Two Five = Twenty Five

We all knew it was going to happen. For some of us, it already has and some of us are hiding quietly behind our bookshelves, wishing to go unnoticed. Some of us are just scared standing, feeling the slight breeze that is soon going to be a life-changing tornado taking us in its whirlwind and throwing us far away, in a place we have never been before. And some of us are just marking our calendars, for that very moment when we are going to be taken seriously, and our car insurance falls considerably low.

We all knew 25 was going to happen. Predictably, I am the one who is anticipating the ugly tornado coming my way. Yeah, the weatherman’s warned me but clearly this is not an option where I can run to the basement and pretend it never happened. 25, from what I’ve heard, changes your life.

Right. So, in my head, I deny the mental list I’d prepared when I was 17. The list that included:
• Learn how to cook
• Become a strategic planner
• Travel to at least 3 countries
• Get a tattoo • Learn to swim • Watch Exorcist • Make it to Business mag’s “Young Achievers” list • Stay in touch with all your college friends • Volunteer a lot • Write a book

Sorry, but 3 out of 10 is a really really bad score. So, clearly, I am not ready for my twenty-five candles yet. And if I am okay in math, I have about 140 days to get them done. O-M-F-G!

I anticipate about 10% increase in respect from my peers and my relatives but I also expect 75% rise in the amount of questions about changing my status from 1 to 2 and probably even 3. Eye-brow raising, sweat soaking, heart-beat rising questions on Marriage, engagement, body clock. Bah! No, don’t have answers to these either.

When I was blowing my 16th candle, no one told me growing up was more than attaining my license to drink and drive, both done mutually exclusively of course. Of course.

So all of you, the ones who smoothly passed 25 and pretended it never happened, the ones who stood in silence trying to cope with hormonal reactions to the big 2-5, the ones who celebrated on top of the Empire State Building felicitating themselves for appreciating the pot-pourri of happy experiences, tell me how to cope with it. I am still a few leaps behind on the calendar but I need to put on my Star Wars robe and pull out my swords, armor myself for the biggest change of my life. Hey, after all, growing up in itself is a big battle against myself.

Illuminated

She stood there in the middle of a blue wooden stage, nervously clearing her throat, her eyes flickering amidst the sharp shadows, blinking once, blinking twice at a crowd that stood in silence, respecting her presence. “I am a 2nd time cancer survivor, and the cancer has taught me a lot, follow your heart, no matter what, follow your heart, always.” She sung songs of hope, of cure, of candles, of tomorrows.

It was a regular Saturday afternoon, sleeping in late, maxing my credit cards, whining about the Michigan weather, lunch at Indian buffet and then something. That something changed the meaning of today for me. Relay for life, organized by American Cancer Society . And I just don’t mean changed my today as in June 22nd, 2008, I really meant that it changed how I would look at my everyday todays.

We all walked amidst all the thousand candles covered in golden luminaries, all sketched in colors with names of Cancer survivors, Cancer fighters and Cancer victims. We were not just a crowd of three hundred people walking in silence on the path of hope for Cancer cure but we were accompanied by thousand others whose aspirations sat on our shoulders while we walked. Aspirations of a better tomorrow. Aspirations of a tomorrow.

We all stood under the dusky skies, unsurpassed by the beeping time, uninterrupted by the Saturday hypes, choosing to walk for life over our regular Saturday sundries. “Dear daddy, we miss you”, “Age: 12 years, cancer survivor since 10″, “In loving memory of Smita Masi”, one by one we walked by each life loved and commemorated.

Tonight, we might not have held hands or shed tears, we might not have shared memories in silence, we might not have looked at the sky with our hands joined together in search of answers but we celebrated, we laughed, we danced and we laughed some more. Because while we raised money to find cure for cancer, we appreciated in awe, a guitar player fifty feet over our heads, we smiled at the idea of auctioning cutesy mannequin heads, we cheered along beautiful henna carved in our hands and celebrated. We celebrated those who are fighting, who did. We celebrated those who had won the war and those who would. We celebrated at the idea of hope that in a few years no being would have to hear the three words “you have cancer”.

And we did know that hope will change to cure someday, we did know we needed to love our todays, we did know that in life, all there was to do was to live.

In life, all there was to do was to live. And happy.

SPIN, a night hosted by CRY

The loud thuds of enthusiasm sprung from Mr. Mohan Singh’s dhol while he tutored all of us on how to shake a leg or two. We carefully followed. “Make flowers with your palms and move from side to side”. We all beamed high with smiles, slightly overjoyed at the idea of finally becoming Bhangra pros.

