Reflections: The Museum of Innocence

Kemal is a young and wealthy Turkish man educated in the West.  He is soon to be engaged to Sibel, another wealthy and westernized young woman wholly in love with Kemal. But when Kemal chances on Füsun, a poor distant relative, he is hopelessly attracted to her. The two begin an affair that soon escalates into something far more serious and destructive than they could ever imagine. Through a detailed narrative of Kemal’s relationships with Füsun, Sibel, his family and friends, Pamuk lays out a comprehensive account on the nature of love, romance, and relationships in Turkey’s patriarchal society.

Obsessions are comforting in some ways. The regularity of faithfully doing something with a mixture of helplessness and dogged determination, oddly enough, imparts a higher meaning to those lives that struggle to anchor onto something. It sometimes elevates the otherwise mundane and unimpressive qualities into something profound and sublime. And that is essentially what happens with Kemal’s life story. It is a story that is at once supremely shallow, indulgent, careless, and annoying as it is profound, romantic, idealistic, and heart-tugging because of how an obsession is portrayed. That a book can evoke and convey such contrasts and ironies from one simple story is testament to the writing and story-telling prowess of the author. With an astounding sense of perspicacity, Orhan Pamuk meticulously pieces together Kemal’s thoughts and feelings, drawing a portrait that is incredibly detailed and true to reality. Every simple element of human interaction is zoomed in and presented through a micro-analytic lens that helps the reader vividly recreate the atmosphere and characters in Turkey. Sometimes, this microscopic narrative does teeter on the edge of becoming mundane and boring, but the narrative is well paced and keeps you engaged. For example, you wouldn’t realize that you just read several pages of text on how Füsun smokes her cigarette. The writing helps with this as well, for it is unpretentiously smart and lucid, so at least it saves you from rereading overloaded sentences. The story, if one can call that, does crawl at a snail’s pace, but it is not frustrating to read Pamuk’s abundantly rich prose on the subtle and intimate aspects of Turkish culture. And since I love books on culture that are woven around a simple story, the long book was engaging to me.

Kemal’s story is a vehicle through which Orhan Pamuk illustrates the dynamics, ideals, and values that shape Turkey’s society, specifically in regards to its attitudes towards men and women. He explains to the reader almost every relevant detail and minutia about the strongly patriarchal culture that struggles to fully embrace certain western ideals whilst holding onto conservative standards on women, notions of propriety, and class-distinctions. What amazed me (I don’t know why it should amaze me) is how identical (well, almost) Turkish society is to Indian society! I could relate to everything the women were going through - the taboos, the prejudices, the subtle mistreatments, the constant reminder of being secondary, the hypocrisy, and how everything comes together to unnecessarily complicate people’s lives. The dynamics between people in a Turkish household is also quite similar to an Indian household, right down to the nosy and gossiping neighbors. It surprised me that even the descriptions of Turkish movies – the stories, the workings of the industry, etc., were exactly like ours! The book also brings to light the all too familiar clash of Western ideals against traditions and socially-conditioned values that are so deeply ingrained, to some measure, in everyone – wealthy, educated, progressive or otherwise. And just as how being educated is different from being literate, the story subtly shows that being “westernized” is different from being truly progressive. But these aspects are Pamuk’s secondary deviations and observations. In this story, he primarily describes the nature of romantic relationships, some of which are universally true and generalizable, and some are specific to Turkish society. There are aspects that everyone can relate to, because that’s how thorough and all-encompassing the narrative is, spanning the entire depth and breadth of what it means to be romantically involved, especially if that relationship is forbidden, elusive, or out of reach.

As the narrator/author often alludes, this is more of an anthropological account of a lovelorn Turkish man in the 1970s, 1980s of Turkey, than a page-turner of a story. But through this subject, Orhan Pamuk delivers a richly ethnographic account of Turkey’s socio-cultural framework. It is an interesting book, for Pamuk’s keen sense of observation and insight makes it an intelligent read. As always, the nuanced writing and insightful portrayal of a culture makes all the difference to an otherwise simple story.

Reflections: East, West

The book is a collection of short stories - stories from the East, some from the West, and finally a few that touch upon the amalgamation of East and West. Rushdie, in his characteristic style, tries to bring out the core elements that define the Eastern and the Western sides of the world, and in what ways the two sides come together, resulting in some successful communions and some disastrous ones.

