Last two weeks have been back breaking for me. Apart from my usual work woes, I got back to Yoga and ventured on a weekend to Sham Shui Po to check out SOCO and its child mentorship scheme.
Sham Shui Po among other things is known for its poor mainland immigrant population and cage homes. Once a popular trade centre, it faded out when Hong Kong transformed into an Asian financial centre.
My tryst was an eye opener.
As I like to say, I occupy the road between the prosperous, chic Hong Kong and the slightly jaded, cramped bylanes of TST which lend to the view from the Peak without giving a whiff of the poverty and grime within.
If you ask me what Hong Kong without rouge and shimmer would be, I would first turn to the lures of SOHO, the raucous party-goers in LKF on a weekend, the Hollywood road with its exotica and painfully thin women with fake pouts and fake cleavages, swinging in suicidal heels along the jazzy Pottinger, Wyndham and Wellington streets.
Since I am an Indian expat with blinkers on, I will attempt to shed off my limited knowledge and point further to villas, cottages and buildings atop hills in Stanley and Repulse Bay. And then I will shake my head, glare through my kohl eyes and tell you, if this is not what you see, you might stumble upong the answer my friend.
As I was home on Sunday, I chose to travel to Sham Shui Po via the cross over to the red line at Lai King. I could feel a change in the air, the people, their clothing and their attitudes as soon as I stepped out at Lai King (you can call it my expatty short sightedness and snootiness)
I stepped out of the Sham Shui Po MTR on to the Apliu Street and like all my Eureka reactions to street markets, I smiled and smiled.
The first expected olfactory assault came from meat shops along the Kweilin Street where the SOCO office is located.
As it always happens my attempts to open the rusted door below the faded numberplate 117 failed.
After asking for Lai Shan in five different nasal tones on the phone, the Chinese woman cackling on the other side finally called her. She told me that I was not at the right gate.
After five minutes of frantic searching and braving the drilling gaze of two Indians, I finally found the entrance to 117, Kweilin Street.
A few steps up, I had my first glimpse of life shorn of the Hong Kong glitter.
While in Mumbai, close set doors, peeling plaster, leaking pipes, rotting garbage and a pungent feel in a residential building would have been unsurprising, in Hong Kong it seemed incongruent with the vision one has watching the Symphony of Lights show from the Star Ferry deck.
What’s earth shattering about it you ask?
....On the previous day, if you had happened to stretch and moan in Nike pants and Adidas headband in a swnaky yoga gym in LKF, walked down the escalator cursing Donald Tsang for not making the streets air conditioned, stopped at MIX for orange juice, spent ten endless minutes in the MTR, flashed an empty smile at the effusive security guy, took two minutes to whizz up to your flat, walked into a clean apartment and sipped tea watching the day fade, you may get the hang of it.
....A woman from far inside the room that I was suspiciously eyeing waved to me. It was Lai Shan.
Lai Shan sat hunched in a blood red tunic and frayed jeans, yapping in Mandarin with anxious men and women around.
It was a bedlam! Small kids were running around. Toddlers were screaming their hearts out for mothers crowding around Lai Shan. A young boy was engrossed in playing the piano. In another corner a bored teenager sat with his mouth open watching his father getting a hair cut.
I sat in a corner looking at this slice of life that could have been plucked from anywhere in the world except for the culture, language, physical features and eating habits of its people which made it unique.
Last week I returned to Sham Shui Po to begin my stint as a volunteer to help kids with their english homework. There were no niceties and no introductions.
I walked in and got down to help right away. My first student that day was Vivian, a Chinese girl. She was quite good and except for a few mistakes her homework did not need much correction.
While checking her homework was easy, explaining to her why ‘been’ will be used with ‘had’ in a particular sentence was tough.
Lesson of the day-teaching is not a cakewalk but one of the toughest, most challenging and formidable jobs. To be entrusted with 25-30 kids who depend on you for what they learn, understand and take away in the name of school education is one hell of a responsibility.
I could not explain a lot of things to Vivian. She also had difficulty understanding my Indian accent I think.
I also met this cute and very naughty Pakistani kid who wanted to take me home. He would barge in from time to time and demand, I converse with the ladki in cheeni.
When classes ended, a woman came up to me, held my hands and thanked me. She was Vivian’s mother.
I was touched. Like the scholarship I got in my graduate years, her smile is a treasure I would always be fiercely proud of and happy to have earned.
Reading through what I have written, I realise, all of it might not be making sense. But everything written here has come out the way I saw and felt it.
It was a facet of life that I had never met in my day to day life.
PS:
When I am asked if I like Hong Kong, I usually break into a Mumbai vs. Hong Kong monologue.
Hong Kong may be strides ahead when it comes to infrastructure and amenities but in terms of social security and tackling social issues like poverty, I do not see any difference here.