SPIN started with a volunteer’s creative thought and DJ Ramsy’s spirit. And then, On May 10th, 2008, we all witnessed SPIN as nothing less than a million moments of magnificence contained in one memorable night. Spinners came from various walks of life with various cultural backgrounds carrying expertise in a variety of fields. All under one roof, to support one enormous cause: Child Rights.

The dimly lit magenta walls carried messages of Child Rights and You (CRY). The room was beaded with conversations of the cause. The disco lights spilled enough life on the dancers’ faces to tell you how much fun everyone was having. The music synchronized everyone’s energies into one great experience. Everyone tapped their feet on Bollywood and Bhangra. Everyone swayed on the constant rhythms of the irresistible beats. Everyone sang along with Amitabh, Madhuri and Abhishek! Everyone let out some fancy steps and lived the night out.

SPIN was one night where we witnessed a lighting of a proverbial candle of hope by four hundred hands. SPIN was one night where we had 200 volunteers all ready to reach out their hand for those who needed it, million miles away. SPIN was one night where we consider everyone a volunteer.

For selling the roses and the beads, for buying the roses and the beads, for dancing away, for making everyone dance away, for teaching lessons, for taking lessons, for initiating, for following, for caring.

For caring

SPIN recognizes you as a torchbearer for the future because you came and you supported. You danced your heart out and you believed that even by shaking a leg or two, even by being a million miles away, even by doing what you love doing most – dancing, you made a difference.

So hold this night in your head and frame it up, you ought to be proud of yourself because a kid will be looking up at the unknown, and thanking you soon, for spinning away and supporting CRY.

Extra Pounds

And the solution to this is not a treadmill. I am talking about the extra weight you put on every single day when you wake up to a beautiful sunshine. Yes, the baggage you strap yourselves with as you wear your fancy shoes and walk out that door. You know how people tell you, it’s a new day, start fresh. Don’t you just want to gather all your energy, prep your little lungs and yell the firecrackers out of the “esteemed advisers”?

“I can never be part of the cheerleading team”, “I can’t speak out loudly”, “I lied to my boyfriend about my first love”, “I am Brown”. “I am not a 4.0 student”, “I am an underachiever at work”, “I am not able to shred thirty pounds”, “My parents think I will never be as good as my brother”, “I was dumped by my love of six years over another girl”, “I always gave up before the finish line”, “I am not good enough for the race”, “I always have bad hair days”, “I walk funny”, “I don’t have a six figure salary like all my friends do”.

You wonder, never about the star in your palms but about the missing moon. You rewind your perfectly happy day and sum it up in two words, bad day. You see the glass half empty. You want to be her. You want to be him. You hate being you. You coat your happiness with wrath or woes. You know everyone can read. Read through your brows that you are contagious with pessimism. And yet, you want to be her. Or him.

“I am just not good enough”. You say every morning, dutifully.

Now, think about every single thing you say to yourself while you are brushing your teeth as green little frog babies. How many can you fit in a bag? How do you walk around carrying these? They will feed on your pessimism and grow bigger each day. I am pretty sure that when Al Gore said ‘go green’, he surely did not mean it for your frogs.

So before you collect enough to build your own emporium, send them back. And after they’ve left, don’t walk around with a ‘frog missing” sign around the town. It’s okay to not think about the extra baggage. It is about time, these baggages find their way out of your door.

It is about time to shed off all that extra weight you put in every single morning. Really, you don’t need to be dieting just be determined.

So, do this and let me know how many frogs did you send back today?

An evening with Jhumpa Lahiri at Borders, Ann Arbor

I glared at the clock on the deck of my car. It glared back at me with green hip-hopping numbers that said out loud: 5 minutes to 7 pm. I shot a quick glance at my not so humble and not so nice machine pet – my GPS. He confronted that we had a long way to go. Half hour to Ann Arbor. Just when I saw that, I could smell the sweat my anxiety-affected feet let out at the idea of not making it on time. I tightly held the crumbled sheet, which I’d been holding on to since last two weeks: Book reading and signing event with Jhumpa Lahiri at 7:00. I could not really attribute the Indian Standard Time to her since she had been living in NY since last couple of years. So she would be on time. And I know Newyorkers. They are anything but late. Even in their sense of humor. Anyway. that’s another story.

