Phnom Penh - Definitely not India

History has not been kind to it, quite treating it as an illegitimate offspring of France and China. While Vietnam won a glorious war, Laos volunteered into monasteries and Thailand made itself available on world shelves, Cambodia was clearly the neighborhood’s sorrow. When I landed, I expected a struggling nation; its psyche devastated, its limbs torn asunder by its landmines, a country on crutches, being helped walk again by the United Nations.

I was quite right about the United Nations, which for once has played an immense role in reshaping Cambodia’s destiny making it a country safe for a tourist. The Pochentong Airport at Phnom Penh was quite posh dotted with Starbucks and McDonald’s, the parking lot seemed brimming with Land Cruisers. A peaceful traffic jam ensued as I made my exit, my Toyota Corolla inching its way through a scrupulously tidy road. On yonder horizon, rose a brilliantly decorated temple, glittering against the noon sun in gold and scarlet.

A few turns later, on the footpaths, shabbily dressed men sat drinking coffee, a few women in shorts ran around carrying screaming babies. A series of hastily parked tuk tuks completed the scene with the drivers indulging in a gossip session in nearby tea stalls. This marketplace, of butchers, vegetable vendors and the occasionally air conditioned supermarket ran for a few kilometers, reminding me of India, albeit with cleaner roads.

The central part of the city, majestically decorated, seemed a pastiche of Lutyens New Delhi. Immense Boulevards were flanked by massive government buildings, most of them built to dazzle and inspire awe. The Prime Minister’s house occupied pride of place, right at the city center, perhaps engineered by a highly qualified western architect. The Grand Palace of Phnom Penh gleamed in its golden attire, as if it was being repainted everyday. It probably was.

Inside the Grand Palace, lies a tribute to the Buddha lavish in scales unimaginable to such a poor country. A series of cottage pagodas populate a lush garden, with innumerable sidewalks where tourists and Cambodians alike loiter free from the beggars outside. At length, a policeman yawns in the distance seated beneath a tree. Here and there, a monk passes by, hurriedly pointing at your feet, beckoning you remove your footwear before you go into see the many Buddhas. Serene music is heard in the air as you walk into the Silver Pagoda that looks inside like a rich medieval emperor’s sanctum. In this meditative atmosphere, I reflected that Cambodia had quite left its past behind.

While the main roads were left to the local government and embassies, many posh bylanes were quite the privilege of the United Nations and other Developmental Organizations. Tina Mahler, a German girl I met on the flight, told me her government sent scores of undergraduates every year to aid senior Cambodian government officials on public policy. While no doubt, this was an excellent line on a teenage resume, I was not too sure if Cambodia gained in anyway from adolescent advice.

As the sun sank into the Mekong, I sat at the riverside Foreign Correspondents Club which during the war years had captured Cambodia’s past for posterity. Today, it was a retiring museum for old Cambodians and older tourists, who came to discuss politics and bemoan the meddling Americans. Joseph, my Indian friend who worked in the ILO, told me that the Cambodians were cousins to the South Indians. The Mekong saw yearly Snake Boat races, at a much more lavish scale than Kerala. They celebrated their New Year quite similarly to Vishu.. To my queries on whether Cambodia was the mythical Kamboja, Joseph shook his head and pointed out that the Khmer language, though cognate in many ways to Sanskrit, quite could not have been the parent since linguists had concluded that the Indian Paramadharma could have evolved into the Khmer Pamadamri, but not possibly the other way around. So, for most experts, India remains the home of the Ramayana.

Cambodia looked happy, as far as I could see. Not so much, warned Joseph again. It really was a country where people believed in an immutable fate. They accepted what was given to them without raising an eyebrow. It was in this emotionless lack of material attachment that citizens lined up to work for the Khmer Rouge as a preordained tryst with destiny. Most of them, in the 1970s taught their children that death was best for them. When I looked around, I noticed for once, that an entire age group was missing from the streets.

Adolescent advice suddenly did not seem too inappropriate. Half the country was still in childhood, their parents having, at best, reached their late thirties. On the other extreme were old people, most with disabilities, the few who had survived the last thirty years. The rest, had either been responsible for the crimes and got away, or had been bred outside and had returned with the normalcy. It was perhaps for this very reason, that Cambodia does not seem very interested in pursuing its war criminals. At some point in their lives, everyone had sinned.

On a narrow lane that could pass off in India as a busy market road, lies a decrepit school. Outside the stenches of seafood mix with the aroma of flowers, a legless landmine victim salutes you asking for a dollar and a few street children hawk souvenirs, guessing Delhi as my capital and astounding me with some Tamil words. They pursue you relentlessly until you are forced to oblige, one. And then you are smothered. ‘Well, it happens in India too.’ I said to myself as I stepped into the school.

The school could easily have found itself a respectable clientele in India. It had a large overgrown playground, large spacious classrooms with narrow corridors and narrower staircases where you could imagine rambunctious little ones skating and skidding, screaming their lungs out in their best years. You could quite imagine the tiny spots beneath the trees where puppy love would have expressed itself, relationships cemented, giggles and gossip ruled supreme. Then your heart sank as you realized that the Khmer Rouge had it turned into the largest torture camp of their regime.

As you walked through the corridors, you feel those corridors have seen true extremities of life. The joyous laughter of children seems eerily drowned by the moans and laments of the hundred of victims who were kept in conditions that were last heard of during the Nazi holocaust. With each storey, new stories are told. A woman had smashed her head desperately against the wall; a man had dared to ask for more food in his last breath, a series of three feet cubicles, wooden ones for the fortunate, brick ones for those with ‘special’ needs. A barbed wire encloses the corridors to prevent the suicidal ones from liberating themselves.

Those who survived Tuol Sleng, were transported to Choeung Ek, an airy Chinese Orchard 20 km from Phnom Penh. Thirty years after the fall of the Khmer Rouge, I took the drive, not in a prison van but a Toyota Corolla. From outside, it seemed like a war memorial set in an expansive lawn. Footpaths meandered their way around golf like dug outs, into which children jumped in and out in glee, roosters pecked their way and dogs had their afternoon siesta. In the middle was a concrete monument that looked like a shabby watchtower.

It is inside that watchtower that the sturdiest of human hearts can crumble as row upon row of carelessly strewn human skulls glare at you. Some are replete, most having been damaged while their owners were still alive. All these skulls belonged to sons, daughters, mothers, fathers, relatives, friends and sweethearts. Each skull once held a dream, once had desires, had cried, smiled and had known human emotions. To see this end to such a large number is shattering. Rather instinctively, as if in prayer, my camera went back into its pouch to give these souls a dignity in death.

