Hidden Figures

I must open this by saying that I am rather partial to African Americans. Perhaps because in part I am a woman of color. Perhaps because the people of the state I am from--Kerala bear a strong resemblance to black folk. We could easily be cousins if you take clothing and language out of the equation.

Maybe it is because my dad who was always made to feel conscious about his dark coloring from the time he was a child can pass for an elderly black gentleman.

He is 82 and gorgeous.

Or perhaps it is simple because they have and continue to suffer so much.

At any rate, when I watched Hidden Figures after all this time, I felt good, yes. Those women were rockstars. And got their due recognition.

But I felt sad too. Quite sad.

These women, especially, Katherine Johnson were near geniuses.

As were indeed most of the women working there as computers. They were all obviously more than merely smart.

But Ms. Johnson was a genius.

That she could use her genius made me happy.

That she had to suffer indignity made me sad.

But it was not just that.

I got thinking that this woman of color, this genius one in a gazillion woman had to prove herself to be a genius so that she would be accepted finally into a club of smart enough white men, yes but otherwise ordinary NASA engineers. That only because John Glen said quite inadequately, "Ask the smart girl to check the numbers," was she invited to the launch room of the Friendship 7 mission that without her would not have happened.

What am I missing here? Are we to feel grateful that Kevin Costner's character was sometimes sensitive towards her? Appreciative yes, but not enough that he could give her work that made full use of her genius? That in the end he gave her a string of pearls and a strong handshake?

This remarkable woman had to show her super human math skills every day, solving gargantuan problems every hour only to be finally, reluctantly accepted into the fold of these otherwise ordinary people (white men) with skills far inferior to her own.

And for that acceptance we are supposed to feel grateful? Uplifted?

Fuck that.

And isn't it so even now? Why must a person in the minority--a woman, a person of color, a foreigner, new immigrant, anyone like that have to be ten times as good as a mainstream person only in order to be accepted into their fold?

Does this mean that if you are a minority, a woman, a person of color, a foreigner and if you are smart, good at what you do but not a hundred times times as smart as the mainstream person, and not a genius, sorry.

You're out of luck. Try another club. You cannot belong to the smart enough but otherwise ordinary mainstream club?

Different standards, yes. And how glaringly different!

Women, even today must work twice, three times, four times as hard as men just to stay in equal positions. God forbid if they show the slightest inclination that they love their family life or reveal the slightest hint of softness.

This must mean their careers mean nothing to them. They are weak women.

Why must a man of color go to lengths to prove that he is NOT a violent person. Why is that the standard assumption. He is black. Must mean trouble.

Will this ever change? It is 2018 and we are still having women's marches protesting the same old shit. Over and over. Our bodies are our own! Really? It is 2018.

Black men still get stopped in cars, boats, roads, planes. For one reason alone. Their race.

What is wrong with us?

Will we change?

One ray of hope remains that I have seen.

Elementary school kids are discussing segregation, race. They're having underground railroad simulations. They talk about MLK JR. and Rosa Parks.

They are feeling bad as a result of the discussions, the simulations.

Great!

My 8 year old was so riled up when we watched Hidden Figures. He was jumping in his seat saying how bad it was--the colored toilets, the discrimination, the unfairness. All of it. His face turned red and he was angry.

Good.

Dare I hope that this is the future?

If one day these kids shake their heads at us it would be a win.

If they wonder at the absurdity of a world where judging someone on the basis of anything but their humanity is wrong, then it will have been a win.

Facebook DO NOT

I am on Facebook to promote my book.

I used to be on it years ago to find friends who had been lost to me for years. At first it seemed like such fun to find people I had lost touch with. (as an aside, I still think its the best place to locate people you cannot find otherwise.) 

However, it quickly became apparent that the old long lost friends had no real interest in staying in touch beyond "Friending" me on FB. I could seldom get them to meet or speak one on one. They had been lost for a reason. Many of those relationships had petered off...

In terms of my book, the marketing gurus say a fledgling author ought to have a Facebook presence so I revived my dormant personal account and launched my book page last year. I only post on it if there is something about my book that needs to be said.

For some odd reason though, or maybe because Zuck sends these radio signals to people on FB, I feel the need to check it everyday. I only stay on for five minutes and scroll the newsfeed. It's an addictive place that. Everyone has something to post right and it keeps adding more stuff. Videos, pictures, forwarded news things.

And like one possessed I keep scrolling.

Until I shut the laptop with a bang. Shudder, shake off the effect of the signal and go about my day.

The other day I went on as usual pushed by that strong unseen force from Silicon Valley and saw the feed. FB magically has given me over 400 friends. I know them all in some way I suppose, people from my past, old friends, colleagues, cousins what have you.

That day what affected me the most were the joyous pictures of groups of friends hanging out. I see them everyday and usually they wash over me or I feel happy for them etc and keep scrolling on.

But this day was different.

Unfortunately this time this Facebooking session had caught me at a bad time.

I was staring at those pictures questioning my ability to make new friends. I am picky. Granted. And all my old pals live miles away. The ones who get me, whom I get, those with whom there is an ease that only comes from years of knowing one another.

And I realized for the umpteenth that I really don't have a group of women with whom I can hang out for a drink. That with two kids and an uber busy husband with whom I get precious little time anyway, this kind of hanging out would be hard or the fact that I don't care for bars and such I didn't consider.

There were then the pictures of my Indian friends at these Indian functions and things with friends, all smiling cheerfully as if the sun was shining only for them. I don't do temple and Indian functions there as a rule. It doesn't come naturally to us as a family, it's not how we grew up and what doesn't come naturally, we don't do.

We have made these choices and yet I felt bloody awful. Like an absolute failure. To not even be able to conjure up a handful of pals to be cheery with is a sign of bloody failure.

I let myself feel down in the dumps for a while. Cursed FB and shut it down.

Why oh bloody why did I do I check this evil thing? Its not a FOMO per se. Or maybe it is another symptom of just that.

FB I have come to realize is like fashion mags which I totally banned from my life years ago.

It makes you feel bad about yourself. Looking at air brushed pictures of Twiggies of all ages made me feel bad about myself so I stopped looking at them magazines.

Looking at "friends" who always seem to be surrounded by their loving pals makes me feel bad about myself.

