I have, in the past few days, been thinking of what to write. My head swims with ideas, so why not write them down on this blog? But often, I want to hold on to them, enjoy their intimacy, fearful of letting them go. They are my secrets, and there is a thrill in keeping them close. In a time and age when everyone writes about everything, when there are no secrets anymore, I find the perversity of not spilling it all quite enchanting.
Verbosity and constant discussion of everything bores me. Being taciturn is considered unfriendly, or worse, spooky. But we forget the lessons we learn from our children. "How was school today?", you ask. "Fine," comes the response. "What did you do?" "Nothing." They know a thing or two about mystery and privacy, about living in their heads and not wanting to be weakened by letting it all out.
What if no one had anything to say for hours and days on end, I wonder? What if everyone, instead of saying whatever was in their heads, held their tongue and thought about it, and thought about it, and thought about, and came to peace with whatever it was, and found sweet salvation in their silence. A mute presence, the better to go inside and really understand what it is all about. An underwater journey, a return to the womb. Talk is cheap. Many things are best left unsaid, at least until the time is ripe. There is power in silence.
Thursday, October 4, 2007
Friday, September 21, 2007
Informed by Astrology
Some thirty years ago a number of scientists banded together and signed a petition stating that astrology was dangerous and useless, and that it should be chased out of our thoughts and beliefs of how the world worked and our place in it. More recently, a professor fumed against the daily horoscope column in a student-run university newspaper, charging that academia was no place for such nonsense. To the professor I wrote back a furious message, that astrology was so much more than Sun sign columns, that if he only took a little time to look into it more deeply, he might learn about himself and others than he could have imagined, and even discover why he was being so defensive!
Many people don't know that I study and practice astrology, and have done so for over fifteen years. When I was first getting into it, and naively mentioned my interest to a couple of so-called friends, they mocked me. How could I, pursuing scientific research, do such a thing? I felt embarrassed and confused, and never told anyone else about it for a long while. Then only to maybe two or three people who I sensed would not look askance, and they were all women. All the time, I questioned my sanity, because I was obsessed with astrology, and at the same time, also swore by science and logic. I was a person divided, not having a coherent set of beliefs about the world and how I belonged to it. The conflict tore me apart, and I barely made it through my doctorate thesis. But the damage was done, my self-esteem shattered, and the promise of a career in scientific research forever laid to rest. More than anything else, I was overwhelmed with shame and guilt. I had let down my family and myself, betraying the cause for which I had traveled so far and worked so hard at building a new life.
There were no role models that I could turn to for hope and guidance. All the astrologers that I knew of had come to astrology by way of the arts, humanities or social sciences - not one of them had an advanced education in the mathematical or life sciences. There was much in common between psychology and astrology, and I regretted that I had not studied psychology formally, for it would have made my incursion into astrology understandable. Still, in studying astrology I taught myself enough psychology to understand the correspondence between the two, and in time, understood that just because I was competent in science did not mean I had to choke my unscientific interests. Or that because I journeyed into the deepest recesses of astrological ideas and knowledge, I had to suspend my judgment and common sense.
I saw astrology as a bridge between the inner and outer lives, a Jung-meets-Einstein kind of happening, a potent combination of intuition and reason, faith and skepticism. I realized that I was in a perfect position to bring a scientific temper - data, hypothesis, logic, repeatability - to the practice of astrology, even as I journeyed inward in synchrony with the planets, their myths and metaphors. I learned to separate the quacks from the serious astrologers, to check all claims against data, to work by starting with a small set of axioms and logically inferring all else, to be aware of the constant dance between fact and meaning, reality and perception.
Now, I quell the voice that still questions whether my life can be informed by both science and astrology with a plain retort: I was born and raised in India, and my psyche was bathed in the healing power of the myths and symbols of astrology long before I was consciously aware of it. It is who I am, I had better believe it.
Many people don't know that I study and practice astrology, and have done so for over fifteen years. When I was first getting into it, and naively mentioned my interest to a couple of so-called friends, they mocked me. How could I, pursuing scientific research, do such a thing? I felt embarrassed and confused, and never told anyone else about it for a long while. Then only to maybe two or three people who I sensed would not look askance, and they were all women. All the time, I questioned my sanity, because I was obsessed with astrology, and at the same time, also swore by science and logic. I was a person divided, not having a coherent set of beliefs about the world and how I belonged to it. The conflict tore me apart, and I barely made it through my doctorate thesis. But the damage was done, my self-esteem shattered, and the promise of a career in scientific research forever laid to rest. More than anything else, I was overwhelmed with shame and guilt. I had let down my family and myself, betraying the cause for which I had traveled so far and worked so hard at building a new life.
There were no role models that I could turn to for hope and guidance. All the astrologers that I knew of had come to astrology by way of the arts, humanities or social sciences - not one of them had an advanced education in the mathematical or life sciences. There was much in common between psychology and astrology, and I regretted that I had not studied psychology formally, for it would have made my incursion into astrology understandable. Still, in studying astrology I taught myself enough psychology to understand the correspondence between the two, and in time, understood that just because I was competent in science did not mean I had to choke my unscientific interests. Or that because I journeyed into the deepest recesses of astrological ideas and knowledge, I had to suspend my judgment and common sense.
I saw astrology as a bridge between the inner and outer lives, a Jung-meets-Einstein kind of happening, a potent combination of intuition and reason, faith and skepticism. I realized that I was in a perfect position to bring a scientific temper - data, hypothesis, logic, repeatability - to the practice of astrology, even as I journeyed inward in synchrony with the planets, their myths and metaphors. I learned to separate the quacks from the serious astrologers, to check all claims against data, to work by starting with a small set of axioms and logically inferring all else, to be aware of the constant dance between fact and meaning, reality and perception.
