Tag: postaday

Lovestruck

From the raging building emerged the silhouette of a muscular man. He strutted—flames licking his shoulders—unperturbed and unharmed, while muffled screams bellowed throughout what was, only hours before, the hospital Julie interned at.

Clutching a blanket — for shock they’d said — she watched the mysterious alpha go in several times, returning each time shrouding children in his arms.

Her eyes glued to the hero, she sighed cooing to herself, “Ah, love.”

“Don’t go fangirling him, kid. He’s a firefighter, it’s his job.” The commander’s gruff voice echoed from behind. “Urg, the movies nowadays, feeding teenagers all kinds of crap.”

Many is one

The best thing about modern art is that it has no definition. Anyone can interpret it in any way they like. The artist doesn’t have to be precise or convey everything that runs in their mind. And that’s why no two people absorb a piece of art the same way.

But when the artist has multiple interpretations of their own to convey, then perhaps this is how it might look. This work of art sits at the Museum of Modern Art in San Francisco, California. It reminds me how a single thing can be single and many at the same time. It’s a depiction of how changing, how unfixed art—and to an extent, life—is.

Museum of Modern Art

Decoding culture

One of the most prominent aspects of an Indian society is its lack of sociableness. Not that Indians aren’t approachable or jovial. On the contrary, Indians are some of the most hospitable folks in the world—but for someone travelling to India for the first time, our society throws more than a few culture shocks.

When walking on the streets, for instance, people never smile or acknowledge an unfamiliar face. They won’t maintain eye contact for more than three seconds, in fear of the other person misunderstanding. Most people I’ve come across on the streets, look straight ahead and then down as if focussed on avoiding potholes.

It’s not the fear of conflict that makes people avoid expressing themselves. Instead, it’s a habit that stems from childhood, when we learn to avoid speaking to strangers and accepting candy from them. We grow up with the same stigma, so much so that we don’t differentiate potential threats from unassuming people trying to be pleasant.

Most people you’d come across on the streets don’t see the point of smiling at someone they’ve never met before and will never again. When it makes no sense to grin at a wall, why should it make sense to grin at someone who’s as insignificant in their life as that wall?

That’s the reasoning I dabbled in for over twenty years before I landed in the United States. Where tables turned.

I walked into a restaurant, and the staff welcomed me with a gigantic smile and wide open arms. It was the first time we’d met and without a second thought, she made me feel as if I’d known her all my life. I didn’t even ask for her name, but we’re friends by recognition.

It’s her job to be social, a little voice in my head nagged. Not everyone would be the same.

Jet-lagged one morning, I awoke early for a walk around the neighbourhood I stayed at. It was a cold September morning and artificial pumpkins hung from behind locked stores. A single person lumbered on in the distance. When I got closer, I realised he was the garbage collector reporting on time for his duty. He smiled and waved at me for no reason. Without even knowing it, I was reciprocating his gestures. I didn’t think, and I didn’t debate with myself as to why I should wave. It was just nice, two people from such different backgrounds, with nothing in common, sharing a moment of warmth, each wrapped up in their own jackets trying to stay warm.

It’s not his job to be social, I realised. It wouldn’t have offended me at all if he’d had ignored me altogether. I would’ve gone my way and he would have gone his, both of us bracing the cold. Instead, we did go our own ways but with a cheery stride. And that made all the difference.

Later as I sat in the shuttle, a complimentary service my hotel offered, my driver—an employee of the hotel—asked me how I was. She didn’t have to. It was a ten-minute ride from my hotel to my workplace, but she took that time to share a conversation. We didn’t discuss global economy, but we did talk about how difficult it is to find employment nowadays. I left the shuttle a little wiser to the reality of the world, and I felt myself balloon with compassion and sincere respect for my driver. We weren’t venting to a stranger, but instead, we were riders in the same boat, sharing observations.

Throughout my stay in the US, I met with countless people who volunteered to make my day better. With a smile, a wave, a head bob, and even a small nod in the right direction, strangers all around me made me feel at home.

Perhaps it’s all because I was a tourist, my skeptical inner voice piped. No, I answered as I explored the streets further. More about that later.

Food, food everywhere

During my visit to the US, of the many things that stood out to me as weird, food was a major shock. Although I’m not one to eat in a gluttonous way, I make sure I eat every last morsel of food on my plate even if it means eating beyond my capacity. Food wastage is one of my biggest concerns and I have strong opinions about people who order too much and not eat what they got. And so the sheer amount of food in American restaurants I visited overwhelmed me. Not only were the portion sizes ridiculous but almost none of my fellow-diners managed to finish their meal. Perhaps it’s because American culture is so ingrained in sugary sodas and crunchy mid-meal snacks that no one has the stomach for a proper meal.

Regardless, the first time I was at a restaurant, it pained me to see my friends struggle to finish theirs while I ate my larger-than-necessary serving in the most polite way I could. My friends gave up while I was still eating. We had copious food left on the table and I was preparing myself to see all that food go to trash. Just then the waiter stopped by our table and asked my friends, “Would you like a box?”

The next five minutes threw unfamiliar scenes at me. Our waiter brought us a handful of of carry boxes. Leaving them at the table, he smiled at me while I stared in surprise. One by one, my friends scooped up the food on their plates into the boxes. They were taking the leftovers home.

Wow.

Nothing could’ve prepared me for that unexpected turn of events. Within minutes I had gone from mild irritation, to suppression, to unexpected joy, and then to growing shame.

It was only later that I realised how common it is at restaurants in the US. I felt nonplussed all of a sudden—happy, yes, but confused nonetheless. I felt proud of my American friends for their responsibility and candour. They didn’t care if the food had grown cold. For as long as it’s edible, they ate it.

In stark contrast, where I grew up, almost everyone who doesn’t finish their meal at a restaurant leaves it for the trash can. In all my life, only a handful of times have I seen someone asking the waiter to pack up leftovers. And even then, it was the waiter or the kitchen staff who’d pack it up. Even at home, my society has conditioned people to expect warm, fresh-cooked food three times a day. Left overs and cooking disasters often went to domestic helpers. It’s a disgusting habit, I admit, that my society cultivates along with other home and cultural traits.

That’s why, having grown up seeing and seething at such incidents, I felt a little better at eating out in America than I do at home. I knew that even if I couldn’t finish my serving, I wouldn’t have to choose between forcing myself and throwing away food. A habit we could borrow from our western friends.