Outside the assault on the emotions continues as the golf like depressions which could handle seven or eight people at best are revealed to have been mass graves of hundreds. A harmless looking tree once had babies smashed against it by parents who had been coerced to do so, another tree had heard the screams of men and women as they got vivisected, a branch was used as a gallows among other things, that are hard to put in words.

That evening, I took a flight to Siem Reap, much of during which, I could neither eat nor sleep, haunted by my experience, and given to pondering about the baseness of human nature. The megalomania of Pol Pot and the willingness of those under him to betray their dearest ones, not out of greed but out of faith. And then in a trance, an Indian life came back to me, with its myriad relationships, smiles, dejections, backbiting and loyalty. Above all, the trust in god, which was unshakeable but still discriminating. I thought to myself, ‘This is not India.’

Happiness Above All Else

Happiness Above All Else

Large Hearted People in a Small Country

‘Taxis available at the tea stall outside Paro airport.’ Declared our Lonely Planet guidebook as our Druk Air meandered through the Eastern Himalaya and came to land on a jarring concrete strip amidst lush green foliage. A couple of wooden huts greeted us as we landed, as did an unsteady Himalayan breeze which rankled our hair as we walked down the tarmac to a structure, perhaps the lodging of a moderately successful businessman in India. Outside, true to our guidebook, was a nondescript stall with a congregation of men in traditionally Bhutanese gho each sipping besides carelessly strewn Maruti Vans, bantering on current Dzongkha movies and the last Archery contests.

We considered ourselves lucky when one such individual accosted us with an effusive Hindi, which we did not know was a de facto second language for any Bhutanese connected with tourists. When one engaged us in English, we hopped on. “To Thimphu” we said. “To collect our permits to the interior country.” With us came Amar, a nature enthusiast and his wife, whose name we never found out. While the man wished to photograph rare wildlife, the wife had accompanied him with the sole motive of shopping, relaxing and ruining her husband’s pleasure.

The government offices in Thimphu were neatly arranged like festival stalls on a single side of a main thoroughfare. A tiny square blue plate hung above each door, proclaiming the building as the office of a particular department. On each door was stuck a page torn from a notebook saying ‘Please dress in formal wear.’ Each door opened to a portrait of His Majesty the King of Bhutan and his father, beyond which sat two or three sleepy people who ran that department. RC, our driver, strode in majestically, and in an hour, got us permits.

‘No corruption in Bhutan’ said RC, en route back to Paro. ‘However, to get you permits on a holiday, RC needs to do some corruption. RC knows all government officials’ he triumphantly completed. Subsequently, RC also treated us to Tibetan butter tea which we reciprocated with a meal of Ema Datse, the ubiquitous Bhutanese delicacy of red chilies steamed in cheese sauce. ‘My wife has married four times’ beamed RC, taking pride in her accomplishment, ‘I was her second.’

Now and then, RC would doff his hat at policemen, who would sternly nod in return. He would park at off limit zones and even skipped the only traffic signal in Bhutan winking at the peeved constable. While speeding through the empty but narrow mountain highways, RC would periodically slow down near bypassing women and offer them rides in our car – none of which were accepted thankfully. When we learnt that our five hundred rupee notes were not acceptable in Bhutan, he gladly accepted them instead. His behavior, though clearly brazen was quite amusing to us.

Paro consisted essentially of two parallel streets, flanked on either side by ‘General’ Stores, each specializing in different groceries. A hotel or two was thrown in between, a saloon or bank would occupy the remainder. The Paro Dzong situated on a hill overlooked the entire township. In between snaked the Paro river, with crystal clear water. On its banks were men in gho practicing archery. The women of the family, bedecked in khira would be squatting safely nearby, brewing liquor, tea and gossip for their warriors. At length, we would pass monks, scurrying up and down steps to and from the Dzong where they lived. They quite seemed the only people in any sort of hurry since they anyway ran the country.

Of The Tiger’s Nest

It was at night, over the meal of Ema Datse and a cup of unique Red Panda beer that we realized that all RC’s claims of knowing everyone else, could be made by just about anyone in such a small city. Our five hundred rupee notes were not legal, but quite acceptable. And that nearly every one spoke English. In fact, at many places, though the permit was legally required, it could easily be substituted for by sheepish smiles and obsequious apology, as we found out at Taktsang.

Taktsang is to Bhutan what the Taj Mahal is to India. It liberally garnishes its physical splendor with fantastic legends. The local tale has it that Guru Rimpoche, who preached Buddhism to most of Bhutan, flew on the back of a tigress to subdue a powerful diety, giving it the name Taktsang meaning Tiger’s Nest. Since then Taktsang has been served well by a line of monks completely interred within its complex, a steep stairway for pilgrims on one side and a sheer cliff on the other.

At the foothill, that is simply named, ‘The End of the Road’, modernity concedes to nature as cars, restrooms and water stalls cease to exist. Occasionally, during the grueling ascent, the monastery peeps out, through the trees and Buddhist Prayer Flags. But for most of the time, the destination is forgotten and life is lived in the present tense. It is easy to overestimate your physical prowess and run up the hill. It is after the first half an hour, that you feel the weight of every step you take. It is when a Bhutanese toddler and his apparently pregnant mother overtake you that you gloomily decide to prod along.

‘How much more to go’ I would ask almost everyone I saw coming down. ‘An hour and a half,’ some Japanese pensioners would say. ‘You are young and can do it in one, it is really worth it.’

‘Two, then.’ I would think to myself feeling my energy seeping away.

Over half an hour, while my cousin Ajit had long vanished ahead of me, I found that I had scarcely covered a hundred feet. I then decided to aim at the halfway point instead, a solitary tea stall that provided the best view of the cliff and the monastery atop it. It also served the hottest Ema Datse, burning you just when your entrails needed some fire inside. My cousin, ashamed at my absolute lack of fitness had been waiting there for eternity.

‘I took many photos, and wanted to enjoy the scenery.’ I lied like an indignant child caught stealing jam.

Instead of jam, however, I gulped down some biscuits and suza. The tea stall also is a place where trekkers meet each other. As we went up, we met the family of Sonam Tharcheng, consisting of an impish four year old son, an exasperated wife trying to make her son wear his sweater and his two teenage nephews who had studied in Coimbatore. They were evidently setting up for a hill top picnic and upon meeting us, decided to let us partake of it. While coming down, we also met a trio, one of whose husbands was a waiter in New York, and another who proclaimed a crush on Ajit and promptly gifted him a bear hug.