Why this sudden interest in books by Salman Rushdie, you may ask. I have made up my mind to read the Booker of Bookers, his masterpiece, Midnight’s Children. I need to find out for myself why the book is so hailed. But I am extremely intimidated to start it. So, I am “easing” myself into his style of writing by first picking all the “low hanging fruits”, so to speak. I was a little disappointed with The Enchantress of Florence, although his writing was wonderful. But I am sorry to say that this book disappointed me in both the content, and the writing. Although, a short book, I took more than a week to read it, because my attention struggled to cope with the words and the story. However, I did like two stories - the first and the last, especially the last one. The last story deals with the fusion of East and West. Rushdie tells the story of immigrants torn between their homeland and their adopted home. His characters are sharp and distinct, and his words are sparse, yet strong.

His assertion is that while the East teems with mysticism, spiritualism and organic, rustic culture, the West primarily struggles to get a grounding on all the former elements in order to anchor the abundance of freedom and liberty they are lavished with. Both sides long for the attributes of the other side - well, the grass is always greener on the other side. Reaching a middle ground is easier said than done - people usually resort to extremes, or unfortunately end up mixing those aspects that are not meant to be “fused”. The dilemma regarding what to adopt, and what not to is as prevalent in the West, as it is in the East.

While the themes are interesting, barring a few stories, the majority of the stories were vague and a little too dense for my liking. 

Political Correctness

I'm not sure if this is a cultural phenomenon, or something related to individual traits. Many don't realize there is a difference between being frank, and being brutally frank. One can be frank and honest, yet convey their thoughts in a refined, politically correct manner that targets the problem to be solved to the mutual satisfaction of both parties involved. However, I come across many Indians (I may be wrong) who literally speak their mind out and hurt people, or put their foot in their mouth with a politically rude/incorrect remark, when they attempt being "frank". Their remark takes the attention away from the core problem. In a professional setting, it is embarrassing when you see people do this time and again, albeit in a harmless fashion. It is even more bristling when some others inquire if this trait is cultural. Although my first reaction was to argue that this was just yet another personality trait, further thought has made me wonder if the roots are indeed cultural.

Before people start pouncing and tearing at me, let me clarify. I am not stereotyping. My thoughts are probably shaped from the experiences I have had while growing up in my city, neighborhood, and family. I welcome your thoughts to broaden my perspective. 

In my family and the place I grew in, people usually refrained from direct confrontation. Maamis and uncles are astute in the sly game of subtle slights, and indirect comments and allusions. The receiving party either broods in the hurt, buries and nurses the grudge, retaliates in an equally cheeky manner, or complains and gossips to the so-called sympathetic "friends".  A disagreement  is never resolved in a direct, honest fashion. Due to the game of indirect and behind-the-back gossips and repartee, even a small and inconsequential disagreement builds up and blows out of proportion after years of accumulated grudges. When people eventually confront - the scene is pretty nasty. People will be frank - but crassly so. This is the model of "frankness" we build in our head.

Culturally, we are taught to not be rude, or speak up to "elders". However politely we address concerns to "elders" or even neighbors, the fact that we open up a problem so directly and expect a solution, is taken as an affront. The norm is to let the problems fester till it cannot be tolerated anymore. Basically, we are brought up to be coy and "nice" (often by faking it), and have little training in being honest and direct.

Here comes the problem. When we are put in an environment where people are painstakingly politically correct AND direct, we poor people are lost. We realize the need to be direct, but we have no training, and no clue on how to present and word our direct remarks in a polite, constructive manner. Unfortunately, to us, direct means rude and blatant. And that's how we spit out our words, and claim on being "frank".

I admit that even I have been tongue-tied in the past. I have taken hours to compose a tough email. I would marvel and collect professionally worded emails that demanded improvements, out-rightly rejected, or addressed an important concern with the party's work, with such polite and honest flair. I tried to fit it all into a formula so that I could assimilate it, and emulate it (for instance, talk of the positive aspects, the potentially positive aspects, then mention the unpleasant in a direct but polite manner). But diplomacy cannot be squeezed into a formula. It is a gradual cultivation of your thought process, speech, and mannerism. 

