Is It Stil Called Brain Drain?

From the article India Calling by Anand Giridharadas -NYTimes

“WHAT are Papa and I doing here?”

These words, instant-messaged by my mother in a suburb of Washington, D.C., whizzed through the deep-ocean cables and came to me in the village where I’m now living, in the country that she left.

It was five years ago that I left America to come live and work in India. Now, in our family and among our Indian-American friends, other children of immigrants are exploring motherland opportunities. As economies convulse in the West and jobs dry up, the idea is spreading virally in émigré homes.

Which raises a heart-stirring question: If our parents left India and trudged westward for us, if they manufactured from scratch a new life there for us, if they slogged, saved, sacrificed to make our lives lighter than theirs, then what does it mean when we choose to migrate to the place they forsook?

If we are here, what are they doing there?

They came of age in the 1970s, when the “there” seemed paved with possibility and the “here” seemed paved with potholes. As a young trainee, my father felt frustrated in companies that awarded roles based on age, not achievement. He looked at his bosses, 20 years ahead of him in line, and concluded that he didn’t want to spend his life becoming them.

My parents married in India and then embarked to America on a lonely, thrilling adventure. They learned together to drive, shop in malls, paint a house. They decided who and how to be. They kept reinventing themselves, discarding the invention, starting anew. My father became a management consultant, an entrepreneur, a human-resources executive, then a Ph.D. candidate. My mother began as a homemaker, learned ceramics, became a ceramics teacher and then the head of the art department at one of Washington’s best schools.

It was extraordinary, and ordinary: This is what America did to people, what it always has done.

My parents brought us to India every few years as children. I relished time with relatives; but India always felt alien, impenetrable, frozen.

Perhaps it was the survivalism born of scarcity: the fierce pushing to get off the plane, the miserliness even of the rich, the obsession with doctors and engineers and the neglect of all others. Perhaps it was the bureaucracy, the need to know someone to do anything. Or the culture shock of servitude: a child’s horror at reading “Uncle Tom’s Cabin” in an American middle school, then seeing servants slapped and degraded in India.

My firsthand impression of India seemed to confirm the rearview immigrant myth of it: a land of impossibilities. But history bends and swerves, and sometimes swivels fully around.

India, having fruitlessly pursued command economics, tried something new: It liberalized, privatized, globalized. The economy boomed, and hope began to course through towns and villages shackled by fatalism and low expectations.

America, meanwhile, floundered. In a blink of history came 9/11, outsourcing, Afghanistan, Iraq, Katrina, rising economies, rogue nuclear nations, climate change, dwindling oil, a financial crisis.

Pessimism crept into the sunniest nation. A vast majority saw America going astray. Books heralded a “Post-American World.” Even in the wake of a historic presidential election, culminating in a dramatic change in direction, it remained unclear whether the United States could be delivered from its woes any time soon.

“In the U.S., there’s a crisis of confidence,” said Nandan Nilekani, co-chairman of Infosys Technologies, the Indian software giant. “In India,” he added, “for the first time after decades or centuries, there is a sense of optimism about the future, a sense that our children’s futures can be better than ours if we try hard enough.”

My love for the country of my birth has never flickered. But these new times piqued interest in my ancestral land. Many of us, the stepchildren of India, felt its change of spirit, felt the gravitational force of condensed hope. And we came.

Exact data on émigrés working in India or spending more time here are scarce. But this is one indicator: India unveiled an Overseas Citizen of India card in 2006, offering foreign citizens of Indian origin visa-free entry for life and making it easier to work in the country. By this July, more than 280,000 émigrés had signed up, according to The Economic Times, a business daily, including 120,000 from the United States.

At first we felt confused by India’s formalities and hierarchies, by British phraseology even the British had jettisoned, by the ubiquity of acronyms. We wondered what newspapers meant when they said, “INSAT-4CR in orbit, DTH to get a boost.” (Apparently, it meant a satellite would soon beam direct-to-home television signals.)

Working in offices, some of us were perplexed to be invited to “S&M conferences,” only to discover that this denoted sales and marketing. Several found to their chagrin that it is acceptable for another man to touch your inner thigh when you crack a joke in a meeting.

