Your sore? What about Mysore?

Hey, kids! Just a quick update today. Brad has mentioned that my blogs are becoming a tad long for easy reading. Sorry about that! So this one will be quick, with little to no personal reflection. Enjoy!

Tomorrow morning, we're going to get in our new car (well, our 1999 Hyundai Santro, electric blue) and drive to Mysore for a quick week-end break. We had a little bit of trouble finding a hotel, as there is a huge holiday there this weekend. It's called Dussehra, which celebrates the 10th day of the waxing moon. (I know that there are many 10th days of waxing moons in the year, but this is the only one that's celebrated: September-October.) To celebrate, people wash the tools of their profession and polish and put in order their work place. Neither of us were certain why Mysore is the center of this festival, but it meant that hotel rooms were hard to come by. Thankfully, one of the priests at Brad's school found us a family room in a parish just outside of the city limits.

We should have lots of fun. We're hoping to buy a bed cover while we're there and also find some dosa and samosa, both of which have been hard to come by. We'll tell you all about it on the flip-side.

Oh, and Kathrin? Yes, we'll take pictures.

And as an additional extra special offer, if you come to visit us, we'll take you there. Now that's temptation!

Bye, Bye Bangalore

Elizabeth and I have enjoyed living in Bangalore. However, next month will be our last month living in Bangalore.

No, we aren't moving, we are staying right where we are, but yesterday the city announced that they are changing the name of the city to Bengaluru. The reason is that "Bangalore" is actually a mispronunciation by the British of the name in Kannada (the official language of Karnataka). So, when the people who live here say the name in English, they say "Bangalore" but when they say it in Kannada, they say "Bengaluru." Originally (quite long ago), the rajya (kingdom) was called "bendakaluru", meaning "city of gardens."

Interesting, huh?

Pictures

Please read Elizabeth's post (below) about riding the brake. She told me to post pictures, so here goes. The first is Sanjay, the security guard. Then Durga Puja from our balcony and from below and then Elizabeth dancing - I have video, too ;-)

Riding the Brake

Recently, while driving home from the lab, I found myself behind someone whose brake light was illuminated. I slowed down, anticipating his obvious decrease in speed. However, the other car sped up, brake lights glowing red. It took me a few minutes to realize that he was riding his brake as he drove.

My first reaction was, What an idiot! It's so bad for your brakes to do that and it makes the drivers around you a little panicky (at least, it makes this one a little panicky). Then, I started to think about life; how some people live life full out, never using the brake to stop and reflect. Just going going going. Then, there are the people who never turn the car on. They just sit there, with the clutch pressed down, foot on the brake, in a perpetual attempt to choose where to go and what to do. Then there is that special group of people. The people who ride the brake. We floor it, pushing ourselves to the limit, while at the same time, forever stopping ourselves from really seeing where the car can take us. I am a part of that we.

For my whole life, I've made big decisions and done big things. I moved to New York to become an actor, never thinking about where I was going to live or if I was the right type of person to be a professional actor. (I've since concluded that I'm not.) But I never went on auditions. I never put myself out there to really fall. I stopped myself from seeing just how far I would be able to go. I took a great job at Chase, but didn't use all the resources at my fingertips. I've met amazing people, time and time again, but I've always considered myself unworthy and have therefore shied away from pursuing relationships or even banal conversations with them, particularly with those that I've met in the academic community.

Naturally, this led me to think about India. As my family will attest to, we didn't plan this trip to the best of our abilities. (Something which they like telling me.) We found a place for me to work and a school for Brad to attend. And then we just kind of...moved. The house wasn't sold. Our possessions were lugged to our parents' respective houses. We just did it. Jumped in with both feet and hoped for the best. (We've been very lucky that it has indeed worked out in the best way.)

And yet. I've been here for six weeks. I've bought my scooter, started my job and basically begun my life here in India. I wouldn't, however, make the claim that I'm living. Instead, I've been existing. Sustaining myself without indulging the curious side that brought me here to begin with. The gas and the brake were both hitting the floor.

The more I've thought about this, the guiltier I've felt. I didn't come here to live in a lavish apartment, hire a maid/cook and spend all of my time working. I came here to see how someone else lives. The purpose of our little experiment is to gain a better worldview. We believe that in order to understand the perspectives of the rest of the world, it is necessary to live with them. That was the greatest motivator in our decision to move to India. To better understand our "neighbor".

Last night, I released some of the pressure on the brake. There is a celebration here called Durga Puja, which is celebrating Kali, the God of War. (I'm sure Brad is going to correct me on that. I'm pretty sure that it's a tad more complex.) It began yesterday and will last for the next 9 days. There was a festival here at our complex. The open invitation that was posted on the bulletin board listed, among other things, the dress code: very traditional Indian garb, none of which we had. So instead, we stood on the balcony, watching the events below. While Brad wanted to attend, I didn't want to intrude, especially since we wouldn't fit the dress code.

