Welcome to France and to 2009

It is by the sacrifices you do for another person that you would be judged on the capacity to help that person.

I have always done what I wanted, but however I have been lucky. People who do things only for themselves cannot be satisfied, like Rabbi Hillel said: if you are only for yourself, what are you? but to combine your profession into one in which your desire to help others is combined with your desires which helps you connect with the greater universe, which the Indians call the Spirituality. If you are not for yourself, rabbi Hillel continued, who will be for you?

And there is no time like the present time. If not now, when, asked the sage.

It is this concept of not wanting to be a participant in “If not now, when that many of the westerners or those people who espouse western way of thinking, can look at the future gloomily. A New Zealand psychiatrist had written : people are waiting for the curtain to open and the stage to reveal what will happen, what they don’t realize that the curtains are already drawn and we are the actors and on stage. And we are our own scriptwriters, we write what we want to say and when the script writer has packed up and gone home, the actor on the stage, ourselves, have nothing to say, looks around for someone to prompt to say something. Un alma sin raices es una injusticia, the poet must have echoed the same sentiments.. a soul without roots is an injustice.

I have always sacrificed for a group of people. Poor people of Jamaica, then American Indians and many many other poor people.. but the rewards have been many and I am judged by many by the rewards that have come my way, rather than the original intentions of mine which brought those rewards without being asked for. So they ogled at my comfortable life in Jamaica but not at the long days at the clinics in the countryside over rough roads where I had to comfort and give medicines to 100 patients per day..They praised the food cooked by my neighbor the chef on dinners that I put out every night in Cuba, without realizing that Cuba was one great sacrifice: financially, emotionally and chronologically. Everything was a gift. I carry that within my self. The first ever gift was Australia. Intellectual curiosity of Sweden was the next; the open mindedness of Americans came next, Anthropological education, medical education in Miami, one gift after another…but the greatest gift in my life of course is that I am a Jew.

2006 a great gift arrived at my doorstep. I was so overblown by it, that I remember clearly telling my nurse at the Indian clinic: I am sorry I can no longer work, I must go home and I will come back later..

This particular gift compares with the four greatest gifts in my life: being a Jew, being an Australian, being a doctor to the Indians and living in Cuba…these are ambient materialistic immoveable quantificable parameters, the presents that repeat themselves are the friends who have traipsed through my life…

2007 France  2008 Cambodia and Malaysia and Austalia and as I begin 2009, I know in my heart it would be France once again.

 

Friends, I have to be where I am needed and I am of more use

Where I get, in return the connection to the universe of human beings..

Yes, in 2009, I will visit Eretz Israel to see my nephew Shmulik and also my dear younger brother Shimon and his bride Avital.

Yes, in 2009, I will visit Malaysia to visit my best friend in Asia, MunChing and all the new friends I have made in Malaysia which has become my second home after France.

Yes, in 2009, I will visit Australia, even if it is just to see my friend Sandra and her husband..

Yes, in 2009, I will visit Cuba, to visit my colleagues and my daughter and relive the glorious moments of that moveable feast that was cuba for me.

Yes, in 2009, I will visit Miami, to be with my sister Jacqui, who is more than a sister to me.

Yes, in 2009, it would be also an year of Mothers; my birth mother in India, my other mother in Malaysia, my Cuban mother in la Havana..

Yes, in 2009, it would also be an year of Sisters: my sister Jackie, my sister Dar in Yakima, my Indian sisters, Georgia of Hocank and Sylvia of the Kickapoo (who said, you don’t travel alone, good spirits travel with you). There is a group of five women, I think of as one, all UmonHon Indians, one way or another: Vida, Mitexi, MiHusa, Noni and Michele.  I know I will see them all..in 2009

But in 2009, France will be my home, that is where I would be, my body and my soul and my heart, to be particular, Paris, France; at the little house in  Ave Jeanne by the Seine.

Saudade for Baracoa

stars have falen out of the sky

adding their glitter to the silent ocean

this night, we wait under the light of the moon

for the stars to reappear

clouds go by, the moon escapes from its grip

the stars in the water rejoice

our hearts are nets into which these stars

fall as we sail across these waters

its presence only to remind us that 

distances exist between us

and that which will be... overcome

our tears are the same, we are the same for the moment

the sky, the moon, teh stars have swallowed us

we have become part of each other, with indelible

impressions of our love stamped into each other

What all Happens in the Course of One Day?