In Mumbai or for that matter anywhere in India, poverty and squalor are in your face.
While it hits you as an unending sea of sequestered thatched and tin settlements when the plane descends at the Mumbai airport, in Hong Kong you have to pull yourself away from the fireworks and walk the less trodden ways to see it.
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Rambling
As much as I appreciate Tehelka, this article smacks of sycophancy
http://tehelka.com/story_main41.asp?filename=Ne300509patience_in.asp
"....In March 2008 — as Mayawati, fresh on the wings of victory, journeyed away from the common man towards rarer and rarer worlds of luxury — he, fresh out of failure, hit the dusty road, meeting small groups of people behind closed doors, out of the eye of the media, asking questions. Tribals, farmers, schoolchildren, fisherfolk, dalits. He went to Orissa and Chhattisgarh, to Jharkhand and Madhya Pradesh, to UP and Karnataka. Once again, the media mocked him, sneering at his ‘Discover India’ trips, booing his desire for research. (TEHELKA, on the other hand, put Rahul on its cover, calling him “The Long Distance Gambler” exactly a year ago)..."
Please note the last line!
http://tehelka.com/story_main41.asp?filename=Ne300509patience_in.asp
"....In March 2008 — as Mayawati, fresh on the wings of victory, journeyed away from the common man towards rarer and rarer worlds of luxury — he, fresh out of failure, hit the dusty road, meeting small groups of people behind closed doors, out of the eye of the media, asking questions. Tribals, farmers, schoolchildren, fisherfolk, dalits. He went to Orissa and Chhattisgarh, to Jharkhand and Madhya Pradesh, to UP and Karnataka. Once again, the media mocked him, sneering at his ‘Discover India’ trips, booing his desire for research. (TEHELKA, on the other hand, put Rahul on its cover, calling him “The Long Distance Gambler” exactly a year ago)..."
Please note the last line!
Monday, May 25, 2009
Some post election oft repeated musings
In the nineties when Mayawati became the UP chief minister, everyone said, big and small criminals are fleeing from the state. It was awesome that a woman could inspire such panic among the underworld glitterati.
It turns out that the state head demanded a significant portion of every pie being cooked by hook or crook in the state. She believed in equality and in sparing no one.
In 2007 a famous Mumbai based business man who started a chain of fresh vegetable stores had to close shop after stubborn refusal to pay hafta to madame led to protests and demonstrations by farmers across UP.
It was inexplicable why farmers would let go such an opportunity. The business chain would have sooner or later sourced its supply from the state’s farmers. Apparently during a bumper crop season, much of the produce rots or has to be sold off dirt-cheap. It would have been a win-win situation if middle men could have been dispensed with.
The same year Madame M paid 15 crores in advance tax. Source of income was reported as liberal donations from party supporters. It was while extorting money to keep the donations flowing that a government official lost his life at the hands of BSP party workers in 2008. The incident caused many ripples in the tepid Gomti but it all faded with time like the Taj heritage corridor controversy.
It was all muted with the help of money, political leverage and muscle power.
Dalit ki beti fuelled by the power of lower caste vote bank was living up to the maxim-power corrupts, absolute power corrupts absolutely.
Politically she had engineered an unbelievable feat but as a leader she had gone berserk.
If you look at the government-sponsored mutilation of Lucknow in the last three to four years, you will understand why calling her berserk may not be off the mark.
Reportedly many long standing buildings were demolished in the Mall Avenue area in Lucknow last year to make way for Mayawati’s visionary projects.
Madame also unhappy with the gargantuan Ambedkar smarak, decided to raze it down and re build it from scratch in name of Dalit upliftment. The cost of its reconstruction has been thousands of crores of public money and destruction of one of the most beautiful and green belts adjoining the Gomti.
It was a pleasure once to drive down the ring road flanked by the river and the white and serene Taj hotel. Taj gardens adjoining the hotel were one of the best places for morning walks and a breath full of nature.
A part of the garden was severed off to make way for a state guesthouse. Nowadays one has to drive or walk through a grimy, stone littered and broken road to reach the gardens.
The latest turn of Madame’s imagination that led to fresh mutilation was her wish to adorn every prominent nook in the city with her and Kanshiram’s life sized statues. It has become a lore how she ordered her earlier statues to be removed as they projected her meeker and less powerful than Kanshiram.
According to telephone gossip, in the initial installations, her statues had been placed a step or two behind Kanshiram. The gross negligence that pierced Madame’s mega ego was corrected in no time. Her statues now battle the summer heat, bird droppings and passer by jokes shoulder to shoulder with Kanshiram.
This is modernisation and this is Lucknow-symbol of the politically awakened millions of downtrodden.