The first person to urge us down was Sanjay, the head of security. He got my attention and waved me down (we live 5 floors up). I shook my head, no, while waving my hands back and forth, thank you. A few minutes later, I saw him sprinting toward the elevator bank. Within moments, our doorbell was ringing. Brad went to answer it and when he returned, he told me that Sanjay came up to invite us down. Brad, knowing my reservations, feigned an illness for me. We continued to watch and eventually we were spotted by a group of men. They waved at me (Brad hadn't noticed), inviting us down. I did my head shake and hand wave to beg off the invitation.

Then I thought about my brake. I realized I was doing it. I was in the middle of riding my brake. I can stand on my balcony and take pictures, but I can't go downstairs. So I bucked up, slipped into the most Indian shirt I have and headed down. Sanjay was remarkably excited to see us, and led us to the front of the crowd so we could see and take pictures. Needless to say, we couldn't have been more conspicuous. Or so I thought. We were down there for ten minutes when a woman approached and asked us to dance with the group. Nervous as I was, I kicked off my shoes and followed her into the crowd. (Yes, Kathrin, we have pictures. Brad has to upload them.) She taught me the very simple step and led me halfway around the circle. We came to a group of her friends, at which point she turned to me and said, "You've got it! Now keep going!" and walked away. My hands quickly rose to my shirt, tugging on the hem in embarrassment and fear. I froze, wanting to participate, but also wanting a guide to join me. I looked across the crowd to where Brad was standing and wanted to be holding his hand more than anything else in the world. I quickly walked across the circle and joined Brad. My foot was once again firmly planted on my brake.

Every Sunday, we've been attending a lecture series at Brad's school, focusing on religious issues, especially those affecting India. Today, Brad received a phone call telling us that the Islamic group that was scheduled to come had backed out. This was not surprising, as the school is run by the Catholic Church. With the comments that the Pope made recently, it isn't surprising that a Muslim would not want to make a public appearance at a Catholic university. Instead, the group was invited to a local mosque to discuss Islam. While Brad was eager to go, I was apprehensive. Islam and I have a checkered past. Part of it has to do with 9/11. (I'm horrified and ashamed to admit.) Part of it has to do with my ex-husband, who is from Pakistan and is Muslim. Part of it has to do with my time in Egypt. I love Islam as a religion, just as I love Christianity, Hinduism, Sikhism, Judaism, etc. But I fear what Islam is doing in modern times. (I recognize that there is some hypocrisy here, as Christianity has been one of the most popular justifications for war.) And I can't help but be emotional when I go to mosques.

Brad and I spoke about my feelings and he encouraged me to join him. So it was with great trepidation that we went to the mosque. We were a few minutes late, due to some miscommunication. It was immediately clear that this session was to introduce the basics of Islam to the group. Brad and I, unlike much of the group, have extensively studied Islam. We know the history of the religion. We know the Qu'ran. We know the philosophies of the religion. We spend much of our time learning about other religions, and Islam has been no exception for us. We have friends who are Muslim and I, for one, consider Islam to be an extension of Christianity. So I was having trouble focusing on the discussion because I could answer most of the questions that were posited.

I looked around the group in my distraction and noticed that I was the only woman there. For some reason, the woman who is in Brad's class was not there. I was a tad dismayed and I instantly questioned whether I was meant to be there. In my distractions, I noticed two young girls at the window, who kept watching me. I smiled at them and they responded in kind. We went back and forth smiling for some time. I then made eye contact with one girl and she started gesturing at me. Brad leaned over and asked what she meant. I shrugged my shoulders, not knowing what she was trying to communicate. Yet in that moment, she ran in and sat beside me. Her friend was steps behind her, with two younger boys joining us.

I was so excited to be so trusted by these four children. We started speaking in hushed tones. We began with the banal. What is your name? Where do you live? Are you happy? Who is that man next to you? (This one was directed at me.) We then moved on. Why are you here? Why is the world unhappy? What are your religious festivals? They were enraptured by what I had to say. The boys would whisper questions to the girls, who would in turn translate. They asked me to their respective houses, which I declined, not wanting to intrude. I started discussing Jesus, who is known as Isa in Islam, explaining what he meant in Christianity. Another boy came over to listen to our conversation. When it was time to leave, they followed me outside and made me promise that we would come back. They told me where they lived and kept waving across the quad as I got on my scooter.