And therefore, I am going to stop looking.

So strong is the force of that Zuck signal that when I decided to write this post, instead of going to the blog site, I went to FaceBook. Blast and dang.

Sod it Zuck, I am done. From now I am not bloody looking.

The value of a second language

My sons know this house rule well.

Only speak your mother and father tongue at home. English outside and when people who only speak English are present (this one is more abstract since they can not speak English if its a private thought they want to express like I need to poop now! No one needs to hear that.)

The question of language.

A second language for all.

My kids speak three. My mother tongue, my husband's mother tongue and English.

They aren't geniuses. It's just that they have been exposed and they have had practice.

Yes culturally it is important. Which makes me so sad because so few second generation Indian kids speak their mother tongues. I have had friends who have told me with relish how their kid doesn't even understand their own mother tongue but goes to French or Spanish immersion school and speaks fluent French or Spanish. Ok so they have the second language. Kudos. But why the relish regarding this blatant ignorance of your mother tongue? Are they ashamed of their own language? Think it is unimportant that if their offsprings carry names like Kamlesh Vaswani or Radhika Ramanathan, have a head full of black hair and brown skin that they will never feel the need to understand their origins or have some fleeting knowledge at least of their rich cultural past?

Makes my blood boil. These kids will in their late teens, when identity becomes an issue a subject of discussion, suffer as a result of this highly avoidable ignorance and lack of pride.

Now I believe it is harder for immigrants. To keep your feet on both boats as it were. But it is important. Keeping some link to your heritage so later on when racial identity is an issue, you are able to embrace your ethnic roots and your American-ness with equal ease and have the best of both worlds.

But what do I know. I stand on my soap box and preach.

Immigrants aside, it is my humble opinion that it would do the mainstream American child a world of good to learn a second language from the elementary years for obvious brain development and if not for more lofty reasons then at least so they learn not to butcher names and words in foreign tongues. I have found anyone who speaks another language, any language, pronounces our names and foreign words in general correctly for their tongue is exposed to different sounds. Sounds that do not exist in the English language.

That lack of knowledge accounts for all the people who say I-raak or Aaf-ghaa-nis-taan. Ugh.

Pet peeves I suppose but really, if you are relaying the news, learn how this is pronounced. Or to the average person, you have heard this word correctly numerous times. Please make an effort.

Levity aside, it would get the American kids on par with most of their world cousins, since most of them speak multiple languages.

Now for the practical aspects of a second language.

Kids say whatever in public. Just whatever. No filter right?

My friend who is from Europe took her son grocery shopping once. The child set eyes on a rather heavy set woman walking by and commented in a loud voice about her appearance. In English.

The woman was understandably distraught. And she started to cry. My friend was mortified. No sense blaming the kid. He was about three. My friend corrected him, apologized to the woman and left the store in a hurry.

I told her, if only her child had known his native tongue, well, she could have corrected him etc but there would've been no harm done.

I had my own chance several times to thank the language gods but the biggest one was when my older one was about four.

We were at a restaurant just the two of us waiting for our meal when a young girl, kid really, slip of a thing, walks by. She was, as many kids of that tween age tend to be--overdeveloped in the chest area. And seemed very aware of it. Poor child.

My son watched her for a while, turned to me and asked in a rather loud voice.

"Why are her breasts so huge?"

In his defense, we had discussed how breasts grow on girls when they are older. Understandably he saw a young un endowed with what should only belong on an older person. And hence a very scientific question. He was curious. Not being lewd. He was after all four.

She heard of course and walked on without a care.

And thank you language gods cause my son had asked me the question in Tamil.

Of course I shushed him, congratulated him for asking me that in Tamil. And I went on to impart more knowledge on the subject.

There are other ways an extra language comes in hand. We can gossip about strangers in public and we do. We wonder about them like the Simon and Garfunkle song except they won't know. We aren't obnoxious. Just able to be curious without worrying too much about it.

And no one is the wiser.

And also I can scold them. In public without worrying that someone will think I am Cruella Deville.

My threats tend to be dire and are not for the faint of heart. Luckily my sons are used to my rantings and take it without skipping a beat.

If some of those are translated, well...let's just say the authorities wouldn't be too pleased. 

Mom

I have a friend.

A woman, a smart, educated woman, a beautiful woman, a kind woman. A sensitive, intelligent, hard working woman. She has two lovely children.

Her children have recently started going to school full time.

She had chosen to stay home to raise them, despite having a PhD in her chosen subject, despite having had a fulfilling career in front of her a decade ago when she had her first born.

Now this woman, this smart, kind, educated woman wants to pick up the threads of her own life once more, between the hours of 8:30 and 2, because she still wants to be around for her children. They remain her first priority.

And so she starts applying for jobs--part time research jobs, teaching jobs.

They're hard to find, given that she wants part time work. Given that she has been away from the paid workforce for so long.

And so, she decides to get her feet wet by volunteering for a health organization. She gets a call from a prestigious place.

She goes in and asks for her assignment.

For the next few hours or so, she sorts boxes of medicines. She thanks everyone at the end and drives back home in time to pick up her children from school.

On her way home, she fights back tears.

This is what it is going to take to get back to finding her own life. And while she is willing, for the most part to do what it takes, it still rankles a little. That the way ahead is going to be long. It is going to be hard.

Society has little time for stay at home mothers who have been "napping" for a decade or more. Even those with PhDs wanting to re-start their own personal engines are going to have to re-pay their dues.

They are going to have to re-do things in every way. From the beginning.

There is little by way of recognition for the work this woman and millions like her do. Little by way of allowing her to add that decade she spent with her children on her resume with any degree of pride.

Little by way of understanding that being a full time mother is a bloody hard job, especially if done well, with full commitment. Like she and millions of others have done.

And while she waits, while she scrambles to re-collect those strewn threads of her previous life, 'So what do you do while the kids are at school,' becomes a dreaded question she doesn't know how to answer.

She might be deemed unambitious, or worse lazy. Not driven enough.

The world has a long way to go to finding ways to utilize this and other brilliant talented women who have so very much to give, albeit within a non-traditional time setting, perhaps in a non-traditional manner.

She's not asking for much, really. Not too much money, or promotions or status.

Just a chance to be part of the society at large that she chose to step away from in order to do her best for the past ten years to provide with well brought up, kind and highly productive new members.

