A few takeaways from my recent bicycling tour with MACC

Being the only Indian left in the entire country who had not yet been to Goa, when an invitation was extended to me to accompany 7 other MACCers, I eagerly accepted it. Besides, 2 full days of cycling was also a first for me.

Eight of us in 3 cars (and 8 bicycles) left hot and muggy Mangalore on Friday morning to a hotter and muggier Goa. All settled in a comfortable 2 apartment deal, the next couple of days we set out to explore first, southern and the next day, northeastern parts of Goa. It was long, hot, grueling and the most exhilarating two days of bicycling I have ever experienced. And I couldn't get enough of it.

Here are a few of my takeaways from this most fantastic trip.

A good plan is everything

'Failing to plan is planning to fail' said Gandhiji famously. Or was it Modiji who said this. Doesn't matter, they were right. A good plan is a must. Planning includes: how to get to your destination (Goa in this case), where to stay, what are we doing there, detailed route maps, what time to start and end, where to eat and drink and contingency planning. And our planner in chief Sarvesha understood this better than any of us and the tour could not have been planned and executed any better. The stay was comfortable so we could relax and get that much needed sleep before the long day ahead, the routes were well thought through and had a little bit of everything : from highways to ghats to forests and climbs, townships to rural back roads and agricultural fields. We knew what the day ahead entailed and that helped us be prepared both mentally and physically.

Of course there are those who like to explore without much planning and I think that approach is valid as well, if it works for them. But for me personally, it helps to have a general plan in place and what I am up against, especially if the territory and the endurance part of the exercise is new to me. I knew the exact distance and elevation I would be bicycling each day so that helped me prepare mentally. (Though to be honest, I was still nervous).

But always be Prepared for any changes in plan. (Or just be Sudhir)

On day 1, our plan was to cover around 85kms of southern Goa from Benoulim to Canacona and back. It was a beautiful start on a beautiful Goan morning. I was pleasantly surprised by how lovely the roads were. Having used to post monsoon Mangalorean roads, my expectations were low. We set out around 6:30am with our water bottles, and portable air-pumps... did we forget anything? Well I had sunscreen cream, (I would recommend you get at least spf30 - and reapply every hour or so if possible), sunglasses and my helmet and gloves (of course) and spare tube kit, first aid, some cash. We headed out at sunrise and the plan was to return by mid afternoon so I decided not to take my headlight with me.

Approximately an hour into bicycling, and we had a tyre burst. Yes, this rarely happens but it happened to one of us. Gladly, Sudhir had brought not one but two! extra tyres from Mangalore. The bike was shifted back to the hotel where the tyre was replaced swiftly. The rest of us carried on knowing that our team mate's tour was not a complete bust. He could fix the tyre and join us as soon as possible.

The rest of the day went without a hitch. We followed the route, found some excellent vada pav and mirchi pakoras on the way. When we occasionally ditched the route,we discovered spectacular views of the ocean off the cliffs. It was a good day overall.

Feel free to curse a lot but always be kind to yourself

Day 2 included 150kms of riding with a an overall elevation of approximately 1500m. This included about 20km of climbing upto 650m elevation at the Mollem National Park. This was going to be an all day affair and I almost thought I'll stay in bed claiming sickness. But off we went at the crack of dawn, the 8 of us. The day was hot. The roads seemed all going uphill. I was extremely slow climbing the grueling 20km up the Mollem National park. The roads were very nice, definitely better than Agumbe ghats. the climbs were probably of similar grade. But my muscles were hurting. Every road seemed like a climb. Everyone of us rode at our own comfortable pace. This was not about speed but really about finishing it. I cursed a lot. Cars and trucks were passing by, people waved. One couple took so much pity on me, they managed to stop my team mates who were riding a couple of kilometers ahead of me to ask why they had left that poor woman (me) all by herself. I stopped and stretched. Told my legs to shut up and climb. But more importantly, I told myself, I can do this. Hush you negative voice who tells me 'who do you think you are'. As America Ferrara might tell her inner critic "I am whoever I say I am. I am a bicyclist".

Relax and have fun!

Can this advise get any more cliched? But it's true! If you are not having fun, there is no point in any of this. Smile knowing that you have this unique opportunity and privilege to travel to and explore this beauty around you, not in a car or a bus, but on a bicycle all powered by you, warranges included.

If it doesn't kill you, it will make you all fucked up

This past fathers' day, a message from President Obama about his own father in his life, or the lack of him in his life, got me thinking about mine and the lack of his presence in my life. Unlike the president, I was lucky enough to have a father in the same house as I grew up for the most part. However, my father had a companion: drinking. And he was loyal to it. And the dozens of "friends" who actually hung around him for free beer, whiskey or even arak (when times were tough and cheap booze was the way to go).

