled over, waiting patiently for him to arrange her sheets and blanket.

In the middle of arranging their beds, the train came to a stop. We appeared to be at a small Gujarati town, not unlike the one I got on at. A small fleet of passengers disembarked and an equally small group boarded. The five new passengers hustled in: the women sitting down alas and sighing in great relief, the men pushing and tugging bags under the seat to make space for their own. Now there were seven people crammed into two long rows facing each other made for six. Additionally, the berths had already been lowered by the elderly gentlemen, as he was mid bed making. The new passengers sat with their necks craned and, to my surprise, did not make any fuss about their predicament.

            The train experience is more than thought provoking.  It is a challenge in agility, grace and consideration. We all sit on the first level. Since we all are sleeping on the train at some point the second level berth has to be lowered so the person assigned to that seat can set up their bed and go to sleep. On top of them is a third berth. Each level is separated by about 2.5 foot distance; if you are on the third, you are forced to make your bed while lying in it with your head smashed into the ceiling of the train. God forbid you need to go to the bathroom and you aren’t familiar with the India ways. Your experience will involve a combination of flexing those quadriceps, balancing over a hole and fear of falling in. God forbid you forget toilet paper, you are literally "shit out of luck." Going to the bathroom is always my greatest train challenge.

            The elder lady of the couple was assigned to the middle berth and her task was great: she was forced to climb some bars to hoist herself into the middle berth. With the grace of a baby giraffe she planted one foot in the iron loop provided and the other foot in the iron loop on the other side. I looked up to see the fragile old woman straddling the aisle of our train car in her sari, her thigh and my face intimately shared more space then they could have ever imagined. I was quickly reminded of my college roommate that would always change her clothes two inches from my bed while I was sleeping in the morning. Her bare-naked ass and my face, too, spent more time up-close-and-personal than they could have ever imagined. Weird times.  Her husband, with equal fear and concern, launched her bottom off the palms of his hands on to the second berth. With one big heave she tossed herself on the berth, her bottom half clung on to the top in desperation as it lay hanging in the aisle. Slowly, she waddled her way on to her bed. The elderly man looked exasperated, but relieved. I too breathed a sigh of relief with the passengers with craned necks below her. We thought all had finally settled, but the worse was yet to come…

Protruding Bellys

We've got our sunny days back in southern Cali, at this point I reflect: "were they ever really gone?" That means everyone's out and about sporting latest fashions. LA displays two extremes of sorts: the blonde bombshell about to topple over her newly implanted breasts and the teen popping out of her tshirt layered upon tshirt. My focus is drawn to the latter. 

My work, hence a big part of my life, circulates around obesity. So I can't help but be drawn to it in public. I must say that this low-riding jeans haven't really helped the cause. If someone really wants to succeed through this recession, find a way to make that "full figured teen" look appealing, not appalling. 

But I digress. I was cruising down Melrose Drive, passing Fairfax and see three youthful teens crossing the street. They look happy and chatty, but my eyes are quickly drawn down to the full expansion of their shirts; bright green, bright pink and orange-all stretched to capacity. I shake my head in disapproving shame and once again think, "why can't they control what they eat?" Soda. Gatorade. Firey Hot Cheetos. 

It's not but a second later that I catch myself, thank God. I never look at a malnourished person and think, "why can't they just eat enough, they look horrible!" Why is it okay on the other end? I realized that so much of myself and society carries an element of judgement and shame attached to obesity. Obesity entails failure, lack of discipline, laziness, recklessness and more. Unfortunately, we are passing these labels on to our little ones, to which we are giving the cheetos and chocolates in the first place. 

When there is a problem we always look for someone to blame. Is it Frito Lay, is it the mothers, hotmail which depends on add revenue? A lot of it starts at home in resisting a slue of mixed messages passed to our children on a daily basis. In school they are taught to "be healthy," then offered pizza, hamburger or french fries for lunch. McDonald's sell their food so cheap they almost pay us to eat it and then we plaster images of stick thin women wearing jeans near the mall and school. Lastly we talk about the importance of fitness, then remove the requirement of PE from two of their four years of high school! The "do as I say but not as I do" has yet to prove successful. Today I start with myself. Whether it be upon me or others, I will be mindful about the labels I cast upon the "obese and overweight" in America. 