Now, I quell the voice that still questions whether my life can be informed by both science and astrology with a plain retort: I was born and raised in India, and my psyche was bathed in the healing power of the myths and symbols of astrology long before I was consciously aware of it. It is who I am, I had better believe it.
Monday, September 10, 2007
Top Ten Tennis
I have been watching a whole lot of tennis lately. Most recently, the US Open, and a couple of months before that, Wimbledon. I have watched a whole lot of tennis for many years, and before that listened to a whole lot of tennis match commentary on the radio. It's an obsession. Because when that racket kisses the ball with sweet timing and the feet are perfectly positioned and the shoulder and arm are follow through in a lovely arc, and the ball catapults over the net, and, kicking up a puff of chalk, shoots past a fully extended racket, I see perfection and I know all is well with the world.
Many top players in tennis deliver such divine moments of grace and poetry every once in a while. Federer does it a lot more than once in a while. And every single time it happens, I know I am lucky to have seen him do it. I forget all my troubles, I push away all the little worries that nag me, I dismiss hunger and thirst and sit there begging for more. Federer is, to me, the greatest tennis player that ever lived, and I have seen Sampras and Agassi and McEnroe and Borg and Becker and Edberg and now Nadal and Djokovic and Blake and Roddick.
In his grand march toward the US Open title, Federer beat Roddick in straight sets. Roddick, that poor man who works so hard, who should get a A for effort, was made to look like an apprentice. Djokovic looked like he was going to win the first set but didn't, then he looked like he was going to win the second set, but didn't. And then the next thing you know Federer has 12 grand slam titles and 2.4 million dollars and a brand new Lexus sports car and the world at his feet. And Djokovic is left holding a silver plate.
I would like to pay homage to all the greats who have given me countless hours of great joy, wonderful glimpses of striving and achievement, and priceless moments of divine perfection.
To the top 10 ever!
Many top players in tennis deliver such divine moments of grace and poetry every once in a while. Federer does it a lot more than once in a while. And every single time it happens, I know I am lucky to have seen him do it. I forget all my troubles, I push away all the little worries that nag me, I dismiss hunger and thirst and sit there begging for more. Federer is, to me, the greatest tennis player that ever lived, and I have seen Sampras and Agassi and McEnroe and Borg and Becker and Edberg and now Nadal and Djokovic and Blake and Roddick.
In his grand march toward the US Open title, Federer beat Roddick in straight sets. Roddick, that poor man who works so hard, who should get a A for effort, was made to look like an apprentice. Djokovic looked like he was going to win the first set but didn't, then he looked like he was going to win the second set, but didn't. And then the next thing you know Federer has 12 grand slam titles and 2.4 million dollars and a brand new Lexus sports car and the world at his feet. And Djokovic is left holding a silver plate.
I would like to pay homage to all the greats who have given me countless hours of great joy, wonderful glimpses of striving and achievement, and priceless moments of divine perfection.
To the top 10 ever!
- Roger Federer
- John McEnroe
- Bjorn Borg
- Boris Becker
- Andre Agassi
- Pete Sampras
- Stefan Edberg
- Marat Safin
- Partick Rafter
- Pat Cash
Friday, September 7, 2007
Food for Thought
I like reading about food. Not the recipe book kind, but accounts of food and drink written in a broader setting. Such as a character in a novel (Perry Mason always had steak with lavish amounts of butter during his courtroom lunch breaks) , or in passing (hardship travelers eating whatever they can lay their hands on), or in a thematic takeoff (exploring a character's state of mind through the food she eats), or in any other setting where the description of food is unusual or unexpected. When reading such accounts, sometimes I want to experience what the characters are experiencing, taste what they are tasting. At other times, I am totally turned off, never wanting to smell or taste that kind of food again. At times, I am both attracted and repelled, and sometimes, just plain nauseated.
In his collection of travel essays, The Bird Man and the Lap Dancer, Eric Hansen writes of Cooking with Madame Zoya. During the second world war, Zoya is a nurse in a Moscow army hospital which is captured by the Germans, and she is taken to a prisoner of war camp near Munich. After the war she moves to the US, gets married, and moves to an apartment on West 139th street in Manhattan. Hansen develops an unusual friendship with the elderly Madame Zoya, and visits her every month.
She teaches him to how make Russian dishes, and they drink vodka in preparation and to see the food on its way. "...pieces of prepared salted hairink", "...blini...served them with melted butter, sour cream, caviar and a light sprinkling of fresh chives", "...coulibiac (salmon baked with dill, chopped hard-boiled eggs, parsley and kasha in a flaky pastry dough), kotletki and bitotehki (chicken and meat cutlets), baklazhannia ikra (puree of eggplant), and vareneki and pelmini (two types of Russian ravioli)", "...pashka, which is a type of type of moist cheesecake with fruit, eggs and vanilla". I have never had Russian food like this before, and when I read this, I started looking for nearby Russian restaurants.
Reports of delectable foreign food is exciting, that of outlandish domestic food is intriguing. The Best American Science and Nature Writing 2002 is still my most favorite in the "Best American" series, fronted by Burkhard Bilger's Braised Shank of Free-Range Possum. Mr. Bilger travels the south in search of old-world delicacies such as the free-range possum of the title ("...that feral, faintly glandular presence rising through the sauce", turtle soup ("...a mixture of brine and fern and slumbering beast"), frog legs ("Tender and buttery, with a subtle, amphibian chew") and other intriguing meats. I keep going back to this essay for its outrageous charm, although I am not sure I want to follow in Mr. Bilger's footsteps.
