Just Musing

My Visit To America (March 2010)

A first visit to America will leave impressions. My recent two week’s in New York, Washington and a bit of the middle US states surely had some impact, which is as follows:

Big America: Unlike Europe or even south-east Asia, America is about size. It is all very big, except perhaps the cash-strapped Delta and Continental planes in the domestic circuit, with little leg or head space and hardly any in-flight service worth a mention, except some orange or tomato juice.

Yet, there are no skyscrapers like in Manhattan or Times Square, airports are sprawling whether Detroit or Houston, the museums and memorials are grand in Washington, Texas and Oklahoma are about big cars, roads, stores, schools and homes.

The groceries and Walmart approximate warehouses. The variety is immense, the deals very good and the quality top class, even if a bit of the items are imported from China and some India.

Such a range is not available back home.

The food portions are inexpensive and quite liberal, perhaps in keeping with the general girth of the average American. Maybe, there is a contributory factor of cheap food in making many Americans more than just healthy.

In India, food portions are small, getting smaller and highly priced, even compared to food courts in south east Asian countries such as Malaysia, Singapore, Thailand.

But, all of this is puny compared to an American repast. A six dollar breakfast comprised sausages, toast, pancakes, eggs, juice, coffee with add on butter, honey syrup and jam.

It was perhaps one rare occasion when I couldn’t finish a meal I paid for.

I didn’t ask for the food to be packed as there is an extra charge. This was unusual.

Security: The 9/11 fear factor plays out at the airports almost a decade later, even as the long queues reminds one of some of the chaos of regular Indian life. They strip you to the bare minimum, leaving nothing to chance.

It is just shirt and pants and they won’t let you through if the metal detector beeps, passing under the machine any number of times.

Belts, wallets, shoes have to be taken off, gadgets, laptops and jackets put in separate holds. There are plenty of screaming instructions.

I tried to smuggle in water in the hand bag. They threw it away and put the luggage in line again.

This is a process that has been applied to visiting Indian ministers and dignitaries as well, much to their chagrin.

The only silver lining about all of this is that there is hardly any physical frisking as in India. People have issues with this at times.

In America though, there is an ongoing debate about new X-Ray machines that will run an automatic body search.

There is a lot of chatter about it among travelers. Many, especially the women, say it is invasion of privacy. Maybe it is.

Yet, the Americans are getting it right as there have been no terror attacks in USA since September 11, 2001. In India, the militants strike at will.

Also, there is no doubt that a particular community is in focus, even if it is wrong to brand a population due to the wrong doings of some.

I saw two individuals taken away for ``special screening’’ at different airports. ``Is this because of my name,’’ one retorted. It clearly was.

There are no elaborate processes in trains, though domestic travel is as expensive as traveling by air, unlike India where rail fares are much cheaper.

But, it’s the planes that the Americans seem to guard the most and with good reason.

Indians Will Be Indians: Indians like to quibble, argue and quarrel, which some say is a sign of a healthy functional democracy. This is, however, also because back home nobody follows systems, rules and order.

Every matter can be turned around to an individual’s whim, position, contacts, phone calls and money power.

In America there is homogeneity of usual existence, like not breaking lines, following traffic rules, proper parking and honking only when necessary.

Indians generally try to be in best behavior when abroad. They pee inside loos and don’t litter.

But, sometimes it gets too much. Like when my return flight got delayed due to a blizzard.

We shouted and abused the airline management. Security was called in and they warned ``this is America sir, you could be arrested.’’

The officials were asked to shut up and the shouting continued, even as women with children in arms joined in the ruckus.

Other air carriers faced no such problems. The passengers patiently waited and slept off in corners. The Indians, meanwhile, muttered through the delay and huddled in corners to bitch and plot. They regrouped and fought about inadequate food vouchers.

Land of Opportunity: Despite the recession, America remains a land of dreams and progress.

I witnessed the same during my visa process where I met a gentleman from Punjab, an affluent state, whose application was unfortunately rejected.

He did not mind it too much.

``I will come and try again and again despite the high fees. It is a family tradition and an investment. Many of my folks are in America this way. They went on tourist visa, like I will and live and work there illegally. I am young and can earn lots of money to send back home as the dollar can convert to a lot of rupees.’’

Of course, the American dream can get more desperate, with many reports of human trafficking wherein people are duped of big amounts of money or transported in inhuman conditions packed in ships and boats.

I did sense some of the caution and perhaps hostility, given the economic slow down and general sentiments against outsourcing in USA.