It is indeed a proud moment when the trek ends and you reach the top of the hill. Taktsang, which hitherto looked as big as a pea, now covers your entire vision. You then wish you could just jump across the ravine, hug Taktsang and finish this journey. ‘Not so fast’, the monastery says. ‘First a steep gorge 200 metres down and up again. I have made it a trifle easier for you; the whole path has steps - a few thousand of them.’ From the other side, my cousin, having reached, was getting exasperated watching me pull myself up each step, four feet high and broad enough to keep half my foot. It was also getting eerily close to lunch, and Taktsang would close. Thankfully, I made it. To drive home the point, I made the same voyage back again – not that I had much choice. As the aged Japanese had sagaciously claimed, it was worth every bit.

Of The Top Gear Escape

It was perhaps a wise move to leave RC out of our subsequent scheme of things. Consequently, we had to give the slip to our Bengali friends too, who had been ensnared. For one, we would be much the fleet footed without RC’s machinations. To add to that, Kaka Tshering simply gave us a better deal. A deal of ten thousand rupees earned us a Honda Santa Fe four wheeled drive for four days, to use as we please. Punakha, Phobhjikha and Trongsa opened out to us.

Kaka Tshering was a burly archery enthusiast with rock star locks, betel nut stained teeth and a predilection towards the raunchy lyrics of Akon. While RC claimed acquaintance to Bhutan and made a huge show of it, Kaka never bragged that most of the country consisted of his cousins. At every restaurant, he would vanish behind the kitchen. He would materialize miraculously just as we wound up claiming to have eaten his due. His relatives would often peep into our car, stopped in the middle of the road, merely to ask us where we were from.

‘My wife lives far away.’ He grinned to us. ‘I need to go through Assam every six months to go visit her.’

The Punakha Dzong lies at the confluence of two rivers, named the Mother and the Father, to neutralize the bad effects of such a confluence, according to Bhutanese belief. The two courtyards house each the government offices and the monastic body. In the middle is the stupa or chorten of the highest stature, to be prayed in by the Chief Lama. Its towering whitewashed walls, elaborately decorated with woods in red and gold provide an artistic sight with the sun peeping from between the rooftops. Within the vast courtyards, monk children play, oblivious to the harsh and regimented life that awaits them. Elder monks shooed us as we tried peering into the sanctums. They motioned their hands, hushing us if we got too inquisitive.

Of The Lair of the Black Necked Crane

We climbed up the mountains to 3500 meters, at the end of which we were rewarded by a clear sky at Pele La pass, which is rare in any given year. At that height, Western Bhutan spectacularly made way to Central Bhutan with a breathtaking sight of an entire mountain range stretching across the visible spectrum. Jhumolhari( 7314m), Jichu Drakye (6989m) and several others appear like white capped students in a vast classroom. From that vantage point, our Honda sleighed downhill to Phobhjikha.

The snow that we had avoided thus far, hit us with full force as we trudged our way to Phobhjikha. A ghastly gale started blowing and we decided that it would be prudent to stop for some suza at a lone cottage. We walked in to find that we were clearly not respecting business hours and the family was watching its share of post dinner television around the fireplace. A baby was suckling its mother, a grandmother was knitting just as another daughter was fanning the embers of Bukhara. We, however, were most welcome. We not only got our fill of suza or butter tea, but also got choices of some traditional Bhutanese cookies and savories. We were politely asked not to pay saying we had come as guests and not customers. We promised them to come back for lunch – and pay, the next day.

All Phobhjikha has is a couple of farmhouses and badly equipped hotels to stay in. Being the haunt of the Black Necked Cranes from Siberia, electricity is not encouraged in Phobhjikha. Most activity happens thus in candlelight. For us it meant, sleeping without a heater, with a Bukhara that would certainly not last the entire night. It also meant bathing in freezing water since the water became cold by the time you removed your clothes and got ready for your ablutions. To add to that misery, the quilts in the beds themselves were frigid from the inside. You essentially had to grittily bear the cold and wait for your body heat to transfer, before the blanket offered you protection. For once, the bed was not very inviting. Conversely, it took courage, in the morning, to step out of your blanket and be frozen before you got to your sweater. It was as authentic as Bhutan got.

The valley of Phobhjikha is a vast yellow field, the size of twenty cricket fields punctuated by a few ramshackle cottages. The grass grows to knee level, the cranes fly at a distance, altogether avoiding our cameras. The field occasionally gives way to marshland. The hills surrounding us contain an impressive catalog of fauna that includes Red Panda, Black Bear and Sambhar Deer. Most memorably, in that biting cold, the caretaker of the local museum bathed merrily in stream water.

Of a Journey Through the Looking Glass

As we drove into Trongsa, civilization reappeared. It was a town the size of a morning walk, where Kaka gleefully let us alone to go meet everyone else in the city. We ambled around the city outskirts, observing an otherwise sleepy city, getting ready to celebrate its annual tsechu. The Trongza Dzong characteristically towers over the city. Above lies the Trongsa Tower which also has a museum. In the Land of the Thunderbolt, just as we reached the summit of the tower, we had to retreat, threatened by some flashes in the sky. As we descended, a fleet footed apparition robed in monkish attire rushed up to greet us. Lama Lopen Loday, the Deputy Curator of the Trongsa Museum greeted us as guests from the country he had studied in. “Many of my Indian friends from Gaya cannot make it to Bhutan, so I make it a point to help out Indians,” he said.

A discussion on politics ensued, where the Lama crossed his fingers that Bhutan is the most peaceful country in the subcontinent. He ominously predicted the fall of Bihar. “You cannot trust anyone there.” He said, then adding that the South, Chennai and Bangalore, were a lot better. Democracy he said had made Bhutan a lot more acceptable, although, it quite had not solved any problem. The Monarchy, he said had perhaps been singularly responsible for maintaining stability in Bhutan, through its excellent relationship with India. “India protects us, gives us food, access to ports and lends us electricity.” He added

It was the same electricity, imported from India that failed us again, when we finally decided to take up the Lama’s offer and visit the Museum. Bhutanese hospitality was once again on display when the guides treated us to an hour of tea and biscuits and then agreed to take us in candle-light after opening hours. Once we finally lit the candle, the lights came on. Dorji Zongma, who had studied college in Coimbatore, took us through a timeline of the Bhutanese monarchy.

Bhutanese education does not stop with factual history. Though the achievements of the monarchy are stressed upon, there is significant religious bias inculcated in the schools. The monarchy is mentioned as an effect of religion. The Shabdrung, who founded the Trongsa Dzong is revered next only to Guru Rinpoche, who is considered an incarnation of the Buddha. On a daily basis however, no one is quite as beloved, as the Kings, Jigme Singye Wangchuck and his young, bachelor son, Jigme Khesar Namgyal.