A bit of bite adds a lot of zest. Here's Paul Theroux writing in My Other Life. "...And in addition zere are fresh lobsters zis ivneen. Zay are not on ze meenue." "'Not real lobsters,' Lady Max said, shivering as though insulted by the word. 'They're just these pathetic little discolored crayfish from Scotland." Later, in the same book. "'Wine then. A red - cabernet.'... I poured him a Beaujolais, defying him to object." Following which, another character. "Then Burgess became preoccupied - finished his whiskey, spooned chopped banana, murmured the word 'sambals', and he did not look up as his hand moved crabwise towards his wine glass and his fingers found its stem and hoisted it."
And sometimes, the food - the eating and vomiting of it - can be insidiously gut-wrenching. As in James Hall writing about The Vomiting Game. (Appearing in The Road Within, a collection of travelers' tales.) "The blade emerged when I arrived. My lips touched hot, pungent goat hair. A jet of blood shot out.... I closed my eyes and tasted hot, salty liquid." Then, a few minutes later, "...the sensation propelled me forward, over the ditch. A rush came, then another huge one. Goat's blood poured out of me. Above the women ululated in celebration. The pitch of the people's shouting rose sharply in reaction. I let go again. Blood and medicine. More cheers."
Yesterday, I saw that deer family again. The two little polka-dotted innocents looked delicious. And I imagined how they must appear to a hungry lion.
Good enough to eat?
In his collection of travel essays, The Bird Man and the Lap Dancer, Eric Hansen writes of Cooking with Madame Zoya. During the second world war, Zoya is a nurse in a Moscow army hospital which is captured by the Germans, and she is taken to a prisoner of war camp near Munich. After the war she moves to the US, gets married, and moves to an apartment on West 139th street in Manhattan. Hansen develops an unusual friendship with the elderly Madame Zoya, and visits her every month.
She teaches him to how make Russian dishes, and they drink vodka in preparation and to see the food on its way. "...pieces of prepared salted hairink", "...blini...served them with melted butter, sour cream, caviar and a light sprinkling of fresh chives", "...coulibiac (salmon baked with dill, chopped hard-boiled eggs, parsley and kasha in a flaky pastry dough), kotletki and bitotehki (chicken and meat cutlets), baklazhannia ikra (puree of eggplant), and vareneki and pelmini (two types of Russian ravioli)", "...pashka, which is a type of type of moist cheesecake with fruit, eggs and vanilla". I have never had Russian food like this before, and when I read this, I started looking for nearby Russian restaurants.
Reports of delectable foreign food is exciting, that of outlandish domestic food is intriguing. The Best American Science and Nature Writing 2002 is still my most favorite in the "Best American" series, fronted by Burkhard Bilger's Braised Shank of Free-Range Possum. Mr. Bilger travels the south in search of old-world delicacies such as the free-range possum of the title ("...that feral, faintly glandular presence rising through the sauce", turtle soup ("...a mixture of brine and fern and slumbering beast"), frog legs ("Tender and buttery, with a subtle, amphibian chew") and other intriguing meats. I keep going back to this essay for its outrageous charm, although I am not sure I want to follow in Mr. Bilger's footsteps.
A bit of bite adds a lot of zest. Here's Paul Theroux writing in My Other Life. "...And in addition zere are fresh lobsters zis ivneen. Zay are not on ze meenue." "'Not real lobsters,' Lady Max said, shivering as though insulted by the word. 'They're just these pathetic little discolored crayfish from Scotland." Later, in the same book. "'Wine then. A red - cabernet.'... I poured him a Beaujolais, defying him to object." Following which, another character. "Then Burgess became preoccupied - finished his whiskey, spooned chopped banana, murmured the word 'sambals', and he did not look up as his hand moved crabwise towards his wine glass and his fingers found its stem and hoisted it."
And sometimes, the food - the eating and vomiting of it - can be insidiously gut-wrenching. As in James Hall writing about The Vomiting Game. (Appearing in The Road Within, a collection of travelers' tales.) "The blade emerged when I arrived. My lips touched hot, pungent goat hair. A jet of blood shot out.... I closed my eyes and tasted hot, salty liquid." Then, a few minutes later, "...the sensation propelled me forward, over the ditch. A rush came, then another huge one. Goat's blood poured out of me. Above the women ululated in celebration. The pitch of the people's shouting rose sharply in reaction. I let go again. Blood and medicine. More cheers."
Yesterday, I saw that deer family again. The two little polka-dotted innocents looked delicious. And I imagined how they must appear to a hungry lion.
Good enough to eat?
Thursday, August 30, 2007
The Boarding House
A week or so ago I read a news story about a small house in Edison, New Jersey, where apparently there were so many people coming and going that the neighbors complained. It turned out that there were several Indian guys all living in that house, all professionals, all gainfully employed. My sense is they were huddling together not just to save money, but also to enjoy the warmth of companionship and mutual emotional support, much like what they might have done in India. The local authorities came down on them because the house had crossed the line from a respectable dwelling to a boarding house, or something of that sort.
These guys were not related to each other. What if this were a family of fifteen? Would the neighbors complain? Would themembers have to disband? Is there a limit to how large a family can be if all the members lived together? If there was say a limit of five (mom, dad, two kids, and another thrown in as a bonus - have two, get one free), my grandparents' house back in old Madras would certainly be totally in violation. As I remember, when we used to visit during the summer holidays, there would be at least twenty family members in this little house with a "hall" that could just about fit a pool table, a bedroom that was half the size of the hall, and an open courtyard that was bigger than both combined. In the evenings after the sun had set, I would lie on a pockmarked wooden bench in the courtyard, gazing up at the stars, and listening to our shortwave radio, with its magical ebb and flow. Radio Ceylon used to broadcast the popular Binaca Geet Mala which I would never ever miss, then there was the BBC World Service, and occasionally the Voice of America. Those summer vacations made for some of my best memories in life, not the least of which was because of the closeness and warmth of all my uncles and aunts and cousins. Having only four or five people in that house would have been an impoverishment beyond imagination.