Those days, my parents were separated and I was living with my dad because there were better schools where he lived, compared to the small town where my mother lived and worked. So after a few years of living with her, I moved in with him and my brother.

Alcohol was all around us. Dad was a charitable man those days and he invited people over and they never left. (Yes, you can check in but never check out). My brother and I shared a bedroom with a grown cousin, who had made the room his own and we were treated as guests. He drank religiously everyday. One night when we were alone, he showed me his penis and asked me to touch him. I ran away in fear. He also introduced me to the taste of my first beer when I was 8.

Dad was oblivious. He loved us to death. But he was also never there unless he was checking about my grades in school. And I always performed poorly in school so I tried to stay out of his radar out of fear of being checked about how I was doing in school. I forged marks cards when I could. And I got away with it.

Apart from our cousin, 3 other men lived in our little house but it was a revolving door with lots more coming in and out. Random people that our dad had picked up and had made as friends. They were alcohol buddies but they also lived with us, ate free food, drank free booze and generally made themselves comfortable. When I got my first period, everyone in the house knew about it. My mother was the last to know because she was living in a different town.

We also had a cook. He was a poor young man named Basaviah, my dad had brought over based on a family friend's recommendation. My dad taught him how to cook and made him the cook and a general attendant. While my dad cooked marvelously, unfortunately, Basavaih's cooking was terrible. But what he lacked in cooking skills, he made up for in having a large heart. He was the kindest and gentlest person my brother and I had ever met. We loved him. He was our rock. He was also one of the few men in the house who did not make his moves on me. Yes, those days, I was just developing breasts but I was still a child who didn't care to sit with her legs closed. While the other men made lewd comments about it more than once, Basavaiah always treated me as a child. And he kept his distance.

Out of all the strange men in the house, there was one I hated the most. His name was Chandrashekar. He was someone who randomly entered out house (during an election season when my dad gave our house to be used for political campaigns) and never left. It was also a time when my dad had an accident and had damaged his leg. This man took care of my dad and in turn became his wing man. He had access to our dad that we didn't have. And he fully enjoyed having that power over us. Yes a grown man was competing with us for our dad's attention and he won.

He would try and find me alone in a room and touch me or make lewd remarks when I was sitting. I knew he was bad news for me. These were the days when our dad was in the hospital and he was running the show in our house. He would go to the hospital every night and spend time with our dad. One day he asked my brother to go so he can take a break. My brother was more than willing. He appreciated that this man was helping our dad. Besides it gave my brother a chance to get close to my dad, a man whose attention and approval my brother craved.

But my 12 year old instincts told me that it would be bad news if this man and I were alone in the house while my brother was away. I knew I would get raped that night if I were left alone with him. I made my brother stay back. He reluctantly did. Years later, my brother appreciated the horrible scenario it could have been. I thank my lucky stars that night.

Amma in the hood

The last time my mother visited me, I was living in northeast DC. I had just bought a charming old row house and moved in. Gentrification was beginning to happen and older black neighbors were selling and moving out. (which was causing some resentment among other blacks in the city). Crime was steadily declining but the area was still not safe. Within 2 months of moving in, my house was broken into twice and all my possessions were stolen. (Btw, whoever has my laptop,hope you're enjoying my Kannada porn collection). After this happened, I made friends with the neighbors including the Congressman next door. (who had his house broken into as well). I started attending community meetings and got to know the cops. I  installed alarm and window bars. Occasionally I took care of my friend's German Shepherd and walked the neighborhood with him. I also joined the neighborhood watch group and we walked around the 'hood wearing orange hats. In short, I did everything I had to do short of buying a gun or moving out.

Occasionally I had visitors from the suburbs. Most were immediately uncomfortable with the location. My house was beautiful with open brick. The streets were wide and with tall trees on either side. My Gym was right next door and the bus stop was a block over. I walked or biked everywhere during the day. But none of these impressed them. As soon as they got in, they always wanted to know if their Lexus or Mercedes was okay to be parked on the street. Then they wanted to get out of there ASAP.  Before leaving, they would look at me incredulously. Why is she living here? Alone? Why can't she move to the burbs and be safe amongst the whites and desis? (I never told them about the house break ins. I was not going to be invited to an intervention, if I could help it).

It was a little different with my mother. Yes, she worried about my safety in a neighborhood that was known for crime and drugs. But she loved the area nonetheless. It was always busy. There was always activity on the street with kids and teenagers like there would be on a typical street in India. One 4th of July, there were even fireworks shot by my neighborhood kids and adults. And right in front of my house. It took me back to the deepavali of my childhood days and made me feel completely at home. (Occasionally there were those other fireworks too but luckily none while my mother was visiting).