Every year when I go back, I see another road dug out. While people die through heat and cold waved, road to the Amausi airport is being frilled up with granite. My father says roads have improved. True, but it is akin to plastering a broken leg without setting the bone right.
A fly over being constructed near my home collapsed last year, killing many people who sought shelter from the heat and came to the makeshift bus stand to catch buses to adjoining towns.
It hurts when tragedy makes a close call. My sister used to take a rickshaw home from near that very bridge every day...
Such waiting-to-happen tragedies are minor for well read and educated young men and women who compare Mayawati to Obama with elan. WTF!
The fascination comes from the fact that a woman from the downtrodden ranks rose to rule a state that sends the maximum number of MPs to Lok Sabha. And to add spice her strike man happens to be a Pandit.
It was such admiration and unbridled power that led the UP chief minister to believe she can conquer New Delhi too. That explains why BSP contested 500 out of 543 seats this election.
The outcome has for the time being squashed her dreams to rule from the Race Course.
And I am so glad that those who voted for her earlier chose not to support her this time and all those who never voted chose to vote ensuring that those against Mayawati outnumbered those who supported her.
I have nothing against caste and religion politics. Although divisive, I would rant less if it fulfils its promises of development (they cause damage either ways).
From the days when seniors did their best to instil Hindutva and caste based hysteria into me till today when I watch politicians and activists abusing political power in name of justice, religion, right and wrong, I have heard nothing beyond propaganda. Post public display of outrage, it leads to nothing.
I would not be surprised if the current election verdict proves to be an aberration and Madame is back in business after five years.
To ensure that warring parties never war so far that divided voters rush back bawling to Madame, I pray that let there be no peace in the hearts of ambitious politicians, let none fall weak to behen ji’s charms and may all Laloos find a Nitish to wrestle.
May the middle finger (with the blue ink) prevail!
It turns out that the state head demanded a significant portion of every pie being cooked by hook or crook in the state. She believed in equality and in sparing no one.
In 2007 a famous Mumbai based business man who started a chain of fresh vegetable stores had to close shop after stubborn refusal to pay hafta to madame led to protests and demonstrations by farmers across UP.
It was inexplicable why farmers would let go such an opportunity. The business chain would have sooner or later sourced its supply from the state’s farmers. Apparently during a bumper crop season, much of the produce rots or has to be sold off dirt-cheap. It would have been a win-win situation if middle men could have been dispensed with.
The same year Madame M paid 15 crores in advance tax. Source of income was reported as liberal donations from party supporters. It was while extorting money to keep the donations flowing that a government official lost his life at the hands of BSP party workers in 2008. The incident caused many ripples in the tepid Gomti but it all faded with time like the Taj heritage corridor controversy.
It was all muted with the help of money, political leverage and muscle power.
Dalit ki beti fuelled by the power of lower caste vote bank was living up to the maxim-power corrupts, absolute power corrupts absolutely.
Politically she had engineered an unbelievable feat but as a leader she had gone berserk.
If you look at the government-sponsored mutilation of Lucknow in the last three to four years, you will understand why calling her berserk may not be off the mark.
Reportedly many long standing buildings were demolished in the Mall Avenue area in Lucknow last year to make way for Mayawati’s visionary projects.
Madame also unhappy with the gargantuan Ambedkar smarak, decided to raze it down and re build it from scratch in name of Dalit upliftment. The cost of its reconstruction has been thousands of crores of public money and destruction of one of the most beautiful and green belts adjoining the Gomti.
It was a pleasure once to drive down the ring road flanked by the river and the white and serene Taj hotel. Taj gardens adjoining the hotel were one of the best places for morning walks and a breath full of nature.
A part of the garden was severed off to make way for a state guesthouse. Nowadays one has to drive or walk through a grimy, stone littered and broken road to reach the gardens.
The latest turn of Madame’s imagination that led to fresh mutilation was her wish to adorn every prominent nook in the city with her and Kanshiram’s life sized statues. It has become a lore how she ordered her earlier statues to be removed as they projected her meeker and less powerful than Kanshiram.
According to telephone gossip, in the initial installations, her statues had been placed a step or two behind Kanshiram. The gross negligence that pierced Madame’s mega ego was corrected in no time. Her statues now battle the summer heat, bird droppings and passer by jokes shoulder to shoulder with Kanshiram.
This is modernisation and this is Lucknow-symbol of the politically awakened millions of downtrodden.
Every year when I go back, I see another road dug out. While people die through heat and cold waved, road to the Amausi airport is being frilled up with granite. My father says roads have improved. True, but it is akin to plastering a broken leg without setting the bone right.
A fly over being constructed near my home collapsed last year, killing many people who sought shelter from the heat and came to the makeshift bus stand to catch buses to adjoining towns.
It hurts when tragedy makes a close call. My sister used to take a rickshaw home from near that very bridge every day...
