I love Philadelphia for many reasons. Some of them being (in no particular order):
a) It's highly accessible on foot and has allowed me to continue my procrastination to learn driving.
b) Murals.
c) Wilma Theatre.
d) Opportunity. This city taught me independence like no other.
e) Diversity. And I mean it. There are literally all kinds of people here.
f) Philly Diner.
g) Pretzel Run.
h) Kelly Drive.
j) Ten Thousand Villages.
k) The Rebecca Davis Dance Company.
l) Rittenhouse Square.
m) The Electric Factory.
n) Restaurant Week.
o) First Fridays.
And the last is not the least. For those of you who don't know, First Friday is a cultural event of Philadelphia where on the first Friday of every month, many galleries and museums in Old City are free to the public from about 5 p.m. onwards until 9 p.m. Many many students (since, well, only either students or very rich, or very poor really live in Philadelphia) crowd Old city on such Friday evenings. Talking, exploring, eating, drinking and bumping into old friends and enemies etc. My favorite part about First Fridays are the random artists you meet on the street and the tremendous opportunity to rediscover art that lies within that. In the past, I've met many painters displaying their amateur yet fresh ideas on the pavement, and persevering musicians serenading the pedestrians with their compositions. It's kind of like the culture of street performers in New York City, only more shy and laid-back.
Once, I met a jazz artist selling CDs of his music. He gave me a free copy when I told him I had no cash, but that I'd make up for it by giving the CD to the shelves of Drexel's radio station. I don't really know how often he was able to tune-in to listen to his music being broadcasted, but the fact that he sent me off with the satisfaction and good will of knowing that I would do just what I had promised...It truly made my day.
Recently, I met a photographer who chose to build a House of Cards on canvas and wood. Kevin and I just went up to ask him what that House of Cards was made of and he immediately asked me what part of India I was from. I was Awestruck. Not because he could tell that I was India right away, but because he could tell by the way I talked and not from the color of my skin. The conversation continued to what I did, to his travels in India, his 6-week stint in Pune as a sanyasi, to his work. "Scientists are like artists too. Scientists put facts together. Artists put different kinds of facts together," he told me. It was unforgettable because when we walked away from that man, we had left with one the most profound things we'd heard in our lives.
"Don't go looking for the meaning of life. Give it meaning."
Whenever you walk the streets of Philadelphia, don't just go looking for adventure. Look for stories.
Saturday, September 05, 2009
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Revelation # 1
So I thought and I thought and I realized something.
Men never grow up. They just move from simple toys to more sophisticated ones.
You read this here first.
Men never grow up. They just move from simple toys to more sophisticated ones.
You read this here first.
About Time
For those of you who actually read this, I apologize for the extended absence. However, I think by now you are pretty accustomed to my irregularities. Well, I thank you for persevering.
I recently visited my family in India for about one and a half months, and collected some of the most precious memories of my life. The visit was really cool in a lot of ways. I was able to celebrate my birthday with my own family after four long years. And when I saw the 2 kilo cake my mother had ordered for me, I was able to realize that some things never change. I might be older now, almost ready for marriage by their standards, but somewhere in their heart, I am still that little girl who used to cut cakes on her birthday.
My mother perhaps gave me the most memorable present this birthday. She told me the story of my birth. I mean, literally an account of how I refused to pop out. The year I was born my parents still lived in a run down apartment-like place above a district eye hospital where my father worked. Because my father couldn't get off from his job, my mother had to go to the general nursing home herself, accompanied by my aging grandmother on a rickshaw. I cannot even imagine what that must have been like. Going through the badly constructed, bumpy roads of my hometown, on a rickshaw, ON a rainy day, with constant, painful contractions that were making her cry. Puts in perspective the pains your mother goes through to bring you into this world, right?