My mother loves history. She loves history enough that she wanted to visit Frederick Douglass' house in southeast DC. We were the only non black people there in the Douglass' house. Most of her opinions of black people are formed by reading American history and civil war. And Kunta Kinte. When I introduced her to my African American friends, she was fascinated. Like someone from one of her books had suddenly come to life. It was interesting to watch her ask my friends if they too liked Gone with the Wind. (Uh, don't think so ma).

My amma was happiest when we took the bus or the train. She did not like traveling in cars. She wanted to be out, seeing people. Real people. Not sitting in a car, going to groceries. Visiting relatives. I guess she really wanted to leave India in India.

One day we were waiting for the bus to go to Busboys and Poets on U Street. Open Mic poetry and great food (with Veg options on the menu!) Can't get better than that. It was a beautiful day and everyone was out on the street. And the bus stop was especially crowded with people waiting for the bus, to people selling sneakers and tshirts, to the speakers on the street corner ranting about the white man. In short, typical H Street corner on a nice day.

We were waiting for the bus and taking in the scene when a man approached us. He was distributing flyers for a new church on F street and wanted to know if I would attend. I just smiled and said probably not. My mother looked at me disapprovingly. The mother who is not hot about any religion or God: She let me know that people needed God, especially the poor. She said I should let them believe in it. It gives them hope, she said. Then she asked me to not make fun of them. (I was not making fun of anyone). She then turned to the man (who was still standing there confused) and asked him his name and what he did. She told him she was christian too. (I have never seen her reveal this information to anyone before. Having married my dad, she's pretty much a Hindu in everyone's eyes). The man looked more confused. He didn't expect her to be anything other than a christian. She told him she was actually catholic and she was visiting me etc etc. and they struck up a conversation and talked more about Jesus (I think. I had kind of stopped paying attention). Next thing I heard, she had invited this stranger to our home for lunch. Yes, the man who was simply distributing flyers and spreading the word of God was invited to our house to break some bread. (She would have invited him to my wedding if that was happening tomorrow). That's when I realized that my amma may have wanted to leave India but India was very much with her, as natural and effortless as her sari and bottu.

Daddy and Me

On Sunday mornings I speak with my dad, though the word "Speak" may be used kindly here. Dad is a man of few words and fewer outward emotions. Our conversation seems to flow in the vein of Duane's conversation with his dad on Prairie Home Companion. Monosyllables. Pulling teeth. Etc.

If I am able to get my dad out of his shell, the conversation can get  more interesting. Even animated if I can get him into an argument.  But that's rare. Our phone call goes something like this:


Me: Hello Appa
Dad: Hello
pause
Me: How are you doing?
Dad: good.
pause
Me: What were you doing?
Dad: Oh just watching TV. Not much to do here.
Me: How's the weather?
Dad: Hot. 
Pause

I then speak about a few things going on in my life and we are back to talking about the weather:

"It's getting very cold here". 
"I see".
"Has it rained there?"
"Not really, we didn't get much rain this season".
"ah okay".

Platitudes.

I am not exactly blessed with the gift of gab myself. When the usual topics are checked off I use my customary "what's amma doing" which prompts him to give the phone to mom with a sigh of relief.

This conversation is frankly longer than any conversation I ever had with my dad growing up. As a kid, I was always nervous around him, anticipating a good beating if I ever came face to face with him. (and he never ever beat me).  Power of a parent figure I suppose. Or I was constantly guilty of something perhaps.


Today I am a grownup who (ostensibly) has worked out her issues and able to love her dad unconditionally. And there is much to love about the man. The fact that he was passionate about his causes, always helping the poor. Always fighting for justice and fairness for others. That he treated other people as equals without regard to their status and invited everyone to dine along with us. The fact that he came from an orthodox family but had nothing orthodox about him. Yep, I am proud of my dad. He had the right values. And he lived by them.

Which is why I was not too pleased when our conversation took this turn:

I ask him: So How was the wedding, I thought you went to a wedding?
Dad: It was good.
Me: That's good. How was the food?
Dad: It was good, it was in the temple. A lot of people. They served us inside and of course the shudras were also served. Outside the temple.
Me: what?
Dad repeated what he said.
Me: didn't it bother you? that they were served outside and not allowed to come into the temple?
Dad: No. That is the way it has always been for centuries
Me:  Yes but I thought you would find it offensive
Dad: Me? No. They got the same meals and treatment we got. 
Me: But this is 21st century. How can people be discriminated like that?
Dad: That's how it is here in India. And those people are more about caste than we are if you must know. They didn't want to remove the caste question even on the census. They want to keep it alive. Not us.