It was a big ‘Cinderella’s-clock-strikes-12’ moment for me, when I ran up the stairs to the 2nd floor, almost leaving my sandals behind. But then remembering, this is not a reality show, and no prince charming from Bravo TV will come to get it. So I ran up in my pleaded skirt and 1 inch heels. Click-clocking away in silence when about sixty people turned to look at me. I lowered my gaze, tried to pull the invisible switch, realize it never works and tip-toed my way to the corner and mumbled a couple of sorrys. Lahiri was reading. I had missed most of the chapter but I heard whispers and gasps from the audience as they were taken through the story by the magnificence of Jhumpa’s writing.

I am 5’3’’ tall. With the shoes, 5’4”. Americans’ average height is 5’9”. There were about twenty tall beings standing in front of me. So there I was, unable to see the face behind the story, trying to scoop up, trying my yoga skills while I turned my head in every angle. And it did not work. The desperate geek in me decided to pull a stunt. I found one empty spot. I am not a size 2 so I knew I would not fit there. So I semi-stoop-walked my way to the side of the pillar, almost crushing a petit lady’s feet to drive her away and I found my haven. I stood there tête-à-tête with Pulitzer Prize winner Jhumpa Lahiri.

Perfect. Only, she had finished reading now. And ‘Unaccustomed Earth” was sold out. So I drove for two hours, strategized to find a perfect place, almost lost a shoe only to find out I will not be going home with a “For Mansi, Jhumpa Lahiri” book with me. Right then, came Manoj holding the book up in the air only to create more drama in a crowded room. Good drama, fortunately. I could hear Indiana Jones music playing behind him while he came up to me and gave the book to me. Mission accomplished. Right.

At peace, I stood when she opened the floor for questions. Heart pulsing. I have read her books. I have wikipediad her a thousand times. Calm down. Sweat control. Before I could grammatically string the words into a proper sentence, my hand was up. “You there”, she said. I uhummed a little in the beginning and cleared my throat, “Yes, first of all, I would like to applaud you for your previous works. (awkward silence, no thank yous). My question is, the characters in all your stories are so strong. Even if they are short stories. Are they inspired from real life? Do you know a Gogol or an Ashima?” She smiled and said, Gogol was her cousins friend. She loved the name and his story was her inspiration for Namesake. She told us how her parent’s stories are relived through hers. She told us how she sees herself in some of the characters.

One after another, she answered readers’ curiosities. She smiled, she recited, she flinched, she raised her eyebrows, she read. She had an aura of power. Of knowledge. Of poetry with or without words. I know that I will always hold on to her description of her experience as a writer. “Each story is like a small child trying to stand up. It wants to stand up. It is so excited to stand up and run but it can’t yet. Slowly it grows. Sometimes, it takes days, months or even years. Then finally it stands up and walks away. On it’s own. And like a mother, I just stand there proud.”

Someday, I will be a proud mother of my stories. Someday.

Until then, I will read ‘Unaccustomed Earth’ while holding on to this evening close to my heart and unforgettable.

Oh, and I did go home with the “For Mansi, Jhumpa Lahiri” note in my new book.

Sur-Taal

This little dream was started by seven people in December 1978. This little dream called CRY. This little dream of restoring the basic rights of children. We set goals in our lives based on our dreams – world tour, huge mansion, Doctoral degree, sports car. They set goals in their lives based on their dreams – lunch tomorrow, school next year, stay alive in the next five years. Our little dream? To make sure every child meets their tomorrow and the days after and years to come.

This little dream made a huge difference. With Sur-Taal.

Let’s rewind to January. One volunteer amongst us brought up this idea in a room filled with ten people. She hesitated for a second but she spoke aloud. “Will it be possible? This idea of kids for kids.” We all looked at each other, seemingly curious about where this was going to lead us? She directed us to a beautiful idea about a kids’ show for all the underprivileged kids in India and US. She had set a step by step approach towards the plan. She had a vision with one motive – remember the little dream? All of us held hands and took the first step with her. We witnessed a miracle. We were introduced a part of us who believed so vivaciously that we could dedicate all of ourselves to someone we have never met but we all knew personally. We all share an undecipherable connection with the little kids of domestic workers in Mumabi, sex workers in Faridabaad, construction workers in Cochin, homeless in Texas. The kids who tell us their stories every day through their minds sending us a message of hope from lands far away.