WHAT ALL HAPPENS IN THE COURSE OF  A DAY

Guruji speaks in his broken tones on a clear telephone call from Madras; he wants to do a Pooja, a kind of prayer.. Yes Please, there is no better way than that to evict  bad luck..

News from KT of a PAS victory, a shot in the arm for Malaysian Democracy.

Skype to the rescue, conversations with clear tones to countries to the East.

Getting ready to go to Omaha. 10 50 am Discover that the Rental Car parked in front of the Blue House has been vandalized… 1105 the Policeman is here. Random Vandalism of the Bored Youth… Called Avis 100 miles away to report the damage, both back windows broken and the tyres let out of air.. Exactly two hours later, remember it takes 90 minutes to get to the Blue House from Omaha, a tow truck arrives with a replacement car.  This kind of service you get only in the United States.. Happy to rent from Avis.. over and over again..

A patient calls. Tell him about the vandalism. He lives 30 miles away. Within half an hour he is here. Checking out. Then begins to shovel the snow and clear the path. Sits and chats.

I follow him in my new rental car, to Olive Garden, a kind of an Italian Franchise Mall restaurant.. his favourite he says..I have never been there.. not much of a fan of Americanized food.. he orders Spaghetti with tomato sauce and I have gnocchi Veronese thinking of the days in Buenos Aires..

The night falls quickly. The gorgeous sunset turns into dark night within a few minutes. Snow on the ground but the air has warmed up from its frigid minus 18 F temperature of a couple of days ago.

Now writing these notes.. thinking of my home in Paris, my friends in Malaysia, Japan and my family here and there and as always about Cuba… 

The Shoe maker of Pondichery

The shoe maker  of Pondicherry

I had visited this erstwhile French colony in 2004, and just around the corner from the boutique hotel (now undergoiong reparations) was a hole in the wall leather worker and shoe maker. I remember pointing out to the model I wanted and within a day the sandals were ready, which I use still. The price was 600 inr ( about 20 usd of that day)..

Rue suffren is a leafy street with French mansions on both side of the street. A distinct French touch to it. You know that you are in India and at the same time, wonder where in India you are. 

I remembered the shoemaker but did not remember where his shop was. While exploring the street, taking pictures of the various French colonial homes, I found myself standing in front of the hole in the wall, hand made shoe factory that is what it was any way. Two workers bent over the task, and the owner, in conversation with two westerners buying a pair of open sandals for the heat and comfort of this country.

I pointed out to the same model, and asked the price, 600 INR he replied..( about 11 usd of today)…then I told him the story after the westerners had departed.

Four years ago, I was here and I bought a pair made and the price was 600 and I was expecting to hear the price of shoes have gone up to 800 or 900 rupees.. He looks at my face carefully and makes a mental nod as if he had recognized it.. he said.. Yes it is still 600 inr and I have not put up the price.

An Indian customer comes for repair of her sandals and he talks to her for while and then turns his attention to me..  I remember your face now. How long before you can make another pair for me?  Tomorrow evening it would be ready, said he.

And I realized that this man is one honest man.. in a country where Le Meridien charges 750 rupees per day for Internet access, The cunning autorikshaw wallahs charging whatever they want and then some more. Asking around for the price of handmade belts… 200 rupees sir.. what? They are being sold for 600 to 900 rupees at stores as Casablanca.. I realixed that he is content with his business which gives him a good livelihood and that he does have to be avaricious like the autorikshaw driver to try and extrat a few rupees and thus the bad feelings as well of the people visiting Pondicherry.

I ordered two pairs of sandals.. one to leave in Paris and the other in Miami; five pairs of sandals for my friends, all in all a princely sum of  3800 rupees for seven pairs of sandals handmade by Mr Shoe maker of Pondicherry. I will pick the products of his manual dexterity, which I was privileged to enjoy for the past four years, occasionally when I wore the sandals from Pondicherry.. I will pick them up on my way out of the city of Pondicherry.. taxi to madras and Air France to Paris…

The next day, after attending an exhibition at Annexe Colambani of Alliance Francaise, I came by this shop to get my shoulder bag repaired, and an extra latch added. After he finished his work, I wanted to pay.. he said: small small work sir, no need to pay..

