The Stranger in My Home

by The Stranger in My Home- Facets of a Life (retail) (epub)

  Linh paused in her narration.

  Now fifty-four, trim and petite, with a round face and radiant smile, Linh sat in a bistro with me, a glass of red wine in her hand. She said, ‘I don’t know how I found the gumption to risk that boat trip. I was desperate. I just wanted a new life for me and for my child.’

  I looked at her and wondered about the hundreds of other desperate women and children, ready to risk all for the chance of a new life, and the obduracy of our prejudices that want to close the door and raise a wall.

  47

  SMILE, PLEASE!

  WHAT YOUR CAMERA DOES NOT LET YOU SEE

  I WAS AT A superbly orchestrated wedding in Loudoun County: an old country church, beautifully decorated, an elderly pastor with a Bible in hand, and elegantly dressed men and women waiting expectantly in the pews. Precisely at the right moment began the third movement of Bach’s violin concerto in E major and the bride marched forward on the arm of her father. I had known her as a young girl and wanted to see how splendid she looked in her bridal dress. But I couldn’t. Two photographers were marching along the bride and taking shots every few inches. I couldn’t see past them.

  The rest of the afternoon there were many replays of this drama. The wedding ceremony concluded with the groom kissing the bride, nervously and awkwardly, but at the multiple photographers’ insistence they had to re-enact the scene a few times more. Toasts had to be repeated, as were some witty remarks by the groom’s cousin, all at the behest of the avid photographers. I thought I detected a slight look of relief on the couple’s face as their car finally took them away from the guests—and the photographers.

  This accent on recording reality seems suddenly universal. You can go to the Grand Canyon and find more people taking pictures than observing the grandeur of the gorge. You can join the May crowd and visit the Eiffel Tower, and you will see hundreds furiously photographing the tower from every angle rather than taking a good look at it. At the zoo in Washington, dozens seem more interested to record the animals than notice their beauty or behaviour.

  No doubt the popularity of social media has heightened the trend. No private or social event goes unrecorded and then promptly reported on Facebook, Twitter, Tumblr or SnapChat. Every birthday cake, wedding dress and family reunion is duly splashed in multiple photographs of dubious focus and dismal composition. Probably bakers are baking cakes, designers are sketching dresses and hosts are planning parties with the resulting photos firmly in mind.

  Why does one take photos? You take a photo to aid your recall. You take a photo of your child so that you can look at it years later and remember how she looked as a baby. You take photos of your sunset gondola ride, for you love to think of your glorious summer in Venice even while you are freezing in Fargo or Fairbanks. The album brings back charming memories.

  The other reason one takes photos is to share your experience. You send photos of a wedding or birthday to your cousin who couldn’t attend either. You make sure that Grandma gets to see snapshots of the reunion her gout did not let her attend. Were you to get to the peak of Everest, you may share with the world the unique view you beheld.

  Is this what is spurring the tendency to shoot and publish virtually everything?

  At least a part of the answer lies in the vast number of photographs that centre on the photographer as the source. Aside from the scourge of selfies, which are nearly always an eyesore, many pictures are of I-and-the-Taj Mahal variety that leave you in little doubt which of the two objects is truly important. Perhaps we all crave a measure of immortality, and leaving a visual imprint on Facebook pages is some people’s way to grope towards that.

  But there is a price for this.

  I was wandering in New York’s Whitney Museum, now located in a striking Renzo Piano building next to the Hudson River, and was suddenly transfixed by a remarkable canvas by Edward Hopper. It shows a nude woman standing in a shaft of sunlight from a window in a practically barren room. I stood petrified for a long time, watching and wondering: Is that a cigarette in her fingers? When I came out of the trance, I took a shot of the canvas, and meditated on it on my way home.

  Nothing detracted or even distracted from my joyous discovery of a work by a favourite painter or my leisurely absorption of it. Snapping it on my phone was a separate, subsequent act that let me see a little more of it. Seeing and recording were discrete actions, distinct in time and purpose. Shooting did not take away from a ‘mindful’ immersion in the painting itself.