Smooth-talkers are blessed indeed. And I realize there are Indians who are savvy and glib speakers, as there are Americans who are rude and blunt. But, I'm not sure if my experience with the role played by culture has any influence on most people I see straining their professional relationships. If so, I'm wondering if we need to hold a special orientation on diplomacy and political correctness.

Or, as many are bound to say, let's not bother about the fluff, and keep calling a spade, a spade, and not care a hoot about the relationships soured and severed.

Reflections: The Namesake

I may just be one of the last few people on this planet, especially among Indians, who is reading this book now. I usually don’t pick up books that are causing the current wave of hysteria. I tend to go with great expectations and a very critical pair of eyes, so I have learned it’s best to wait for the hype to subside before curiosity eventually leads me to the book. With The Namesake, there is an additional reason why I consciously stayed away from both the book and the movie. I went through this phase of aversion until last year regarding all topics related to immigration woes, the culture shock and the rift between the first and second generation immigrants. Wherever I turned within family or friends, I saw this topic being beaten to death with the innumerable (often closed-minded) discussions and vociferous arguments. Yes, I understand the crux of the issue, but I resent the exaggerated perspectives of both sides of the argument. I also get tired of the stereotypical portraits that are repeatedly perpetuated in movies and books - they seem to turn the issue into a satire, and a mockery.

Anyway, I eventually drifted to the book to see what the fuss is all about. The synopsis is probably all too familiar. Gogol Ganguli is a second generation Indian American, born to traditional Bengali parents. His father is the quintessential Indian academic - a professor of Electrical Engineering, and his mother is the perennially home-sick and lost stay-at-home wife and mother. Starting from his name, everything about his culture, his family and his roots are unfathomable to Gogol. The story is about Gogol’s tussle to break-free of his stringent family and how he gradually learns his way through his heritage and comes to identify with his roots.

It was heartening that Jhumpa Lahiri did not stereotype the characters. She manages to bring out the very subtle aspects of being an Indian family and how drastically different those aspects are in contrast to the Western families. And I appreciated the fact that she made the distinction between which of these aspects are endearing and make us unique, and which aspects are not necessarily healthy to keep practicing down the generations. In most movies, the stark differences are either shown as acute embarrassments or glorified to unnecessary heights, and I hate either approach.

It was also a refreshing relief to me that the culture battles didn’t take centre stage and dominate the book. The core of the book is on one’s search for identity. Lahiri dwells on how the second generation leads bitter and confused lives because of their ceaseless need to rebel almost all through their life, even when their parents no longer present the stifling circumstances for it. The constant subconscious pressure to seek the forbidden and make a statement is shown to take precedence over leading a normal life. She shows that the search for one’s identity intensifies, especially after they break-free from their family.

However, there is one aspect of the first generation immigrants that I never fully comprehend or empathize with. True, living in a country that in no way resembles home is daunting. And I can imagine how acute it must have been in the 70s and 80s when there was no technology to help us stay connected with family, hardly any Indian stores or restaurants to resort to authentic dishes etc. But the class of highly qualified professionals have a very clear choice - they don’t have to suffer the misery and can go back home. Lahiri calls these people brave and courageous to continue to stay away from home and make a living abroad. I definitely don’t agree with the adjectives, “brave”, or “courageous” , or to even call it a sacrifice!

All of us make a clear, deliberate, conscious decision between the two choices - return home or live abroad. A professor of Electrical Engineering can lead a very comfortable life in India, but if he chooses to stay in a country that helps him advance in his career much better and promises a greater standard of living for his family, then his choice doesn’t stem out of anything noble or brave! We all make this choice time and again to fulfill our selfish goals. We choose to compromise, and according to me, when the compromise turns into an unbearable sacrifice, then nobody is stopping us from making the move. But to put on a facade of constant suffering and sacrifice to live in this country with the implication that they are somehow tied to the place out of no other choice, is unfair. It’s not like we are refugees who can’t return to our own country, or our country is so impoverished or war-torn and filled with political conflict that we can’t set up a secure home. There are many immigrants who are unfortunately driven away from their countries - I sympathize with them, not with those of us who are assured a decent life in either countries. And that is why I don’t like the drama surrounding the Indian Diaspora's “dilemma”. Those who complain the most and talk of being home-sick all the time, are the first ones to wonder if they will be able to cope with the traffic and cows on the road if they are to go back. It’s hypocritical.