 

Can you believe this is in India, in a tourist town?

I will find out more about him and his family and left him my visiting card which he displayed prominently. On the wall was an advertisement for a taxi service , since it might be his friend, I wanted to ask him for the taxi service, and his reply stunned me.. Sir, he is my friend, but he always charges the foreigners two hundred rupees extra so I think you should go to the Taxi Stand and organize a ride for yourself. Which I did and was able to get an airconditioned Ambassador to take us to Madras , into the city, to visit our good friend Srini and his family before going to the international departure section of the Madras airport…

M Mumurty, Give and Take Leather Products, No 20 rue suffren, Pondichery. Mobile Phone 9790667710

 

Lonely Roads in an Indian Reservation

Lonely Roads, Bright Sun and a Blue Sky

UmonHon Indian Reservation 13th January 2009

A very sound sleep, after the trouble getting home through 50 km winds playing ballet with the snow, cold, immeasurably cold, cold that enters with your breath into the depths of your soul. The house is warm, the thermostat is set at 72 F (about 19 C), has a cocoon like feeling, like a thief I look out through the glass windows, at the wind outside, snow swirling, the trees protecting their naked limbs with some inner strength. This morning, calm had descended, an absolute silence, like the one you feel after a hurricane had passed through. No wind. The sun is up and bright and the blue skies are just interrupted here and there with wisps of clouds...

Today is Tuesday; last Tuesday had left Pondicherry where people have no memories of snow but of Tsunami? Ah well... it is a fair exchange I suppose. Kovalam, Triplicane, Guindy, Raja Annamalai nagar sonorous Dravidian names, an extremely courteous driver who had lost a finger in an industrial accident thirty years ago, Balu by name and soon it was Air France and a load of coolies headed to the west.

A cup of coffee from Baracoa sweetened with raw sugar from Baracoa. Four layers of clothes, two scarves, sunglasses, walking like a scarecrow in the deep snow in front of the house, just a few meters to the car. Thank god for good cars they rent... starts with no problem but moving the car is another story. The tyres have stuck to the ground, and bit of forward and reverse motions, the car is able to move, slide would be a better word, and then we are off, like the dinghy on Kerala backwaters...

I noticed one thing. There was not a single person on the road. The school next door was deserted, normally there is some moment or other this time of the morning, children going to school, someone or other struggling to get to work, but absolute silence in this village of the Indians. Got to the main road, ditto, not a soul, no cars, no sound... the sun glistening on the surface of the road now covered with ice and snow... reflecting on thesunglasses..

The incongruity of all these was that I was listening to BBC World Services on the Satellite radio in the car. A staid British accent comes over discussing internet business strategies, it felt like either he or I was in another planet and this dissociation with nature and nurture, what has been here for thousands of years and what is to come...

I looked at the sky, remembered the Indian patient asking me, everything good in life is fee, doctor, you just have to look around for it... I enjoyed the changing hues of the blue skies, with cotton clouds standing as silent as the guards at Buckingham palace.

It was just me in this heated car, bundled up, listening to BBC , sliding along the  lonely road over the hills trying not to sway too far from the centre of the road, lest I end up in the ditch.

Suddenly a visitor. A deer, was not an adult one, looked like a little one, not a baby, jumped from the hills and crossed the road in front of me, paying no attention to me, as if it had an appointment to keep with its mother. My spirits immediately rose, here is a picture perfect cameo of this world of our ancestors: lonely road, snow on the ground, blue skies, bright sun, nothing man made to be seen... except the road.

I was a little puzzled as I pulled into the Clinic grounds, once again no cars, no one milling around, no patients in a hurry to get in there for attention.. Same inside the clinic. I went to the kitchen which was busy preparing the meals for lunch time, my friend was there. What happened, I asked her? Don’t you watch TV? They announced the late start of offices and schools and clinics today on TV, so no one would be here for another hour or two.

So I use this opportunity to write about my little journey this morning. And the tranquility it gave me.

I thought of M in Paris and all my other friends in Malaysia, Japan, Cambodia, Cuba etc etc; and I thanked the Indians for giving me this opportunity to enjoy their earth without causing too much damage with my presence.