Her children.

Society's future. 

Snacking @#$%tips

It was a sad sad day in December or so, I remember. I had turned 25.

I was watching some TV and stuffing my face with a giant bag of cheddar and sour cream chips (newly discovered since I had only a few months ago moved to the US). They were crunchy, ridged and just the best thing ever. I was also washing them down with coke or some other (vile, I know, but delicious) soda.

For some reason I happened to look at myself in the mirror not long after and it seemed that this single binge had caused me to gain quite a few unwanted pounds in all the wrong places. I am not tall and I am small boned. Even a few unwanted pounds show and how!

It struck me then, the horror of it. Now that I was getting older, those days of yore, those sweet years when I could polish off bags and bags of salty, spicy snacks when the only side effects were waves of nausea and little weight gain were behind me. The days that lay ahead were ones of portion control, calorie counting and such horrific activities that can only cause one to lose faith in living and eating.

It is especially hard for ones such as myself (and I figure all other sensible people in the world) who love to eat.

This is not a vain boast. In school, classmates refused to share lunches with me because I ate too much of theirs. Even in university, one of my classmates with her ever so tiny lunchbox said she could no longer share food with me because I took two bites of her lunch and it was gone.

Only my future husband shared with great selflessness. He would merely hand over his scrumptious lunchbox to me and take whatever it was that I had on offer. Of course I only took advantage of this selflessness if I didn't care for whatever it was that my mother had packed for me that day. I wasn't a total loss.

More tragedy. I saw a documentary about sugar not long ago. The ideal number of teaspoons to consume of sugar a day is 6-7. I was ready to heave, people!

I drink two cups of tea a day. At least. That is two teaspoons. I require something sweet after lunch. I try and be good and eat a piece or two of chocolate or if nothing is available, a spoonful of honey and sometimes just a spoonful of sugar (sue me if you dare). That's four teaspoons.

I also require snacks at tea time. Something salty accompanying my chai and then to balance it, something sweet. Again, I am happy to partake of a spoonful of honey if nothing else is available. I am easy that way. That's what five, six, maybe eight? Now I am not even counting the sugar that might exist in lunch and dinner.

There is also a requirement for dessert post dinner. I am flexible this time too. Sugar or honey wise.

You see 7 teaspoons is easy to consume in a heartbeat and I consider myself a healthy eating person. Meals home cooked. Snacks in moderation and such. No longer do I dare bags-full. I eat out of minuscule cups, slowly so it lasts and I watch with envy at my sons who put away reams of potato chips without skipping a beat then burning them off by jumping and running like mad.

But this post is not about my lament. It is about my solution to it.

Seaweed. Wasabi seaweed. This satisfies the need for salt and spicy and is very low cal. Also if you eat too much, you don't feel so great in that it is self limiting in a good way. Unlike chips there is no nicotine like urge to keep shoving more into your face.

I also discovered a new thing. I bought these puffs for my little son. He loves plain puffed rice which is like eating air so I thought I'd give him a similar consistency but healthier alternative. Vile stuff man. Kale and spinach. Like 20 calories a cup or something. I dare anyone to eat a cup full of that stuff. Anyway he rejected them in a minute and I was left with a bottle full so I ate some. And like I said, it was vile.

I had a thing of peanuts close by.

Hmm.

In my minuscule bowl I took a bunch of the puffs and added some spicy peanuts. Lo and behold. Yummy snack. The spices of the peanuts made the puffs actually tasty while providing crunch and salt and spice all at once making a reasonably healthy and actually enjoyable snack.

The urge to make the mix tilt towards a higher ratio of peanuts persists but I am resisting it. Why? Cause I am not liking what I see in photographs and the mirror. A gut, muffin top, jeans that don't fit and the like (dangerous for the heart, yeah) accompanying an aging face. Not a great combination.

That's it then. Snacking tips. Seaweed and toddler puffs (snuck with peanuts).  I plan to buy the whole line of the stuff.

Oh and the sugar police notwithstanding, I still think a spoonful of sugar as a dessert substitute is pretty darn smart eating.

The writer's 'body' image

I just read a wonderful blog post written by a Chicago actress about body image. The advice she was given, nay the "wisdom"--lose weight, you need to get a nose job to get cast, you're not believable as a love interest (got to love that last one) are all sadly accepted as part and parcel of the acting business.

I often tell people about the rejections writers face. Other than telling us to lose weight or get a nose job, we hear it all.

And unlike with actors where it is usually the women that get this kind of rejection, I think for the most part, it is equal opportunity gender wise in the world of publishing.

I remember it especially with my first novel that didn't get published because it was too 'quiet'.

My agent sent me feedback from various publishing houses and editors.

Editor 1. The opening childhood scenes are most compelling. Use more of that thematic matter elsewhere as well. Lose the bit about the Russian girlfriend. She's not interesting. In fact turn the novel into a children's book.
Editor 2. The bit about the Russian girlfriend is the best. Lose the childhood stuff. Its all hackneyed and been done a million times.
Editor 3. There needs to be more drama.
Editor 4. There is too much happening in this novel. Reduce the scope of it.
Editor 5. If this is a family saga, we must have more pages.
Editor 6. Open with the last chapter.
Editor 7. Open with the middle chapter.
Editor 8. I have my ethnic novel for the year. Maybe next time.

And on and on and on.

Now the last one about having her ethnic novel for the year I can sort of live with. I tried not to seethe at being slotted into an ethnic novel versus just a family story--although the book was based on my father's family and we are Indian, the events could have happened to anyone. However that is a battle that will be fought as long as we are minorities, I suppose. I have to come to terms at being labelled thus.

I laughed or cried reading the feedback, depending on the day and as is apparent, altering the novel one way or another was sure to displease someone. It was a game of chance no matter what I did.

The final straw happened when an editor at a major publishing house who wanted more drama agreed to re-read the manuscript. My agent told me that never happened which must mean she liked it a lot to start with. This was my chance so I seized it. I re-wrote the book to be less quiet, added more drama, intrigue. Make it more salable.

The process took me a few weeks. I was ready for the editor to re-read it.

And guess what, she had moved on. And no longer interested in reading the book since she now had different commitments.