No article on Bhutan is perhaps complete without a mention of the benign dictatorship of Wangchuk dynasty for the last 100 years. The Bhutanese in turn, treat their kings as Messengers of God and show genuine regard for them. A portrait of the King greets you into most shops and each citizen wears a badge with the picture of the present King. The concept of Gross National Happiness, preached by the Bhutanese Monarchy postulates that happiness in spirit, religion and environment means more than material comfort. The King Jigme Singye Wangchuk also set a historical precedent by ushering in parlimentary democracy, allowing a two thirds majority, if ever, to depose the Monarchy. It is perhaps highly likely that by the end of his years, he will be hailed as one of the greatest kings to have ever lived.

The chief purpose of our entire visit was the Trongsa tsechu or festival, which Lama Loday took us through rather enthusiastically. “You are very lucky to see this.” He told us repeatedly, reliving his years when he used to participate as one of the dancers. The tsechu is held in each district once a year. It is considered an annual necessity to attend at least one of these. Predictably, the entire region, surrounding towns and villages tend to crowd the Dzong in full grandeur to witness a rendition of Bhutan’s Buddhist past. We even saw the baby, replete with family, in whose house we had had the most welcome glass of tea ever.

The Black Hat dance, Dance of the Zodiacs, the arrival of Guru Rimpoche and the capturing of the Imperial Throne by Ugyen Wangchuk trace the Bhutan of two thousand years weaving together mythology and history seamlessly. While monks perform the key roles, women contribute as singers filling in and village men, dress up as clowns to exhort the youngest section of the audience. These clowns had enormous significance, as the Lama pointed out, since amidst their jestering, they were also responsible for arranging the elaborate dresses of the performers and acting as prompters to those who missed their steps.

It was a five day affair, of which we could spend barely one. With a woeful countenance, we bid adieu to Lama Lopen Loday, who gingerly posed for a photograph and took the arduous drive back to Paro. If there is one thing we could take back from Bhutan, it is about the powerlessness of money towards happiness. The next evening, when we tipped Kaka, he handed it back to us saying that he would not accept it from his friends. The least we could do was to take down his email address and promise to mail him all the photographs. So far, we have not kept our promise.

Shanghai - Of Pearl Towers and Opium Dens

The typical Shanghai stereotype conjures up an image of opium dens and of streets lit up at night with paper lanterns, through whose cobble stoned alleyways, malnourished rickshaw pullers run barefoot with a pipe smoking businessman toting whips. Pigtailed men scamper about in pyjamas rapping on wooden doors to be opened by grubby handed children and long faced women. The HuangPu River is an assortment of meat, insects, fish and vegetables being rowed by old peasant women from PuDong across the bank. Those were the days when Nanjing Street was an infamous thoroughfare where peasants, businessmen, thieves and nobility converged, in no particular order and where the uninitiated would have little chance of coming back unscathed.

A mere twenty years ago, Shanghai would have lived up to that expectation. Pudong was still farmland and the river that separated it from PuXi was a slimy mass of agricultural waste on which boats functioned as marketplaces. Today, however, Shanghai is leading the biggest economic boom in human history. Our first trip from the airport to the city typified this. From our Magnetic Levitation train, we watched in awe as the farmlands gave way to factories and factories merged into high rise apartments at the breakneck speed of 450 kmph. It was a cinema of development in fast forward mode. The panorama from our hotel room reinforced this fact. On the left was a market, not more than two storeys high, built of red brick in 1923. A horse cart had stopped to unload. On the right, emerged an array of skyscrapers with flyovers snaking between them. From one end to the other, braving an incessant drizzle, an endless line of people walked briskly to their workplaces, while old people exercised rigorously in the park below.

Nanjing Street is still the commercial centre today, but replacing the shantytowns of yore, is a swanky neon-lit pedestrian boulevard flanked by eateries and malls. The street vendors have long since graduated from sitting down in the pavement and yelling out their bargains. It is now done on rollerblades. A girl skates viciously on collision track with you, and stops just as you take evasive action. She then takes out her catalogue promising you ‘authentic’ luxury brands for a tenth of the cost. By the time you are done refusing one, you are accosted by the next.

On one end of Nanjing Street is the Bund, the riverbank of the HuangPu where the Europeans built their financial centre in the early twentieth century. Much of it still remains untouched, but for the flag of Red China now flying over all those colonial buildings. Look across yonder horizon, and there rises the jaw dropping skyline of PuDong, with the Oriental Pearl Tower living up to its name and illuminating the night sky. Plying the river today, are luxury yachts and cruisers, looking more like mobile amusements parks than their vegetable boat ancestors.

From the other end of Nanjing Street, a short walk away lies Renmin Square, the political and business district of the metropolis. One would imagine a newly wealthy city to look like a concrete monstrosity but at Renmin Square, high rise skyscrapers lie garnished in generous amounts by lush green lawns and wide footpaths. The ubiquitous aged, add to the scene taking evening walks and smiling at passers by.

Despite its commendable economic progress, Shanghai has cultivated its past, if not to preserve it, purely to maintain tourist interest. The heritage villages of Qibao and Zhaozhuang lie close by and offer a peep into a Shanghai that could have been true just yesterday. However, since you are already aware that they are settings, all the oriental charm is lost on you. Similar is the case with Yuyuan market, where you feel like you have walked into a Western Mall bedecked in an Oriental theme. However, there is a Shanghai tucked away beneath, which still has its insect markets and lantern drug peddlers skunking away in alleyways where the foreign tourist would have little chance of being comprehended.

At the foot of the Oriental Pearl Tower, lies an exhibition of Shanghai down the Ages. One relives the years, beginning from the Opium Wars in the middle 19^th century, through Shanghai’s colonial legacy on to its significant role in the People’s Revolution. In Renmin Square, lies a post modern building where the grand plans for a future Shanghai are made. The fact that the Chinese government down the ages has remained steadfast to their plans has helped Shanghai in no uncertain amount. It is the latest great city in the World’s Oldest Civilization, today, the gateway to the greatest enigma of our times – China.

Xi'an - Three Thousand Years in a Blink

While planning a trip to China, my chief focus had been on Shanghai and Beijing. I had carelessly thrown in Xi’an into the itinerary, solely to see the Terracotta Warriors. I had heard it was a provincial city with an alarming crime rate and had assumed that the barren plateau city situated in the interior of China had escaped the progress that was propelling its coastal cousins. Had I known better, I would have caught a better glimpse of the sight from the plane.