The suspicious immigration officer had a friendly tone as long as I was defined a tourist who would obviously spend some money during my stay.

I was, however, sternly told that any work related pursuit away from the purpose of my visit would result in instant deportation.

Not very friendly, I must say, but I guess that’s the way it has to be in times of terrorism and job losses.

Toilet Training

There is, however, an issue about American toilets that many Indian vehemently complain about.

There is only provision of tissue paper and no water. Many of us find this dirty and also irreligious. Some find this reason enough not to marry an American. I do not differ much with these views.

``Indian public toilets are dirty, but there is water at least,’’ one fellow traveler said ``Otherwise one can just go in the open carrying a bottle of water.’’

Road Sense

There is also an issue about crossing roads. Vehicles move on the right side, while in India on the left.

One is practiced about watching the front right while walking across a street rather than keeping an eye on the left. This can disorient and has resulted in accidents.

Luckily, there is respect for the pedestrian in western countries, who have the right of way. In India, it is the other way round. The drivers don’t care.

Still I almost got knocked down once in Oklahoma and also caused bit of a jam as a lady driver waited for me to cross elsewhere.

I was not aware she was on my left. This can be very dangerous as the big American cars can sure cause some damage to the human body.

Chasing the Indian monsoon (June 2004)

It is like a strip tease.

The audience: Indians, browbeaten by the summer heat that unfailingly crosses 40 degrees this time of the year, raising temperatures and tempers, everywhere.

The performer: the Indian monsoon that tantalizes till the very end.

The drummers: officials from the MET office, who play it safe by predicting a below normal rainfall, each year. If they get it right, they are safe. If not, nobody bothers what they said as the rains arrive.

For the populace calculations and speculations happen in an overdrive.
There is desperation in the air, an example, the cases of road rage that show a remarkable rise during this period, with Delhi one of the worst affected.

In the past, Sunita Chadha, a mother of three girls was shot dead on a road by a group of young boys, short-tempered in any case, more short-fused due to the heat. In another instance a truck driver crushed a man leaving wife and two children as survivors. There are many more ghastly encounters that happen each year, only in summer as the heat and humidity turns unbearable.

Meanwhile, Indians await the monsoons, like drought-stricken animals of Africa, beseeching the sky-gods to oblige.

"India has a traveling monsoon, and it travels fast," says Alexander Frather
in his delightful travelogue Chasing the Indian Monsoon.

But never fast enough. A couple of squalls, a pitter-patter of raindrops, as is happening now, only raise the expectancy.
These are false alarms, the audience roars in anticipation, as the winds of change happen to be just another flap of the impending climax.

``This is pre-monsoon humidity, I can feel the low pressure, it smells different, notice how much I am sweating,’’ is the comment in grimy public places, air-conditioned offices and plush cool plazas, which feel the same, the excess demand for power resulting in a permanent tripping of transformers.

In the recent past Indians high on incomes have not helped matters by buying more and more air-conditioners that guzzle power. Power generation controlled by the government woefully lags the rising demand.

A readymade excuse is the statement every year this time, by somebody who matters in the Electricity Board, explaining the reasons for non-existent power for months during these months - "The sudden temperature drop and water seepage due to the rains, resulting in transformers going bust."

The MET office is the only succor. There could be a train crash, India could announce peace with Pakistan, Bush could announce an attack on Iraq or catch Saddam in his underwear, but editors find space every day in newspapers and TV on the MET office info, which is usually a play-safe denial: ``No, no, no --- the raindrops are not the monsoon, just a disturbance.’’

There is a collecting moan cursing the Gods. The only sure facts are: ``last year’s record of the all time high at this time of the year has been broken. It was 45 degrees, it is 46.’’

There is the speculation on dates, with even the satta (unorganized gambling) market getting into the fray, given the cricket off-season. It will be June 23, an unsuspecting official may say as an aside, only to find himself splashed prime time in the evening.

"It's hit Maharashtra, swept Gujarat, Rajasthan too, it is hovering around
Haryana," say reporters from anywhere in the country, with TV producers dispatching their camera teams scurrying across the land looking for an elusive black cloud in the background for a piece-to-camera.

The year 2003 was particularly difficult. The monsoon tantalized --- she arrived with a vengeance; the circumspect MET office even declared that she had unveiled her full fury.

As if to prove them wrong, she petered out, leaving most of north India in a severe drought, the worst in over a decade. Indian agriculture still depends on the rains. Though parts of Eastern India were inundated due to floods and incessant rain, one region does not make a whole monsoon.