We spent hours and days trying to get majority of people involved in this little dream. We wanted to tell a story. We wanted to raise care. We wanted to grow the chain. And on March 8^th, in an auditorium filled with 400 people, we did. Today, we look back on those 4 hours that made a difference to a thousand lives and we say:

To the teachers

You took your talents. You took your armors. You took your tools. You took your experiences. You took your intentions. You taught. You taught the kids how to care. You taught us how one person can make a remarkable difference. You taught without anything in return but a thousand smiles sitting in their little worlds and thanking you. For what you did today, for who you are and for how much you cared. You really taught us all.

To the talents

You danced. You sang. You smiled. You practiced. You perfected. In all your beautiful ways. In all your elaborate ways. You made the show splendid. You made it all worthwhile. You, at such a young age, saved the world. You are heroes. You are heroes and you are now carrying the torch of hope for all of us. You made us all proud.

To the show-runners

You orchestrated. You organized. You ran the show. You hosted. You put your warm arms around everyone involved in the show and made sure you took us from start to finish. You gave us and the little dreamers a big happy ending.

To the volunteers

You dreamt. You sacrificed. You ran around. You prioritized. You hoped. You brought everyone together. You took your time. You smiled. You stood up. You united. You raised the bar up high. You created a whole new meaning of hope. You left all your worlds behind for this new world. You are the everyday soldiers of this war against fate.

To the audience

You applauded. You laughed. You cried. You watched. You watch the conception of an idea to a plan to a perfect picture. You helped from start to end in every way you could and more. You held our hands. And you were there. When we all needed you the most. You supported.

This was our first step of 2008 and you helped us make it an enormous one. Let’s all hope you take milestones and leaps with us all through this journey of this little dream called CRY.

Permutations and Combinations

The entire world seems to have become a long live comercial for match dot com. Everyones suddenly following the neandrathal rule of love at first sights, what’s in a name – everythings in a number, love on the fast lane. What once used to be a dine-in and experience your meal idea has been replaced by drive-ins and fast service notion.

You look, you hook.

There’s a reason why math was invented. Maybe finding soulmates ranked 45th on the reasons list but a reason nonetheless. Important, I must add.

Relationships last 45 days. 45 hours. Couples therapy has become the most demanding profession. How many times have you screamed “I have a feeling this is the one”, woken up to a “I have a feeling, this is the (wrong) one”. Cry heartbreak twice. Melt yourself to Mariah. Add ten pounds of junk and jello. Hate. Hate. Hate. Drink. Then tidy yourselves up. And buy a life-time pass for the love train. You get in. Get off. Get back in.

Guess what? Not so worried about this love escapaders category.

The one’s I really worry about are the ones who find the guy. Realize he is not the perfect comination. Shut up and get married with the same one. No time to go find another “suitable” boy. You wake up every morning to pretty up this ugly package. Guess what, you are going to be 50 soon. In about 25 years. You are going to look back and wish you waited. Waited for the right one. The one who also liked Fetuccine with penne. The one who didn’t mind crying at the movies. The one without a mustache. The one who sang in the rain. The one who detested chess. You found the wrong one and tried to change it to right. Didn’t work. Never will.

If you are single and looking, think. If you are engaged and looking, rethink. If you are married and looking, stop thinking because its probably too late.

Going back to math, watch your permutations and your combinations. Look before you leap, think before you do, like before you love.

Save yourself some pain and wait.

The other side of this story?
http://arunnandi.blogspot.com

Bigger picture

If you think this is the part where we all stand up cheerfully and applaud at ourselves for being independent, educated and experienced, then I am about to pop your bubble. I on the other hand, belong to the class of optimists, the high-flyers, smile-at-strangers, happy-endings but this is a grim post inspired by you all. So put away your pop-corn for three paragraphs of self-deprecation.

We sent out a survey titled “Do you care” to about 700 people. 4% responded. 3% said they have volunteered for a non-profit organization before. A few verbal discussions alluded to the point that they don’t have enough time to look into others problems while they deal with their own. Okay, mister and miss “its-not-my-fault”ers.

Lets put a few things in perspective now. There are about 837,027 non-profit organizations in America, more than 30,000 in India. You are millions. The causes are thousands. Everyday in almost every publication an issue or a cause is brought up. People scornfully turn the page on someone who could with a little bit of help from you, have a tomorrow.

This is the part where you pinch yourselves. Umm, pinch yourself tight please. Because two minutes back when you stood on top of your own Everests, or on your way there, you were not helping. Don’t just sit in your air-conditioned boxes staring blankly at your morning headlines which say Global Warming is getting worse, poor getting penniless and hopeful losing hope. Do us all a favor, don’t call yourself successful.