I don't think I have the words to explain what this experience means to me. I could have chosen to not go. I wanted to go shopping today for speakers and I did not want to go to a mosque. But I would never have met these beautiful children who found something special in me. I don't know if it was that I was a woman or white or friendly. It could be any combination of those things. But the affection of a child often means so much more than that of an adult. I could have kept my foot on the brake today, but I instead took it off, hurtled into the unknown and ended up floating amongst four glowing stars.

I know there will be more riding the brake moments. And I know that there will be moments that I wish I had held back. But I'll always have these children, reminding me that the great moments of your life will always come from flying blindly ahead. For that is when the unexpected happens. And the unexpected is so very sweet. So to my four new friends, I thank you for teaching me the greatest lesson that I've learned thus far on my Indian Adventure.

Sacred Grove

Two years ago in my Church at Worship liturgy class, we were given the assignment to plan and describe our funeral. As morbid and disturbing as this might seem, this is actually quite an important exercise for future pastors who will, undoubtedly, plan and conduct many funerals. For mine, I had the idea of having my ashes used at the funeral to plant a tree in a whole cycle of life thing.

Yesterday, all of the MPh students visited the Fire-Flies Ashram here in Bangalore. Fire-flies is an interreligious ashram devoted to ecological concerns. FIRE stands for Fellowship In Religious Experience. Anyway, the founder of the organization (who, by the way, is a friend of Dr. Ariarajah’s) showed us the tree that he had planted using his brother’s ashes. This was fascinating to me because it was a similar idea to the one I had.

Then he told a story about a tribal village here in India. In this village, when a person dies, they conduct a traditional funeral (traditional means cremation on a funeral pyre by the priest). What is different is that they then take some of the ashes and they use them to plant a fruit tree along the road. Everyday when they walk past the tree, they are reminded of what that person meant to them and perhaps they will say a prayer. When spring comes around, the tree bears fruit. In one sense, then, the person who passed away is contributing to the health and vibrancy of the community. When the people take the fruit, they remember the person and tell the children about their good attributes. In other words, the person continues to live on in that community through the life of that tree. Although the person has died, his/her spirit lives on through the memories of the villagers, which are the person’s sons, daughters, friends, etc.

Next, as the city limits of Bangalore continue to stretch farther and farther out, this once-remote village becomes potential land for development. A company comes and buys the land and wants to build a factory or store or something there. But the people protest saying “these are sacred trees! The spirits of our ancestors dwell in these trees!” The developers simply respond that these are foolish notions and that trees do not have spirits and are not sacred. The villagers, they say, are simple minded and superstitious.

Now what do we say about these villagers? Are they worshipping the trees? Are they venerating the trees? Who is to blame for the lack of understanding – the villagers for saying that the trees have spirits or the developer who doesn’t know what they mean? Does the tradition of the villagers seem like a practice we should discourage or mimic? What are your reactions?

Views From Our Balcony

There's a lot of noise here in India. We sleep with the fan on high every night in a weak attempt to drown out the sound of the trucks honking their horns. (Seriously, ya'll will not truly understand how annoying the horns are until you're here, trying to sleep. They have creative horns, which are just crap!) But every now and then, a noise filters into our window and we feel compelled to run outside onto one of the balconies.

Yesterday, we were in our office, pretending that we were working on, um, work, when in reality we were checking to see if anyone had posted comments here on the blog. (Yes, people, that means you...let us know you're listening!) There was some yelling outside, and I looked out the window and saw that our neighbors had come out onto their balcony. I said, "Hey, they're outside." At this point, Brad whipped his head around the corner of the window, fast enough to get their attention. The mother turned to look at us, and by the time she and I made contact, Brad had already disappeared from the frame. I gave a meager smile and wave, while Brad descended into giggles. We laughed for a bit, and then realized that if the neighbors were interested, it was probably something cool.

We ran out onto the bedroom balcony (we get the best view from there) and saw a small crowd of men. Many of them had red cloth wrapped around their heads and they were dancing furiously in the street. There were two religious symbols: the first was housed in a decorated white miniature temple, and I unfortunately couldn't see it. The second was one of the Hindu gods*, on the back of a flatbed truck, surrounded by people.

A few interesting things. First, there weren't any women, which I found strange. Hinduism isn't segregationalist, at least not in terms of gender. ** Also, while some of the men danced with passion, almost to the point of crossing into being a whirling dervish, others were subdued. A few noticed Brad and I taking pictures. (You can see them seeing us in the images.)

We asked Shyla what the festival was for, and she said it was North Indian and therefore she didn't really know. But I have to say, they seem to like their festivals here! It's so great to see such vibrant celebrations happening in the streets. I hope I have the guts to participate some day.

*I want to be clear that the Hindu concept of God is complex. I know that some people may read this and think that Hindus, having many gods, are polytheist. Brad, I'm sure, will give a better lesson some day, but for now, let's just say that they have many names for the different aspects of God's personality.