On cue, came the declaration that the surrounding air pressure had reduced considerably, spurring speculation that most of India was heading towards a bigger drought. In August, it rained in most parts of India, with bulletins saying that fears of drought are over and the government should gear up for floods.

This was our prediction, was a Met office statement, given the reasonable margin of error this and that way, which finds no place in the media. Who cares about the MET office once it rains? The audience just claps.

Not leaving anything to chance, India’s meticulous Prime Minister Manmohan Singh has already said that the country should be prepared for drought as well as floods, as the case may be this year.

He has reason to doubt. Usually, the south-west monsoon hits Kerala by June 1, Mumbai by June 5, and Delhi around June 29. The predictions have begun. The monsoon is supposed to have arrived in south India. But, who knows.

Indeed, for most of India, the monsoon is a mother scrubbing her dirty child. The country needs a wash and the Gods know it. Months of dust and heat, on roadsides, trees and semi-burnt leaves and the faces of laborers and bus conductors, washed clean. India glistens and then chokes as the drainage too leaves a lot to be desired.

A couple of years back at Vinay Marg - a busy diplomatic highway in the Capital – next to the happening Chanakya cinema hall and the Prime Minister’s residence, a furiously driven city bus stalled, the drains spilling all around it.

A couple of days later all that was visible was the top - Bus No. 610. Yashwant Place, close by, is the site where many tourist excursions begin; the sunken Red Line bus became a stopover.

A terrific photo-op for the tourists; bus number 610 along with pictures of the Red Fort, Taj Mahal and the high rises housing information technology and multinational offices in the suburbs.

So much for Indian cities turning into a Shanghai.

The story of the bus doesn’t end here. Little boys and beggars swam around it, played on top and floated boats. The tourists could not have taken back a truer image of the Capital. The bus surfaced as the rains receded.

One little boy also got caught, sucked by a current into a manhole. This happens every year, if not Chanakyapuri, then somewhere else.

For a lady, the monsoon extracts a price. On the other hand, the blame may lie elsewhere.

An Indian Dhaba Experience

In India there are every kind of restaurants. Macdonald’s has taken root and spreading, but none beats the dhaba experience.

Till recently I lived at Chanakyapuri, which is the diplomatic area of New Delhi, the Capital of India, the same locality in which reside US ambassador to India Dr David Mulford and Prime Minister Manmohan Singh.

Tucked a couple of kilometers away from this high-security area is a popular dhaba called the Rajinder da Dhaba, the da in the dhaba a derivation from the local dialect Punjabi, meaning that the dhaba belongs to Rajinder.

The dhaba is now run by Rajinder’s two ample sons, their dimensions by way of the enormous amounts of free chicken curry they consumed during childhood, courtesy their father’s dhaba.

Dhabas such as Rajinder number several thousands found all over India, along the highways, in little crooks and crannies of big cities and metros as they do not take up much space while giving good returns to the minimal investment.

The beat cops and municipal authorities have to be kept well oiled and happy by the owners, but they come cheap. Sometimes, even a meal a day suffices. Anything for dhaba chicken curry?

Traditionally, the dhabas are meant for tired truck drivers looking for a break from their long journeys, alongside highways. They offer cheap food, music, an open-air television and a charpoy that is a bed with a wooden structure knitted with jute strings, a tad uncomfortable but the best ventilation given the summer temperatures and erratic power situation here.

Some of the popular dhabas along the highways also provide girls who sing, dance and offer more which is illegal, but still a flourishing trade.

However, over time dhabas have come to define a culture, centered round food --- any viagra talk pales in comparison to this ultimate turn on, a blob of leg in a bowl of curry and butter, tandoori rotis, a preparation of wheat resembling pancakes on a sheet of newspaper, onions sprinkled with pungent syrup and a liberal dose of Indian masala (spices) ---- everything that goes against the spirit of new age health gurus.

The government of Punjab, one of the wealthier states of India, lists Dhabas as an attraction worth a try by tourists, except that many a foreign visitor has gone away clutching his/her stomach, given the heavy dose of masala and mustard oil. But, dhaba food can get no more Indian. Also no social barriers matter here.

The crowd at Chanakyapuri where I lived, despite backgrounds where hygiene is an important consideration, was regular to the Rajinder dhaba for years.