I get it, people move on, things happen but there I was stuck with a novel I hadn't meant to write that I had forced myself to like so I could sell it.

I tried pitching the new version to several small presses but none of them wanted it. Perhaps all that added drama didn't feel real and I should've stuck to the original quiet version. Maybe it just wasn't a good enough book for anyone to want to put out. I wasn't ready to self-publish. So that was the end of that.

I have published my second effort and am none the wiser about the vagaries about the publishing business, post putting out a book. It remains a strange, hard to navigate, not to mention completely illogical world. But that's another story.

I will do this again because I like telling stories. I have learnt a lot about crafting a book, pitching it and once it's out, marketing it. The greatest thing I learnt given my experience with both books is to remain true to myself. I stuck to my guns with certain aspects of my second novel and am glad I did. It is a work I am proud to call my own.

And so even as I foolishly embark on a third novel, one thing is clear. It will be what I want to write. It is possible that at the end of it, if it is also deemed unpublishable. This time though, given what I now know, I won't object to self-publishing.

Accepting

Being in my forties is humbling.

I like it for this. I really do. You see because I was such a star kid. By thirty, I thought I'd have written couple books or started a successful company or produced a film or two and traveled a ton, done a lot of good for the community of humanity.

Yes, a tall order and some have done all of this. Just not me.

I have produced one rather bad film (if produced means listening to and obeying more or less blindly, the director's and investor's demands throughout the film), written one novel (ho-hum commercial success wise, lets not kid ourselves), traveled to the usual places, done a bit of good.

I'm like the person who imitates the art work or cooking or what have you on Pintrest with less than perfect results. A lot less. The souffle that didn't quite rise or did but then collapsed and stands lopsided.

But I have decided that it is ok.

Because I am a kind person. Dr. Suess said, "If you're kind, that's it."

Anything more than that I am going to take as a bonus.

We are all a little of this, a little of that. More of this, less of that. Sometimes I wish we would reveal our failures on Facebook, our fears our dilemmas. Leave the triumphs and cute, overachieving kids private. Wear our hearts on our sleeves. Tell it like it really is.

FB post for Monday December 14th:
You know what "Friends", today I feel bloated and look about 7 months pregnant and no amount of Gas-X is helping. I didn't almost nothing over the weekend except laundry and cooking. But on the bright side, I have come up with a few good ideas for my new novel.

Ok, so I will probably never do anything too earth shattering. I might write another book, start a company making some doodad or another, help more people. But I'm never going to live up to those star student expectations I gave myself in my tween and teen years, even up to my late twenties.

And I am going to start accepting that it is ok.

Laundry

It's easy to start this with I hate laundry but I won't because I don't. I mean not all the time.

I do detest how it multiples like so many rabbits.

I detest how it's never really done. It's frightening how after doing a few loads I put it all away and look inside the closet to put back the baskets only to find a pile ready there, waiting, looming in the darkness like a beast that must be tamed or else....

It is omnipresent, omnipotent, omni$%@.  Now, I mustn't lose my temper, for what's the use. Laundry is like the sun, more reliable than the sun. It will be there for me. Every single day.

I admit, I do like the meditative quality it offers. Folding for example is a simple brainless task accompanied with nice smells and a feeling of homeliness. Relaxing.

But it is thankless. It is perhaps the most thankless of thankless tasks. Close competition perhaps for dusting.

No one has thanked me for their undies or hankies or shirts. It's quite the reverse. 'Have you not done the laundry?  Really need those jeans.' Never, 'Thanks so much for this! It smells divine. I've been wanting to wear these jeans for days!'

And so I do find myself wishing it would end, go away, disappear, even though I know it won't.

Not until I'm dead.

Laundry is like the cockroach. When the world ends, it'll live on like the cockroach. And thrive. Not get done of course since no one will be left to do it.

But it'll be there, waiting for the next boatload of people to restart its relentless machinery.

Bracing myself now, for after I post this, I must go put away three baskets worth. Only this time I am prepared for I know there lies lurking in the dark recesses of the closet, two sets of sheets at least, along with who knows how much more....

Raising good little husbands and fathers

I have sons. I've always wanted daughters. I ached for one when my first son was born and so had a second, also a boy.

Now, I wouldn't exchange that for anything in the world. My boys are just super.

However, I felt pangs of sadness when I knew we were not going to have more kids.

There would be no daughters.

Sad, yes, because I would miss all the fun of having a little baby girl but mostly sad because my husband and I, with our values and outlook would've made such good parents to a girl. Girls need parents who empower them. Even today. Despite all the progress, women still have it tough and need to be told how strong and capable they are. Amidst all the pink and frills and make up and fluff, girls need to perceive just how much they can and should do. We would've done that for a daughter.

As my parents did for me. In my home, I was always the older one, my brother, the younger one. It empowered me. Completely. I tell my father, he is the one who gave me the courage to stand out, to never toe the line, to never compromise, to be myself, to go forth and conquer.

I also think this way because my husband is the way he is. The most kind, liberated man I know in every sense of the word. He's the kind of dad a girl would have loved to have.

Then I think, we need more men like that.

Men who truly don't think women should or shouldn't do something other than out of choice. Men who respect the person they work with, man or woman. Men who can be surrounded by powerful, attractive women and not feel threatened or compelled to show off their male-ness in any way. Men whom women trust as colleagues and friends, without fear of strings attached.

So that is what I must do for my sons. Raise them to be men like that. Modern in every sense of the word. Equal partners to the persons they decide to link their lot with. Supportive, encouraging, understanding, helpful.

When I tell my ten year old to put the toilet seat down, to learn to cook meals, to help around the house not for pocket money but because he is a part of the household, it is to start learning to be a good person, a supportive partner in the future. To a man or woman, I suppose. For in any marriage/partnership, someone ends up doing more of one thing than the other. The balance may tilt and as long as the one is willing to bear the burden with the other being understanding about it, the partnership works. Right now, I am the primary care giver for our family, my husband the winner of bread. But he has told me time and time again that he will willingly give it all up. If I want to take his place, he will happily take over my role.

I hope I can teach my sons to develop a willingness to change or alter roles as the need requires and to not feel threatened if their wives are in more powerful or bigger money making situations than they. To know that such a case is not cause for insecurity as much as it is cause to celebrate and be proud. Then I'll have raised good husbands and future good fathers.