Have a good day /evening wherever you are, my dear friends, lovers and other sweeties, little butterflies that make my heart flutter

 

 

MingalarBar in Malaysia

Photo: Soleiman of Maulana Plaza at Seri Kembangan, Malaysia

Mingalabar in Malaysia

This has been a wonderful day in Malaysia, Kuala Lumpur to be specific.

Just another day in Paradise, someone will quip.

After a lazy morning, after the deep sleep of yet another busy day in KL, we made our way to Maulana Food Court, hoping that our good friend Soleiman from Tanjore would be there.

He greets us warmly and says something in Tamoul, which I cannot understand. Boleh Tamil, Boleh Melayu, Boleh Urdu he goes on childishly and soon we are seated at the table with a spread of south Indian food in front of us.

He began talking excitedly, in a mixture of Tamoul and Malay and other indecipherable languages, the gist of which was: please take me with you, I am an Indian Citizen and I am getting tired. I promised him something or other knowing fully well that our conversation would be forgotten the minute I left his place. He makes sure that the Te Tahrik is hot and hovers around in between his social engagements with his various regular customers.  As we leave he shouts in Tamoul, what I thought it might be any way, Please come tomorrow, I will be waiting here for you.

With that piece of human interaction, everything from then on until the end of the day was one good human interaction after another. We reached the Guinot Facial/Beauty Salon in time, for the owner to start working on my face. She has been trained by the Guinot facility in Paris and has been a beauty therapist for more than twenty years.

The bottom picture is the one after, and you can notice the relaxed face.

Went over to the Bakin Boys Café next door to Kunikinuya Book store which by the way is the best bookstore in all of Malaysia.

Was writing a few postcards for friends near and far, and soon enough it was time to get MunChing from the Beauty Salon. She comes out chirping with handful of presents. We had to rush over to Bangsar where she had an appointment for hair cut at 5 30 and through the rush hour traffic of KL, we were there just in time.

A Cut Above is a Malaysian concern of attention to Hair, fingers and toes.. with an array of services offered and a plethora of workers busily attending to the middle class yuppie clientele. Another moment in time of KL life captured.  GS was the name of the Chinese lady assigned to do my pedicure, as she had done an excellent job on my previous visit. She was all happy and greeted me warmly, not quite understanding how I was back here so quickly. This pedicure outshone the last one and my feet had never felt so good. A tall lithesome recent graduate of Cosmetology school attended to my fingers and within the hour, I came out of there, fresh in my new facial, with feet and arm relaxed to match the face. Truly a sensory load of welcome proportions. The attention given to Pedicure and manicure is much better than some of the above I had received in the USA, especially from the newly mushrooming Vietnamese dominated Nail Salons all across the USA.. These ladies graduates of a local cosmetology school, after a two month course, and with a natural talent to pay attention to the details of the nails and toes, had charms in their hands and fingers as they massaged the our toes and fingers. I was truly truly happy with my pedicure. A slight limitation in communication because of the language, I noticed that English is widely spoken among the educated ones, but the majority of Malaysians do not speak English, as is the case in Singapore as well, beyond basic communication. I am poor by this, since I could have learned so much about their lives talking to them but had to be content with gathering tidbits of information on their lives so far away from my own.

Content with the state of physical affairs, it was time to move on to the next destination, MIZU Japanese restaurant. Like Japanese restaurants in Paris, only the name and the menu are Japanese, all the workers are from somewhere or other with scant knowledge of the Japanese cuisine.

But the ambience was welcome, the change from good to better Chinese food and incredibly tasty Tamoul food, was a questionable challenge. Ah well, one has to live, and to Mizu we would go.

Very attentive staff, the supervisor of the waitresses seemed to be a local Chinese, with no particular distinguishing features. But the waitresses were demure, one could mistake them for Indonesians but there was gentleness in their faces. I was to find out what it was, which made me sad and delighted at the same time. 

Food began arriving one by one, in the Japanese sensibility, food presented well and inviting. Looking at the kitchen and the numerous staff there, there was a little concern that none of them were Japanese, but the fear was dispelled by the first bite, which reminded me of japan and its cuisine. What is the chef is from some other country and hopefully he would feel good that he can produce some good Japanese food for the hungry mobs of KL.