  Looking back, it makes me conscious of what we lose when we start snapping photos the moment we see something interesting: we really don’t see what sustained, attentive seeing alone lets us see.

  48

  A STORY OF LOVE AND PASTRIES

  WHAT THE HEART CRAVES

  I WAS DISCONSOLATE WHEN Father took a new job and we moved to a new house, albeit in the same town. I loved the old house, my sunlit room, the spacious grounds, the friends I played soccer with.

  Wrenching as the move was, I slowly began to find some advantages. 86 College Street – even the name had some elegance to it – was a huge building, at the junction of two major thoroughfares; a bustling, lively corner, next to a big market and an impressive array of shops selling from saris to shoes, books to bed-sheets, harmoniums to hashish. It was a colourful, lively and exciting place.

  The most exciting thing lay right by the side of our building, between a restaurant and a famous pastry shop. While I craved the delicacies the restaurant and the pastry shop offered – which I got to taste only when Mother bought them for special visitors – my eternal longing was reserved for the edifice between them, a movie house. It had a graceful name: Grace. It looked most enticing, with posters pasted on its walls outside, showing handsome heroes with flashing swords, buxom heroines coyly striking suggestive poses, and mustachioed villains looking ominous on horseback.

  On the upper-storey balcony there were huge placards and banners that had even more vivid pictures of the protagonists, along with names of the stars, the director and (in India as important as the director) music director. All I had to do was to open the window of my room to be regaled by a larger-than-life Raj Kapoor ogling at Nargis, or Pran pointing a huge Colt directly at me. Mother frowned when she found me mesmerized by a giant cutout of Madhubala that emphasized her impressive endowments.

  Then came an extraordinary development. Among the stream of friends and visitors who passed through our living room, there appeared a trim, well-groomed man, in a beige seersucker suit, a cigarette dangling stylishly from his lips, whom I heard Father introduce as the new manager of the movie house. Manager! Of a movie house! In my eyes, as well as those of my brother, he was no less a star than Pran or Raj Kapoor, and I imagined him sitting in a plush seat watching every show and thrilling to every derring-do of the heroes and villains.

  Joao De Silva was from the coastal city of Panjim and spoke Portuguese and English and a smattering of Hindi. He twirled his tiny goatee and graciously invited our whole family to come and watch the blockbuster to hit the screen the following week. He said he had refurbished the cinema and, to cater to the hoi polloi, decided to rename it Deepak, meaning light in Asian languages. To my great disappointment, our father, apparently impervious to the charms of Madhubala and her ilk, said that he could not spare the time for the movie, though he greatly appreciated the offer.

  Then, no doubt to please De Silva, he added that the children, however, would be delighted to see the film if that suited him. I couldn’t believe my ears. De Silva instantly said that he would be delighted to have the children come as his guests, and that he hoped our parents also could join us for another show.

  There it was, the windfall of a fantastic movie for my brother and me. That Saturday, dressed in our modest finery, we crossed the street and entered the refurbished Deepak. It seemed quite dazzling to our naïve eyes, and De Silva came out of his office to personally guide us to two front row seats on the balcony.

  We were spellbo
und when the movie started. It was essentially a love story, somewhat akin to Romeo and Juliet, where the hero, the leader of a tribe, falls madly in love with the chief’s daughter of a hostile tribe. The hero was daring and determined; he went to all kinds of trouble to go round the furious father and make passes at the charming daughter. He finally succeeded in manoeuvring the girl into a secluded boat and was just about to do something exciting and romantic, when up popped the disgusting father with a loud snarl, ‘What! My worst enemy with my best child!’ Poor Dilip Kumar, who was all set to hug or kiss the winsome Kamini Kaushal, had to engage in a furious mano-a-mano with the odious chief who would rather be a wrestling champion rather than a decent father-in-law. Sad to say I have forgotten the outcome of the epic battle. Probably the villain won, to give Dilip Kumar the chance to gain the tragic aura for which he was so famous.