My boys have never been told not to cry like a girl, throw like a girl or anything that makes them slot men and women into places that are unfair at best, cruel at worst. They wear as much pink and purple as they'll (in spite of biological and social wiring) allow me to put on them.

They will and must learn to appreciate that a woman staying home to take care of her children is doing so by making certain sacrifices. It's not just mums who do this. It's the person in the marriage who has chosen to do it. It's not just a mum's job to do this and a dad's to do that. Even though that is what they mostly see around them.

I found myself stumped when my friend with two daughters (she has a PhD and has chosen to stay home for the time being) said that she wonders sometimes how to encourage her kids to do all they can, to work hard and get an education, a career path, if at the end they must put it aside to care for their children. It is indeed a difficult question. A question of priorities. And there's no easy answer.

But here is where the man in the picture can make such a difference. Sons. Future husbands and fathers.

Yes, my sons see the stereotype. It is hard to tell them that it's more complex than what they see. They see me cooking the meals, cleaning up, doing the laundry. Right now this is how the balance tilts in our household. But they also see that I have published a book, that I am looking to get back into the business world. They see how my husband treats me. Like his best friend, his equal partner in every sense.

It is important to me for my sons to see me do more than be their mother. I believe it is important for a child to see their mother in a role beyond mothering. No matter how small, in a different role. It gives them the idea that their mother is more than mother and wife. She has different aspects to her personality and life. It gives them pride in her for a different aspect of her life than being mother. This I have seen happen.

Not that it is the answer but it goes a long way, besides always maintaining gender equality in speech, behavior and action in our boys' presence.

My mother says if a child is a good child, it means their grandparents were/are good.

She is so right. For this is a cycle, isn't it?

Good, considerate liberated fathers will probably beget sons who will then be good, considerate, liberated husbands and fathers.

Race representative

I am sick of it. Tired of being a representative for India. I am tired of answering questions about my country of origin, about the traditional clothes I wear, about Hinduism, our food habits, history etc etc.

I am still never able to kick off the feeling that I always need to be on my best behavior. I represent India, and I am answerable for all its issues from the possible realities of Slumdog Millionaire to food and everything in between.

I am tired of being around people who assume just because we speak a different language, it must be Spanish.

All this from people who are the nicest as can be but so not exposed to anything other than the four walls of the Midwest. I am not saying buy an airline ticket to Seoul or Tokyo. But it's time to pick up some books and find out what a sari looks like or a Kimono or a Cossack.

The world has shrunk, we practically live on top of each other and yet so many people I know are completely ignorant. Never mind that it is such an irrtant that even after two wars and all the exposure from novels and news, people pronounce Iraq as Eye-rak or Afghanistan as Aafganistaan. Seriously? Time to hit the books, friends. Time to twist that tongue already.

The days of living in your own little world blissfully ignorant are long past. Might do you some good to learn Mandarin and pick up some tips about not cutting a sorry figure in a meeting in Mumbai.

Now let's flip the coin to the other side.

My own stereotypical thinking and imagery.

American women are super confident. Having observed women from all over the world, American women walk different, talk different--just with a slight chip, it would seem, to the lay observer. They appear so tough and seldom let chinks in their armor show. And so I make certain unfair assumptions based on that--presume lack of sensitivity or understanding and such. I admire them for their sheer show of strength, be it real or not. But for someone who walks around with her heart on her sleeve and being from a culture where such strength isn't necessarily needed to be shown only to be seen in action, its hard for me to see beyond the mask. Even friends, the game face is seldom off so its hard to break down that barrier, that facade of what might well be bravado. It's unfair of me I know and yet...

And with minor stereotypes, if I speak to someone with a European accent, I realized that even the most innocuous statement has me romanticizing them somehow. Someone I know from Europe mentioned to me in passing how he take coffee with his wife every morning at 6:30. Instantly, in my mind flashes this image of him and his wife sitting on a balcony facing a cobbled street and age old buildings. The man lives in suburban Illinois and I know this yet my mind went to what my association with his accent and manner were.

Perhaps people think I sit around the house wearing tons of jewelry and cooking tandoori chicken, listeaning to sitar music. And I suppose I mustn't blame them, I guess.

What's commonplace to one is exotic to another.

I cannot see an Asian woman without wondering what she might be cooking for dinner since Japanese and Chinese foods I absolutley love. When I see them at grocery stores buying this and that I have to contain myself from stopping them and asking for recipes for whatever goodies they have planned. Does it occur to me that they're just like the rest of us trying to get a meal on the table, not a gourmet spread? Yes and no.

And yet despite understanding this, I am starting, perhaps in my old age, to feel the need to be around people who just get it. To whom I don't need to explain what a bindi means or who Ganesh is.

Or that we don't speak Spanish at home.

Truth is I am a foreigner in America. In some senses. In many I am as American as they come having absorbed core values that I believe makes my adopted country so great. And yet I need to feel like I belong in a place where there are other transplants like me. Others who would like to be wished Happy Chinese New year at the appropriate time or Happy Diwali. And in the middle of it all, Merry Christmas too...

What is wrong with us?

I just saw the movie 'The Imitation Game' and was deeply affected by it as I usually am when a genius dies unnecessarily at a young age due to the utter foolishness of man.

Alan Turing died at 41. Committed suicide. Because he had to take these idiotic drugs to "cure" his homosexuality. My stomach turns.

41. I am 42. And I haven't even gotten started on my road yet.

This man who would have turned computing on its head, this man whose ideas are still revered today died at 41 because we are stupid and frightened of what we don't understand.

Even today I have friends ask me if I would be upset if my son/s were gay. Really? is it worth answering that question? It boggles the mind to think how far behind we still remain in the quest to being evolved individuals.

Color, race sexuality, religion still separates us because of suspicion and fear. Shooting people out of fear, war because of hatred and suspicion, persecution because some religious book or other said it was okay to do so.

The religion bit amuses me no end. It's man made, people! Religion wasn't made by God. God didn't write any of that stuff. We invented it. Whatever served the powers that be at that time designed it the way they saw fit. And if we take what they deigned to tell us is the way to live, then God help us all...