Father's Day

            Everyday at work I am faced with the consequences of fatherless families. Children are not outright delinquents, however many come into the Pediatric clinic with the life scars of an old veteran: their failing multiple classes, talking in class, fighting with others or take their anger out on their siblings at home. Many of us Pediatricians hang our heads low, accepting this glitch as a reality of our society. I am so accustomed, in fact, that my intake on a well child exam caters to addressing these problems.

            Today in clinic I was taken by surprise. My clinic was the same, my afternoon clinic hours were the typical and my routine of scrambling to keep up with waiting patients persisted as usual. I looked up suddenly and saw a rather husky man wandering the clinic hall. He didn’t quite fit in to our peach pastel walls and circus animal framed pictures, to say the least. I inquired: “Excuse me sir, is your child in one of the rooms?”

"I'll be waiting in the waiting room," he said with a quiver in his voice. I felt like I interrupted a previous conversation, but that was his reply to my question.

“I’m sorry, is your child here?” I asked. This time turning to Sylvia, perhaps this made more sense to her.

“He’s the father of your next patient,” Sylvia explained.

Okay, now we’re getting somewhere. "Is she here for a well child check?" I asked the father.

"Yeah, but I can't be in the room when she gets her shots," he replied. “I just can’t be there when she cries, my wife knows. She’s in the room.”

The tall, husky, Lakers-jersey wearing irony standing in front of me had me chuckling on the inside. However, I kept a stern face and briskly, escorted the man into the patient's room. Inside awaited mom, holding a very petite two-year old that had fallen asleep in her arms. Next to me sat her 4-year old sister and the patient’s Lakers diaper bag. "Have a seat, let's go over a few things," I instructed. 

We started our review of the five million questions I ask during a well child check. “Do you have any concerns today? Is there any cough-cold-fever-vomiting-diarrhea-constipation?" If I could put it all into one word I would. It would sound something like: “any cofevomitediarripation?” I continue: “Do you have any concerns about her behavior?"

The dad explained that she tantrums at times. Tantrums are not atypical for a two year old, but it is the extent of them that gives me a gauge on disciplining and parenting skills. 

"I defer to him. He's home with the girls most of the day," mom explained.

He quickly replied: "Oh, I put her on time-out."

That is music to a pediatrician's ears. If I had a "Dad of the Day" badge, it was going to him. We transitioned into talking about her diet. The girl was petite, though still growing quite fine. I continued with my barrage of five million questions: “Do you have any difficulties around eating?” A quiet silence fell over the room. He didn't say much, his face said it all; it was a face of defeat.

After a while a pediatrician just knows: At lunch there will be one plate of food, four precisely sliced hot dog pieces, two spoons of corn and a ½ slice of bread on the side. The two-year old in malicious defiance will sit there for thirty minutes and only drink her milk. Then 6' 5", 220 pound dad will sit down next to her. At first he will try the method of gentle coercion, followed by bribery. Her mouth will close tightly in protest. Bribery gets tossed out the kitchen window. Empty threats thunder down from burly dad in his Laker's jersey: "Lela, you have to eat this or else..." The protest raises. Dad pushes harder and is… once again defeated by his petite 25-pound daughter. 

At the end of our, likely emotionally draining, discussion I sat in admiration for this father. Nothing else mattered, but the emotional and physical health of his two daughters. All the mothers and fathers that take time out to bring their children in for well child care together always makes me glow. I realized that so much of my attention goes into identifying and helping the fatherless families, of which there are too many. So much of society's attention goes into highlighting the fatherless homes of which so many of our lower economic youth are raised. This Saturday I left wondering why not give more attention and praise to all those men out there doing it right? My hats go off to all the wonderful fathers, especially the ones who come in for their child's well child checks, as you have made a pediatrician's day.

Being a Teacher

My roles reversed this week as I became the dance instructor rather than the student, as I normally am. I held a bhangra dance class at Griffith Park, waaaayyy back in the interior. I think people get frustrated that it's kinda hard to find, but dancing around people picnicing, dogs poopings and random people drumming isn't as palatable. I got nervous this time cuz so many people signed up on the meetup. I've now decided that there is generally a 60% show rate: 23 signed up, 14 showed. I was totally cool with that. 

Alot of ownership comes with teaching. These people took time out of their day to come here to learn something from me. I don't know them, I may never see them again. But at that given moment, I am their teacher. 