It was only after seeing an Atlas at our hotel that I realized that the drab looking expanse of dull brown that would have been visible from the plane was the Great Taklamakan, once the haunt of such celebrated giants of history such as Genghis Khan and his legendary nephew Khublai. The city we had landed in was not a one wonder site; we had unwittingly landed in the Eastern terminus of the Ancient Silk Route. In its heyday, Xi’an was one of the largest cities in the world, popularly referred to in Chinese as the City of a Million People.’ Though many cities today lay claim to such populations, Xi’an having earned that epithet in the fifth century speaks volumes about it preeminence at that time.

Xi’an could be called the Grandmother of Chinese history. It has a past, not the least starting from the formidable Qin Shi Huang of the fifth century BC who built his famous underground army to protect him in his afterlife. The terracotta warriors were unearthed as recently as 1974 when a serendipitous pail of water drew up fragments of a warrior’s head from a farmer’s well. Today, archaeologists stay baffled at the incredible detail of each unique statue, from hairstyle to armor replete with decorations and epaulettes.

The matriarch periodically took centre stage for the next two thousand years, being the capital, of the Qin, Han and the Tang dynasties. While Europe descended into the Dark Ages, Xi’an flourished as paths converged from India, Japan, Rome and Arabia making it the largest marketplace of the last millennium. While even today, we often regard the coastal cities of Shanghai and Guangzhou to be gateways to China, far before those cities existed; Xi’an was at the terminus of a highway that extended as far as Justinian’s Byzantium and Caligula’s Rome.

The Muslim Quarter of Xi’an more than anything else, is redolent of the famous caravanserais of the Silk Route. Inhabitants following the tenants of Islam nevertheless, are decidedly Chinese. In this small section flanked by the Drum Tower, lie twisting by lanes and back alleys inhabited by a community with a shared inheritance of leather, wool and shanty shops which were bequeathed to them 40 generations ago. Quaint old Chinese men in skullcaps drink tea seated next to burning embers beneath a skewered Chicken. The kebabs, gosht and lamb curry have recipes last modified in the 8^th century.

For a tourist, Xi’an can be wonderfully easy to traverse. The ancient walls enclosing it have been restored and offer a breathtaking panorama spanning three millennia. As one goes from the Bell Tower end to the Drum tower end, a swanky mall stares down the Marketplace of the Muslim Quarter. History accompanies you on every turn and slaps you on the face with a thousand year old temple here and a seven hundred year old shrine on every sight.

The Wild Goose Pagoda is 1400 years old and at its entrance is an imposing statue of Huang Tsang, whose travels chronicle 7^th century India. Quite appropriately, the area around the pagoda is punctuated by a series of Indian restaurants where we satiated our vegetarian appetites. Although their food is authentic, their names clearly indicate a bad job at copying. As we strolled down, we came across restaurants called Amitra, Rummi, Aaja and one rather triumphantly, The India Vegetables Restoront. Our Chinese host, after blaming his countrymen for bowdlerizing Indian cuisine, graciously took us in one of them to certify the authenticity of their Naan and Paneer. If the recipes had been passed down through the Silk Route, need I have said more?

The recipes passed the Indian test but not the songs they played. My cousin rather politely pointed out to them that those songs really weren’t in any Indian tongue. The owner, excited at the first Indians to have tasted his pastiche cooking, then went on to play some songs in, of all languages – Tamil. A detailed discussion on the finer points of Indian cooking ensued and the not so subtle demarcation between North Indian and South Indian cooking was conveyed to the owner of a restaurant by a pair of Tamilians who had never cooked a meal on their own in their lives. “Marinate the dough in curd.” we told him professing age old sagacity. And then a more sensible piece of advice, “You must play Tamil songs only if you are serving South Indian food.” The owner nevertheless lapped it all up and at the end of the meal, it was he with a fuller stomach. Taking our advice rather seriously, he played us a farewell Hindi song after confirming with us that the language was suitable to the meal we had just had. If only, he had consulted us before naming his hotel Cacaja.

What is commerce but an intercourse of people with one set of needs with another? Above an exchange of goods, commerce enables people of differing habits to observe each other, learn about each other and more importantly, assess themselves in a larger classroom. Xi’an was that large multiethnic classroom for much of its past. Today, with the advent of modern China, Xi’an is increasingly littered with Starbucks and Gucci. Ronald McDonald greets you into dinner. A tourist feels pampered slicing into a pizza and looking out of the window onto the Bell Tower. But, it is exactly these influences that are etching away Xi’an’s unique place in the timeline of humanity. A tourist should rather be forced to eat the falafel of the Islamic Market than be allowed the hedonistic choice of a dozen French patisseries. If western commercialization is good for the rest of the world, they should leave Xi’an alone as a showpiece relic of the bygone era.

Behind the Bamboo Curtain

The Chinese have been the biggest enigma of human history. For centuries, they have been a formidable force, best left alone by other powers. Their confounding language has been the best protector of their unequalled culture and at the same time limited them in their contact with the outside world. Intermittent exchanges did happen between China and the outside world, most significantly by Marco Polo, who on his deathbed when asked if he had made up his stories replied that he had hardly bequeathed a trifle of what he had seen to posterity.

If I told you I had gone into a cocoon to see the transformation taking place inside, you’d probably glare at me disbelievingly and then dismiss it as imagination working over time. But in the Beijing of today, it is transformation of a similar sort that is happening. The last hundred years have been but an aberration in the glorious book of oriental history, perhaps the only ones when China was relegated to poverty and ravaged by western powers. In the 21st century, the People’s Republic of China is busy setting things right.

The Chinese have done a remarkable job in seamlessly blending their oriental heritage with new age pragmatism. It is still a country where the older generation is revered and allowed to live on government expense, while the younger generation furiously tries to grasp English as a gateway to the western world. The young scurry to work cramming up the subway while cars on the road gently wait for a group of aged cyclists to pass. In historical monuments like the Temple of Heaven, one sees China as if in prototype. Besides the tourist thronging the Ming Temple, one sees the slow motion Tai Chi of the elders and the fast paced acrobatics of the younger through the same lens. You see games that seem simple, until you try them out on your own and then you realize why the Chinese have such mastery over the skill of hand-eye coordination. It somehow shames you that an eighty year old woman is capable of more exertions than you are. You then realize that there is a nation full of them.

The Chinese also blend rural hospitality with urban grace. “Which country?” asked a security guard at Tiananmen Square, in what was probably the only English he knew. “Ying Du” we retorted in the only Chinese we knew. “Ying Du!” he repeated with a toothy smile which was all the muscular movement he was allowed. “Ying Du!” yelled the bus conductress who proceeded

 to tell our Chinese friends that we reminded her of a pair of Indian twins with such captivating eyes that she had permanently etched them in her memory. “Pyau Lyang!” she said, Beautiful. “Ying Du!” said the waiter at a restaurant, who proceeded who twist and turn his body then in mock Bollywood dance which was what he knew best of India. While on food, a couple of finicky vegetarians could not have had it better than in Beijing, provided one knew how to order in Chinese – or had people do it for them.