The joint family is still well and alive in India. However, I haven't seen anything even close to this in America, at least not in New Jersey. Still, I was surprised to read about the boarding house brouhaha. After living here all these years, if I could not understand why ten guys living together is a big deal, I imagine how these guys sharing the house must have felt. Puzzled, conflicted, angry at being embarrassed and shamed.
In the vein of cross-national and cross-cultural misunderstanding, I recall this story of four Indians who were new to America, being pulled up for speeding. As soon as they stopped the car, they piled out in a hurry because they thought staying inside would make the cop suspicious, only to be yelled at to get back in. At the time, when I heard this from a friend, I was surprised. What's the harm in getting out of the car, I thought. That's what I would have done in India.
These guys were not related to each other. What if this were a family of fifteen? Would the neighbors complain? Would themembers have to disband? Is there a limit to how large a family can be if all the members lived together? If there was say a limit of five (mom, dad, two kids, and another thrown in as a bonus - have two, get one free), my grandparents' house back in old Madras would certainly be totally in violation. As I remember, when we used to visit during the summer holidays, there would be at least twenty family members in this little house with a "hall" that could just about fit a pool table, a bedroom that was half the size of the hall, and an open courtyard that was bigger than both combined. In the evenings after the sun had set, I would lie on a pockmarked wooden bench in the courtyard, gazing up at the stars, and listening to our shortwave radio, with its magical ebb and flow. Radio Ceylon used to broadcast the popular Binaca Geet Mala which I would never ever miss, then there was the BBC World Service, and occasionally the Voice of America. Those summer vacations made for some of my best memories in life, not the least of which was because of the closeness and warmth of all my uncles and aunts and cousins. Having only four or five people in that house would have been an impoverishment beyond imagination.
The joint family is still well and alive in India. However, I haven't seen anything even close to this in America, at least not in New Jersey. Still, I was surprised to read about the boarding house brouhaha. After living here all these years, if I could not understand why ten guys living together is a big deal, I imagine how these guys sharing the house must have felt. Puzzled, conflicted, angry at being embarrassed and shamed.
In the vein of cross-national and cross-cultural misunderstanding, I recall this story of four Indians who were new to America, being pulled up for speeding. As soon as they stopped the car, they piled out in a hurry because they thought staying inside would make the cop suspicious, only to be yelled at to get back in. At the time, when I heard this from a friend, I was surprised. What's the harm in getting out of the car, I thought. That's what I would have done in India.
Saturday, August 25, 2007
Travel broadens the mind
Montreal in late August is a real treat. Cross the border into Canada, and mind the speed limit : max 100, min 60 and that's kilometers per hour - it doesn't actually say that in the signs. I didn't see any police cars in the 50 km stretch from the border to Montreal (and neither did I see any gas stations or rest areas), but my immigrant memory cells started doing their thing, and reminded me that that the metric system is used everywhere else outside the US. Not to mention that I thought a 100 mph speed limit was too fast to be sensible, too gauche for the laid-back Canadians.
I love Montreal. It has all the glamour of a big city without any of its rawness. The entire city seems to be bathed in a soft glow, and people seem to glide, never bustle, or even simply walk. The metro is lovely, and the Place de Arts metro station is a homage to white and grey elegance of a kind I haven't seen in any other big city I have been to. The Notre Dame cathedral is at once both dramatic and serene, leaving you gasping at this neat trick. Everyone says 'Bonjour!' first, and when you reply, 'Hello', they waltz into perfect English, much to your delight. They know a thing or two about making you feel welcome. All the help wanted signs I saw at stores put 'bilingual' at the top of their requirements.
In the meantime, I am working overtime trying to translate all that weather information. 15 degrees Celsius - what's that in American, er USian? I had much trouble with this when I first moved to America - 60 degrees Fahrenheit, what's that in Indian? And now when I travel abroad, I have to do it all over again. It was fun to read the Montreal Globe and Mail, in which I found that Bush had followed us to Canada (copycat) for a summit meeting with the Canadian PM and the Mexican President. Outside the Notre Dame cathedral, they were gathering signatures: 'hello, are you against Bush?' Kind of woke me up from my trance, and made me highpedal it to the science center where the Bodyworks exhibit had been sold out (much disappointment) and the remaining IMAX shows that day were only in French. Drat.
Back to Rue Peel, Rue Maisoneuve, Rue Saint-Catherine, Rue Crescent and the simple pleasure of sipping cappucino (mezzo is the local Starbucks tall) while watching the French-Canadians go about their daily business. And walking with them into the Jean Coutou convenience store and trolling for a favorite brand of toothbrush - wow, I feel like I have been living here for years!
It's that kind of city, and for a brief while I imagined how it would be if I really did live in Montreal. I am always thinking this: how would it be if I lived in Kyoto, or St. Petersburg, or Buenos Aires. Although I am physically moored in the US, my spirit is always on the move. I never seem to be drawn to any European city as much, they have been so over-exposed that there is no mystery left, nothing to discover. I have never visited Kyoto, or St. Petersburg, or Buenos Aires, or have friends from an of these cities, so why particularly them?
There is a branch of astrology called Astrocartography that identifies locations in the world in which you will feel "at home" in various ways. For example, Madonna's Astrocartographic "sun line" runs through London, where she has made her home. When I first learned about ACG, I discovered thatI have an important ACG line running through Buenos Aires. That made me sit up! I have another highlighted ACG line running through Turkey, a country which with I've had the most unexpected, most remarkably positive bond. The same line runs through St.Petersburg, which is due north of Turkey. (I have traveled to Hawaii only once, and that for three days, but I had the most powerful, perception-shifting experiences in that short time. Explanation? My Pluto line runs through Hawaii.)