Such waiting-to-happen tragedies are minor for well read and educated young men and women who compare Mayawati to Obama with elan. WTF!
The fascination comes from the fact that a woman from the downtrodden ranks rose to rule a state that sends the maximum number of MPs to Lok Sabha. And to add spice her strike man happens to be a Pandit.
It was such admiration and unbridled power that led the UP chief minister to believe she can conquer New Delhi too. That explains why BSP contested 500 out of 543 seats this election.
The outcome has for the time being squashed her dreams to rule from the Race Course.
And I am so glad that those who voted for her earlier chose not to support her this time and all those who never voted chose to vote ensuring that those against Mayawati outnumbered those who supported her.
I have nothing against caste and religion politics. Although divisive, I would rant less if it fulfils its promises of development (they cause damage either ways).
From the days when seniors did their best to instil Hindutva and caste based hysteria into me till today when I watch politicians and activists abusing political power in name of justice, religion, right and wrong, I have heard nothing beyond propaganda. Post public display of outrage, it leads to nothing.
I would not be surprised if the current election verdict proves to be an aberration and Madame is back in business after five years.
To ensure that warring parties never war so far that divided voters rush back bawling to Madame, I pray that let there be no peace in the hearts of ambitious politicians, let none fall weak to behen ji’s charms and may all Laloos find a Nitish to wrestle.
May the middle finger (with the blue ink) prevail!
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
That thing about Mommmmyyyyyyy…………
I cannot live with her and I can’t live without her. Mom leaves this weekend and despite my resolve to not pour out my personal feelings on the blog, I can think of no where else to relieve myself of the grief that is building inside.
Everytime I meet my mom, I realise how far I have come from being my mommy’s girl. From that day when I would sulk over her choice of ankle length skirts for me to last weekend when she fished out a knee length skirt from the shop rack and said, "now try this" we girls have weathered a lot of stormy nights and clash of egos.
The simmering angst of the teenage days no longer causes us to cross swords. It is easy to talk to her about frustrations, personal problems, crack jokes and sometimes I almost see her less as a mom and more of a friend.
Cooking is no more a sacrosanct ritual. I no more look wide-eyed as she churns dishes after dishes instead I protest and sulk when she pours all her love in tablespoons of oil and chilli powder.
But I am sure the patience which she shows when I chose to act adult will evaporate and all my pink tinted feelings will be squashed if we decide to live under the same roof.
She is there smiling as I have always known her to when I come back from work.
And it reminds me of the day when I decided to act very grown up and go out with friends without telling her. When I came back quite late she was there peeping from behind the plants in the balcony, carving another wrinkle of worry on her forehead.
And yet with all that we have gained as a mother and daughter, I see the anguish in her eyes of letting me go. Of no more being able to hold my hand and walk on.
She cries very easily now. And I can feel the frailties of old age setting in. Yet she does all she can to smoothen out my life a bit.
I will miss her madly when she goes back.
And I will think again about the wisdom of worldly success at the cost of separation from parents.
Watching her strengthens my intention to return to India.
My husband may earn many thousands less, we may miss out on phoren life, our children might not grow up in a foreign land and get instant access to ivy education but I hope that they get the most important thing in life-love
Everytime I meet my mom, I realise how far I have come from being my mommy’s girl. From that day when I would sulk over her choice of ankle length skirts for me to last weekend when she fished out a knee length skirt from the shop rack and said, "now try this" we girls have weathered a lot of stormy nights and clash of egos.
The simmering angst of the teenage days no longer causes us to cross swords. It is easy to talk to her about frustrations, personal problems, crack jokes and sometimes I almost see her less as a mom and more of a friend.
Cooking is no more a sacrosanct ritual. I no more look wide-eyed as she churns dishes after dishes instead I protest and sulk when she pours all her love in tablespoons of oil and chilli powder.
But I am sure the patience which she shows when I chose to act adult will evaporate and all my pink tinted feelings will be squashed if we decide to live under the same roof.
She is there smiling as I have always known her to when I come back from work.
And it reminds me of the day when I decided to act very grown up and go out with friends without telling her. When I came back quite late she was there peeping from behind the plants in the balcony, carving another wrinkle of worry on her forehead.
And yet with all that we have gained as a mother and daughter, I see the anguish in her eyes of letting me go. Of no more being able to hold my hand and walk on.
She cries very easily now. And I can feel the frailties of old age setting in. Yet she does all she can to smoothen out my life a bit.
I will miss her madly when she goes back.
And I will think again about the wisdom of worldly success at the cost of separation from parents.
Watching her strengthens my intention to return to India.
My husband may earn many thousands less, we may miss out on phoren life, our children might not grow up in a foreign land and get instant access to ivy education but I hope that they get the most important thing in life-love
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