I also resent the fact that even after spending two decades in a country away from home, some immigrants still refuse to see the place as their home (away from home) or mingle with people other than one’s own nationality or community. Pockets of Indians, no matter how long they have lived here, continue to mix and mingle only with each other. If we decide to isolate ourselves from a community we choose to live in and which is clearly helping us reach our ambitions, then we can’t complain of being treated as aliens.

Anyway, that’s my rambling two cents on the issue. The compromises are clear, but I see us making the same choices and mistakes over and over again, and then complaining about them. Also, the false, rosy expectations of second generation children never seem to change.

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Digested thoughts: Rerouting my derailed thoughts back to the book, I definitely found it an interesting read. I appreciated that Lahiri explored much subtler and deeper issues about the clash between first and second generation Indian Americans. Her characters were realistically drawn out and were not stereotypical caricatures. Her writing was simple; it was mostly insightful, but sometimes I found her sentences to be stilted in their construction. In all, I would give it a favorable rating. 

Reflections: The Inheritance Of Loss

In the quaint town of Kalimpong, overlooking the magnificent Kanchenjunga mountains, lives a retired misanthropic judge, his precious dog, his teenage, lonely, grand-daughter Sai, and a garrulous cook in hopes of a better life. The cook’s hopes rest on his son Biju’s shoulders, to be the valiant US employed NRI, who would amass dollars and pack suitcases full of  panaceas to rid his family’s penury. The cook shared the same naive and ignorant dream that most of the world’s poverty driven sections dream. Little do they realize the implications of immigration, and the pitiable states in which their kins live in the developed lands of wealth, only to bury their dignity and identity to scrape a few dollars and earn the esteemed status of living abroad.

Each character in this book has a story of their own, which unearths their inner conflicts of who they were, and who they were striving to be in the eyes of the world. The judge, his grand-daughter and other friends in the neighborhood are still in the clutches of the colonial hang-over. They have been molded to deride everything that is crudely Indian - culture, habits, thoughts, and way of life. But deep down their identities are muddled - they are Indians, but not really Indians. They are foreigners in their own land, yet treated like stray dogs in the western world, whose elite culture they thought they imbibed and were part of. This identity crisis is faced by most Indians, living abroad and within India. Biju’s life in New York, as a lowly illegal immigrant paints the stereotype of the confused immigrant, fumbling to fit in, frustrated by the shoddy treatment, yet reluctant to head back home. All these characters are strangers to themselves, foreigners everywhere, until they sort out their conflicts and priorities.

Since culture is so tightly coupled with identity and acceptance, there is an eternal dilemma of what exactly constitutes as culture, and how to attain that optimal balance of both adapting to and being accepted by a new country, while staying true to one’s core principles and ways of life. As globalization opens the world market wide and invites people of different cultures to work together and coexist, this problem affects almost every family in developing nations that reach out for a brighter future with illusions on “better standards of living.”

The common misconception is that one’s own culture has to be forsaken at the altar of the Immigration counter, burying one’s identity and turning into a chameleon with no sense of self, meaninglessly camouflaging with the western ideals, just to be accepted and granted a stint at their luxury, without being shunned. On the other extreme are those who feel terrified and lost without their cultural anchors, that they crudely assert their misguided ideas about culture, only to attract negative attention and revulsion. Both sets of people lose their dignity in the process, yet they cling onto the dream of a better life, even if they are assured of an equally better life back home. No, it is unpardonable to let go of the opportunity to reside in a better country, a more refined society, and a sophisticated community.

In the midst of all these issues, Desai inserts the violent revolutions of the GNLF (Gorkha National Liberation Front) tearing Kalimpong. Nepali-Indians demand their rightful place in India, when every family in Kalimpong dreams of immigrating to the West, of casting away their threads of connections to India, and feels slighted at being treated like a nuisance when badgered for a green-card. However, in their own country, they are prejudiced against the Nepalis who have served them for generations. The hypocrisy towards the dichotomous views on immigration is nicely brought out.

The effects of insurgency on young minds, and the corruption it brings forth in confusing patriotism and heroism with terrorism, are deftly brought out through Sai’s Nepali tutor, Gyan. As always, the real cause blends into the background, and the violence marks the external manifestation of  troubled and confused minds.