We learned new expressions: “He is on tour” (Means: He is traveling. Doesn’t mean: He has joined U2.); “What is your native place?” (Means: Where did your ancestors live? Doesn’t mean: What hospital delivered you?); “Two minutes” (Means: An hour. Doesn’t mean: Two minutes.).

We tried to reinvent ourselves, as our parents had, but in reverse. Some studied Hindi, others yoga. Some visited the Ganges to find themselves; others tried days-long meditations.

Many of us who shunned Indian clothes in youth began wearing kurtas and chappals, saris and churidars. There was a sad truth in this: We had waited for our heritage to become cool to the world before we draped its colors and textures on our own backs.

We learned how to make friends here, and that it requires befriending families. We learned to love here: Men found fondness for the elusive Indian woman; women surprised themselves in succumbing to chauvinistic, mother-spoiled men.

We forged dual-use accents. We spoke in foreign accents by default. But when it came to arguing with accountants or ordering takeout kebabs, we went sing-song Indian.

We gravitated to work specially suited to us. If there is a creative class, in Richard Florida’s phrase, there is also emerging what might be called a fusion class: people positioned to mediate among the multiple societies that claim them.

India’s second-generation returnees have built boutiques that fuse Indian fabrics with Western cuts, founded companies that train a generation to work in Western companies, become dealmakers in investment firms that speak equally to Wall Street and Dalal Street, mixed albums that combine throbbing tabla with Western melodies.

Our parents’ generation helped India from afar. They sent money, advised charities, guided hedge-fund dollars into the Bombay Stock Exchange. But most were too implicated in India to return. Our generation, unscathed by it, was freer to embrace it.

Countries like India once fretted about a “brain drain.” We are learning now that “brain circulation,” as some call it, may be more apt.

India did not export brains; it invested them. It sent millions away. In the freedom of new soil, they flowered. They seeded a new generation that, having blossomed, did what humans have always done: chase the frontier of the future.

Which just happened, for many of us, to be the frontier of our own pasts.

Is Narcissm Sign Of Things To Come?

It’s ten in the morning and I am in my office. Don’t have much to do really. All of the tasks that I have to finish either have a deadline far from today or some input is required from my supervisor to proceed. So I am just waiting for either of those to happen. I thought I would go get some coffee. Strangely, even after the morning bath and a zipping drive to the office on my Kawasaki Ninja, my brain refuses to wake up completely. I had a good sleep last night aided by the weather that is getting colder by the day and I can’t think of anything that would make my biological CPU sluggish. May be I should get some coffee.

So I go to get some coffee, right. The first coffee dispenser, which is much closer to my desk, is out of coffee. I never make my own coffee at the office, for the simple reason that I don’t trust my coffee making abilities. I am taste-fully handicapped as it is. I never seem to get the right mixture of things that make a good coffee. The sugar isn’t enough or too much, cream isn't enough or too much or sometimes even the coffee itself isn’t enough or too much. But I try everyday. I move on to the next dispenser, for which I have to walk a couple of corridors. The coffee pot in that break room has about a half cup coffee left in it and it is pretty clear that it has been sitting there for some time. Anyway, for my half asleep brain, it wouldn’t matter as long it has a good concentration of caffeine in it. So walk up to the counter, away from the coffee pot, where the tall white paper cups are kept, clearly marked ‘For Hot Drinks Only’ and grab one. Then I see a just-walked-in girl, more like a women, near the coffee pot filing her flask with something that I can’t see. OMG, she could be taking the last of whats left in the coffee pot.

I speed-walk to her not exactly sure of what I am going to do once I get there, but not less than a foot from the target, I notice she is filing the flask with hot water. See, there is a sink right next to the coffee machine, and she is just stocking her water reserve. With a sigh of relief, I decelerate to normal walking speed with the paper cup in one hand, nothing in the other and when I was within touching distance of the pot’s handle, without warning it happened. I had an EPIPHANY. For those of you who didn’t watch ‘The Simpson's Movie’, an Epiphany is ‘a sudden realization of ultimate truth’. So, that’s what I had. Everything became clear, and it was simple. All I had to do was put the sugar and cream first into the cup and then fill it with coffee until the color becomes the right shade. The logic is undeniable and yet it is so obvious. I make a u-turn and head up to the counter with nice little racks of ingredients.