Yes it is always them.

At this point my dad had raised his voice and so 11 year old girl in me appeared and she decided to back out. No point in pushing those buttons. Plus the feeling of getting the phone thrown at me... duck.

"What's amma up to?" I asked politely. And to both our relief, I was now talking to my mom.

If you love your country, stop pissing all over it

God. Country. Patriotism. Nationalism. I am seeing these words a lot lately. Some people say God is not related to country. For others, they are inexplicably linked.

I am with those who say church and state should be kept separate. However, I think that those who believe in ardent nationalism have something in common with those who wear their religion on their sleeves. My intention is to look at the words nationalism and patriotism and what they mean to me.

Nationalism and patriotism may have had 'nobler' meanings but they have been hijacked by those who believe in military aggression, "us versus them" a la George W Bush view of the world or those who believe in their inherent superiority over others. People who profess diplomacy and pluralism are scoffed at and called elitists or pseudos. The word nationalism has become synonymous with jingoism. Patriotism now means you are against a group of : Muslims or Jews or Blacks or Browns or Asians or in other words: a minority, who in turn is always on the defense for fear of being perceived as not being patriotic enough.

I came across a wonderful essay by Pankaj Mishra on how militant patriotism and ethnic cleansing have lead both India and Israel to moral wilderness. Mr. Mishra compares the parallel post colonial histories of India and Israel and goes on to say that:

Hindu nationalism and ultra-Zionism may seem aberrant pathologies in usually healthy body-politics. But they are only the increasingly visible underside of the post-imperial ideology of the nation-state that regards contiguous ethnic and religious communities as essentially antagonistic. Narendra Modi and Avigdor Lieberman represent, in distinct ways, the clearest and fullest consummation of majoritarian nationalism. 

And he concludes thus: 
Gandhi’s vision of postcolonial India as embodying a higher ethic; and his and Buber’s ideals cannot escape strong skepticism. But who except zealots can deny that the paths Gandhi and Buber explicitly warned against – the homogeneous nation-state, military force, social and economic individualism – have led both their countries into a moral wilderness. Now, as the chasm between the founding ideals and actuality of India and Israel widens, it may soon be imperative to examine the dreams and forebodings of prophets scorned in their own times. Certainly, as Grossman writes, only then would it be ‘possible to escape from the shackling, desperate day-to-day, from the great mistake that looms over our every step and gradually stifles our souls.’

Please go on and read the whole thing. It is well worth it.

As an Indian-American, I cannot escape connecting the above article with the current goings on of the American right. The notion of nationalism and patriotism have been reduced to: flags, pins, love of wars and hatred of foreigners and minorities. Those who sing national anthem the loudest (with their hand on their chest no doubt) are the patriots. Those who speak up against war crimes and atrocities of the state are the traitors. Sarah Palin is a true patriot. Barack Obama is anti-American.

So it goes. But it does not have to be this way. It may be time we reclaimed the word patriotism. Patriotism does not have to be a dirty word. Who among us has not felt a surge of pride when our countryman does well in Olympics or Chess. Who among us does not appreciate it when we find something wonderful about our history.

Patriotism must go beyond the surge of pride however. Patriotism, to me, is about caring deeply. It is about caring about your country enough to stand up and fight for it. Mahatma Gandhi understood this. Countless and nameless others understood this in the struggle for Indian freedom. But it cannot be an emotion that only comes out when other countries are in play.

Patriotism is really about who we are as a people. If you have enough self respect to not accept a bribe, you are probably a patriot. If you take offense in others littering and spitting and polluting and destroying  your city, your train, your bus, your forests, your monuments, your rivers and your oceans, chances are,  you care deeply about your land and its people. If you have the courage to stand up for truth and justice, even when it is against the powerful status quo, you are a true and blue patriot. If you have the integrity to look at your country's history for what it is (and not what you think it should be) and understand that it is not perfect, and sometimes it is even horrible, you are a goddamn patriot.

And when you truly love your country, you no longer hate others'.

Me, my fat and I

I've made peace with my fat I think. Sometimes, when I'm trying to wear my skinny jeans, I get mad and yell at my fat. But I make up for my rudeness by feeding it some chocolate.

I must admit that my fat and I have become friends. After all we've been together for so long, even through the times when I have actively tried and failed to lose the fat. (Not something one would try to do to a dear friend but that is our history). Over the years however, I have grown a fondness, even a sort of love towards my little fatbucket. I am pretty sure if my fat was on Facebook, we would be friending each other and even poking each other occasionally.

Sometimes  I wonder how it would be to lose it all. Lose my friend completely to become a lean, mean, low fat machine. The truth is if I ever get around to losing my fat, a part of me will be gone.