She finally got to the hospital and was admitted by a doctor. She'd been having pains but I wasn't moving at all. So they gave her Oxytocin injections to increase the contractions and make them more powerful. My mother was screaming and crying in pain, with my grandmother holding her hand and my father pacing up and down outside her ward. I still wouldn't move. Five days passed but still no movement. My father was beginning to get worried. The doctor told him that my mother might need an operation, a Cesarean, but for that she will have to be moved to another, bigger city, since such operations could not be performed in my hometown due to lack of facilities. However, my mother was in no condition to be moved. Finally, a big, fat nurse had this idea that she will manually assist in pushing the baby from the outside. My mother watched horrified as the nurse got onto her bed, straddled across her and began pushing downwards from the top of the abdomen. It was pain beyond belief, my mother tells me. This went on for a few minutes, and then finally her child popped out of her uterus.
"You looked like a lizard!" said my mother. "We had thought that after all that trouble, I was going to give birth to a mini-giant."
"Gee, thanks Mummy. That makes me feel so good." I am special.
She told me that since that day she swore she wasn't going to have anymore children. I have two younger sisters.
I recently visited my family in India for about one and a half months, and collected some of the most precious memories of my life. The visit was really cool in a lot of ways. I was able to celebrate my birthday with my own family after four long years. And when I saw the 2 kilo cake my mother had ordered for me, I was able to realize that some things never change. I might be older now, almost ready for marriage by their standards, but somewhere in their heart, I am still that little girl who used to cut cakes on her birthday.
My mother perhaps gave me the most memorable present this birthday. She told me the story of my birth. I mean, literally an account of how I refused to pop out. The year I was born my parents still lived in a run down apartment-like place above a district eye hospital where my father worked. Because my father couldn't get off from his job, my mother had to go to the general nursing home herself, accompanied by my aging grandmother on a rickshaw. I cannot even imagine what that must have been like. Going through the badly constructed, bumpy roads of my hometown, on a rickshaw, ON a rainy day, with constant, painful contractions that were making her cry. Puts in perspective the pains your mother goes through to bring you into this world, right?
She finally got to the hospital and was admitted by a doctor. She'd been having pains but I wasn't moving at all. So they gave her Oxytocin injections to increase the contractions and make them more powerful. My mother was screaming and crying in pain, with my grandmother holding her hand and my father pacing up and down outside her ward. I still wouldn't move. Five days passed but still no movement. My father was beginning to get worried. The doctor told him that my mother might need an operation, a Cesarean, but for that she will have to be moved to another, bigger city, since such operations could not be performed in my hometown due to lack of facilities. However, my mother was in no condition to be moved. Finally, a big, fat nurse had this idea that she will manually assist in pushing the baby from the outside. My mother watched horrified as the nurse got onto her bed, straddled across her and began pushing downwards from the top of the abdomen. It was pain beyond belief, my mother tells me. This went on for a few minutes, and then finally her child popped out of her uterus.
"You looked like a lizard!" said my mother. "We had thought that after all that trouble, I was going to give birth to a mini-giant."
"Gee, thanks Mummy. That makes me feel so good." I am special.
She told me that since that day she swore she wasn't going to have anymore children. I have two younger sisters.
Monday, January 19, 2009
India was...
Originally published on Facebook 01/19/2009.
Ever since I've returned from my trip home this winter, I've been getting the question "How was India?" from everyone I know. Here is my answer to you, if I can ever answer such a question.
I spent this past winter break at home in India, with my family. I saw them after two long years. Homesickness and longing had been driving me so crazy, it was unbearable. I wanted to see them, hug them, tell them how much I missed them.
The time spent in India, outside of my family's signature pilgrimage vacations, was very relaxing. It gave me a chance to step back and reflect. Evaluate what I was seeing, how I was feeling. India was exactly what I had expected it to be: warm, chaotic, and beautiful. However, it wasn't familiar anymore. The instant joy I got from touching my feet to dusty, dry Indian soil had gone. Instead, I stood there with apprehension, and uncertainty.