Desai’s writing was a little aloof for me, yet I connected with the story, for I’m far too familiar with the issues. It made me strangely guilty, and left me assessing my motivations and the reasons for my decisions. I felt her writing was exceptionally acrid towards the legal, comfortably established immigrants. Some parts of her writing were beautiful, but they fizzled away soon, only to be replaced by the aloof and cold tone.

On the whole, while the issues of immigration and globalization have been honestly and expertly addressed, the writing failed to pack in the full punch. The story is a mirror image of lives that immigrants are only too familiar with, and leaves us vaguely disturbed.

The Papadam Paradox

Linda was enjoying her lunch at the new Indian restaurant which recently opened up in the busiest section of downtown. She relished the warm spicy food after that long walk down China Town. But her bliss was rudely disrupted when a waiter flashed a plate full of crispy golden discs, courteously asking,  "More papadum, ma'm?" She shook her head and was puzzled at why that bothered her. Then she knew - her model of an Indian restaurant contained Indians serving their traditional food, not white men like the waiter. There was a reason why she loved being a multiculturalist. She wanted to enjoy, visit and be part of every culture, in its true ethnic, authentic form. It ruins that cultural experience if she were to realize that the curry was being prepared by an Italian chef and the place was owned by Americans. Doesn't matter if the food tasted authentic. She no longer felt being part of a culture. But this would mean that every culture should stay pristine and isolated, while multiculturalists like her continue appreciating and experiencing diverse and exotic cultures. But such a distinct cultural diversity seems like a paradox to the meaning of multiculturalism, doesn't it? (Original Source: The Pig That Wants To Be Eaten, Julian Baggini)

In this era of intermingling cultures, this paradox is common to all of us. India is proud to call herself a nation of diverse cultures and traditions, exemplifying the meaning of unity in diversity. However, respect and tolerance for other cultures is not the same as being ready to appreciate and be part of another culture. Multiculturalism is a notch higher. It is exhibited when people start to imbibe and embody aspects of other cultures. In my definition, it is cherry-picking some interesting, significant or meaningful values, traditions and practices of multiple cultures and living one's life by them. But when multiculturalism percolates wide and deep, soon there will no longer be distinct cultures to experience or "pick" from. What might remain is a morphed amalgamation of multiple cultures, with the roots fading into oblivion. But unlike Linda, this consequence, of losing the authentic forms doesn't bother me. I don't believe that any culture has one distinct authentic form. Every culture has evolved, is evolving and continues to evolve. With very generation, there is a gradation. But thanks to history, mythology and scriptures, we can still manage to trace our way back to the original roots, as arduous and obfuscating as the journey may be. We try to figure out the original meaning and significance behind every present tradition and end up with unresolved questions and debates. But it doesn't justify or make sense to try and preserve the current definitions of one's culture. The evolution of human society and its culture are inevitable. Besides, it is unrealistic for the entire world to morph into one homogeneous culture. There will always continue to be variations of the present and past mishmashed cultures, and the future multiculturalists can wade their way through those variations. Isn't it how we function today, with Indo-Chinese food and American Pizzas?

The other question is - in what ways do a multiculturalist truly appreciate other cultures? Appreciating and adapting to dietary habits, purchasing ethnic art and materials, wearing exotic clothes, having a good time celebrating fun and interesting occasions? What is the point if such superficial elements are emulated? How does it matter if one doesn't resonate with the deeper meanings, symbolisms and principles behind the food, the clothes, the art and the celebrations? But this seems to be our current trend - selectively following superficial aspects of a culture without any integrity to its significance or to one's principles. This is not multiculturalism. It is a serious problem of identity crisis, mostly just a shoddy external pretension, a pompous act to call oneself an elite multiculturalist.

A true multiculturalist transcends cultural, material and religious boundaries, seeking to genuinely learn, appreciate, imbibe and practice those values that resonate with the inner self. 

