And Here We Go...

In another month, I move to New York, to live and study there. NYU is the university and journalism is the attempt. More specifically, I am going for the 'Cultural Reporting and Criticism' program and I like to believe, this essay is the main reason I got in. :-)

When I was 5, I announced to the family that I was leaving home and promptly walked out; with empty pockets, wide eyes and an animated eagerness about the wonders I was going to see. Needless to say, the quixotic expedition did not last too long. But as I look back to that 10-minute trip, I see the first glimpses of the qualities that have come to define my personality today: a curiosity to explore and experiment, the self confidence to take on the world and the independence of nature to forge my own way. The years and experiences since, have cemented these qualities and more thankfully replaced the childish foolhardiness with a rational prudence.

What the years have also added to the mix is a heightened awareness and sensitivity towards differences, a penchant to seek out and appreciate the unique. Perhaps this fascination with differences has its roots in my upbringing. I am a product of North Indian and East Indian intimacy; an unlikely union of very disparate cultures. While growing up, variety was the norm and its absence was unsettling. I did not find it odd that we spoke not one but three different languages at home; that we followed different customs depending on which side of the family we were interacting with; that we regularly flipped between three to four different cuisines within a week; and that we moved ever so often to live in a new city, state or even country. Very early on, I was taught through example to respect differences, look at them positively and understand their immense value as a source of new learning.

The reason I talk about these inherent and conditioned traits of my personality is because they have been pivotal in alchemizing my potentially mundane life and travel experiences into opportunities for rich cultural learning. A life spent in Bombay, Singapore and Kuwait, with smatterings of other unfamiliar yet exciting countries in Southeast Asia, the Middle East and Europe, has served as breeding ground for the cultural journalist in me. In each of these countries, I played the role of an observer, looking at the differences in traditions, attitudes, ideas and societies. What has intrigued me more however, are the ways in which different cultures interact and evolve under each other’s influence.  And having spent so much of my life outside of India, I find my observation and critical appreciation of these cultures free from any tints of preconception, but not without a sound basis in cultural understanding.

Admittedly, my Indian roots influence my preferences and I most enjoy looking for the Indian story in every new country. Growing up in the urban mosaic of Bombay was an exercise in cultural understanding and adjustment amidst a plethora of pluralities- linguistic, religious, caste-based, and economic. But it helped me grasp that while cultures in a society may manifest in different ways, they usually have similar undercurrents and sensibilities. Between Singapore, Kuwait and India, I have seen multiple personalities of the ‘Indian’. At first glance, the Singapore-Indian dressed in vibrant batik, talking in Singlish and eating vastly different food might seem miles apart from the kurta-saree-donning, Hindi-speaking and butter-chicken eating Indian in India; or completely unlike the adjusting, hard-working, money-motivated migrant Indian in Kuwait accustomed to living a second-citizen life. But upon scrutiny, each of these personalities reveals its uncanny Indian-ness, right down to the obsession with moralities, family-life and saving money.

It is no surprise then that the cultural journalists who inspire me the most write on similar topics and regions. William Dalrymple is one such author whose writings on India display an enviable perceptiveness about the historical influences on modern day India and the reverse impact of this modernity on tradition and historical culture. His writings seek not to judge but rather to reconcile and make sense of the cultural collisions that make up this complex country. Another cultural journalist, whose writing is surprising and inspiring in its insightful observations, is Edward Luce, the author of ‘In spite of the Gods’. Through his account of India’s recent political, economic and social development and its future prospects, Edward Luce demonstrates a rare combination of intimacy and detachment with India. And while doing so, he presents a deeply astute picture of contemporary India, highlighting patterns and connections from within the complexity. As a cultural journalist, it is this kind of insightful and refreshing writing that I aspire to do.

The bulk of my writing so far has explored issues in the same arena. While journalism hasn’t been the focus of my professional efforts before now, writing and reporting have always been an important and satisfying part of my fringe life. Some of my most creatively satisfying times were spent working as the editor of my high-school magazine or writing articles and reviews for the ‘Gourmet’ magazine at college. And even after college, I have pursued this interest through blogging actively about events, travel and food, both Indian and international.

The story of how I got interested in Journalism, though, is a plain- vanilla tale about how I dabbled in this-and-that, before finally realizing that Journalism has always been the elusive answer to the big question, “What do I want to do?” No epiphanies, no ‘Eureka moments’, just a plain simple deliberated choice based on a passion to write. My interest in cultural journalism stems from a love for stories, a flair for writing and an unbridled curiosity about the world, its people and their motivations. I am enamored by the cultural journalist’s role as the documenter of human narrative, the storyteller of our modern times, an explorer within cultures. And I admire the deep understanding required to connect the dots and examine events in the context of cultural, societal and historical currents.