In most tourist monuments, we were party to a series of curious stares ranging from children to the toothless aged. Now and then, a child would wave to us and beam excitedly when we waved back in return. Parents of the child would ask us to pose with their baby, for a memorable photo with the Ying Du cousins. A pair of women at the Temple of Heaven forcibly shoved us together to click themselves with us, as if we were celebrities.

Beijing is a giant museum of art. The minor display is being dismantled to make way for modernity, but the priceless is being preserved for eternity. The extravagant Summer Palace captures the oriental glory of China best. Set amidst sylvan surroundings beside a lake replete with tea house islands connected by exquisite bridges, layer upon layer of golden houses for various strata of nobility, lead you up a hill to the grandest house of them all, that of Empress Dowager Ci Xi, with the nine dragons on the roof proclaiming it as the dwelling of the highest rank. The Palace also has a Venicesque canal side market called Suzhou Street which was meant for the Empress’ prerogative.

If the Great Wall North of Beijing is a scarf of golden silk draped over an endless mountain range, in the Forbidden City, these yarns of silk are woven into reams of scarlet and twirled around. A murky cloud gathered and rain began, adding to the mystique of it all, as we walked through the halls, chambers and harems reliving the last five hundred years of China’s royalty, braving the icy rain and strong gale retracing the royal footsteps of yore. It is enchanting to have been permitted into an enclosure where commoners were forbidden not so long ago and at the end of it all, we felt as if we had just witnessed an architectural symphony, in the largest, most mysterious, palace in the world.

Once out of the Forbidden City, the past quickly merges into the present – the vast expanse of Tiananmen Square, political centre of new age China. A portrait of Mao Zedong sternly looks on from the gate well across the largest public square in the world, the size of twelve football fields. At the far end of the square is the mausoleum with his embalmed body. In between are planted the famous flags of Red China. At every interval, stands a guard at stiff attention. A strong sound of footsteps signals a platoon of the world’s largest army staging a mock drill under the watchful eyes of their first General, Chairman Mao.

China has not only done justice to its erstwhile royalty, but also the common man down the ages. Designated areas called Hutongs still have the narrow plebian roads. The tourist is somehow pleased to see a familiar China that is so often portrayed in books and western cinema. The 19th century air is redolent of all the stereotypes that foreigners have of China, of long haired men in pyjama wear, yelling out wares in an overcrowded market place through which, you, as a foreigner, engage a hand pulled rickshaw to maneuver. More than reinforce the stereotype, the Hutongs dispel your misconceptions about a country marching straight ahead into the future.

During the Olympics, the Bird’s Nest Stadium will play host to the rest of the world and showcase China’s sporting might. Glittering hotels have been built, new roads laid and a plush subway soon to be opened. The Soviet Iron Curtain has long fallen and now covers only China. Behind the Bamboo Curtain, Beijing is the key performer of the show, adding final touches to her make up. In August at the world stage, the curtain will rise, the cocoon will break. But instead of the butterfly, the Dragon will emerge.

The One Night Stand - Singapore

In a very perfect world, Singapore would be the capital. Blessed with an equable climate, ably guided by a benign dictatorship that has scrupulously stuck firmly to the highway to prosperity and infused with a delightful motley culture blending European, Chinese, Indian and Malay civilizations, it has few reasons to complain.

It was going to be one of my least planned trips. I had not bothered to set forth an itinerary for myself since it was my stop over en route back from China. Somehow, I treated Singapore with step motherly disdain after conquering the Dragon Kingdom. Vasudha had graciously agreed to chaperone me around and that was reason enough for me to throw up my legs and shirk off any responsibilities.

To the start up traveler, Singapore really needs no planning. One could land one fine morning and then expect to be taken care of from like a baby. Singapore opens up via the luxurious Changi Airport with interior decorations that make it look like a tropical island in itself. Changi is a resort on its own and it is of no surprise that many visitors consider the airport a tourist attraction on its own.

One just needs to know how to read for Singapore to open itself to you. The entire country is filled with tourist assistants and before you know it, you are taking the subway to Raffles Square. My pocket tourist guide, i.e. Vasudha took me home where I scrubbed myself clean and then took on Singapore, a lumbering lazy stroll.

Singapore really does not need a war foot. Not the least when you are blissfully protected by your cousin who is footing all your bills and stoically bearing with all your nuisance in a country that is known for its prudishness. What it needs is a laid back attitude, a willingness to stretch your arms, yawn and let the government do its bit for you. Just keep in mind the little things that Singapore really frowns upon, littering, chewing gum or keeping your car dirty – a fact that Vasudha had not so gently reminded me about.

The Subway or the MRTS as the Singaporeans call it, is a lesson in clockwork precision, something I really need. Every station could pass off for a five star hotel corridor in less scrupulous countries. And just in case you lose your way, go in and ask. You not only get directions, but you get a slip of paper with instructions clearly printed. The tourist is so welcome.

Singapore is a fussy matron, much like my fond sister and has made sure no inch of land is defaced. Since it does not have to face fallen leaves in autumn, every concrete flyover is covered with appropriate leaves. The 100 acre Jurong Bird Park for instance, hardly looks like a separate enclosure for birds than just an extension of Singapore countryside. Any exceptions from the equatorial rainforest are suitably camouflaged and made to appear very natural. You can walk into a penguin habitat which is a large refrigerator covered outside entirely by natural tropical vegetation. You would never guess from outside.
You just notice a complete absence of crows. The tourist does not even have to worry about being crow blessed since they have all been shot down.

I could imagine how Singapore reacts to the tiniest speck of dirt creasing its roads and of course, it is a great badge of honour to have been fined in Singapore for deliberately putting a wrapper of toffee on the road, but Vasudha did not share my sense of humour and I obliged her with mock disappointment.

My other mock disappointment was that my only association with a durian was seeing the shape of the Singapore Esplanade. The stinky fruit is forbidden in most other places including the MRTS. I tried around Changi Airport, confident that in the Indian stench, a durian could hardly be noticed, but then, Changi apparently did not want its passengers to be indulging in “foul” activities either.

I call myself a rugged globe trekker and I realized what a needless effort all that is, when in Singapore, all that the world can offer you is available on a platter. Singapore provides you gastronomic delight of the entire world’s cuisine, sights of all the world’s fauna and flora and acquaintances from the entire world’s people. All in a country the figurative size of a peanut. The benign dictatorship sees to it that your tiniest whims are met and that your precious belongings are safe. And for all this, I have seen Singapore but for a day. One day, if I do not have enough money to take myself on a honeymoon to Italy or if I am cursed with a particularly nagging wife, I might choose to come back to Singapore. Why bother with anything else?