There is an assortment of sugars. Zero calorie sugar, brown sugar, alpine sugar, crystal sugar and just sugar. I used to have the zero calorie type, to pretend that I am health conscious, but from an informal informational session with a friend of mine, I learned it is not good for health. Negative calories do not exist, positive calories can be harmful and zero calories are bad. Looks like the end of the world is near. Now I only take pure or cane or sometimes brown sugar. Although obvious, for legality sake I have to say, it is not the brown sugar that’s illegal. I empty out four packs of dip-type tea-bag sized pouches of pure sugar into the cup I have been carrying around for a good 5 minutes now and then I add some more. Strangely, there is only one type of cream. The bad one. I eye ball some of it into the cup while trying my best not to inhale the puffs of cream powder that invariably gets dispersed into the air, due to some physics law related to gravity and mass. I fail, and some of it get into my nostrils making me turn about and sneeze a couple of times with the, un-apologetically forced, ‘excuse me’ wedged in between. And that is when I noticed it.

While I was busy executing my epiphany dictated actions, three people had entered the room and were into third gear at their conversation (too much motorcycle metaphors?). As often as a conversation does, it made people thirsty and one of them reached for the three-quarters empty coffee pot on which I had pinned all of my hope for awakening my brain (and content of this blog). It was exactly as it was predicted in all the Hollywood movies that had the line- ‘the Beginning of the End’. My whole life flashed before my eyes. That person, lets call her- ‘she’, had the pot in her hand as she continued her argument with her ‘friends’ oblivious to the fact that my heart was where that coffee should have been, in my mouth. Everything happened in ultra-slow motion as she poured the last few milliliters off the pot into her cup and it was over. It was one of those days in which even epiphanies are fallible. Only the Catholic Pope is left.

Head fallen, heart broken, almost asleep I walked like a banker who invested everything he had in Lehman Brothers’ stocks, still holding the cup with sugar and cream, no coffee nor hope. Someone passed by me and I heard ‘good morning’ vaguely, so I replied ‘morning to you too’ silently like a M.Night Shyamalan movie character, walking slowly, I reached where I am right now, My desk. Some process is running in my screen and there are bunch of emails in my ‘In’-Box of the email client. None important, so without paying attention I am deleting anything that does not have the word ‘we regret to inform you’ or ‘free credit score’ in its content. I am already done with the usual email, cricket score and top news stories checking ritual in the first hour of the day and like I mentioned I can’t proceed with the tasks that I have in my list-of-tasks; I am at complete loss. Nothing to do but think.

Moving to THE US of A, I always thought, would make my life such a great one. I would have anything I want. All great things would happen to me, I thought. Instead everything that can go wrong has gone that way. I live in a desert, with mostly people not very friendly, at least not in the same age group. I am stuck with a job about which I am not going to talk about. Living in an apartment with 5 people whose last name I don’t exactly know, sleeping in the carpet with a TV that can’t run for more than an hour, my daily diet include unhealthy, more importantly, tasteless, American made, or modified (as in removed all the taste) Indian food and the occasional (read plenty) snacks rich with transient fat. In my leisure hours, I watch re-runs of movies and tv shows in my laptop, for which I still pay interest on my credit card, and interestingly, I watch re-runs of movies and TV shows in my laptop when I am busy as well.

Leading a depressing life, with no thrill, no girl friend, no excitement I don’t see the end of this dark tunnel. The light has diminished long back and seems like I am only waiting for the inevitable time of departure as I mindlessly wander through.…

Wait, do I smell coffee…or am I dreaming. I see someone standing near the coffee machine that is close to my desk. Is this heaven? I hear the sweet music of freshly brewed coffee pouring into the pot of love and purity. Yes, I smell the mesmerizing aroma of heavenly caffeine. Yes, it seeks us. It calls to us.

Yes, Precious…Come to Papa.

Is It Safe To Come Out Now?