Anyway, I digress. The death of a great mind at a young age is what we are talking about. The Alan Turing thing reminded me of one of my favorite writers--Oscar Wilde--also persecuted in his case, imprisoned for indecency (read homosexual behavior). He died in prison. Tragic.

Oh and Alan Turing was posthumously pardoned...wait for it...in 2013. How grand. Kinda close to the whole church accepting Copernicus' theory hundreds of years after it was proposed. Idiocy, all of it.

The world has changed some since those dark days (anyone who laments for the good old days is gaga in my book)

It has changed some, but not a whole lot.

I hope a day comes when people simply have to shake their heads and laugh in disbelief at the ways we have treated one another over the centuries and shudder gladly that such times are long past and will never come again.

I truly hope. 

Piano high

I read somewhere that one must do one thing a day that scares you.

I'm afraid I took this advice to heart a couple years ago.

It had been a lifelong dream to learn the piano and so I started lessons with my at the time 7 year old son. Piano is perhaps one of the most difficult things I have ever taken on. And that's an understatement.

And my over forty year old hands are not thanking me for doing so. If I don't practice everyday, I lose skills like water draining from a pot with a hole. Granted the Suzuki method has some finger twisters but my performance (especially compared to my more nimble fingered son) isn't much to write home about.

But I long for the day I can jam effortlessly playing the odd jazz piece or just play my own thing. It's been two years and that goal seems as far away as another habitable planet in the universe. My hands move along the keyboard scrawny and splayed like vulture talons. And the sound I end up making isn't awful but a gifted student, I am not.

Between trying to remember (Suzuki relies on memorization) notes for the left hand and the ones for the right hand and  correct fingering, I usually forget the finer points such as dynamics (softening a place, making a note or chord sound louder), Then there are greater goals I am being encouraged to achieve--soften the left hand compared to the right hand (keep dreaming) or in a chord, emphasize the top note (my fingers laugh when my teacher says this to me).

And so I stumble along lesson after lesson. But I persist. Why?

Piano high. Like runner's high, after most lessons (unless I have done super badly in one), I leave full of sauce to practice and perfect something that week. The sauce runs out of steam by the end of the week and filled with anxiety I attend class. Seriously, I get nervous before every single lesson. Which is why I asked my teacher not to make me play in performances.

I mean, imagine the embarrassment. When I ascend the stage following some gifted five or nine year old, the audience will see me and expect some major movement or adagio. Instead I shall give them chopstick fingers. How appalling. And between feeling nervous and facing an unknown piano (this one really does it for me. I can somehow manage on our house piano but this is one instrument you cannot shlep along with you so heaven knows what you will have to play on. Which keys might be gummy, which loud, which soft. The tension would literally fry my brain.)

And so I stay away from that side of things.

It's not encouraging being the only oldie amongst a group of ranging from 4-17 year old students. Most of them Chinese and for some, the piano being a second instrument. Let's not even go there. I mean where is the time for these kids to practice, let alone get as good as they are?

Anyway, thanks to piano high I shall persist and who knows by the time my teacher is 102 and I am in my sixties, I shall have my debut piano concert! Don't laugh. I've heard of many a piano teacher live that long.

As for me, what can I say? I'm a late bloomer.

Taking stock

These days I spend time trying frantically to market my book.

I know I am trying to prove something. That I am capable of this, showing that my drop of a book can glisten and rise to the top just as well as another in this vast ocean of media bombardment of all sorts? Or that I am smart? That I can make it a best seller by using sheer elbow grease? I have no name, no marketing millions to back me up. Just my street smarts (such as they are).

Seems like a futile exercise.

Makes me wonder. Does it matter if 500 more people read my book? Ten more libraries buy a copy?

I don't need the money. I am not in this for any sort of renown.

What then? I question why I even bothered writing it?

But then when I see my son insist on giving a copy to his teacher I feel a glimmer of understanding as to why it might all be worth it. This pride he feels will stay inside him in some shape or form, be formative, perhaps. A nice memory of his mother. Something he will pass on to his daughters and sons.  That feeling has meaning.

I read a very nice thought on a library website (as I was trying to contact them to pitch my book). Can't find it anymore but it said something like 'artists want their work to live on forever....and yet we always stop and admire butterflies.' I've done an awful job paraphrasing but the idea is, I suppose, that the simplest things are what remain most meaningful.

It is amazing how ambition can be blinding.

At first I was thrilled when a few libraries (major ones) agreed to buy my book.

Then my local library bought a copy. It was all I had ever wanted. To know that a copy of a book I wrote would be in my local library.

That was it. Should be enough.

And yet that slime of wanting more creeps in as more comes in. Lots of parables to cite on this one.

And the result is more anxiety, more stress. I took pleasure in that achievement for exactly five minutes. It was something I have wanted for years. How pathetic.

I don't know that I have the sauce in me to write another book and go through the wringer again. I am not that good a writer.

I have to believe what I say to people. That publishing a book and getting it in my local library was a bucket list item that I have finally checked off. A decade later than I had planned. But it has happened.

Then I think, should I now go on to another item on the bucket list? Is it even worth having such a list? Unless it is not one of ambition but of more accessible goals.

Perhaps I ought to learn from this, one of my favorite cartoons.

Calvin and Hobbes by Bill Watterson

• November 03, 2013
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Kirkus Review for The Colossus

KIRKUS REVIEW

In Iyer’s debut thriller, a young Chicago caterer finds herself in a race to unlock a mysterious code that will reveal the secrets of her deceased father’s life’s work.

This complicated adventure tale begins in 1935 at an archaeological dig in India’s Indus Valley, and it moves through modern-day England, Pakistan, and Germany as its characters go on a madcap search for clues. At the Indus dig, Maxine Rosen’s grandfather, Samuel, discovered an ancient stash of small disks made of some sort of nutritional supplement. Local legend said that they could bestow either long life or unsavory death, depending upon who swallowed them. To study them further, Samuel brought the disks back with him to German, where he was head chemist at Berliner Pharmaceuticals. Years later, his research was taken up by his son, Hiram, in Chicago; he died in 1995, an apparent suicide. Now, in 2000, there are powerful people who want the disks and findings destroyed, and they’re targeting the few remaining people who know about the Rosens’ work. When Lars Lindstrom, Samuel’s old lab assistant, shows up at Maxine’s door and asks for her help in deciphering Hiram’s code, she feels compelled to complete what her father and grandfather began. Iyer maintains the narrative tension throughout; each discovery leads to another riddle and adds to a growing cast of threatening bad guys, including former Nazis. She’s rather good at subtly dropping clues that many readers will likely overlook—just as the inexperienced heroine does. The author provides romantic relief in the form of Dr. Julian McIntosh, an archaeology professor at the University of Chicago who agrees to help Maxine in her quest, but unfortunately, he’s thinly drawn. In fact, except for Maxine, the novel pays scant attention to character development, concentrating instead on the main storyline. Interestingly, Iyer is at her best in lengthy passages that detail the disks’ components: complex, ancient spores comprised of retroviruses that somehow lower one’s metabolism. This intriguing biochemical aside offers implications that ultimately validate this thriller.