**There are some schools of thought in Hinduism that promote casteism. Again, something Brad can talk more about. I must stress, however, that it is only some sects (denominations?) that discriminate based on caste.

The Delivery of My Desk

Last week, my desk and chair were delivered. Brad called the store to ask what time things would be delivered, and he was told in the next 15 mintues. When I came home an hour later, there was still no desk. We went out onto our balcony to see if the truck was coming and instead we saw this:

You can clearly see the man carrying my chair on his head. If you look closely on the bottom, the man with the desk can be seen with it on his head. They then walked up 6 flights of stairs to bring the desk to our office.

To get to our apartment, they had to walk at least a half mile down the road, then cross a very busy road. Best delivery I've ever had, hands down.

The People Around You

Edit: Brad has a really good comment to this. So if you usually ignore the comment section, you should read the one that accompanies this post.

For as much of my life as I can remember, I've done my best to be a friendly person. Not just to the people that I love and call my friend, but also to people who I don't know at all. This group of people has always included service staff. When I was working at JPMorgan, I would smile at the cleaning ladies. I would pick up the garbage cans near me and hand them to the women. I say hello and thank you to the people whose job it is to hold my door or clean my table. I'm not trying to imply that I'm some magnanimous individual who deserves praise. I've just always tried to make an effort to notice the people who make my day easier.

This behavior has become habit with me. When I see someone working in my flat or tending to the gardens at the lab, I do my best to make eye contact, smile and either say hello or thank you. In the US, the reaction was always a smile in return, perhaps a few words of polite conversation. I would get something in return. But here in India, I've found that the women and men I try to engage, more often than not, just look at me. While it feels like they're snarling at me, in reality it's probably just a lack of reaction.

When I'm on the receiving end of a smile, I do my best to smile back. If nothing else, it makes me smile to have someone smile at me. It means I've been noticed and acknowledged. That's a wonderful feeling! Someone thinks enough of me to expend energy and use their muscles to send a bit of happiness in my direction. If that doesn't make you smile, I don't know what would! So when I smile at someone, and they keep eye contact without smiling back, I get upset.

I've asked Brad about it, and his educated guess is that the people at whom I'm smiling aren't used to people outside of their "caste" smiling at them. Now, I'm outside of the caste system anyway, obviously. But these women and men work for people who deliberately don't acknowledge them. At least that's our working theory.

We have a woman who works for us. It's a little embarrassing for me to admit, because there is a part of me that feels as if I'm falling into the "white oppressor" stereotype. She does the cooking and cleaning and in return we give her $2.50/day. She works for 3 other families, so she most likely makes close to $10/day, which is enough to survive off of here. And in thinking about how poorly "the help" seems to be treated here, I've thought about how I treat Shyla. I leave Brad out of this because his behavior is vastly different than mine.

Most of the time, when Shyla comes over, I shuffle into another part of the flat. I try to make polite conversation for a few minutes, but most of the time, I'm so overwhelmed with guilt and shame that I find it hard to be in the same room with her. It is just so unfair that I would have so much in life, and she so little. I know that she doesn't look at it that way. Her religious beliefs are such that she feels she's fulfilling her duty. But it's really hard for me to have someone think that their duty is cleaning my underwear.

But all of this thinking has brought me to the point where I've realized that I'm not treating her like a human being, and this is just plain wrong. I can't do anything about my fantastic wealth in comparison to her situation. I can't help that I am the boss while she the employee. But what I can do is try to listen to her. Try to talk to her. And do my best to never, ever let her feel like my shame is her fault.

Open Mouth, Insert Foot

Brad and I shared a professor at Drew by the name of Obiri Addo. Dr. Addo is from Ghana and has organized and participated in dozens of cross cultural trips. In fact, he was on my trip with me to Egypt and he helped plan Brad's trip to Ghana. Dr. Addo has a term that uses to describe a very specific interaction that almost always occurs: uh oh moments. Those are the moments where an American is discussing some financial aspect of their lives in a very candid way with someone from a developing nation. The American perhaps is talking about how they need a brand new car or the computer that they can't afford to buy. And in that moment, that very specific moment, the American looks up, remembers who they are talking to and adds an addendum to their statement. "Well, you know, necessary in American terms." "I mean, I know I don't need another computer, but it's different in the US." It's that uncomfortable moment where, as an American, you become painfully aware of how fortunate we are in comparison to the rest of the world. Well, I had my first. And instead of talking to one individual, I was talking to four. And I walked away feeling dumb. As if I had fulfilled the stereotype.