 

I had noticed the very efficient young waitress and began imagining about her life. What if she was an Indonesian? Had she left her husband and young child behind to come over to Malaysia? While I was very happy to be in Malaysia, would they be able to say the same? Did they want to come to Malaysia or are they here because of the economy situation at home.

During the entire dinner, she paid attention to us with the efficiency which was evident in her rapid gait and the pleasant smile which never left her face.

When she brought over the next dish,

I had the courage to ask her, where are you from?

Myanmar. Stunned and pleased, I gave her the immediate reply,

Mingalarbar

That brought a further lighting up of her smile.

So this young girl, a Bamar by the look of it, has come to KL to work as a waitress. I had no doubt that she had been to one of the many universities in Yangon, if she is from there, as it looked as if she is a city girl. I am glad that her older mother will be happy and be able to gain merit by feeding the monks who come by the house; the school fees she could now pay to educate her younger brother, and perhaps save money for that mingalason ceremony for a wedding in the future. In the meantime, she would be isolated with other Myanmar people, as this place Bangsar seems to be a gathering place for the workers from Myanmar.

I called her over, respectfully handed over my card, in which I had written my Burmese name, U Aung Khant, under my name. She profusely thanked me, Jesu Tin ba de, I told her.

My wandered back to Yangon, not only my Yangon but my father’s Yangon, he who fought till he nearly died for someone else’s country, the teak house where he might have eaten in yangon where I ate a nice lunch with Wut Yee on my last visit. A painful longing, a desire to return to a country which is not my own but which has adopted me. The cruelty of th government and the genetleness of the people. Burma will always be close to my heart.

A tear trickled down my cheeks, yes I told myself, I am Aung Khant and I am Burmese, and this little sweetie is a young relative of mine. All I can give her in her isolation and exile in Malaysia is my best wishes, a genuine basket of good will for her. Just to let her know, that Burma has brought us close together and that we may once again breathe that pure air of Burma, even though we might never meet each other again. A brief cameo of our lives, on this day in Malaysia, where I felt that people around me, has elevated me to a paradise, a sensual pleasure of a day passed in the company of so many good people… this country is inhabited by people who belay all the stereotype hyped up in the International Press which I had believed wholeheartedly until I met MunChing one day in April who explained to me this Malaysian Dilemma..

Apart from my much needed conversations to Paris, which is my lifeline, I was also able to speak to a friend from KT, Ross, who though born and brought up in Colonial Malaya had left Malaysia in the late fifties and now has returned as a foreigner to his land of birth.

All in all a  very nice day in Malaysia…

24^th December 2008

27^th to Madras

6^th January 2009 to Paris

9^th January 2009 to Miami…. Etc etc  and it would be a while before the winds would bring me back to these shores again..

 

 

The Ordinary Opera of the Oppressed

An Ordinary Opera of the Oppressed

There is no order, but the chaos of insides shine. Irreverently dressed, their lack of education shining through their very dull faces.  They think noise is symbol of happiness, they talk loud, and even the Chinese Opera is set to the thumping House Music.  The Brandy flows. Brandy is an after dinner drink, to digest, but here what needs to be digested is their everyday sorrow, the innate desire to be free that is inherent to any human being. Young and old alike, are chained to their culture of poverty.

The meeting of the Secret Society

The dinner was on the 30^th anniversary of the Malaysian Association of Chinese Chefs... that title itself gives out their innard weaknesses... Would there be Malaysian Tamoul Society of Murtabak Makers?  And the invocation and encouragement from the speakers were to be united and that it is the Big Brother that will help you, be a big brother..Trying to moralize about natural values... you cannot bring in caring about fellow human beings as part of a society membership.

They sat uncomfortably, uniformly they looked unhealthy and uncared for, their faces etched deep with sorrow and worry, the younger ones spared of the wrinkles. Eager to join the happiness circle, they symbolically stand up, in a circle and with some shouts, drain a bottle of Brandy.. drain, not enjoy the drink, the whole bottle has to be drunk. And there is the newly found camaraderie...edging each other on to drink more, drain as quickly as possible large glasses of brandy and water..

Noise, Noise, Noise everywhere. There is no finesse in this life, no attention to the details of the finer things in life.