The Language of Thoughts

Professor Lapin and his assistant were quite excited about their current research that involved developing a lexicon for a previously unheard and unknown language. The first identified word in the newly found tribal language was "gavagai". They heard this word being used whenever a rabbit was present, so Lapin was ready to associate the meaning of the word "gavagai" to rabbit. But his assistant intervened by pointing out a possible confound. For all they knew, "gavagai" could mean "hey look! Rabbit!", or "a single rabbit" etc. It could also be embedded with some other cultural or physical adjectives that they were unaware of. In order to thoroughly establish the validity of the word and meaning, Lapin and his assistant need to not just make more observations, but essentially live long enough with the tribe to get a grounding of their culture, so that they understood the ties it has with the formation of words and the language. Is it true that one needs to understand culture to comprehend its language? Is there any way by which the "truth" of the words can be objectively ascertained? Does truth become subjective to language? (Original Source: Word and Object, by W.V.O. Quine (MIT Press, 1960))

I can very well see through the challenges that emerge from a research standpoint. I have no idea how linguists work, but I'm certain that the standards for establishing validity are same across all disciplines. There are two parts to this excerpt - one deals with the effect of culture on the evolution of language, and the second deals with how language by itself can afford how we form concepts and thoughts and can thus influence the way people think and behave, therefore affecting how the culture evolves. It's sort of like a symbiotic feedback loop - culture->language ->thoughts->concepts->culture. Since culture is on either sides, envisage a circle instead of my linear diagram.

Those of us who know at least a couple of languages (or better yet polyglots), will be well aware that each language has its own set of unique words and grammar rules than cannot be translated to other languages. Many friends of mine have raved about books in a certain language that can never be translated into other languages without losing some of their truest literary beauty and form. I've even struggled to explain the meaning of certain very common words in my mother-tongue to another person from the very same country and culture, but from a neighboring state. This is because each language is heavily based on metaphors that are relevant to the nuances of a culture. Such is the confluence of culture, traditions and the physical nature of our environment, found in our languages. A popular example is how the Eskimos have a large array of words differentiating the various types of snow. Due to their climatic conditions, these people were in need of forming different words in their language to specifically relate to the subtle gradations and kinds of snow. In South-India, there is no word for snow, except of course if we are to adopt the English word into our vocabulary. Or our leaders would be kind enough to expend their time in inventing authentic and convoluted words from the root of the language.

Consequently, it is also true that our concepts and thoughts concerning the word "snow" will be constrained because of the language. If we don't have words to define and conceptualize different kinds of snow, our knowledge/truth about snow is also limited. Similarly, our abilities to express ourselves and communicate meaning among others are also dictated by the rules and structures afforded by the language. The more poorly designed the language, the harder it is for us to think in terms of the language, the lesser concepts we can frame, the more time it takes to express, the greater the complexity of the expression, and less information or misinformation gets communicated, thus jeopardizing meaning and truth. Another favorite example of mine is that of computer programming languages (despite them being arguably different from natural languages). But a programmer will largely agree that the rules of a programming language can either constrain or expand their abilities to not just program efficiently, but also afford unique thought processes for problem solving and expression. With dynamically typed programs and object-oriented programs, the consensus is that these languages provide more scope and freedom for solving problems and expressing the solutions more effectively. In effect, they allow us to conceptualize and think differently.

This notion, that language structure affects the way we think and form cognitive concepts, is called the Whorfian-Hypothesis. Science is a little divided on this hypothesis. While many (including me) agree that there is some truth to it, it doesn't extend completely to all cognitive concepts or processes. There have been many scientific studies disproving this hypothesis. A popular experiment proved that a culture in which people have no linguistic representation of any color except black and white, still formed cognitive concepts of the primary colors "blue", "red" etc, such that they could arrange the secondary colors around them. Some argue that this is merely perception, rather than conception, but there are many more studies that have attempted to disprove it.

Therefore to a large extent we think in terms of our language, and our cognitive boundaries are sort of determined by the scope of our language structure. But as evidenced in the current generation, the use of SMS-English has led to additions and abbreviations of "words" to our daily vocabulary, such as "lol", that even the structure of the language seems to slowly change. This is due to the technological instant-messaging culture. Hence language is sure to correspondingly evolve. It leads to an interesting question of how this change in language will affect the thought processes of the future generations.

Finally, does all of this relativity with language and culture imply that the expression of meaning will be affected? Two people speaking the exact same language are prone to multiple misunderstandings. Given that, is it plausible that the "truth" remains relative to every language, for we cannot completely express and translate the meaning and embedded context, however expressive we try to be? To a certain extent, yes; which is probably why we resort to Logic, Mathematics and equations to be more objective about what we want to convey. But the field of Logic has its own can of worms, so I'm not going there :).