A few of my labmates invited me to go out and have some tea with them at the canteen. I quickly said yes and grabbed my bottle of water. I explained to them that I only like hot beverages when I'm cold, which perhaps sets the tone for the whole conversation: this American chick is weird. We sat down and they started asking me the questions you would expect: Why are you here in India? How long are you staying? How are you adjusting? I answered as honestly as I could. One of the girls then mentioned that she had wanted to take some time off after graduating from her undergraduate program, but her parents hadn't let her. She was lamenting the Indian system, and saying that she wished she lived in America where people took time off to travel and fulfill their whims. (I didn't tell her that most people can't afford that.) I started talking about taking time off and how hard it was to make the decision to go back to school. I know it was for me. I gave up a very good job and a lot of freedom to go deep into debt. Then, I choose to go deeper into debt with my husband by moving to India for two years. No, the decision to take time off is hard.

That's when it happened, when my own little disaster struck. I started rambling about how we had sold our house to move here and we were living on ever dwindling savings. That when we move back to the states, we're both going to be enrolled in post-graduate programs, feeding the flames of debt even more. How we may never be able to afford a house again, depending upon how things go in life. I was captivated with myself and my situation. Never has there been a situation as dire as ours, from the sounds of it. Oh, whoa is me, for this life that I've chosen. How can I stand it? How can I deal with the absolute freedom to move around the world for two years and the savings to provide? How, people, HOW?

Well, those pesky, rational thoughts quickly crawled in and took over. I am lucky. I am probably going to own a home again. I have more money in the bank than these kids may make in their entire lives. My uh oh moment had arrived. "You know, poor by American standards." I looked down at the table and took a swig from my water bottle. Silence descended upon the group. No one said a word for a few moments. Finally, someone mumbled something about being ready to head back to the lab.

I was paralyzed with fear for a few days. (Okay, paralyzed is an obvious exaggeration, but doesn't it sound nice?) I was convinced that these people had now written me off as an ignorant, arrogant American. And you know what? I would have supported that conclusion, based on the small amount of time that they'd spent with me. How foolish of me! However, their superior Indian intellect has prevailed. Mirab helped me out all day in the lab, describing protocols for me. The woman whose name I couldn't pronounce smiled at me today. And I mean, a real smile, all the way up to the eyes!

So while my first uh oh moment has passed, I find myself unscathed. Perhaps I should have been. It would have been deserved. But what I'm really hoping is that the next time an uh oh moment starts to rear its ugly head, I'll be ready for it and try to present a more dignified view of Americans.

Upping the Ante

Okay, per llawhsoj's suggestion, we're gonna make things interesting here, people. Josh seemed to have trouble dealing with the fact that our postcard may not creatively match whatever item was sent to us. So, let's all match wits, shall we? Can we all stump each other with the crap that we can mail, which will bring joy to the lives of all?

I can say this: very creative mailings will get a picture put on the blog. Just think, you too could be immortalized on the internet.

Our address

So it's always in a place you can find it, here is our address.

Brad & Elizabeth Bannon
Sobha Aquamarine A4-507
Bellandur: Sarjapur-Outer Ring Road
Near Petrol Bank
Bangalore 560037 Karnataka
India

Don't feel compelled to send us anything. But we will send a postcard back if you write to us. That's the deal we're willing to strike here.

Do you remember?

It was a beautiful day, that day. The sun was shining, the sky was the color of a robin's egg, with white specks floating by. It wasn't that hot, a little breezy even, so sitting in the sun wasn't uncomfortable. Do you remember?

I had worked the night before, as usual. As I didn't get home until after 12:30 in the morning, I didn't make it to sleep until at least 1:30. I slept until 9:55, and then got up to watch Rosie. I went into the living room and turned on the television. Kathrin was cooking herself breakfast in the kitchen area and channel 7 wouldn't come on. I flipped through the channels, looking for a reason as to why the antenna would be out. I went down to channel 2, which was coming through, and then back up to 7. I couldn't figure out why the only channel that came through was CBS. I flicked back to CBS and found myself speechless. Do you remember?

I must have called Kathrin in to look at the tv. It didn't really make sense. The towers were only a couple of miles from our apartment, yet we hadn't heard anything. There, on the screen, were the images that none of us can get out of our heads, no matter how hard we try. We crawled out onto our fire escape and struggled to see something. We had a view that let us see just the antenna on the top of the trade center. We saw plumes of smoke billowing in the air, black and thick against the crystal blue sky. Do you remember?

I stuck my head back in the apartment, and watched the tower fall. When I stood back up, the antenna was gone from the skyline. That's when the frantic phone calls started. People had been calling us for hours, but the lines were jammed. We called our mothers. We called our friends. We left and heard messages like "I'm fine. I've heard from Jim, Bob, Sue and Joe. They're fine. Let me know that you're fine, too." Do you remember?