I believe that a person cannot be taught to be a great journalist. The greatness can only come from a true passion for the career and a love for cultural reportage. However, without the method, the madness is just that. And it is this method that I hope to learn through NYU’s Cultural Reporting and Criticism program in journalism. Through the program’s inimitable flavor of thoughtful, insightful criticism and under the tutelage of its exemplary faculty, I hope to learn the art, the finesse and the tools of the trade. I particularly value the program’s focus on amalgamating journalistic skills with an individual writer’s distinctive voice.

My will to pursue cultural journalism is fueled by my belief that I possess a number of raw skills to succeed in this role. My curiosity drives my persistence to get answers. My insight combined with my diligence in research, lets me identify the right questions to ask. And my affable personality and open mind help me make connections with people and develop trusting bonds easily. What ties all these skills together is my ability to engage the reader through the written word.

Perhaps my greatest strength as a cultural journalist lies in my ability to find comfort in the unfamiliar and my willingness to experiment. I notice and embrace the subtle and not-so-subtle differences in cultures, foods, attitudes and thoughts with ease and find myself the richer for it. I am a variegated person, influenced by the many cultures that I have been exposed to. I speak comfortably in 4 different languages besides Hindi but I think mostly in English. I appreciate the colors and beauty of a Hindu Temple as willingly as I take in the serenity of a church or the passionate call-to-prayer of a mosque. I am a lover of different tastes and cuisines and I display as much panache while maneuvering chopsticks as I do while eating with a fork and spoon. At various points in my life I have lived in India, Singapore, Thailand, London and Kuwait and in each of these places I have felt the city’s pulse and assimilated a wealth of cultural insights. Very often I strike up conversations with strangers in unlikely places, to quench my curiosity about lives different from mine and never have I been disappointed.  I revel in the beauty that can come only with multiplicity and I am a connoisseur of the different.

This in turn enriches my narrative as a writer, as a cultural journalist. Inspired by differences, led by curiosity and emboldened by the willingness to experiment, the writer in me finds inspiration at every corner. And the journalist in me sees the exciting possibility of a new narrative, the next story.

Currently reading: Jaya - Devdutt Patnaik

Currently Listening: Big Jet Plane - Angus & Julia Stone, The importance of being idle - Oasis

New York, je t'aime

I spent summer 2010 in New York and wrote this in my journal as I was leaving the city, seated at seat 21D in an Airbus A340, flying from JFK to Singapore. I got round to posting it only now, though.

Two and a half months is a long time. Yet two and a half months can be a really short time. It’s all a matter of perspective.

Two and a half months back, I came to New York City at the break of a dawn- wide eyed, admittedly a little scared and very excited at the idea of living in a city I had heard so much about. And the two and a half months passed by in a blink. And yet, I feel a lifetime of change between then and now.

I try and skim over all my memories in the city and I get lost in their chronology. A lifetime of memories, a lifetime of change, all in a few months- naturally, it’s a blur. I try and recall the morning when I had landed here, intrepidly taken the very notorious New York Taxi and gotten my first glimpse of the city. Did that even count as my first glimpse, for hadn’t I seen this city before? Was it in a movie somewhere? Or had it been on some television show? Or had I perhaps pictured it entirely in my mind, a mosaic of bits and pieces weaned from sightings and readings? I remember the upsurge of feeling I had felt, as I saw Manhattan come into view from the Williamsburg Bridge. I call it feeling, for it sounds too absurd to call it love. But in hindsight, perhaps that is what it had been. And perhaps, I had made up my mind that I would love this crazy place, long before I had even gotten here. And love it, I did. But on that first early morning in New York, I refused to acknowledge the instant love and familiarity I felt for the city, opting instead for a charade of nonchalance and apprehension.

But the city won over, in just a week. Or maybe it was two. In just that short time, I started feeling comfortable in the city, even confident, like I belonged here; and I liked that feeling. Maybe that’s the charm of this city. It makes every visitor feel like they fit in; something for everyone. In my first few weeks, I made lists of places I wanted to see, museums I wanted to visit and must-eats I wanted to savor. But somewhere down the way, I got swept away by the charm of the city and put aside my checklists for a more au naturel approach. I ambled around the city, its parks and cafes and started living my days without any itinerary. I spent hours trying to get to know New York, and the city very willingly twirled and pirouetted as my muse, comfortable in the knowledge that many before me had tried and failed in that pursuit.