Everyone should plan vacations to the places in the world through which they have their own personal ACG lines running. I guarantee they will make for some remarkable experiences which will really broaden the mind.
Returning to the US, it took about an hour for our turn at the immigration checkpost. I had just seen a plastic bag being retrieved from the trunk of the car in the next lane over and hurled into the garbage, so when the immigration officer asked to open the trunk, I acted all nonchalant while my stomach started to knot. Not that I was carrying anything even remotely contrabandish, but these immigration checks can make the most innocent person turn into a blubbering shifty-eyed idiot. Thankfully, the check last all of 10 seconds, and I didn't see any of my luggage leaping into the trash, so I resumed regular confident programming.
As I drove away and into the bosom of the mother ship that is the US of A, the last words of the officer played like sweet music in my ears. 'Welcome home.' For someone who is still conflicted about home - what and where it really is - these simple words of acceptance came loaded with profound meaning.
I love Montreal. It has all the glamour of a big city without any of its rawness. The entire city seems to be bathed in a soft glow, and people seem to glide, never bustle, or even simply walk. The metro is lovely, and the Place de Arts metro station is a homage to white and grey elegance of a kind I haven't seen in any other big city I have been to. The Notre Dame cathedral is at once both dramatic and serene, leaving you gasping at this neat trick. Everyone says 'Bonjour!' first, and when you reply, 'Hello', they waltz into perfect English, much to your delight. They know a thing or two about making you feel welcome. All the help wanted signs I saw at stores put 'bilingual' at the top of their requirements.
In the meantime, I am working overtime trying to translate all that weather information. 15 degrees Celsius - what's that in American, er USian? I had much trouble with this when I first moved to America - 60 degrees Fahrenheit, what's that in Indian? And now when I travel abroad, I have to do it all over again. It was fun to read the Montreal Globe and Mail, in which I found that Bush had followed us to Canada (copycat) for a summit meeting with the Canadian PM and the Mexican President. Outside the Notre Dame cathedral, they were gathering signatures: 'hello, are you against Bush?' Kind of woke me up from my trance, and made me highpedal it to the science center where the Bodyworks exhibit had been sold out (much disappointment) and the remaining IMAX shows that day were only in French. Drat.
Back to Rue Peel, Rue Maisoneuve, Rue Saint-Catherine, Rue Crescent and the simple pleasure of sipping cappucino (mezzo is the local Starbucks tall) while watching the French-Canadians go about their daily business. And walking with them into the Jean Coutou convenience store and trolling for a favorite brand of toothbrush - wow, I feel like I have been living here for years!
It's that kind of city, and for a brief while I imagined how it would be if I really did live in Montreal. I am always thinking this: how would it be if I lived in Kyoto, or St. Petersburg, or Buenos Aires. Although I am physically moored in the US, my spirit is always on the move. I never seem to be drawn to any European city as much, they have been so over-exposed that there is no mystery left, nothing to discover. I have never visited Kyoto, or St. Petersburg, or Buenos Aires, or have friends from an of these cities, so why particularly them?
There is a branch of astrology called Astrocartography that identifies locations in the world in which you will feel "at home" in various ways. For example, Madonna's Astrocartographic "sun line" runs through London, where she has made her home. When I first learned about ACG, I discovered thatI have an important ACG line running through Buenos Aires. That made me sit up! I have another highlighted ACG line running through Turkey, a country which with I've had the most unexpected, most remarkably positive bond. The same line runs through St.Petersburg, which is due north of Turkey. (I have traveled to Hawaii only once, and that for three days, but I had the most powerful, perception-shifting experiences in that short time. Explanation? My Pluto line runs through Hawaii.)
Everyone should plan vacations to the places in the world through which they have their own personal ACG lines running. I guarantee they will make for some remarkable experiences which will really broaden the mind.
Returning to the US, it took about an hour for our turn at the immigration checkpost. I had just seen a plastic bag being retrieved from the trunk of the car in the next lane over and hurled into the garbage, so when the immigration officer asked to open the trunk, I acted all nonchalant while my stomach started to knot. Not that I was carrying anything even remotely contrabandish, but these immigration checks can make the most innocent person turn into a blubbering shifty-eyed idiot. Thankfully, the check last all of 10 seconds, and I didn't see any of my luggage leaping into the trash, so I resumed regular confident programming.
As I drove away and into the bosom of the mother ship that is the US of A, the last words of the officer played like sweet music in my ears. 'Welcome home.' For someone who is still conflicted about home - what and where it really is - these simple words of acceptance came loaded with profound meaning.
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
Immigration is not a zero sum game
There is a lot of talk of immigrants these days. It has got me thinking again of what it means to be one.
Very many immigrants have swarmed through the borders without being noticed, taken up sundry blue collar jobs, lurked below the radar. Others have come out of disenchantment and disaffection, willing to work in any job, hoping only that their children will live a far better life. Some have fled persecution, just to retain their humanity, just to stay alive.
And what of me? I came to America because I wanted more. More challenges for my mind. Greener pastures to frolick in. At that time it was really a simple plan: go to graduate school, which just happened to be in distant America. Just you. No family. You don't know anyone there. Cool.
It isn't long before the playful journey you had embarked on morphs into a stomach-churning mix of studying like mad so you wouldn't lose your teaching assistantship, desperately looking to make friends in a foreign land (how do you make friends with someone when you can't understand half of what they talk about), forcing down sickening dining hall food (afraid I would waste away if I only ate the alleged vegetarian fare of raw leavees), pining for family and home with no prospect of going back for at least another year for lack of money (very few phone calls, too expensive), meeting fantastically different and incredibly fascinating people from Italy, Germany, Iceland, Turkey, Greece, China, and, not least, the native Americans, feeding on the amazingly rich variety of TV programming, thrilling to new discoveries every day.