Once I took my girlfriend. I don’t form a general opinion based on a single episode, but the advice is that a dhaba is not the best place to date. Seema found the atmosphere a bit overwhelming. She, if I may take the liberty, belongs to the classes not the masses.

To begin with, a comment on the ambience of the Rajinder dhaba, like most others, include buzzing flies, grime, lingering muscular dogs, an envelop of fumes spewed by the traffic whizzing close by. The eating area is limited to a few wrought iron rusted tables, fixed to the ground to prevent people from hitting each other. The rest is open sky and the charred interiors of the tandoor, a huge clay stove filled with charcoal to roast the meat or prepare the rotis.

I grew up eating at dhabas, but Seema obviously had finer tastes.
When we arrived at the Rajinder dhaba, everybody stared at her, as they would an alien descended from a UFO. There were a couple of sari-clad women present, perhaps wives of laborers from a construction site in the vicinity, but it is a tradition in dhabas to stare at anything that arrives in a short-skirt. It is allowed.

A guy farted loud, just after finishing his meal.

I heard her say ``Oh god,'' under her breath.

``Should we leave,'' she asked.

``Just taste the food, taste the food and see for yourself, forget about anything else,'' I insisted.

The Rajinder dhaba, like any other evening was bustling with people of every hue. So was the no-holds barred passion of gorging chicken.

Opel Astras and scooters, Cielos and motor cycles, truck drivers, bureaucrats and Indian diplomats who might have interacted with Mulford earlier in the evening, daily wage laborers and businessmen jostled for the limited space to wend their way for their piece of chicken leg or breast at Rs 25 a plate, delivered in white earthen saucers, the price the same for years, despite double digit inflation.

There are no etiquettes, it is an unlimited use of fingers and palms, no spoons, one is only expected to burp loud, an indication that draw the stray dogs who expect you to leave, depositing the remnants with them.

Sleeves rolled, noses running, heads bent, fingers dipped in gravy, well heeled gentlemen stood alongside others wearing almost nothing. The burps formed a long spray of fog that hung in the air for a while as it was winter; some washed up at a running tap in a corner, others wiped their hands on their pants and left, to chauffeur driven Cielo's or the bus stop.

We chose a relatively empty table. I could almost witness images of an up market restaurant passing Seema’s brain, even as her expression changed from bad to worse.

I went off to fetch a plate of curry as she reluctantly agreed to partake a couple of bites only. From the short distance I watched a burly man built like a tank settle his plate next to her and proceed to devour feverishly.

The chicken was scoured to the minimum, lips gnarled in every direction, the bones cracked open and marrow licked clean. Even hungry hyenas in National Geographic in a drought situation couldn't be as intense as this guy.

To add to woes, the man was a sadist. He seemed a regular and guessed that my girl was in some discomfort. Observing her, he began a loud conversation, with nobody in particular but everybody around, who seemed to be familiar with his presence.

Laden with Hindi expletives which sound much more obscene than their English counterparts, he talked of a fight a couple of days back that engulfed the dhaba. It started from the serving area when someone from one group spilled on someone from another group. Both the groups threw their curry at each other, scalding skins.

``One person lost his eye,'' he said.

Then the hangers on and onlookers tried to intervene which led to both the groups pouncing on everyone, using their fists, plates and car accessories as all the curry was splattered.

The man pointed at the ground that still carried stains of the previous day --- blood and curry. When I carried back the chicken, Seema told me she was about to faint before she almost did, clutching my arm spilling curry on the ground and my pullover.

``Water, water,'' I looked around, for a few sips.

Somebody brought a bucket of water and threatened to pour it, just as I pushed it away. It was cold. Seema’s eyes opened wide for an instant, emanating one final cry of desperation before she seemed to pass out for good.

I held her while a crowd gathered, forming a circle around us, some holding pieces of tandoori chicken, as if they were watching a film shoot in progress.

``Make her smell a shoe, a shoe,'' one of the laborer women insisted.

A man in rags and equally dirty shoes threatened to take them off.

``She will be fine,'' I stopped him.

``Lets get out of here,'' she murmured, her eyes closed.

I was relieved that she spoke and tried to calm her by offering Walls choc-in-a-box ice cream that someone handed me as I carried her to the car, like an injured player being taken off the field. Inside, she suddenly woke up, to launch into a blistering tirade at my hopeless judgment of hanging-around town.

She swore that she would never visit a dhaba. I have never again been to a dhaba on a date, but rest assured I slip in time, however busy I might be, to grab hot and spicy chicken with rotis on a worn out newspaper rag.

It’s divine.