I’m in love with a city that I don’t completely understand, and perhaps, because of it too. And try as I might, I can’t pinpoint what it is about New York that I have fallen in love with. Was it the icons? – The view from the Empire State Building, the planned natural ease of Central Park, the garish glamour of Times Square or the imposing grace of Lady liberty. Or was it the sheer collection of intellectual and social stimulation? – Right from museums of all things myriad to infinite clubs paying homage to all kinds of indulgences. Or perhaps the city itself is the greatest spectacle, an effortless orchestration of a daily performance. Whatever it is, I’m besotted: Another casualty of New York’s charm, another fool in love.

Not everyone can understand what I feel for this city and why. And sometimes it’s beyond my comprehension too. For New York is a difficult city to court. The life is difficult, the living is lonely, the streets are dirty, the houses are tiny and the food is expensive. And yet oddly, the city has a certain appeal. Like a raw-edged unconventional- looking man that you can’t take your eyes off, complete with kinks of character and oodles of charm. Yeah, New York is the Javier Bardim of cities!

But here I am now, sitting in a plane that’s pulling out of JFK airport and getting ready to take off any minute. My two and a half months have come to an end and I am leaving my love behind. My thoughts are consumed with this city and I let them flow. I chuckle as I remember my last minute scramble to buy souvenirs at the airport, to try and take a piece of this city back with me. I know, the real souvenirs I carry back are nestled in my heart and mind: the memories of a torrid summer love. But time is abrasive and I know these memories might fade. And so I cling onto a very tangible mug and a t-shirt, both proclaiming ‘I love New York’.

As the plane catches speed and the engine gets louder, the reality of the separation comes crashing down on me and I feel a sense of last minute panic. I close my eyes and calm myself- This isn't where it ends!

Currently Reading: Shalimar the Clown - Salman Rushdie

Currently Listening: High for this- The Weeknd, Even though i'm a woman - Seeker Lover Keeper

Here's attempting a CPR

It doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out that this blog has been defunct for a while. Close to a year. 


And I don't know why I stopped blogging or when. I just did. It started feeling like a chore and I dragged my feet. For a while I kept up the charade of reminding myself that this space existed, that I would be disappointing all of my regular readers (yes all of the two of them) if I didn't post soon. But time destroys many delusions, and it didn't take me long to discover that no one really missed my banter. And that threw this blog into an existential crisis of sorts. It threw up too many questions that I did not immediately have any answers to. Nor did I have the time to figure any of them out.


For you see, sometime during the summer last year, I grew a pair and finally landed up in New york, under the pretense of doing 'Summer at NYU'. And it was lovely, like going to see a lover you've only just dreamt of. And it was lonely, like touching emptiness and finding even that crumbling away till nothing else remained. But that's the thing with these two- loveliness and loneliness; if they don't drive you mad, they will most certainly lead to something good. And in my case, it was love. With myself. I know, I know that sounds incredibly cheesy. And perhaps even cheesier than the very cheesy 'I <3 NY' line. (Which also, I will sheepishly admit, I have repeated on several occasions). But that's what I discovered while walking the streets of NY alone and watching the world pass by from under the shaded canopies of a park or two. That it's all about being comfortable in your skin. That you can't expect anyone to love you if you refuse to love yourself. That it's alright to tell the world to 'fuck off' sometimes, for after it has finished ranting and sulking, it will always come back for round 2. That in you game, you get to set the rules. And that  independence of choice and spirit is really what it's all about. I came back from New York a different person. And selfish as it sounds, I was completely besotted with myself. Time and a more-than-usual social life has taken the sheen off that self-love. But the glow remains. 


And I now know what I want this blog to be, at least for now- a part of the very-self-indulgent discovery of everything I am and can be. For now, I am a narcissistic writer trying to understand herself. And I attempt to make no claims to grandeur or higher purposes. It's back to basics, to where and how it all began.


So excuse me dear reader, while I indulge myself and write for myself. Coz while you are more than welcome to come along for the ride, know that it wasn't made for you. At-least for now.


Currently Reading: Death of Vishnu- Manil Suri
Currently Listening: Anna- Gunnar Madsen, Let go- Frou Frou


PS: So despite all of the claims above, the lack of writing on this blog does have a lot to do with blogger's block and an absolute inability to pick something to write about. So for now, I will just be regurgitating some of the writing that New York inspired me to and hope that just the way a broken down car starts off after being manually pushed for a while, my blogging brain cells will also jump start and make own their way soon.