Hava Nagila

I stumbled upon a documentary titled "Hava Nagila (The Movie)". All that mindless browsing on the Husband's part finally led to something.

I saw the title and instantly broke into song. Hava Nagila, hava nagila ve-nismekha! The documentary was about the origins of this famous Jewish folk song sung in Hebrew. It instantly took me back to my childhood when I would sing this song without knowing its true meaning.

My Dad and Harry Belafonte had a huge role to play in my musical education. Many a night were spent with dad singing "Come back Liza" to me in his lovely baritone, putting me to sleep. I didn't need  a lullaby, I had Belafonte at Carnegie Hall. I cannot believe I was singing Hava Nagila at age 7 amidst my normal Indian existence. 

Unaware that Hava Nagila was a song about celebration and inspiration and "davka" (in spite of). In spite of the holocaust the Jews will live on, in spite of  all the pain and suffering, they will rejoice and in spite of the humiliation, they will be happy. I was deeply moved by this documentary. The song may be a cliche for some or even dated, but for me, it was indicative of a time when I was happy. Of a time when Dad brought lovely trinkets from all his travels. When the dinner table was filled with amazing stories of different countries, music and movies.

Hava Nagila was instrumental in the Jewish assimilation in America. It reflected the prosperity and suburbia of 50's and 60's America. It seems to have pervaded into Desi Suburbia too! Here is the version I grew up listening: Harry Belanfonte at Carnegie Hall.

Its a common joke in the Goprolu household that I am  IMDb. I never realized how wonderful it was to dispense all this trivia until my husband mentioned that I was his "go-to" person.

I feel warm and fuzzy right now and its not even Christmas or should I say Hanukkah!

A Trip through Saurashtra - Part I

Lord Krishna and the Yadu clan truly left their mark on Dwaraka. The cows were everywhere. Big and small. Young and old. Some cared for and others roaming the streets eating the temple garbage.

We have a unique psychology. We revere the cows so much that we will not kill them for meat and yet we are so heartless that we will not do anything to ensure they live a good life. Cows, like the people in India are highly neglected. I digress though...this post is meant to be a memoir of my recent travels in Gujarat.

What an eye opening experience. Gujarat has so much to offer with its rich food, handlooms and historical sites. Yet, all I could credit Modi with, is a little bit of infrastructure in Ahmedabad and a few industries on the highways. The roads were in good condition and scattered with industries both by Reliance and Modi. But there was poverty everywhere. Saurashtra has always been economically backward. The land barren and the people poor. While the rest of Gujarat seems to have progressed, Saurashtra has little to its credit.

My trip started with a visit to Lothal, the ruins of the Indus Valley Civilization. Being a history student, I instantly romanticized this site. I could imagine the Harappan people building citadels, making pots and intricate beads that would make any jeweler in Bombay jealous. The museum was filled with artifacts thousands of years old and yet, it was no different from any of the other museums in India. Old and neglected. We drove on to Jamnagar. A nice little town that seemed to be booming due to the Reliance industries close by. We visited a very famous Hanuman temple where the Ram bhajan is recited non-stop. Apparently, it made it to the Guinness Book of world records.

I think the highlight of the trip as far as the family was concerned was the visit to the historic Dwaraka and the two jyotirlingas in Somnath and Nageswar. I must say our visit to these sites was truly a blessing. There is an old saying that one has to struggle to see (darshan) God. Struggle we did. Scores of people in unruly lines, hot pavements and children shouting. I had my very own "Swades" experience in Dwaraka. We had to cross the back waters on a rickety little boat that was over capacity. The dock was a concrete slab with steps and the "Captain" of the ship, just a laborer making money over the holidays. I looked at Mom and questioned "is it worth it?" while I could see my Dad drag us all to the dock. We have to make our own way if you want to see "beyt dwaraka" he shouted! One hand holding my Mother and the other, my mother-in-law we struggled to make way to the boat. We managed to embark and survived the ride to the other side.

L to R: Mother-in-law, Mother and I in the boat

More cows awaited us. And the remains of Lord Krishna's kingdom. I had just finished reading Devdutt Patnaik's Jaya and excerpts from the book came flooding back. What a unique and complex character Lord Krishna was. 

The lines of history and mythology were a blur. All I knew was that I had survived this horrendous boat ride. 

Dinner with a purpose

Someday I hope to be doing this. Work in an organization that is about social change. There are enough charities and non-profits out there and yet poverty and suffering still exists. I always believed in giving back to the community but also knew that I could not work for a charity based organization. I believe in empowerment and education and organizations that help individuals be self-sufficient.

Recently, I went to one such place. Old Skool Café. A supper club that is led by at risk youth. Teresa, the woman who founded this restaurant wanted a place where young people could learn life skills that can help them escape the vicious circle of crime, unemployment and gangs. Old Skool café is a training program that teaches these young adults everything there is to know about the restaurant business from cooking, to serving and fine dining etiquette. When these youngsters “graduate” they are ready for jobs in the food and restaurant business.

The best part of the experience was that, the food was delicious! After all, no matter what the cause, if the product is not good, the user will never return. This is where I feel a lot of organizations go wrong in. If you have a business model where part of or all your profits go towards a socio-economic cause then you have to make sure that the product or service you are delivering is the best. I will probably return to Old Skool Café and will always tip generously but I will do that because my dining experience was fantastic. The work that they do to support the youth is the crux of the restaurant but, it is secondary for most diners. The diner will most likely view this as icing on the cake. Speaking of dessert, don’t forget to try the lavender cheesecake. The perfect way to end the meal.