A few years pass. The thrill wears off. You have been there and done that a great many times over and over again. The question of what to do after graduate school creeps up out of nowhere and then starts nagging you day after day. Should I stay or should I go? It is a good life, memories of home are growing fuzzier by the day, you have gone to such great lengths to make a new life with so many new ideas and such a different perspective of the world altogether. And you are just beginning to understand and appreciate (some of) the American way of life! Why give up all that? And what do you go back to? There is too much space and time now between here and there.
You are an alien for a while, and get promoted to being a resident alien. Then you give in and get that citizenship. But not everything is a simply a practicality. When the Oklahoma building blows up, and the twin towers come crashing down, you are shocked, saddened, and frightened just like every other American. You belong, you care, and you know you are connected. But the white guys in the pickup truck don't think so. You don't look like them. They scream and jeer at you: go back. You ignore it because you don't want to cause trouble. You don't want confrontations and conflicts. You make yourself small because you don't want to cause trouble, and you are right back where you started.
I am not the kind of immigrant that America is talking about nowadays. I continue to have a most enjoyable career, I continue paying my taxes, and if all goes well I can even get that social security check coming in when it's that time. I have broken many of my ties to my country of origin, and am still making new ties with America. I love many things American and I love many things Indian. I am angry, upset, disappointed with many things American, as I am with many things Indian. As long as America and India don't go at each other, I cheer for both. But if they do, I know I will lose, no matter which team wins. Being Indian-American to me means being Indian and American. It's not a zero sum game.
Very many immigrants have swarmed through the borders without being noticed, taken up sundry blue collar jobs, lurked below the radar. Others have come out of disenchantment and disaffection, willing to work in any job, hoping only that their children will live a far better life. Some have fled persecution, just to retain their humanity, just to stay alive.
And what of me? I came to America because I wanted more. More challenges for my mind. Greener pastures to frolick in. At that time it was really a simple plan: go to graduate school, which just happened to be in distant America. Just you. No family. You don't know anyone there. Cool.
It isn't long before the playful journey you had embarked on morphs into a stomach-churning mix of studying like mad so you wouldn't lose your teaching assistantship, desperately looking to make friends in a foreign land (how do you make friends with someone when you can't understand half of what they talk about), forcing down sickening dining hall food (afraid I would waste away if I only ate the alleged vegetarian fare of raw leavees), pining for family and home with no prospect of going back for at least another year for lack of money (very few phone calls, too expensive), meeting fantastically different and incredibly fascinating people from Italy, Germany, Iceland, Turkey, Greece, China, and, not least, the native Americans, feeding on the amazingly rich variety of TV programming, thrilling to new discoveries every day.
A few years pass. The thrill wears off. You have been there and done that a great many times over and over again. The question of what to do after graduate school creeps up out of nowhere and then starts nagging you day after day. Should I stay or should I go? It is a good life, memories of home are growing fuzzier by the day, you have gone to such great lengths to make a new life with so many new ideas and such a different perspective of the world altogether. And you are just beginning to understand and appreciate (some of) the American way of life! Why give up all that? And what do you go back to? There is too much space and time now between here and there.
You are an alien for a while, and get promoted to being a resident alien. Then you give in and get that citizenship. But not everything is a simply a practicality. When the Oklahoma building blows up, and the twin towers come crashing down, you are shocked, saddened, and frightened just like every other American. You belong, you care, and you know you are connected. But the white guys in the pickup truck don't think so. You don't look like them. They scream and jeer at you: go back. You ignore it because you don't want to cause trouble. You don't want confrontations and conflicts. You make yourself small because you don't want to cause trouble, and you are right back where you started.
I am not the kind of immigrant that America is talking about nowadays. I continue to have a most enjoyable career, I continue paying my taxes, and if all goes well I can even get that social security check coming in when it's that time. I have broken many of my ties to my country of origin, and am still making new ties with America. I love many things American and I love many things Indian. I am angry, upset, disappointed with many things American, as I am with many things Indian. As long as America and India don't go at each other, I cheer for both. But if they do, I know I will lose, no matter which team wins. Being Indian-American to me means being Indian and American. It's not a zero sum game.
Wednesday, August 8, 2007
Two Predictions
1. The Second World War
In August 1938, the Indian astrologer B.V. Raman published a report titled World Prospects in 1939 and 1940. He wrote, "Taking the world situation as a whole one feels from an astrological survey of the horoscopes of different nations that 1940 to 1942 are indeed critical years pointing towards a great cleanup. If statesmen can get through this critical period, then the world would be saved of terrible destruction of humanity."
In the July-September 1938 issue of the self-published Astrological Magazine, writing on "Europe's Fatal Year" Raman said, "it is highly significant that the months of August and September 1939 are fatal months for peace in Europe."
At the time of these predictions, Raman was already very well regarded in India for his formidable astrological skills. His continuing detailed mapping of astrological patterns to the unfolding of the second world war brought him world-wide fame. Up until his recent death, Raman was still giving astrological advise to his many clients in Bangalore. (The initials B.V.
in his name stand for Bangalore Venkataraman.) His The Autobiography of a Vedic Astrologer is a fascinating account of his life as an astrologer in India.
2. The Collapse of the Soviet Union (USSR)
In 1980, the astrologer Liz Greene gave a lecture about the impact of the outer planets (Uranus, Neptune, and Pluto) on the lives of individuals and nations. This and other lectures have been published in The Outer Planets and Their Cycles - The Astrology of the Collective (CRCS Publications, 1983, 1996). I am excerpting here snippets (tagged with my explanations of astrological terms and ideas) that lead to a celebrated prediction she made.