It’s Sunday today, which means its time to relax. Not that I am stressed or over worked during the other 6 days of the week, but its just that a Sunday seems to be the day when you are supposed to be as relaxed as you can be. Almost all the ‘institutions’ are closed on a Sunday and so, unlike a Saturday when some offices open for a few hours, you can not carry out some of your not-so-often regular tasks like paying the bills, renewing your license or visiting your bank. You wakeup late, finish the ‘TASKS’, take breakfast, gawk at the cute girl in the other apartment and settle into your couch, lay back and power up the entertainment set, for most people it’s the Television, and for others, like me, its their computer. From then on and until bedtime or eye irritation and headache, whichever comes first, its relaxing time. Now to me watching movies and re-runs of my favorite shows and daydreaming is what is relaxing. I enjoy it thoroughly and have no plans of giving it up.
But in the recent past weeks, I have to say, relaxing doesn’t seem to be as easy as it used to be, especially with the recent terrorist activities back home. The past few months have been devastating for Mother India and her citizens due to multiple terrorist attacks on heavily crowded areas. With the fledgling US market creating panic and uncertainty in the global and Indian exchanges, the threat on the security of the state is alarming. The local authority and the central government alike, seem to have no answers to these menacing acts as blast after blast rips through not only people’s lives but the general public’s morale as well. These are hard times to stay relaxed.
When leaders, both in ruling and opposition parties, fail to act or convincingly assure their subjects’ concerns, it’s the role of the news media, both print and digital, to step up to the plate. News media, in all of its forms, can reflect a country’s heartbeat and has the potential to sway the public opinion. But unfortunately, the current state of Indian News Corporation is dire. I was just reading an article published in ibnlive.com that stated that the Indian public is scared because of recent terrorist activities. Although it doesn’t take much ingenuity to appreciate the banality of the statement, what concerned me or rather made me feel disgusted is that the article paints this portrayal of mass hysteria that seems to have gripped the nation. The article is a survey conducted in five major cities in India, and it concludes that a good majority of the public has said that they are scared of stepping out for markets, tourist spots and other places of interest. Some of them have even said that they refrain from going out during weekends. While they seem skeptical and prudent, its just normal behavior. Similar to the media in US, the news corp in India leeches off ratings, a.k.a profit, by fueling the drama and sensationalism craved by mass public instead of doing real journalistic work. It’s similar to that depressingly empty-headed reporter who asks to an actor who has just won an award ‘How do you feel?’.
A Terrorist is someone who is involved in acts of violence in order to induce fear and insecurity in people’s mind to force their ideological agenda (Wikipedia). By the very definition fear can be expected in the people who experience terrorism. But by magnifying the fear and hence making the terrorists appear more potent, the media can easily drive the public’s anxiety into over drive. Four blasts in four months, all in crowded tourist spots in major cities including the capitol can be extremely stressful for a country, especially if it is as deep rooted in religion and communal division as ours. Turning this tragic time into a money making opportunity puts all those corporate journalists and reporters who feed off of the public’s current state in the same league as the unashamed politicians and, in broader terms, aid to those terrorists. Terrorism is not new to our country and as always, contrary to what the article projects, the Indian society may be shaken, but it is never broken.
Of all the adjectives that can be attributed to an Indian national, the undeniable one must be his extra-ordinary capability of being a ‘survivor’. An Indian has seen a long history and to him life is endless. He was there when the subcontinent was pristine; He saw science, trade and religion grow and flourish in the planet’s one of the richest land, which he called home. He was there when Alexander came to his field; he was there when the Moguls ruled his home; he was there when Ghazni plundered his backyard and he was surely there when British came and watched them leave. Even after becoming a republic The Indian Union has been the land of survivors. Today the Indian has seen socialism, experienced communism, accepted and modified capitalism for the better. He can be efficient when needed, loyal when required and corrupt if necessary.
Although his history sounds fascinating, he has endured some of the toughest tests for a citizen and he has survived them all. He has traveled far and wide and has emerged victorious in all aspects of life. He is extremely adaptive and assimilates anything that stands in his way and uses it as an advantage in his march to the future.
And like all evil before today, Terrorism will also fall at his feet.

Where Is My Damsel In Distress?

You might have noticed a little bit of change in my blogs. I have not been able to keep up with my initial planned-schedule of blogging, partly because of lack of time and moslty because some good old laziness. Sometimes, I feel like there is nothing that is just good enough to write about. So I had wandered into writing about movies I watched here and how I felt about them. It appears as though I am watching just too many movies these days (I have seen all the summer releases) and so may be I'll write what I thought of them. Then I felt, since I seem to travel quite a bit, thanks to some very good friends of mine, may be I can write about my experiences in those vacations. Try those links to the right of your screen and as always, if you want to say something about anything let me know. As you might have already noticed, I have moved my earlier blogs about the San Francisco trip to the new travel blog. Anywhoo, a slight re-arrangement of things is always a good thing, no; it presents us with different ways of looking at the same thing and may understand them a little better. So that's that.