Desh, Videsh: India and America

Exactly 20 years ago to this day, my family and I first set foot in the "Land of Opportunity", America. We were here on invitation of the U.S Government, my father representing the Indian Navy. For 11 months, families from 33 countries including my own were guests of the Naval Command College in Newport, R.I.

My most vivid memories are of my mother in her silk zari sari with her bindi, happy, content and unfazed in the midst of Admirals, foreign dignitaries and women from all over the world; asking her why she wore a bindi and why she didn't eat meat. My father would shovel the driveway after the first snow storm and leave a path of his footprints in 2 feet of snow for us to follow. As a child it was always a game for me to try to place my foot in exactly the same spot, trying to follow my father's footsteps. Now those moments mean much more.

Because that year in Newport, my parents taught me to look for the commonalities in people. That everyone is essentially the same. And what matters in life is the “human experience”. To say that this was a life changing experience would be an understatement. For the first time in my life I was part of something bigger than myself. I became aware of my "Indianess" and I don't mean that in a bad way. But to realize a sense of identity at age 8 blew open the doors of the world to me. My best friends were from Morocco and Ghana. Play time was spent eating couscous and jicama.  I had lived through “culture shock” without even realizing it.

When I returned to India I was two distinct identities existing in one. For years my brother and I would joke that we were probably American in our past lives. We learnt that one cannot live life like a frog in a well. And that is what my parents taught us. I write this today as an ode to my parents. Not for their accomplishments and there are many, but to remember the life lessons they imparted. For life is about the people you meet and the memories you make.

Happy Anniversary, mom and dad! 37 years and what a grand life!

You know you are a Desi when:

• You wear open toe footwear in 50 degree weather.
• You bought tickets to hear Priyanka Chopra and Pitbull sing.
• You put pictures of your BMW on Facebook.
• Your cars(mostly BMW's and Audi's) are "named" after your wife or kids.
• 4 pm means chai and chaat at the local Chaat Bhavan.
• You are an M.S Comp. Sci (USA).
• You know VORACLE( Oracle).
• Your kid won the National Spelling Bee.
• When someone is getting married you ask "love marriage ya arranged marriage?"
• Combiflam (Ibuprofen and Paracetamol) is the cure for any illness you have.
• At a party, you are the only one who wore white pants and white shoes.
• You think this post doesn't apply to you because you are cool and different.

Letters

My first letter was when I was 9 years old. I was flying to Orlando, FL to visit Disney-world and an elderly lady named Charlene was sitting next to me. On the other seat was my Turkish friend Korhan.

Charlene was a chatting lady as most old ladies are. It was a long flight and we soon became friends. After we got off the plane she met Korhan and my family and gave me her visiting card. She wanted to keep in touch with us and thought us to be very "interesting". I went back to India and realized I still had her visiting card. I wrote to her from Cochin and she responded with a long letter. We wrote to each other for several years and she sent me pictures of her family, her new husband and asked me questions about life in India. I had moved twice in 2 years and somehow I lost touch after settling down in Vizag.

When I left Bombay ( I refuse to call it Mumbai) I had left behind a very dear friend of mine. Nimisha. Bombay was a very mixed experience for me. I was in my teen years and much too tall for my age. Very much a tomboy, my life revolved around tennis practice and arguments with my mother about what appropriate clothes meant. Nimisha was the one true friend who did not find me awkward or too tall. Being the Naval brats we were, Nimisha moved to Cochin and I to Vizag and we decided to write to each other. We wrote for over 6 years, she still in Cochin, while I had moved to Hyderabad again! We wrote long letters with little hearts, I miss you quotes, greeting cards, friendship bands and cartoons drawn in between spaces. We wrote about our first love, our first college admit, shared our first picture in a saree. Through the letters we entered adulthood and womanhood together. We bared our souls on paper.

And then one day the letters stopped. She had written in response to my confession of love. She had warned me to be careful, to be truthful. The letter arrived home while I was away at college. The envelope was so over stuffed with love and concern, that it had torn. My mother happened to read a few lines by mistake and then called me. She was angry as any conservative Amma would be. She warned me that this was not appropriate, that I was too young. I lied to her out of fear. I told her the letter was not about me but about my friend. In my letter to Nimisha, I was mean and inconsiderate. Blinded by love, I forgot the one true friend I had. I asked her to never write to me. To stop looking out for me. And then, the letters stopped. I went on with my life, in a bubble. Ignoring everyone and everything while love consumed me.

I went letter less for over 3 years. I kept wondering what could be the reason for the ache in my heart. I realized there were no letters in the mailbox. No funny greeting cards, no long letters full of every insignificant detail. No love.

A new friend saved me. He had an appreciation and insight to me and I began to write to him.From college, from my friend's wedding at Newport, from Virginia during spring break. He understood my muddled thoughts crammed into long sentences with poor spelling ( yes, you know I used spell check on this post). I know why you write to me, Seema, he used to say. I get it.

Here I am now waiting to write my next letter. Wondering who it will be.

Hello World

No, this is not an Android platform training session. Rather, an attempt to express myself and be lost in the multitude of blogs out there. Who am I kidding? It would be nice to have some followers. After years of contemplation on whether to blog, this is where I ended. I always wrote. Wrote to my diary, wrote articles, wrote letters. This is a first for me. I am still not convinced whether the keyboard will be give the same amount of joy and solace a pen and paper would, but here goes.....