Food arrives, systematically and quickly. Without civility, they dive in, procure for themselves their portion of shrimps, mushroom, baby pig, sea fish cooked to perfection, glutinous rice, jumbo shrimps that take an effort to peel, artificial cakes and lychee and water…

The serving of food finished at 10 45 pm and within minutes the place began emptying up. There is no reason to stay up, the food is finished, the stale jokes and friendly reminders of the society rules, they are all gone... men swaying like palms under a strong wind, and burly madams struggling to find their own directions. There were e young people, most of them bland in their appearance, trying very hard to find their footing in this conglomeration, staring at the blank space in front of them.  Waitresses worked diligently, expecting no thanks, and no gratitude, plates full of food came and went. You do expect to eat well at the annual meeting of the Chefs..

The culture of Chef of Chinese Origin didn’t come through; each individual dish was as singular as the particular chef who produced it. The culture of poverty, came through, the state of poverty of their origins now obscured by their polyester clothes, and the bundle of dollars in their pockets. A good example of what one wit said: Money does not buy you class. Regardless of your financial and professional status, money cannot bring you into the upper class. Money cannot eradicate the crassness of ordinariness. I imagined the children of many of these people, now studying in Australia or some other western country, refusing to come home for the fear of drowning in the rigidity of this culture of poverty. They could proudly proclaim the genius proclivities of their offspring.  In distant lands, the children of Chinese chefs, cease to become Chinese, they forget their Malaysian geography except on special occasions; now hanging in between the rejection of their original self and waiting for the acceptance of their new selves from their new country men. Culture is not a replaceable commodity, one builds on what one has, not pick and choose as if out there is a supermarket of choices. Those who reject themselves join the culture of shame, thus the children of chefs, give up their fear of the culture of poverty and instead choose the culture of shame, defending undependable beliefs which have no principles.

Back to the Secret Society

There was an entertainment of some sort but the majority of the invited people, customarily ignored those who were at the podium, but focused their attention to the food and the ever present Hennessey VSOP bottle, now strutted through the crowded on the feeble hands of a Chinese female barely out of her teens. Older women were joining their husbands or men of their choice, in a less lady like fashion, drowning the glasses in one deep draw... echoing the laughter of the men folk. They squatted on the chairs, with their legs widely spread, in their cheap Chinese made jean shorts or other attempts to cover the overflowing flesh. There was a smell of poverty about them, now cheapened by the strong fragrances made in China, sold at a fraction of the original price of fragrances from the west. Mimicry and copying, something everyone can do with a great deal of confidence. It is this confidence of mimicry, rooted fundamentally in the imagination of the migrant soul, a circle of desires to keep the daughters in proverbial chastity belts and darkness of a lack of freedom. Call upon the culture when it is convenient to you; insist to your daughters about the filial loyalty and the cultural norms of children towards their parents. Cut their wings, let them not learn to fly, keep them in the cages of the culture of poverty…

 

It is a great privilege for me to witness this, as a cultural anthropologist, to make note of the sad trends of the immigrants who are allowed to self perpetuate themselves since there is no majority culture, only this culture of poverty, no majority culture into which aspiring young birds with their wings cut off could escape to...

How wonderfully they have blinded their eyes, spoiling the desire to see beauty, damming up the flow of emotions. No niceties, no politeness, just secret and at times clandestine liaisons . and they grow old.

In this large reception hall housing hundreds, I was the only non Malaysian, and more over I was the only non Chinese, thus affirming the exclusive nature of this society of chefs, the Malaysian Minor Mafia, not worried about the rules and regulations of their petty government, existing as a separate unit within this well segregated and already divided country. There was not a single non Chinese, except this observing Anthropologist.

As with everybody else, we also got up and left. At the Car Jockey (Valet Parking), unsteady men got into larger and larger cars, with their wives firmly buckled up in front, off to the safety of their suburban homes. May the Spirits guard them, this salt of the earth... Bumi Manusia, as Pramoedya Ananta Toer would say…steeped in their materialism which has left them no time for individualized knowledge and the desire to know more...

Our car slid out of the garage of the Pudu Branch of Hai La Ton Restaurant, steadily made its way over to the house, past the villages where the immigrants from China had settled down, that now remains parchments of the experience of the Chinese immigrants, written with sweat the unending struggle, with no one to interpret their hieroglyphically  lamentations..