We decided to donate blood, so we walked to the local hospital. All of Jersey City was out on the street, searching for something meaningful to do. When we got to St. Francis, we were told that they weren't dedicating any staff to drawing blood because of the survivors. We were told to go home. Back to that place where the only thing to do was watch in horror. We only had one station at that point. The only station being broadcast in New York was CBS, because it's antenna was on the Empire State Building. Do you remember?

We watched the news. We watched a movie. We watched each other. Then, we watched as the ambulences started pulsing past our apartment window. One after another. Sirens screaming. If you looked out our back windows, you could see, maybe a football field away, the ramp to the Turnpike. The Holland Tunnel was closed to allow the ambulances the freedom to drive where they needed. That was when they thought there would be a lot of ambulances. Do you remember?

The first time I went into Manhattan afterwards was on Friday, September 14th. I got out of the subway at 47th and 6th and started to walk East. When I hit 5th Ave, I looked South. I had always been able to see the towers from there, a beacon , a compass letting you know where you were in the city. The sky looked like it had been ripped apart, like a person being taken out of a photograph. Do you remember?

For weeks afterwards, we were bombarded with the images of the missing. The Path station walls were plastered with posters with pictures taken of the people who fell that day. Playing with their families and smiling for cameras. While I wanted to move on, I was drawn to the humanity of those walls. Do you remember?

It's been 5 years and those images and days are blazed in my head. I heard on the news the other day that 95% of Americans remember where they were and what they were doing when they heard. Do you remember?

Life is the end of life

“Life is the end of life.” That is a sentence that I encountered in my reading today. I had to stop and think about it for a minute because it is such a strange sentence. In philosophy, strange sentences are anything but a rarity, but this one stood out. “Life is the end of life.”

Regardless of whatever our particular philosophy of life is, I think it should include the statement, “life is the end of life.” Here we are, Elizabeth and I, far away from friends, family, and familiarity and it has become much too easy to come home and watch TV and surf the net and forget why we are here. I’ve been here nearly 3 months now and I’m already starting to wonder where the time has gone and how quickly life is passing me by. But wait, what are we doing way over here – far from friends, family and familiarity? We are here because life is the end of life. It’s time to stop treating each day as a means to some elusive end. Life – this life – the one right here and right now – this life is the end of life. Pray that we might all realize this end before the end realizes us.

Changes in attitude

(The above can be clicked for easier reading)

This was what I wrote at the lab the other day. I have this ongoing battle with the world of synthetic biology. I love the research and find it to be stimulating, fascinating and inspiring. Yet, the people in synthbio are brilliant. It's a young field, and there aren't very many people who have been inspired to spend their lives attempting to create circular strands of DNA that will change the way cells behave. It's a growing field, one with an extraordinary amount of attention at this point, but for the moment, it's the intellectual elite who are controlling the field.

I am not one of those people. I'm a smart girl, there's no doubt of that. I've lived with myself for long enough to know that I have a hefty dose of intelligence in my DNA. However, I'm also smart enough to know that I'm definately not among the higher echelon. I can solve differential equations, I can design genetic circuits, I can hold moderately intelligent conversation about many of the scientific issues facing this world we call home. But I'm not a genius. I'm not one of the intellectual elite. Yet I work with them, everyday.

It's hard to be reminded that I'm limited. We'd like to believe that we are just as capable as everyone else. Americans have this can-do attitude, where we truly think if we work hard enough, put in enough time, we can do anything. This week, I felt as if that just wasn't true. I was defeated, by two Ph.D. candidates who made me feel stupid. ATP, Chemostat, LuxR, LuxI; these terms were bandied about in ways that made my head spin. I know this wasn't their intention, but their wealths of knowledge on the topic intimidated me into feeling as if I'd never be able to hack it in this lab.

That was Tuesday. But then Wednesday happened. We had a lab meeting, that was heavily steeped in complex differential equations. Now, I know many people don't know what those are. They are complex calculus problems, that are not so easy to solve. In fact, the vast majority of D.E. cannot be solved without using tricks and shortcuts. I sat there, following everything that Mukund, the head of our lab, was doing. This is what I spent the past 3 years doing, writing equations that have the same symbols as Brad's Greek translations, but vastly different meanings.

Mukund then came to the most beautiful equations in all of mathematics. Richard Feynman named it as one of his favorite equations. It is paradoxical, it is strange, it is profound. And it is something that I hold very dear to me.Euler's identity, which brings together 5 of the most important concepts in mathematics in a fantastic dance. This shouldn't hold true; I mean, look at it.