"What hasn't happened to Russia is the approaching transit of Pluto through Scorpio."
In its orbital motion around the Sun, Pluto transits, i.e. passes, through each zodiacal sign in turn. Since it takes well over 200 years for one complete orbit, once it transits through, say, Scorpio, the next transit through Scorpio would not happen for another 200 plus years. What's the connection to USSR? Each country is "born" at a certain time and place. The birth of the USSR is taken to be November 7, 1917, 10:52 PM in Leningrad (according to The Book of World Horoscopes). Two hundred years before the 1980s, the USSR did not exist, and so, this upcoming transit of Pluto through Scorpio would be experienced by the USSR for the first time.
"Pluto always brings profound changes and rids the person of things which he has outgrown. It's a kind of fate. If the person can't meet the challenge to change, then he breaks down. This is likely to happen in Russia, because there isn't a great deal of inclination shown to alter the system in any way except to tighten it."
The astrological horoscope is nothing but an instant snapshot of the positions of all the planets at the time of birth. Everyone knows their Sun sign. Scorpios are people who are born when the Sun is in Scorpio, roughly October 22 to November 21 each year. Then, when Pluto transited through Scorpio from 1984 to 1994, it would have "hit" the "natal" (birth horoscope) Sun of all Scorpio people, bringing into their lives experience of all things Plutonian. Exactly when this happened would depend on the exact position of the Sun. For example, a person born on November 7 would have the Sun in his natal horoscope at around 14-15 degrees of Scorpio, and would have felt Pluto's impact in his life around 1989-1990 when transiting Pluto was also at around 14-15degrees of Scorpio. And what holds for the individual holds for countries. Russia, born on November 7, would experience Pluto's impact around 1989-1990.
The other planets in the natal horoscope (Mercury, Venus, etc.) would also feel the impact of the transit of Pluto and the other outer planets (Uranus and Neptune). The actual effect would depend on the the "meanings" of these natal planets, the meanings of the transiting planets, and the current circumstances of the person or country in question.
"The conjunction of Saturn, Uranus, and Neptune in Capricorn which we have approaching toward the end of this decade will conjunct Russia's natal Venus in Capricorn in the fifth house, and oppose natal Pluto in the eleventh. This happens at roughly the same time that Pluto hits the natal sun. Now in an individual's chart Venus deals with relationships and partnerships, and transits like this would put enormous pressure on that side of life. You often see marriages breaking down when the outer planets transit over Venus. Russia is a conglomerate of many different nations, not all of whom went into the marriage very willingly. Poland and Czechoslavakia and Hungary may be thinking of divorce."
"...there would be a period of disintegration, and a potential for a new birth. If this were an individual, he would seek help of various kinds to retain some ego continuity while the changes were happening. But a country can't get that kind of help. And a sun-Saturn country wouldn't ask for it anyway. So it may that Pluto takes on the very literal meaning of death, and the Union of the Soviet Socialist Republics will no longer be a union."
In August 1938, the Indian astrologer B.V. Raman published a report titled World Prospects in 1939 and 1940. He wrote, "Taking the world situation as a whole one feels from an astrological survey of the horoscopes of different nations that 1940 to 1942 are indeed critical years pointing towards a great cleanup. If statesmen can get through this critical period, then the world would be saved of terrible destruction of humanity."
In the July-September 1938 issue of the self-published Astrological Magazine, writing on "Europe's Fatal Year" Raman said, "it is highly significant that the months of August and September 1939 are fatal months for peace in Europe."
At the time of these predictions, Raman was already very well regarded in India for his formidable astrological skills. His continuing detailed mapping of astrological patterns to the unfolding of the second world war brought him world-wide fame. Up until his recent death, Raman was still giving astrological advise to his many clients in Bangalore. (The initials B.V.
in his name stand for Bangalore Venkataraman.) His The Autobiography of a Vedic Astrologer is a fascinating account of his life as an astrologer in India.
2. The Collapse of the Soviet Union (USSR)
In 1980, the astrologer Liz Greene gave a lecture about the impact of the outer planets (Uranus, Neptune, and Pluto) on the lives of individuals and nations. This and other lectures have been published in The Outer Planets and Their Cycles - The Astrology of the Collective (CRCS Publications, 1983, 1996). I am excerpting here snippets (tagged with my explanations of astrological terms and ideas) that lead to a celebrated prediction she made.
"What hasn't happened to Russia is the approaching transit of Pluto through Scorpio."
In its orbital motion around the Sun, Pluto transits, i.e. passes, through each zodiacal sign in turn. Since it takes well over 200 years for one complete orbit, once it transits through, say, Scorpio, the next transit through Scorpio would not happen for another 200 plus years. What's the connection to USSR? Each country is "born" at a certain time and place. The birth of the USSR is taken to be November 7, 1917, 10:52 PM in Leningrad (according to The Book of World Horoscopes). Two hundred years before the 1980s, the USSR did not exist, and so, this upcoming transit of Pluto through Scorpio would be experienced by the USSR for the first time.
"Pluto always brings profound changes and rids the person of things which he has outgrown. It's a kind of fate. If the person can't meet the challenge to change, then he breaks down. This is likely to happen in Russia, because there isn't a great deal of inclination shown to alter the system in any way except to tighten it."
The astrological horoscope is nothing but an instant snapshot of the positions of all the planets at the time of birth. Everyone knows their Sun sign. Scorpios are people who are born when the Sun is in Scorpio, roughly October 22 to November 21 each year. Then, when Pluto transited through Scorpio from 1984 to 1994, it would have "hit" the "natal" (birth horoscope) Sun of all Scorpio people, bringing into their lives experience of all things Plutonian. Exactly when this happened would depend on the exact position of the Sun. For example, a person born on November 7 would have the Sun in his natal horoscope at around 14-15 degrees of Scorpio, and would have felt Pluto's impact in his life around 1989-1990 when transiting Pluto was also at around 14-15degrees of Scorpio. And what holds for the individual holds for countries. Russia, born on November 7, would experience Pluto's impact around 1989-1990.