I first noticed this when I was riding through the streets of New Delhi. I found myself looking around for the things I used to know. Sometimes, I found them and sometimes, I didn't. But it still shook me. It had never occurred to me that I would ever have to search for the little chaat shop around the corner from my aunt's house. I had just assumed it would always be there, with that old man always making us spicy panipuri. Little things like this disconcerted me at first, then confused me. I couldn't believe myself when I couldn't recognize the streets of my hometown that I used to take every single day to school.
Damn, things had changed. I had changed. My parents grew older, my sisters grew up, my cousins got married...everyone fell into a niche while I was away, leaving me outside. I missed it, but it didn't really bother me. I accepted it as just the way of things. I had left them outside too during my time here in this country. We are still as close but now we understand each other a little less. Nearly every conversation has to be prefaced. My sisters and I can't complete each other's sentences anymore but we still share everything. Will things improve? I don't know. I don't know what the future holds for us as a family.
My trip home also made me realize what being here in the US has come to mean to me. This country has taken all my loved ones away, but has given me a spirit, an identity. I know now to believe in myself. I know now that I really can do anything. It is true that any place can give you this feeling, but I get it from here. From this cold soil of this country which is not my home. From the strangers here who have made a home in my heart. From my friends, my mentors, my residents, my relatives. This country gave me a backbone, and then burdened it a million things. But that's okay. It's a fair burden and it is mine to bear.
As of now, I don't know which one of these do I love more: my family or my spirit. Going back means losing so much of what I have come to enjoy, including my independence. Going back also means being in the warmth and closeness of family.
...I hope I don't have to make a choice between the two. And I don't know if I will have to.
Ever since I've returned from my trip home this winter, I've been getting the question "How was India?" from everyone I know. Here is my answer to you, if I can ever answer such a question.
I spent this past winter break at home in India, with my family. I saw them after two long years. Homesickness and longing had been driving me so crazy, it was unbearable. I wanted to see them, hug them, tell them how much I missed them.
The time spent in India, outside of my family's signature pilgrimage vacations, was very relaxing. It gave me a chance to step back and reflect. Evaluate what I was seeing, how I was feeling. India was exactly what I had expected it to be: warm, chaotic, and beautiful. However, it wasn't familiar anymore. The instant joy I got from touching my feet to dusty, dry Indian soil had gone. Instead, I stood there with apprehension, and uncertainty.
I first noticed this when I was riding through the streets of New Delhi. I found myself looking around for the things I used to know. Sometimes, I found them and sometimes, I didn't. But it still shook me. It had never occurred to me that I would ever have to search for the little chaat shop around the corner from my aunt's house. I had just assumed it would always be there, with that old man always making us spicy panipuri. Little things like this disconcerted me at first, then confused me. I couldn't believe myself when I couldn't recognize the streets of my hometown that I used to take every single day to school.
Damn, things had changed. I had changed. My parents grew older, my sisters grew up, my cousins got married...everyone fell into a niche while I was away, leaving me outside. I missed it, but it didn't really bother me. I accepted it as just the way of things. I had left them outside too during my time here in this country. We are still as close but now we understand each other a little less. Nearly every conversation has to be prefaced. My sisters and I can't complete each other's sentences anymore but we still share everything. Will things improve? I don't know. I don't know what the future holds for us as a family.
My trip home also made me realize what being here in the US has come to mean to me. This country has taken all my loved ones away, but has given me a spirit, an identity. I know now to believe in myself. I know now that I really can do anything. It is true that any place can give you this feeling, but I get it from here. From this cold soil of this country which is not my home. From the strangers here who have made a home in my heart. From my friends, my mentors, my residents, my relatives. This country gave me a backbone, and then burdened it a million things. But that's okay. It's a fair burden and it is mine to bear.
As of now, I don't know which one of these do I love more: my family or my spirit. Going back means losing so much of what I have come to enjoy, including my independence. Going back also means being in the warmth and closeness of family.
...I hope I don't have to make a choice between the two. And I don't know if I will have to.