After starting, the discrepancy in dance experience amongst students becomes glaringly apparent. Do I point out the one who's having a hard time and instruct or will they get self-conscious? One guy comes in very laxidazical. Do I push him to step up and give it a genuine try or let him go? All of a sudden my "inner-Katherine Kuniraman" is evoked. Katherine was my bharat natyum (classical Indian dance) dance teacher growing up. She made me cry, she made all us little girls cry. But she also whipped our ass into shape. We would stretch our arms tight, squat with thighs quivering for extended periods of time and jump with precision on her demand. Her demand was not vocal, rather it was barked through the beat of her wooden stick banging on her wooden box. I envied the slivers flying off her wooden box, as they had successfully escaped her wrath. Despite all the fear and turmoil, I am only left with deep respect and regard for my teacher. She was ethically and morally and disciplined in a way that made sense to me, at a time when not much else did. 

As I am standing there teaching my bhangra class, I find myself clapping my hands to keep beat and watching everyone carefully; I want them all to get it down great. I push a little, but pull back with applause and supportive words. Then we continue forward. We got a very nice routine down, only shy one step I intended to put in. At the end I realized we all had learned a one to two minute routine and most everyone was doing quite a fine job at it. I felt proud of what I had taught them. Interestingly, it is hard to imagine how they felt. I can rationalize it out, but feeling it is another thing. 

The following day I switched roles, back to my familiar position as the student. I watched keenly, admiring how Christian Oveido handled a salsa class of thirty students. I learned from him: make sure everyone can see you, good comedic timing is good for moral and easing the tension while learning. Most importantly, I, the student, left there fulfilled by learning new skills, challenging my body and expressing myself through a new(er) dance form. 

Dancing is a community effort: You teach because you really feel you have something to offer and gain gratification in seeing others learn in front of you. You learn, like you receive a gift. Someone gave their time to enrich your life. It's a positive cycle: someone gives to you so you give to someone else.

It's Okay for You, But Not for You.

President Obama (I still get chills when I say that), had his first prime-time press conference last night. He tosses words out like he's making a gourmet omelet with them. His ability to synthesize knowledge, remember five questions and answer them all in order with such eloquence is awesome (in the true sense of the word). 

As he, himself, would advise, no one is perfect and mistakes are bound to happen. However, his oversight to an inherent contradiction is beyond permissive in my eyes. In his words: 

"With respect to nuclear weapons, you know, I don't want to speculate. What I know is this: that if we see a nuclear arms race in a region as volatile as the Middle East, everybody will be in danger. And one of my goals is to prevent nuclear proliferation generally. I think that it's important for the United States, in concert with Russia, to lead the way on this. And, you know, I've mentioned this in conversations with the Russian President, Mr. Medvedev, to let him know that it is important for us to restart the conversations about how we can start reducing our nuclear arsenals in an effective way so that -- so that we then have the standing to go to other countries and start stitching back together the nonproliferation treaties that, frankly, have been weakened over the last several years."

I shake my head rapidly from side to side, clean my ears and look straight again wondering 'Is this not the man that just supported the US-India Nuclear Deal?' In October 2008, George Bush executed one of his "successful" measures prior to running away from the wreckage he would leave behind: Passing the US-India Nuclear Deal. It permitted India to step up and run with the big players in the Nuclear Proliferation Treaty in 1968: USA, UK, France, Russia and China. Within the self-serving treaty is the agreement that no one will try and create nuclear weapons to the level of these five nations as to curb nuclear weapon production. Additionally, Article 1 sites that these five countries agree not to transfer "nuclear weapons or other nuclear explosive devices" and "not in any way to assist, encourage, or induce" a non-nuclear weapon state (NNWS) to acquire nuclear weapons. Therein, lied the conflict, no one could sell to India to further build nuclear weapons unless the treaty was broken. 

Rather quietly, almost brushed under the carpet quiet, Congress & Senate passed through a deal permitting India for open trade. Bush very gregariously smiled with his pen to paper posing for all the cameras, exuding a "see dad, I can do something productive" glow as he, too, signed off on the deal. More importantly, in the heat of the final stages of the election race Obama returned to Senate to vote yes on the Deal. 