An often imaginative novel with a well-concealed surprise ending.

A Christmas Song

On the first day of Christmas my true love sent to me

1 anxious Maxine in a pear tree

On the second day of Christmas my true love sent to me

2 determined scientists

and 1 anxious Maxine in a pear tree

On the third day of Christmas my true love sent to me

3 crazy Germans

2 determined scientists

and 1 anxious Maxine in a pear tree

On the fourth day of Christmas my true love sent to me

4 ancient pills from the Indus valley

3 crazy Germans

2 determined scientists

and 1 anxious Maxine in a pear tree

On the fifth day of Christmas my true love sent to me

5 minutes to recruit Julian

4 ancient pills from the Indus valley

3 crazy Germans

2 determined scientists

and 1 anxious Maxine in a pear tree

On the sixth day of Christmas my true love sent to me

6 days to find who killed Max’s father

5 minutes to recruit Julian

4 ancient pills from the Indus valley

3 crazy Germans

2 determined scientists

and 1 anxious Maxine in a pear tree

On the seventh day of Christmas my true love sent to me

7 clues to decode some research

6 days to find who killed Max’s father

5 minutes to recruit Julian

4 ancient pills from the Indus valley

3 crazy Germans

2 determined scientists

and 1 anxious Maxine in a pear tree

On the eighth day of Christmas my true love sent to me

8 meals around the globe

7 clues to decode some research

6 days to find who killed Max’s father

5 minutes to recruit Julian

4 ancient pills from the Indus valley

3 crazy Germans

2 determined scientists

and 1 anxious Maxine in a pear tree

On the ninth day of Christmas my true love sent to me

9 encounters of the most dangerous kind

8 meals around the globe

7 clues to decode some research

6 days to find who killed Max’s father

5 minutes to recruit Julian

4 ancient pills from the Indus valley

3 crazy Germans

2 determined scientists

and 1 anxious Maxine in a pear tree

On the tenth day of Christmas my true love sent to me

10 kisses between Max and Julian

9 encounters of the most dangerous kind

8 meals around the globe

7 clues to decode some research

6 days to find who killed Max’s father

5 minutes to recruit Julian

4 ancient pills from the Indus valley

3 crazy Germans

2 determined scientists

and 1 anxious Maxine in a pear tree

On the 11^th of Christmas, my true love sent to me

11 th hour edge of your seat suspense

10 kisses between Max and Julian

9 encounters of the most dangerous kind

8 meals around the globe

7 clues to decode some research

6 days to find who killed Max’s father

5 minutes to recruit Julian

4 ancient pills from the Indus valley

3 crazy Germans

2 determined scientists

and 1 anxious Maxine in a pear tree

On the twelfth day of Christmas my true love sent to me

12 copies of The Colossus

11 th hour edge of your seat suspense

10 kisses between Max and Julian

9 encounters of the most dangerous kind

8 meals around the globe

7 clues to decode some research

6 days to find who killed Max’s father

5 minutes to recruit Julian

4 ancient pills from the Indus valley

3 crazy Germans

2 determined scientists

and 1 anxious Maxine in a pear tree

Colossus- A book review

So I'm writing a review of my own book. It's sort of like asking someone to describe their child in an unbiased manner. Guffaw, guffaw.

Indeed.

Let's give it a shot anyway.

The Colossus is not the best piece of literature out there. Of course, it isn't. But it's not the worst either. Pithy beginning, eh?

This is how it came about. I wrote a much more literary book a few years before the Colossus was born. I thought it was pretty good. But it wasn't accepted by the publishing world. I didn't want to self publish it then so I set it aside.

Instead of drowning myself in drink, I started another book.

This time, I wanted it to be totally different than the one I had written before. It had to be the sort of movie I like to watch. World hopping, mixing of cultures, Nazi era German pharma (gotta have the Nazi era man), an Agatha Christie inspired mystery and a wee bit of code breaking.

I'd grown up on stories told to me by my father who worked for Bayer (the Aspirin people) in Germany. I had heard about their great position of power among the Nazis. How even up until the eighties, some of the top chaps at Bayer had Nazi links.

Then I read Jeffrey Diarmuid's fascinating book, Aspirin. Highly recommend BTW.

I thought, what if a Jewish scientist living in Nazi Germany (fact: many top Bayer scientists were Jewish) was driven to find an Aspirin of his own and instead found something quite different. Then I had to connect all this to India, ancient India and the Indus Valley (since it is still so shrouded in mystery).

Next was to have an interesting protagonist. Someone real, someone identifiable. Maxine Rosen was born this way. She is anxious, has a weight problem, boyfriend problem and is a chef (gotta have food thrown in there, no?)

Her romantic interest had to be very non Jason Bourne like. More Bertie Wooster. This way this couple could go around making mistakes all the way as they attempted to do something they really oughtn't. My inspiration was James McEvoy for Professor Julian McIntosh. He was so easy to write, since I saw him in my head the whole time. Then Mr. McEvoy goes and does movies like Filth. I mean really, I understand expanding your repertoire..but I digress.

So these two Max and Julian needed a mystery to solve with the background of German pharma, Nazi stuff etc. So Max has a scientist father and grandfather. And a coded research document.

It's a spicy masala curry with as many ingredients I could toss in that I liked.

In the end, its an interesting story. A quick read with a mystery that is not so straight forward (tip my hat to the genius of Ms. Christie).

What stands out in the novel though, above all, if I may say to myself, is Max. She is flawed, lovable and real. That might be my greatest triumph in this novel.