  What I remember better is this: During the interval of the long film, De Silva appeared with a tray of the choicest delicacies from the two adjacent establishments, the restaurant and the pastry shop. If the strength of my relative recollection is any guide, the stomach certainly is closer to the heart than the eyes or the brain.

  49

  AN UNRULY HORSE

  TAKING CARE OF YOURSELF

  I HAD LOST A friend some time back, but I am glad that I have got the relationship back. I know this sounds strange, but I am talking about meditation.

  Many seem to associate meditation with religion. There are the statues of Buddha in deep meditation; the strange lotus posture of practitioners, often in a room reeking of incense; and the reference to bizarre words like Vajrayana and Vipassana.

  Meditation for me is neither exotic nor mysterious. It is a down-to-earth activity that has been a part of practically every ancient tradition of developing yourself. It is a practice that brings peace and calm, helps overcome tension and lets you focus on whatever means the most to you.

  I started exploring when I was in Nepal. Whether it was the ever-present beauty of the snow-capped mountains or the simple, sturdy belief of the hill people in ‘going inside’, I was intrigued enough to give it a try. I visited the Swayambhunath and Bouddhanath temples, as all tourists do, and I loved the elegance of the Lumbini monastery and the peace and quiet of the Kopan monastery. But it was the modest Seto Gumba that had my steadfast loyalty.

  Rinpoche Chokyi Nyima is a pleasant middle-aged person. He has a strong build and a soft voice. For a spiritual person he has a singularly earthy style, and speaks on the most esoteric themes in the most pragmatic way. He will readily show you around the monastery and explain its procedures, but he seems most at home answering your questions at length. No question is too basic or too silly for him. He answers you simply, clearly and with utmost humility.

  He helped me realize how much my past training restricts my view of myself. If I break my leg or develop high fever, I go to the doctor and take a medicine. Short of that, I rarely notice what is happening in my own body. I eat at certain hours but seldom notice a twinge of hunger. I work during the day, as I am supposed to do, but scarcely observe any special pleasure or discomfort while doing it. My body may be telling me of a certain unease, but I would usually ignore it until it became onerous.

  Take another example. If my colleague was rude or my client insulted me, I would nurse my pain in silence, because that is the ‘manly’ thing to do. At best, if I shared it with a friend, he would probably curse the perpetrator and urge me to ignore it.

  But the pain would persist and would fade only with time.

  Yet there is a better answer. All pain, like all joy, comes through the mind, and our mind is usually like an untrained horse, running unruly in different directions. There is a simple way to discipline that horse and exercise control over what we allow to upset or exhilarate us. Meditation, the simple act of sitting quietly and focusing, mindfully and for a short period, allows me to start reining my wayward mind.

  Let alone the majestic green trees in my suburb or the shiny grey clouds of the season, I go through my day, like most of my neighbours I guess, observing little, feeling nothing, caged in a daily routine of insignificance. The little attention I pay to my own body, shaving or showering, lets me detect a scratch or cut after days, and a change of feeling or sensation possibly after weeks.

  The most wonderful thing about those twenty or thirty minutes of meditation is that, cutting out a specific time out of the hurly-burly of life, I am deliberately taking care of myself – and thus taking care of everything else. It feels like a reassuring companionship. I have a good friend back.

  50

  HE LOVED TO FLY

  THE ONLY DREAM HE HAD

  I WORKED FOR A large European company with offices all over India. My boss, who hated to fly, would often send me in his place to far-off meetings and conferences. I enjoyed the travel, visiting new cities and meeting new people. With so much travel, some of the pilots and flight attendants became my friends.

  A youngish pilot I liked on our very first encounter. He was modest and self-effacing. I found him a man of few words, but he was soft-spoken and friendly. I told him that, despite my executive duties, my first love was writing and reading. In response he said that flying was his first love and he liked the simple life of a pilot. He wanted nothing better than working his allotted hours and then returning to his wife and two small children.