But here’s saluting the 3% everyday heroes who volunteered in their own ways paying homage to animals, blood banks, children, environment, those affected by diseases and so on told us how they felt.

“It has always given me a sense of satisfaction; and this story repeats again and again…”

“You come across so many nice people who share non-materialistic ideals, rather live those ideals, and it gives a little comfort to you that maybe there is a chance for the human race to survive!!”

“I have myself rescued a dog for one such organization, and that dog has changed my life for the better.”

Go back to that spark you once had when you last visited home and saw someone live on water and waste. You had the thought. You knew you could change the world. You were clearly turned away by the beaurucracy, the long chains and the villains. It starts with one hour of your long long long life to change.

Or go back to your candy colored life. The one where you conveniently ignore that one missing piece of puzzle that would have built a perfect picture for someone else.

(Source: National Council of Nonprofit Associations, Karmayog, surveymonkey.com
Thank you everyone for filling the survey and Thanks Nirav for the idea and the effort)

Teal blue skies and a whole lot of Chicago

23^rd floor. Mid-night. You open your eyes and something runs down your spine. You are familiar with that feeling. The butterflies, the august rain, the saluting hair strands, the breeze. The gray of the Sears building reflects some hues in your eyes. One after another, the road is orchestrating a light show by the blinking of the innumerable cars. You turn away and blink back up. That feeling is rushing back. You check if no one’s watching. Then you look at Chicago in the eyes just to let your breath be taken away. You stand there amidst all the silent conversations your eyes are having with her.

It might have started with a crazy friday wishful thinking and ended with delicious pot pie pizza on the platter. But the two day trip turned into something none of us could diagnose until we paid the final fifty cents toll. We were already marking our calendars with another impulse trip to Chi-town.

Chicago is the almost-there model, the nice sister, the girl with her mood-swings, the artist who paints and the addictive socialite who parties, the girl who isn’t afraid to say I love you on a first ice cream date. She walks with a diva-like aura carrying her bag with packets of little bit of everything. Slowly following her footsteps, you wonder where you are letting yourself be taken. She shows you a little bit of home with Indian food at 5 am. She gives you little bit of seventh heaven with her music and her magnificant mile. She gives you little bit of culture with pizza, paratha and paan. She gives you little bit of love with ice skating by the pier. She gives you little bit of heart so you never ever turn back to say goodbye.

You roll down your windows. The rain drips in. You are ready to sing your song of departure. But there you are, staring at her as she stares back wide eyed and windy. You burn your farewells and hold out your hand with a promise in your heart.

You say, you will keep coming back for this little bit of everything and a whole lot of Chicago.

My santa this Christmas

…came in the form of a man with a clown nose and an Indian version of a Mohawk and the other one came in the form of a woman with two jobs to pay for the third one. None of them came in through the chimney. And the theme was not red.

In fact, this Christmas, I saw a million shades of each color. None were the same and yet they all adhered in one perfect picture. Reds played with the oranges, blues created sunset hues, blacks brushed with strokes of raw lilacs. Splattered all across with no titles of primary nor secondary, erasing the squares to form new circles.

This Christmas, two Santas taught me how to erase the word ‘differences’ from my life’s dictionary. They did not teach me how to change my perspective. They taught me how to have one. They deliriously deposited in my stocking the kind of looking glass where you don’t see sizes, colors, countries or IQ scores. The kinds we were all born with but somewhere along the way, they were broken, beaten or abandoned. Rules were adopted and imagination was crushed. History was warped and stories were buried.

This Christmas, they handed me one paintbrush and a blank canvas and the power to start over.

This Christmas, the only carols we sang were those about freedom writers and stars on earth. When we see minority, we hide them under our own blankets of ignorance. When we see potential, we run from them with surges of insecurity. I hope that we choke on our strokes of denial. I hope that someday we learn to hope. For not taking the easy way, for not letting life be about me, for hoping that someday we realize.

That we stop stomping the mud that hides the petals, ignoring the rocks that harbor diamonds, toss away the oysters that breed pearls. That we burn our judgment hats.

This Christmas, my Santas came in the form of two teachers who told me it was okay to be a misfit, the one with the not-so-perfect jeans size and a whole lot of trailing behind GPA scores as long as you know what you love and know how to get it. And end each day with a mighty bright smile plastered all across your face.

This Christmas, lets all sing the carols about freedom writers and the stars that home on earth.