Please try it, dear reader.

I think you'd enjoy it. It's a great escape, a fun ride with two fun, unassuming, gawky, flawed protagonists that could easily be you and me.

Published at last

It has happened. Finally. After putting myself through the wringer with one novel that still sits on my hard drive, my second effort has finally seen light of day.

It is on Amazon and such book places, published by someone other than myself. I have my validation. This item is checked off my bucket list.

My reaction? I have a giant tension headache.

It's like the camel and sheik story. Now this is done, i must get reviews, find ways to sell it.

Stop I am telling myself. It is done. Sure, I will market the book as well as I can without being put on the do not call list and spam lists of friends and family. But I won't obsess.

I mustn't. Because trying to get rich writing a novel is like trying to get fit by running the marathon.

Too difficult. A mile or two will do.

I must make an effort and remember that.

Belonging--a journal entry

There's an old Blind Melon song called No Rain. If I recall correctly, a little girl wearing a bumblebee suit goes around looking for the place she will fit in and at the end of the son, she finds a group of people who look like her.

I've been that girl most of my life. Belonging often comes from inside like happiness does but sometimes one just wants to feel at peace with one's surroundings and the world.

Perhaps being a first generation immigrant precludes that from happening. Despite living in this neighborhood for over a decade, I still feel like the odd brown woman walking down the much pounded pavement, wondering if people are making comments about my foreignness.

It's not just about appearance. I look on with wonder at the modern Facebook way of living, of laying it all out for people to see. And I cringe. Am I just old? I always was an intensely private person so adopting to that lifestyle is impossible for me. As for being part of the Indian diaspora, seems there's two factions in the states--the Hindu faction and the Bollywood faction. Of the two, perhaps the Hindu faction would make sense.

I have few friends in the area. The people I like don't seem to want the sort of intense friendship and closeness that is my brand. I appreciate that too. I can be quite a pill, I suppose with my intensity. I see it in my little one so I get it.

But it would be nice to belong, to feel one with the surrounding. The moments are there but they're fleeting.

Questions about ethnic identity and race I used to think trivial if one felt at peace with oneself but I was wrong. As I grow older, I seem to crave the company of Indians. I crave the language, the phrases of comfort, the less guarded ways of communication. But I have no Indian friends in the area any more.

Going back to India was supposed to be my answer to all my issues but even there I didn't fit in. I was too American there. I am too Indian here. A total misfit.

Obviously the reader is rolling her eyes at this point going, "gf, this means the problem is with you." Of course it is, I know that. I'm a misfit not a fool.

The kind of people I would like as friends must be modern and yet old fashioned, open minded yet conservative. Liberal and down to earth. I find some older people that way. They have fewer hangups, fewer artificialities. They focus on the bigger questions. And so my best friend is 70 years old.

I won't be around forever, she warns me and I realize that.

I must try and get out there and find people I can relate to and who can relate to me. Good luck with that, I know.

And hard as it is I will try and keep up with the times so I'm thinking MeetUp. I have a feeling given the way I stipulate membership to my group, as always, I shall be its sole member.

Heaven and Hell

My mother always says that we experience heaven and hell on earth itself.

She is right. Hell I have seen in times of pain and illness and death of loved ones.

Heaven, I believe, is different for everyone. One of my ideas of heaven is musical bliss.

My son and I take piano lessons. In the past few months my son has developed a strong interest in his music and practices all hours he has free. I am plodding along, wondering why I'm not able to parlay my decades of voice training to the instrument. I'm not doing badly but the leaps and bounds I thought I'd make progress with is not happening.

A few days ago, though I had a chance to get a glimpse of musical heaven. My son was practicing a song--a simple but catchy song. I told him to jump up an octave. I then played the song in the lower octaves and he played in the higher ones.

We both had the song down and playing all across the piano, even that simple song sounded fantastic.

I felt a joy in my heart that was indescribable. The thought of playing songs like this with my son as we both make progress was one filled with such happiness that I could only describe it as heaven.

I walked on air the rest of the evening.

Perhaps if we are able to find such joy in more and more things, and simpler and simpler things,
a semblance of that nirvana, bliss etc etc would be more and more within our grasp. 

Bleeding edge trend

This is a term I heard while ago. Bleeding edge.

Now there's cutting edge which we all know. But bleeding edge, that is trendy that's beyond just trendy. Its way cooler. It's usually applied to technology but the words, so graphic, can be applied to everything else.

Now I am NOT a trendy person. My hair is in a style that went out in 1982. I still have pairs of shoes I bought in 1999. I never wore them when they were trendy but given fashion cycles, I know by the time I get to wearing them, they''ll be back in style again, as will my hair do.

No, this is about my eco-friendliness. Which is trendy nowadays. Carrying your own shopping bags to grocery stores, that sort of thing.

I am beyond that. Way beyond. Not showing off, its just who I am. I compost, I recycle obsessively. I buy and use local or organic food, cook only free range meats the rare times I cook meat, I use biodegradable garbage bags. I seldom use the clothes dryer. You get the idea.

I am not showing off. Thing is, all I do is not worth showing off because people don't praise me for what I do and don't do. They roll their eyes at me when I wince at their use of styrofoam plates and cups, they sigh when I collect their recyclables and bring them home with me. They shout out in despair when I turn off the taps as they wool gather instead of doing the dishes. These people are just not trendy in the eco-friendly sense.

Then there are my bleeding edge friends. They are so trendy that when they know I am visiting, they warn me sternly. No, none of that recycling rubbish you do at home happens here all right? So please don't give me grief. But--I say, only to be rudely interrupted, We don't have time for all that.'

Or another friend holding her dinner plate above my garbage cans. Now do i recycle this, or compost this or what? I can never tell with you.

I have found myself apologizing to them. I have felt myself near tears when I am around them for my country bumpkin like habits. Then I want to kill them. I mean, sure what I do isn't easy or pleasant. It is time consuming and painful.

But then I don't do it because I must or trendy. I mean what's stylish about putting your hand in the toilet to flush away your baby's poop when you have chosen not to use disposable diapers?

No, I want to tell these super trendy folk that what I am doing is saving the planet for their great grandkids.

That's bloody all. And if that sounds like I am showing off, well, that's just fine then!