Isreal remains ambiguous, opaque to their nuclear creations, North Korea got called out and backed down on their creations and now Iran is under heat. So we play Good Cop/Bad Cop with the world, pushing our agenda and wondering why their is backlash down the road. Meanwhile India, in all its mad bargaining skills, hustled off a great deal with the US. Buisness is booming on the nuclear weapon front as India as it has purchased 6 of its anticipated 40 nuclear reactors by 2032. Some may argue for increased energy efficiency, however in an era of want to "start reducing our nuclear arsenal in an effective way," there lies many alternate, less-precarious, under invested means of maximizing energy use. 

So I may be the unpopular critic, especially against the motherland. However, getting in there like swimwear, when the rest are left to point fingers at is not a point of pride for me. It just now means that India is no longer the unpopular brown kid in the all white school. And, probably, I'll always route for the underdog and remain a voice against the unjust.

Salsa Chronicles #4

I started taking Salsa lessons back in November. I found the art, science, psychology and social elements of salsa so fascinating, I started chronicling them. 

In LA Salsa dancing is quite a scene. I mean, there are multiple options for every single day of the week. Yesterday I tried somewhere new: King King in Hollywood.

I walked into King King at precisely 8:50pm, 20 minutes after class started. "And basic, 1,2,3...5,6,7," the teachers chanted. At first, even this is intimidating. Where did the 4 and 8 go? After three months though, it's like a sanscrit chant: "Om bur braha swaha..." microphone points to the crowd.

So I join in trying not to be presumptive, but also thinking, 'I am the master of the "basic step."' They teach us a "shine step." This is where you break away from your partner and do a little shoulder-shimi or ass-shake. It's good times, but still a point of awkwardness in Salsa dancing, not unlike that first go at conversation on a first date: 

"Do you like living in LA?" he asks. 

"Well I didn't at first. But now I went to hang out at this bar and these people were saying that and I was thinking how retarded they sound. I like famous people," she replies. Wait, where did he go?

If there is one thing I can handle it is dancing by myself. Boom, got the shine step down. It is the coupling up part, however, that is often a point of stress for me. 

"Let's partner up," Rodrigo, my dance teacher, announces.  

Now that my fear and awkwardness has molted, I can shake a tail feather regardless of the guy in front of me. Some of them are Divo-style robotic; so stiff it's almost like popping and locking. Others are still standing motionless in the startup position, but the combination has already finished. Mostly, every guy brings in their own style, trying to maneuver the grace of leading a lady, while mastering a new step at the same time. 

Finally, the class comes to a close and it is free dance time. As I always have come and left alone, this transition from class to free dancing makes my singleness glaringly apparent; I take a seat alone on the side and wait. 

Out of the corner of my eye I see Yosi enter. Here's an interesting cat. He has taught a couple classes in the past. I've always made efforts to forge a friendship with him, however, I find each conversation abruptly haults at Yosi defending himself:

"Yosi, when are you going to head up another Rueda class? I think the interest is there, but everyone may not know it is going on?" I say. 

"Well, I'm too busy to post it everywhere," he defends. 

And conversation close...and slowly walk away. 

So tonight, I can't find it in myself to go up to him, start up conversation and somehow walk away feeling smacked in the face with a tether ball. Arrogance is not a virtue in salsa dancing. 

That is precisely what I learned today. I look up and see the guy who repeatedly pretzeled his arms up the wrong way during class busting a move. 

"I think you only turn, I don't." I inform. 

Correcting someone with you in class, I've come to learn, is a very touchy thing. I know this from being on the receiving end. We all are here to learn and no one can assume themselves to be better than the other. During free dance time, he never came to ask me for a dance. 

"Would you like to dance?" Ari from class inquires. 

"Of course." I reply, thinking 'This is going to be a boring one for sure, I think he's a beginner.'

Before I realized we were scissoring, twisting, twirling. This guy knew what he was doing. Presumptions never pay off on the dance floor. 

Then, I look up, and see Rodrigo approaching, thinking, 'Nice he's coming to chat.' I love this guy. 

"Would you like to dance?" Rodrigo asks extending his arm.

With my internal sirens going off, I reply: "Certainly."  

Before I know it, I am misreading his turns and stumbling over my own two feet. Aeeyye mommy, nothing like a little intimidation to freeze one's capacities. Salsa never works if you think you can't do it. In my defense however, this is the video of the man I danced with.