  I was taken aback when his co-pilot later confided in me that he was the son of Indira Gandhi, the first female prime minister of India. There were rumours that his mother wanted him to assist her and begin a career in politics. When I next encountered him at the airport, I alluded to the rumour, saying I would miss seeing him on my flights. He said he would never leave flying. He loved it and he loved the life it allowed him.

  ‘I don’t want to do anything else,’ he said. ‘I just want to fly and watch my children grow up.’

  I ran into him another time or two before I moved to Washington, DC, in the late 1970s. In 1984, I saw his photo on the front page of the newspaper after his mother was assassinated. He was persuaded to succeed her as the new prime minister. I thought of that young man who had so loved flying and did not seem to care for politics. Would he be able to retain the simple life with his family he loved so much, I wondered?

  Just seven years later I saw him again on the front page. A woman had sought audience with the young prime minister and, coming close to greet him, detonated a hidden and powerful explosive belt.

  51

  A JEWEL IN KATHMANDU

  FINDING THE MAGIC AND MYSTERY

  HE HAD COME TO Nepal as a Peace Corps volunteer and fallen in love with the country. When his tenure ended, instead of returning to Colorado, he longed to linger in Kathmandu.

  To pay his way, he followed the example of poor Nepalis and started a roadside teashop. He was friendly, took good care of his customers and served them with a smile. The clientele grew rapidly.

  Eventually he took over a house with a large garden. The house would sometimes be rented for private parties and sometimes exhibit paintings from local artists who couldn’t afford a gallery. The big front yard with its garden and sheds became a full-fledged restaurant. Nobody knew or cared for the owner’s last name; he was just Mike. His restaurant became known as Mike’s Breakfast.

  Occasionally I had lunch there, but Saturdays – the day Nepal has its weekly holiday – I was a fixture there for brunch. Imagine the scene. A nice green patch, nicer for being unmanicured. Large and small trees, pretty bushes, some with flowers. A modest table, a comfortable chair. And me, in the chair, right under a large banyan, with a sheaf of newspapers and the sun on my back, filtering gently through the leaves.

  I never ordered, for the waiters knew what I always wanted. Twenty minutes after I arrived, there would arrive on a steamed plate a so-called Nepali omelette, a giant egg confection with a ton of varied vegetables, spiced just right to make it lively and acceptable. Another twenty minutes, and they would bring me a large steaming glass
of Nepali Chiya, fragrant high-quality Indian tea with hand-picked spices of Nepal. It was enough to breathe new life into a somnolent, hide-bound expatriate pen-pusher.

  Brunch was just the beginning. There was the recurrent reunion with other regulars: Shrestha the techie, Sherpa the wheeler-dealer, Williamson the cartographer, Upadhyay the journalist and Xerxes (unlikely to be his real name) of no known occupation. They came with the periodicity of my Chiya refills, and like the Chiya filled my day with spirit and joy. When the mood struck, I retreated behind my papers, only to emerge when another friendly face came to tell me the latest news or misadventure.

  The conversation was brisk and bold, fast-moving and wide-ranging, sometimes related to current headlines and but often devoted to Nepal’s colourful past. Anybody could raise any subject that interested him, and but should be ready to hear a very contrary view. Sometimes we argued, occasionally ferociously, but mostly with typical Nepali stoicism. Disasters happened; tragedies had to be endured; disappointments were just a part of life. This benign acceptance of misery occasionally exasperated me, but I learned to admire the gracious acceptance of reverses.

  My table mates accepted one another serenely though their views diverged. The best example was they accepted me, whose views were rarely what they could easily accept. I remember their placid faces as they sipped tea and politely listened even when I said something erratic, even outrageous.

  I write this as I sit on the terrace of my favourite French café in Reston sipping a latte and taking in the latest overloaded shopper, an unusual Bentley, a kid propelling paper planes. I am happy here. But I also remember the happiness an unusual haven brought me, week and week, month after month, in a sunny corner of Kathmandu, a jewel of a restaurant at the foot of the Himalaya.