Sunday, October 26, 2008
Wither
Today, I saw an old lady trip and fall. She merely tripped on one of those cement things on the ground that you see in parking lots. As I was helping her up, I was thinking: had it been me, I'd have been able to break my fall and catch myself. I would be able to pick myself up without help. Most likely, I would not be bleeding from my mouth and nose.
I will be in her shoes someday. Tick-tock. Tick-tock.
I used to volunteer at a hospital sometime back. Nothing too fancy, just the regular, bottom-of-totem-pole kind of thing. The ward I worked in had people all recovering from some sort of heart surgery. Stitched gashes down the chest and old age were always the common features. I saw them everywhere. Everyday. For six months. That is when I first noticed the entertwined infirmity and old age.
Among other things, I used to deliver the mail to the patients from the receptionists desk. Most of the time, they weren't able to open these themselves because weakness, and sometimes, arthritis. At other times, they were unable to see, or read. I read them their letters. I watched them react to those words someone had scribbled on a fancy piece of paper. It made them so happy, so sad, so longing. They were dependent on me for the knowledge of those letters and for all those emotions. The more I saw this, the more afraid it made me.
I don't want to be indisposed. I want to be indispensable. Tick-tock, tick-tock.
Old age is the single most daunting disease out there, at least to me. There is no drug, no treatment out there that will help me. With old age will come infirmity, weakness, dependency, and many other things that I am too afraid to list here. I don't want to be any of that. I want to age gracefully. I want to die before I lose my memory, before I need help going to the bathroom, before I am forgotten. I want to be that sassy old woman that I worked for at Merck. Very learned, nurturing, funny and knows how to get her way with a smile. I wonder if in her world, old age is a disease.
There is never enough time and there never will be. For me to be someone, anyone. To be enough. All I have is now, and whatever I am now. I can take it, or leave it. Learn now, do now, fly now and fall now. My body is one of the greatest instruments I will ever own. So is my mind.
But they will both not last. Someday, my knees will give way from under me and I will sink. My vision will blur. My memory will fade. Time corrupts all and it is on nobody's side. It's us versus time. And we are not going to win.
"Nothing of me is mine to keep, other than memory."
I better get going. Tick-tock, tick-tock.
I will be in her shoes someday. Tick-tock. Tick-tock.
I used to volunteer at a hospital sometime back. Nothing too fancy, just the regular, bottom-of-totem-pole kind of thing. The ward I worked in had people all recovering from some sort of heart surgery. Stitched gashes down the chest and old age were always the common features. I saw them everywhere. Everyday. For six months. That is when I first noticed the entertwined infirmity and old age.
Among other things, I used to deliver the mail to the patients from the receptionists desk. Most of the time, they weren't able to open these themselves because weakness, and sometimes, arthritis. At other times, they were unable to see, or read. I read them their letters. I watched them react to those words someone had scribbled on a fancy piece of paper. It made them so happy, so sad, so longing. They were dependent on me for the knowledge of those letters and for all those emotions. The more I saw this, the more afraid it made me.
I don't want to be indisposed. I want to be indispensable. Tick-tock, tick-tock.
Old age is the single most daunting disease out there, at least to me. There is no drug, no treatment out there that will help me. With old age will come infirmity, weakness, dependency, and many other things that I am too afraid to list here. I don't want to be any of that. I want to age gracefully. I want to die before I lose my memory, before I need help going to the bathroom, before I am forgotten. I want to be that sassy old woman that I worked for at Merck. Very learned, nurturing, funny and knows how to get her way with a smile. I wonder if in her world, old age is a disease.
There is never enough time and there never will be. For me to be someone, anyone. To be enough. All I have is now, and whatever I am now. I can take it, or leave it. Learn now, do now, fly now and fall now. My body is one of the greatest instruments I will ever own. So is my mind.
But they will both not last. Someday, my knees will give way from under me and I will sink. My vision will blur. My memory will fade. Time corrupts all and it is on nobody's side. It's us versus time. And we are not going to win.
"Nothing of me is mine to keep, other than memory."
I better get going. Tick-tock, tick-tock.
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