Well, this little equation has brought my ego up again. The two Ph.D. students had never seen this before, and couldn't make tail end of it. They are both molecular biologists, and have therefore not had high levels of mathematics or physics. Their lack of understanding helped me to understand. It's not that I'm stupid, it's that I'm undereducated for the world that I'm working in. I've had, at most, one year of college level biology, and that was 7 years ago. I'm a bit rusty. The biology that I studied was general, not molecular, so there is a vast amount of knowlege for me to learn.

Having come to this conclusion, I've made it a goal of mine to work through a few molbio textbooks at the library. Biology has the benefit of being self-teachable. And with a bevy of biologists there to back me up, I'm sure that I'll be flinging those acronyms around in no time.

0.9 Rupees

Well, I wanted to get my 2-cents (0.9 rupees) in here since the title does include my name. First, though, I have to say that I am shocked and dismayed by the death of Steve Irwin, especially since he was killed while scuba diving! Can you imagine? - a stingray through the heart! But, man, of all the ways to go, you don't get much cooler than that! Although I hope my ultimate demise is in the distant future, I sure hope it is something groovy - maybe get eaten by a giant squid when I'm 92!
To Elizabeth's driving advice, I'd add my own. If a huge truck in front of you slams on the brakes, be cautious as you whip around to pass them on the left... you just might find yourself approaching the less fragrant side of a cow much faster than your two wheels can brake. I very nearly missed what would have been a tragic "rear-ending".
Also, I've travelled with so many tour groups on so many busses that I can't help but to stare and study everything I pass. I don't just glance at the temple facade, I try to peer inside and glimpse the priest and devotees. I often forget that I am on a motorcycle and this has caused some near misses and more than a couple wide-eyed looks from my wife on the scooter near me. We are in the final days of Ganesha Chawurti, a 10-day festival to venerate Ganesha. So, it is quite common to find myself in the middle of a darshan parade. This usually involves a flat-bed truck or even a farm tractor with a trailor hauling an 8-foot moulded clay image of Ganesha painted in bright pinks and reds. Generally, there are around a dozen exhuberant devotees of all generations aboard with drums and instruments and bells. Ganesha is adorned with fresh jasmine and marigolds and all the traffic slows to get a glimpse. The procession carries the group to lake where Ganesha is tossed into the water to remind the devotees of the emptiness of the idol and the pervasiveness of God's presence.
How could I possibly be attentive to my driving with all of that going on around me?!?

Looking my way

The other day, I e-mailed my sister-in-law Cathy and in that e-mail, I told her how strange it was to be stared at all the time, to have become a commodity. She wrote back and pointed out that she completely understood the dilemma, because of her daughter, Caylyn. Caylyn is the most precious little girl you'd ever dare meet, and she just happens to have Down's Syndrome. As with many Down's babies, Caylyn has a "recognizable facial appearance" , which makes her susceptible to stares. (As a side note, Caylyn is also battling Leukemia right now. Please visit her site and write lovely comments for her!)

This got me thinking about stares. I've had a few people ask me how people stare at me here. After Cathy's e-mail, I started paying attention to the different stares of which I was the object. There are the requisite, lustful stares that make my insides churn. Those were the ones I was expecting, but there are a plethora of reasons why people stare at me. First and foremost, I am a rarity. Bangalore is a city of 6 million, but there are only 15 thousand ex-pats here. Of those 15 thousand, many are of Indian descent. That means that less than .25% of the people here are white. Now I know that tourism may drive that number up, but I'm not going to the places tourists go. So I feel comfortable quoting that figure at you. I've put almost 300 km on my bike, and I've yet to see another white person driving, except when I'm with Brad. So it makes sense that people would take notice of me.

As I began taking notice of the messages that floated through the eyes of those who noticed me, I couldn't help but notice the people that I took notice of. There was the girl who had a full burka on but was with a man who was dressed like a Westerner. The contradiction of their clothes confused me. She was draped in black cloth, with only the tips of her fingers and toes and her lush brown eyes showing. Meanwhile, he had on a button down shirt that had the first few buttons open, baring his chest for all to see. I tried and tried to come up with a circumstance that would put these two together. Perhaps they were brother and sister? Or maybe they had met on the internet? It took a good five minutes for me to even consider that I was being a daft, ignorant American.

The other people that I stare at are white people. Now, I know this seems strange, but in a sea of brown, we are few and far between. If I'm with Brad, I'll tug on his arm and say "Honey, look! White people! Why do you think they're here?" I want to know the story of every white person I lay my eyes on. At the lab, there is an older gentleman who is British (I eavesdropped on him today) and I'm desperate to sit down and ask him what brought him to NCBS.