A Wasted Power

The outright ban by Malaysia on Indian workers is an unprecedented move by any democratic nation clearly raking of discrimination. However, the blame for this outcome of events solely lies with India not making appropriate use of its enormous historical and demographic clout throughout its independent history.

The Indian independence was a catalyst to the fall of the colonial era. It has remained the first and till date, only example ever of an empire bowing down to non violent protest – an achievement no doubt earth shaking. India in its early days, advocated just causes, with a clear mandate to the greatest good for the greatest number. This was best defined by the visionaries of the Non Aligned Movement which once enjoyed the membership of more nations than both the power blocs put together.

India, at that moment, was a new power rising in the East. To the economically emaciated third world with scarce opinion at global decision making, India represented hope for their perspective, a new voice to be heard, a voice that bespoke economic progress, security and above all peace, the world’s largest democracy whose success newly independent nations tried to emulate, a country that despite its penury had not surrendered its soul. The third world identified with India and the feeling was mutual.

All that ended when India, even as the de facto leader of the NAM decided to tilt its diplomatic axis towards the Soviet Union. The once paragon of truth and justice had shown its selfish opportunism in putting its myopic gains over the rest of the world. India further lost face when after the fall of the Soviet Union, India slowly but surely made an effort to realign itself with the American pole. India showed the rest of the world that it was no voice of justice but a sycophant whose allegiance is purely materialistic. The most severe ramifications of this have been India’s repeated failures to secure its place on several International High Tables including ASEAN, the G-8 and of course the UN Security Council. India, far from learning from mistakes, continues to be self obsessed.

A case in point is the racism charge by a visiting Australian cricket team against an Indian crowd. Since acceptance of a racist taunt by an Indian would be a fall of face, the politicians who run the game decided to stand that the particular taunt was not considered racist in India. Had the same been said by an Australian, India would have whipped up public frenzy and created for itself a sympathy wave. India twists justice to suit itself. Does not our caste system do precisely that?

Let a cue be taken from China. Despite its questionable polity, China has repeatedly made efforts to make itself matter on the world stage particularly on issues concerning Africa. Considering Africa’s might in sheer numbers at World Conferences, China has secured numerous allies and is almost always the second superpower of today’s world.

Consider India on the other hand, though lip service has been done in offering aid to Asian countries, little has ever been actually done. And when it has, it has often been to neighbors such as Sri Lanka where quid pro quo is likely. India does send its Armed Forces to fight in Africa as United Nations peacekeeping forces but its diplomats there instead meddle in internal affairs such as the supposed deposing of a ruler in Sierra Leone. Economic aid is unheard of. India constantly scrapes the bottom of the world human development index list, and still has the gall to claim that it is a responsible power. No other country believes it.

Despite the world’s largest diaspora, India makes little effort to woo its expatriates. A Pravasi Bharatiya Divas caters to the rich elite of richer countries only to ensure foreign currency inflow, further example of sheer materialism. India wants the United States to pay for its roads but will not support similar schemes in Burkina Faso. The millions of unskilled laborers and descendants of forced slaves comprising lower income groups are uncared for. These groups become disenfranchised in their countries and disillusioned with India, which is what precisely led to the Malaysia situation.

The Malaysian action has been a result of a cumulative loss of clout by India. Malaysia’s action deserves condemnation and is deplorable but a tiny introspection will reveal that had India chosen the right path long ago, Malaysia would never have had the audacity to take on India. In fact, similar to Malaysia’s plight are many other countries with substantial Indian expatriate communities, who could have well served the Indian cause. Alas, today, India claims to be a competitor to China while in reality, it is but an also ran on the world stage.

Some Censor-less Writing

The Health Ministry claims that smoking on cinema encourages tobacco consumption. Going by the same yardstick, contemporary Indian cinema could serve society well by banning the following:-

Car chases – No doubt these encourage speed driving. They also encourage sending bullock carts in the air, treating the road as one’s own property and damaging a dozen cars, not to mention most of those cars don’t even have seatbelts – and possibly not even number plates.
Riding on motorcycles – I am not against car driving on movies, provided they have their seat belts on and publicly display their license to the audience before sitting in. But a strict no to motorcycles. How would the audience ever take to a song sung by a pair of helmets, knocking against each other in love? So, ban motorcycles all together. Imposing a helmet condition serves no purpose.
Marriages – In almost all Indian movies, marriages are an occasion to turn violent. It is perfectly acceptable for the third cousin of the bride to be and next door neighbour of the groom to be to come to clashes over the manner in which they were received by the bride’s ex-sister in law. Now, not only does this promote violence in the land of Mahatma Gandhi, it also encourages needless medical expenditure which will run insurance companies out of business.
Vegetable Shops – Besides marriage halls, wholesale vegetable shops are a perfect locale for fighting. The vegetables outdo an armory for variety, and the fish carts are used as the common ambulance to ferry out the injured. This encourages violence and disrespect for the Green Revolution and all the vegetables which came out of it.
Policemen – Indian cinema has led to the popular notion that the police are comedians, villains, heroes or pot bellied props in that order. This has led to severe loss to the Indian fashion industry. Tailors have quit their jobs, tea stall owners have shifted, leading to low morale in the general Police and hence, dereliction of other duties, such as traffic control.
Tea Stalls – These promote encroachment on the road.
One Rupee Coins - A ban on this will hit the film industry hard since the One Rupee Coin has a leading role for most Indian movies. However, on the flip side, the immense popularity of this evergreen hero has led to a rampant counterfeiting industry which needs to be nipped at its source. So, off with the heads! – And tails too.
Water – Since it is used as a body double for almost any liquid in the film industry, this is often mistaken for kerosene, which mother in laws use to threaten suicide. This, no doubt encourages arson and should fall under the ban hammer. Milk needs to be banned too since most of it, including maa ka doodh is anyway adulterated.
Jails – All movies with jails in them show plots by which the protagonist escapes. This gives inmates ideas and leads to security implications for the country.
Rajnikant – Apart from reducing the IQ of the average Tamil to well below zero, Rajnikant has exhorted millions of his followers to hit passers by with volley balls, stop counting beyond 3 and spoiling the environment with chants of lakalakalakalakala.

Once these bans come into force, I wonder if India can make a movie ever again.

A Washington Post

It is strange to see a capital city that is so quiet and unassuming. Furthermore, the capital of a country that is almost perpetually in global conscience. It is hardly a lesson in novelty. The United States of America rather forcefully makes the government play second fiddle to capitalist business and as a result, most State capitals are not by far the best or most active cities. Washington DC is no different.