The other planets in the natal horoscope (Mercury, Venus, etc.) would also feel the impact of the transit of Pluto and the other outer planets (Uranus and Neptune). The actual effect would depend on the the "meanings" of these natal planets, the meanings of the transiting planets, and the current circumstances of the person or country in question.
"The conjunction of Saturn, Uranus, and Neptune in Capricorn which we have approaching toward the end of this decade will conjunct Russia's natal Venus in Capricorn in the fifth house, and oppose natal Pluto in the eleventh. This happens at roughly the same time that Pluto hits the natal sun. Now in an individual's chart Venus deals with relationships and partnerships, and transits like this would put enormous pressure on that side of life. You often see marriages breaking down when the outer planets transit over Venus. Russia is a conglomerate of many different nations, not all of whom went into the marriage very willingly. Poland and Czechoslavakia and Hungary may be thinking of divorce."
"...there would be a period of disintegration, and a potential for a new birth. If this were an individual, he would seek help of various kinds to retain some ego continuity while the changes were happening. But a country can't get that kind of help. And a sun-Saturn country wouldn't ask for it anyway. So it may that Pluto takes on the very literal meaning of death, and the Union of the Soviet Socialist Republics will no longer be a union."
Sunday, August 5, 2007
More Than a Scientist
Ten signs that you are more (or less?) than a scientist:
- You are more anxious about proving yourself than proving theorems
- Anything that cannot be proven does not deserve your attention
- At any conference the only paper you care about is your own
- Your research is useful in your lifetime
- You want your name to appear last on any joint work with your graduate students
- Your best ideas come to you when you are fraternizing at the local bar
- You give up tenureship to write romance novels under your own name
- Your favorite pastime is watching reruns of The Simpsons
- Gemini
- Aquarius
- You are more anxious about proving yourself than proving theorems
- Anything that cannot be proven does not deserve your attention
- At any conference the only paper you care about is your own
- Your research is useful in your lifetime
- You want your name to appear last on any joint work with your graduate students
- Your best ideas come to you when you are fraternizing at the local bar
- You give up tenureship to write romance novels under your own name
- Your favorite pastime is watching reruns of The Simpsons
- Gemini
- Aquarius
Saturday, August 4, 2007
The Shrinking World
The New York Times announced a couple of days ago that it would print a narrower paper, cutting the width of it pages by an inch and a half to meet the national standard of page width. I would be exaggerating if I said my world went into a tail spin, but I did feel let down and despirited for a good while. I have read the New York Times religiously every single morning for years and years, from my very first years in graduate school, and enjoyed its expansive girth in comparison to the Wall Street Journal. And I never read the Wall Street Journal except furtively at "work work" ("work work" is my term for work in corporate America, while just "work" is everything else), and that too for a total of, oh, about 20 times.
And now the New York Times will be the same width as the Wall Street Journal? That, more than anything else, is a cruel comedown. They say the content will be the same. I am assuming this means the paper will have more pages. Or, even tighter editing than ever? Or, links to online continuations of stories. Reducing the width of my paper is like squishing my wide screen TV into a square. But don't worry, the content will be the same.
Even before the impending great narrowing I have fantasized about unsubscribing. Every day I open the Times and come face to face with stories that disappoint, alarm, sadden. It ruins my day, starting with difficulty swallowing my breakfast toast. Every disaster story (a collapsed bridge, in ultra-modern America?), every new death in a awful, strange war, every shameful story of abuse, scandal, corruption - why, why, why?
An emigrant leaves his country of origin to go to a better place. And when you emigrate to America as a young man just out of his teens, you know you are going to the perfect place, God's own country. And then the same things that would have hardly merited a second look in the place you left behind take on mythical proportions in paradise. (And I am not talking about the National Enquirer, at least not yet!) Corruption in America? How can that be? Incompetent politicians in the US? You've got to be kidding. A thousand little cuts.
I have no plans to unsubscribe to the New York Times yet, but a true constant of my life as an immigrant (look at all the world news!!) has changed, and that makes me unsure about my future relationship with the Times. When I open up the Times it won't drape over my kitchen table any more. It will come up short. It will have lost its edge.
And now the New York Times will be the same width as the Wall Street Journal? That, more than anything else, is a cruel comedown. They say the content will be the same. I am assuming this means the paper will have more pages. Or, even tighter editing than ever? Or, links to online continuations of stories. Reducing the width of my paper is like squishing my wide screen TV into a square. But don't worry, the content will be the same.
Even before the impending great narrowing I have fantasized about unsubscribing. Every day I open the Times and come face to face with stories that disappoint, alarm, sadden. It ruins my day, starting with difficulty swallowing my breakfast toast. Every disaster story (a collapsed bridge, in ultra-modern America?), every new death in a awful, strange war, every shameful story of abuse, scandal, corruption - why, why, why?
An emigrant leaves his country of origin to go to a better place. And when you emigrate to America as a young man just out of his teens, you know you are going to the perfect place, God's own country. And then the same things that would have hardly merited a second look in the place you left behind take on mythical proportions in paradise. (And I am not talking about the National Enquirer, at least not yet!) Corruption in America? How can that be? Incompetent politicians in the US? You've got to be kidding. A thousand little cuts.
I have no plans to unsubscribe to the New York Times yet, but a true constant of my life as an immigrant (look at all the world news!!) has changed, and that makes me unsure about my future relationship with the Times. When I open up the Times it won't drape over my kitchen table any more. It will come up short. It will have lost its edge.
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