All of this reflection has changed my mind on being stared at. I was bothered at first. It seemed intrusive. But having turned my expanding lens toward my own behavior, I've tried to take the time to look at someone and infer why they're looking at me. If it's because I'm white, well, that's okay. I do my best to make eye contact, smile and then go my way. Don't get me wrong, there are the people who make me uncomfortable. There are the cars that do their best to drive just alongside me, honking in a weak attempt to get my attention. But for the most part, people are just as interested in me as I am in them. They want to know my story, what brought me to India. I'm entering into places where outsiders just don't go. And really, aren't I fortunate that I'm able to do that. I can't imagine a Bangalore where I would be prevented from going somewhere because of my skin or nationality.

And I have to challenge you to do the same. If you find yourself being gawped at, ask yourself why that person may be looking at you. And take note of the people you stare at. You may decide to be a whole more tolerant of the looks you get in life. Really, if you try really hard, you can look at it as a compliment. Someone is just interested in who you are and what you do. Personally, I can't ask for more than that.

The Official Board Smarty-Pants

And I mean that in the nicest possible way. Alison was kind enough to translate 50 km/hr into 31 m/hr. So thanks to her, and Alison, if you'd like your postcard, I'll need your address, please. Wow, I should totally hold monthly contests.

Driving like the locals

Yesterday was my first day at the lab. There isn't much to tell yet, as nothing of interest happened. I don't know yet what project I'll be working on; I won't until Monday. So I'll save the discussion of the lab until there is something legitimate to discuss.

I've now made the drive to the lab twice. The first was a trial run this past Monday. That was an adventure. I got lost both coming and going, which, if nothing else, ensured that I saw a bit more of Bangalore.

Driving here is a bit of an adventure. The best advice I can offer, after living in another country for three weeks, is that if you choose to drive, always drive like the locals. To a certain extent, I learned this lesson in Manhattan. If you behave like the locals, they can anticipate your movements and behave accordingly. It's usually the visitors who end up causing accidents, because their behavior is erratic, at least according to local custom.

Well, to drive like a Bangalorean, you have to be a bit daft. They use the horn to an obnoxious extent. At first, I thought it was out of rudeness, as in my life is more important, so get out of my way, punk! And while that is part of the it, it's also that the horn is used to notify other drivers of your relative location to them. If a driver is about to pass me, they'll honk on their horn, letting me know hey, man...here I am...please don't enter my space...It's taken some time for me to get used to this, and I always feel as if I'm being criticized.

The problem with the horn, however, is how often it is used to try and get my attention. For instance, yesterday I was at a light and the gentlemen next to me noticed that there was a white woman on a scooter. The driver proceeded to lay on the horn while his companion yelled out the window at me. I did my best to stay focused on my iPod (playing The Last Kiss soundtrack...a must if you're a fan of indie rock), but it's really hard to ignore a blaring horn. I have to admit that it makes me a bit nervous when I get that much attention on the road. Someone else decided they wanted to talk to me, while we were doing 50 km/hr down the road. (A postcard will go to the first person who converts that from km -> m, both for the reader and the humble writer of this blog. I'm too lazy to do it myself.) He pulled up next to me and started yelling at me as we were going down the road. I did my best to ignore him, but it's just so damned hard to do that.

With all of that being said, I've had some fantastic adventures on my bike. When I was coming home from my practice drive, I came to a suspension bridge, and wasn't sure whether I should go over it or under it. I decided that it would be fun to see the view from the top, so I went over. Of course, this was the wrong choice, and I ended up sitting in a gas station, looking at a map to try and figure out where I wanted to go. Two gentlemen, seeing my dilemma, came over and pointed me in the right direction. Well, I drove down the road and followed the crowd around the side of the suspension bridge. About 100 yards down the road, everyone turned off onto a dirt road. That couldn't be the way I wanted to go, so I continued on and quickly hit a dead end. So I turned around, thought of Brad, and decided that I should just go ahead and take the dirt road. What was the worst that could happen, I thought. Well, the dirt road became very narrow, filled with bumpy rocks and divets. The course was going slightly downhill and I saw that it made a quick right hand turn at the end. This seemed to be the right direction for me to go in, so I just kept on going. As soon as I turned, I saw where traffic was going: through a small tunnel, that wouldn't have been tall enough for me to walk through. It was only wide enough for one bike to pass through at a time, and I was at the end of the line from my side. I bucked up and drove through. Geez, it was so much fun! :) Everyone should take the time to go offroading in Bangalore. I eventually found my way back to Outer Ring Road and all the way home, but I have to say, I'm so glad that I got lost. I don't think I'll ever intentionally go back that way, because who knows what may happen the next time. But it was a local experience. No tourist would find there way there. I feel initiated into the fold. I'll never be a true Indian, but that trip has got to count for something. The only thing that may pull me back is a desire to take pictures of it, so I'll forever remember the shortcut tunnel that I found by getting hopelessly lost in Bangalore.

Good times...