Since watching 'The Dark Knight', which by the way is totally awesome, my super hero fantasies have come back alive in my mind. I would make a great super hero, don't you think? I mean, I can fight crime, make fun of the bad guys, and help the grandma cross the street and ofcourse save the damsel(s) in distress (crossed-fingers). Right from my childhood, being a super hero has been my dream. May be I didn't like the costumes that most of the guys wore (Im looking at you Captain America!), but I most certainly loved the fact that they had those supernatural powers, like shooting the web out of your wrists, spidey sense, excellent sense of humor (You probably guessed by now that I am a spider man kinda guy!!) and to an extent the bullet proof body. This was before hitting puberty so, I guess I didn't really notice all the beautiful women they saved but once that became apparent, I realized the ultimate truth – the super powers are 'a gift and a curse' – a curse I would gladly accept on any given day of the year. Oh, how I wished that 'genetically modified super spider' had taken a sot at me; I still do.

Anyways, those dreamy days have passed, and I have moved on- moved on to dream about other things. Things like motorcycles, space travel and bug free programming codes. But more importantly I have discovered some ways of being the super hero that may be not as spectacular like the ones you find in comic books, but are guaranteed to make a difference in some fellow humans' life. A few months ago I came across this charity organization, for not wanting to be solicited, let's call it – The Smile Train, and I have to admit that I feel like my super hero dreams are coming true (not entirely. Still no damsels!!). It's related to the cleft palette (Wikipedia entry) surgery that fixes kids with deformed lips and nasal passage.This charity aims at providing the surgery to patients in disadvantaged countries and this organization is at the verge of driving itself out of business (See The New York times Article). More importantly it has made me realize that I do have super powers. Just didn't know it until now. All you have to do is to think how many kids' lives you want to change forever in a given year, month or even a week. I personally liked it, since this is not a make shift donation, but one offer can change the life of a given kid forever.

Beyond satisfying my boyhood dream, this has answered some of the questions that have been lingering in my mind for a long time. Questions like 'what would happen when we die' have always bugged me, since the day I can remember, but my inner concerns were more earthly than something hypothetically outside. I never cared about heaven or hell, since the fact that when not alive we won't exist within the realm of the laws of physics that we follow while being alive. I was more concerned about other things. Things like, 'when I die, would any one, other my family and friends even notice? ; Other than some insignificant physical objects and (hopefully priceless) human relationships I collected since my birth, what would I leave behind? ; Would it even matter that I have ceased to exist?'; The answers were most definitely not obvious and for some still are.

In my teens I used to think about all the people who die without ever getting to see the 'Taj Mahal', since, to me, it was something that no human can or should ever miss. I felt those people had lost an opportunity of a life time, since there is no guarantee that we will be re-born again and even if we did, there is no certainty that the Taj Mahal will still exist. But now when I think about it The Taj Mahal is nothing but insignificant when compared to human life. I have come to realize that the real question I should have been asking myself is, 'How many people die everyday without ever changing some stranger's life for the better'; How many have perished oblivious to the fact that they did nothing but satisfy their personal cravings and their immediate circle of family and friends' desires and never spared an act of kindness that resulted from selfless thought.

More important question ought to be – "Will I become one of them?"

As it goes, 'When a stranger misses you at your death, you have lived richer than kings'.

Well, What can I say?

Waking up after a really bad headache, surprisingly, due to a pain killer, I took a vow- From now on I’ll always check the expiration date before taking any pill. Well, it was already too late and the damage has been done. Apparently, while I was high on the pain pill, which was actually dead, I had done things that should not be talked about again. Among all of my unceremonious doings during that pill-bound time frame, I vaguely remember few things which require an act (actually multiple acts) of absolution (hail Google. In your face GRE!!) from people whom I have never met, physically. My recollection of events is only fuzzy, but I am pretty sure that it involves a social networking website, some mostly funny and very rarely insightful scraps, and a few clicks of submit buttons. And it includes some “add to crush list”s as well. As a person of high dignity, magnanimity and sovereignty (wuh-hoo), I would like to offer my apology for every living organism whose page I might have visited and left my mark; especially the one that has a new scrap reading-“don’t feel bad about your intelligence. If your forefathers had the right genes, they would have passed it to you”. Well, you know who you are and I am really sorry that you had to learn the truth from me.