The Capitol is by far the most impressive building around. A majestic looking Parliament, however built in a style quite common to that era. The Presidential memorials though are repetitive. The Roosevelt, Jefferson and Lincoln memorials do have some miniscule variations, in the curves of the pillars and the domes or the paintings on the walls. However, they all point to a single inspiration – the Parthenon of Athens. The Library of Congress looks as if it’s been lifted out of Napoleonic Paris and the National Archive reinforces the Greek influence. Conspiracy theories however abound that all these are built by Masonic architects who believed in the insuperability of the golden ratio and hence, the Parthenon obsession.

The Washington Monument, too supposedly follows the Golden Ratio in its construction. Though not an architectural wonder, it does add some flavour to the Washington skyline. It has forcefully made itself the tallest monument in the entire city, prohibiting construction of any building taller than it within the District of Columbia. In between the memorials of Lincoln and Washington lie tributes to soldiers who fought all the wars of America including Korea, Vietnam and of course, World War II. A positive air permeates, not surprising, given the multiple successes of the American Army. They truly are a celebrated lot.

The White House is rather modest, and so are the many Smithsonian Institution buildings. The White House is rather small for housing the world’s Most Powerful man. But the most colorful activities that go on around it are by the protestors who seemingly do so more for the entertainment of the act than out of passion towards their cause. They gleefully pose for photographs and keep giving you pamphlets as a minimal routine towards their propaganda. The security guards oblige them, reserving their curt words for tourists instead.

The Smithsonian Institutions though, are remarkable. For boring exteriors, they make up indoors. An assortment of several museums, they are today the collectively house more artifacts than any other in the world. Most of their exhibits are casts but the information they provide and the presentation they make out of it is fascinating. Each part has a theatre section where a synopsis of the exhibits inside is provided. They are considered, one of the world’s foremost museums and deservedly so. The best thing is however, that they are free. The most visited of them are the Natural History, American History and the Air and Space museum. Most of the exhibits including Edison’s incandescent bulb and the Bell telephone, buttress the belief that this country is the single most sustained creative force in history (apart from the drab monuments).

Outside the National Mall area where most tourist attractions lie, Washington DC is a surprisingly quiet city. The occasional memorial like the Iwo Jima pays homage to soldiers but visitors to it are mostly the aged. A touching sight is the many aged wheelchair bound ex-military men who often frequent these areas. However them having, for most part, been on the victorious side, the non-American onlooker would not feel the tinge of poignancy normally thus associated. Rather, it is a warm and proud moment that is evoked.

Washington is perhaps the grand matron of America. The low profile capital that lets its rambunctious cousins do all the frolicking. Washington keeps its streets tidy and its traffic ordered. Its citizens have time to open doors and say thank you. They use the various parks in the city containing the monuments as exercising grounds. You feel like you walked into a weekend neighbourhood. Surprising then, that within its boundaries, occur daily activities that affect more humans, directly or indirectly, than any other place in the world.

Capital of the World

There are some times you just want Time to stand still. You look at the world rushing away around you and wish you could press a remote and keep replaying it. You look up at the sky and see a lofty canopy of buildings from opposite sides, whose terraces are so far away, they appear to touch each other in the sky. Around you, the world is bathed in brightness enough to light up a small country. A limousine passes by followed by another. It somehow surprises you that those symbols of opulence have to wait behind an array of yellow cabs at traffic lights for pedestrians to pass. If you stand there long enough, they say, you run into everyone in the world. For Times Square, New York, I have done my bit.

Four women of different communities in the New York subway

The Big Apple does not yield to generalization. Within a ten mile radius, one steps across the seven seas and six continents in a single day. You order a dish in English in a shop where the menu is in Mandarin. Your metro card reads in Spanish and Hebrew is heard all around. A woman in a Burqa sits comfortably wedged between a skimpily clad fashionista and a cowboy in a top hat. The cowboy, wearing little else, consequently makes an appearance at Times Square judging a dog pageant. He is apparently the Naked Cowboy, a New York street singer.

Chinatown, Little Italy, African Square, Little India and Brazil Street together create a showcase of the modern world to the entire universe. Lofty skyscrapers of Manhattan seamlessly blend equally into typically middle class Queens and the shantytowns of The Bronx. Plush and staid Wall Street is minutes away from hippy Greenwich Village, and adjacent to the world’s most glamorous Fifth Avenue, is the perfect family outing of Central Park. Serially Numbered Avenues and Streets form a checkerboard of roads with that famous theatre thoroughfare, Broadway, cutting through them diagonally, meeting Seventh Avenue at Times Square.

Nothing quite characterizes the self appointed Capital of the World than its effervescent people. After the setbacks of 11-September 2001, New York has spring boarded ahead, letting bygones be just that. Ground Zero is a grim reminder of that fateful day when New York’s tallest pair of skyscrapers came tumbling down but all around it you feel the optimism so endemic to a New Yorker. “There ain’t no World Trade Center anymore, buddy, but you jus’ wait and watch, we gonna getch ourselves a better one.” says street vendor Malcolm who claims eyewitness to the 21st century’s defining moment.

As I strolled down Fifth Avenue agape at all those prices, I stopped to buy some memorabilia from Hamid, an immigrant Pakistani selling on the sidewalk. “You are Indian, so I will give you one more for free,” he said. “Someday, we’ll be brothers again.” Equally memorable was Austin, the Wall Street banker who sat beside me on the plane and when he saw me whipping out my camera to take pictures of the skyline from the sky, decided he would give this impecunious Indian a cab ride down to Manhattan. “It ain’t not a cheap city to live in son, when someone gives yer rides, yer jolly well take ‘em.” New Yorkers are also capable of virulently negative sentiments though. “Could you tell me where to get off Ma’am?” I asked a bus driver who replied. “You look out! I’m drivin’ and ain’t gonna be lookin’ aroun’ ta getch ya off this bus.” It takes all sorts to make a world and that’s most evident in New York. If the world is turning into a global village, New York became one a long time ago.

Once upon a time, France gifted a struggling United States, the most historic gift ever. At that time, America was an economic cripple, struggling to shake off its dependence on a slavery driven economy. The Statue of Liberty was meant to inspire the wretched, downtrodden masses, most of them immigrants in one of the world’s most dangerous cities. A little over a century later, the Grand Old Lady of New York is dwarfed by the myriad skyscrapers of Downtown Manhattan. She holds aloft the torch of opportunity, promising better means and livelihood to the multitudes of people, many who have left behind shattered homes to build better lives in the world’s most diverse city. What a success it has been!