Now for the really scary (juicy) stuff. About the “add to crush list”s. Now I know vaguely, that the aforementioned ‘social networking website” does not notify the person who is added (addee) about the person who adds (adder) to the crush list. But I am not exactly sure about the wirings and hacking methods that are available to the addee to see their list of adders, so I would like to set the records straight (please scroll if the there is screen over flow). This is for all the addees from the adder talking straight to you (through a number of routers, servers and gateways…a.k.a the internet). Yes I think you look really well. Yes I think you seem to be a very nice person and yes, your profile (real or fake) seems very interesting. Above all, Yes, If given the option, I would most certainly consider the offer notwithstanding any better outstanding offers. That aside, I do say, that I am really (stress the word) sorry that I clicked that ‘add’ button, which I, under saner circumstances, wouldn’t have. But come on, what other option do I have?... Hmmm, Somewhere in my mind, I think I am actually thanking the pill, for making me go halaa-baloo.

Oh, If you are reading this, and I did not visit your page during this whole episode, give a pat on your back. I consider high of you. (or, I don’t even consider you(in that case, the pat is meaningless). Ok, either of that.)

P.S: Am I still high, coz I think I am seeing things......

So, Who Let The Racist Out?

I just finished reading Jemima Rohekar's Article shown in CNNIbn website. Since one of the comments calls me (not specifically, but in a general way) a racist, I think I should respond.

So, ‘Are Delhiites Xenophobic?’ I did not know the meaning of that word yesterday- Xenophobic, which apparently means ‘fearing or hating anyone who's different’, and thanks to the reporter, now I do. The article says that house owners in Delhi refrain from giving houses to foreigners/outsiders, more importantly people of different color, race and/or religion. And this makes them Racial Discriminators. The article with caption, ‘Racist Capitol?’, goes on about saying how the ‘CNNibn mission’ to get a place for a Nigerian who is ‘educated and working in an MNC’ failed because the house owners had the idea of outsiders associated with some anti-social activities (Are some outsiders involved in anti-social activities?!?). And that makes them ‘Obviously’ Racial Discriminators.

I did not know that my father was racist. He once refused to have a man as tenant, because the guy was known to be a gambler and poor at it too. At least, this was the reason he told me. Now when I think about it, may be my father refused, because the guy was not from our caste or he has darker than us, or he had a different shoe size or may be a combination of these. Yes, that must be the reason. My father racially discriminated a man, even though his ‘friends’ proclaimed him as a very good guy, and one of his friends was a pack of 52 cards, because my father felt it was foolish to trade with a poor gambler. Oh wait, that would make every sane person I know in this world a racist. But maybe that’s true… Oh Dammit…Even in crazy world, this does not make any sense.

Come on, Jemima Rohekar. I am sure you attended college which had subjects that dealt with literature and politics at some level. So you must have read quite a bit about what constitutes racism and what makes simple common sense. There are lot of ways make sure that your article sets fire in the reader’s heart (no pun intended), but going out of your way to label your country men racist is a bit too low even for a typical journalist of modern era. When people say that today’s media has become a part of the corrupt system’s team of hacks, journalists like you erupt with rage against generalization , but what about the antics you follow just to get people read your rhetoric?.

It seems that the reporter was not satisfied with turning a simple human behavior into an act of universal evil which, even if provides good number of hits to the site, must be not be tolerated. Statements such as ‘Kashmiris, Muslims and of course hundreds of foreign students… are not welcome in Delhi’ sound as though she is just too desperate.

By my understanding, people just want to stay out of trouble. If my friend asks me to give him/her my wallet, I won’t necessarily hesitate, but if I feel there is something fishy, I have every right to make my own decision irrelevant of their caste, color or whatever. I don’t want to come off as rude, but if someone out there wants to stamp my actions by their own crazy list of commandments, then “F*@K YOU!”

I wasn’t having any plans of doing this, to be honest, but the forces that drive my emotional chariot had the better of me this time. Comments in the CNNIbn article by Aby and Girish have returned me to the blog world. Thanks a lot you ignorant fools.