How I Almost Saved the World – A Genie in the Land of the Free

Disclaimers : Only the genie in the story is based on a real person. Everything else is fictional. Also I don’t hate daily 8am work meetings.

Once upon a time, I wanted to change the world, like many others I knew. And we weren’t pretentious phonies with a holier than thou attitude. We were truly, incorrigibly holier than most of thou’s reading this.

As years passed by, it dawned on me that the path forward was to get rich and then comfortably change the world from my centrally air-conditioned condo in central Mumbai, while I was brought endless cups of chai at my change-the-world-from-home setup. After all, you only live once.

Then I moved to the US.
Because the only thing better than changing the world from your condo while losing to AQI is to change the world as an NRI with endless access to hot water while sharing patriotic reels as people on the other end of the world chant then why don’t you come back in my comments section.

But I’m not a phony like the rest of them, as Salinger would say. I kept the dream alive. I wrote My purpose is to change the world on my Statement of Purpose when applying to grad school and later transferred it to my LinkedIn profile where I describe myself in third person.

Then one day, a genie appeared before me. (Haters will say this is a weak literary device to accelerate the plot.) The genie was brown with an Indian accent, but I didn’t want to be rude so I didn’t ask where he was from. Though he couldn’t have been from Kerala since he didn’t assert unprovoked that Malayalam movies are the best. He hadn’t spoken about green cards within 60 seconds of his appearance so he clearly wasn’t Gujarati either. My legal team is asking me to stop.
“Hi there, we don’t have all day. I’m going to give you three options and I want you to pick one as your wish, you can’t change your mind later”.

Okay Paru, here’s your chance, whatever happens please think this through and do not pick Henry Cavill right away.

“Your options are : 1. Eradicate poverty 2. Earn $1bn for yourself 3. Eternal youth“

Slightly different than what I expected. While there was no Henry Cavill (we shall discuss that later), I still gushed at the prospects of fulfilling my purpose, and proving the world wrong on its favorite refrain that everybody is selfish.
“That’s a no-brainer,” I replied almost instantly. Almost instant since I almost considered eternal youth.
“Eternal youth could mean you can buy more time on dating apps to locate your soulmate, or even Henry Cavill you know?“
Genies that read minds are no fun.

Like I said I’m no phony, but if there’s one thing America has taught me, it’s to never assume – always ask (and always ask How are you doing before you ask whatever you really want to ask). I’m not entirely proud of what I asked.
“Can I eradicate poverty half-way and get $500 million?”
(Oh don’t judge me, when did you last get to meet a genie?)
“No.“
Let me try again.
“How about eradicate poverty by 99% and take out 8am scrums and AI art while you’re at it?”

Ok maybe I’m a little phony. But Salinger didn’t deal with this stuff when he was alive.
I finally picked option 1 which is the decent, civilized thing to do. Terms & Conditions attached meant I couldn’t share the news on any social media. Not that I would have even if the 210-page font size 8 document didn’t categorically forbid me.
The genie disappeared after I made my wish. I walked out of my apartment and nothing much had changed – of course, in this part of the world I had to turn on a news channel to find out.

‘Breaking News : Poverty eradicated – nations rejoice.‘ Haters will say that’s a sad, lazy recourse to not have to flesh out details, but that indeed was the headline that day. Stop expecting so much out of a story.

Three months later

The genie appeared before me again. “So as you know, poverty’s back in the world.”
“Yes I heard.” I wasn’t completely indulging this guy this time.
“#NotAllGenies. I’m giving you another chance to pick a wish, it’s the same 3 options as the last time.”
Okay. I can do this. “Can we edit it a little bit?”
“Are you trying to negotiate again?”
“Well, can you at least guarantee things won’t change back?”

Knowing I wouldn’t sleep well if I picked anything else, I chose the first option again. On the news this time they said “Thankyou to the Home of the Brave : Internal sources say that somebody in the West ordained this.“ They did not know the somebody is an H1B holder. But the 594-page document still didn’t allow me to share it anywhere, so I’ll just have to take this with me to my grave.

Two months later

Poverty was back. So was the genie.
Fool me once, shame on him. Fool me thrice, shame on the author of this weirdass plot. Guilt eluded me this time, I picked the second option and got filthy rich as they call it.
“I knew it’d get to you by the third time. You’re slightly more pious than the mean population, but not by much.“ So this was a test?
“Only slightly?” Not that it mattered anymore, not much mattered anymore, not even Salinger.
“Most pick the 1 billion after the first time but a good chunk have enough faith for a second try.”
“How many times would you have come back?” I didn’t want to know, but I had to ask.
“For as long as you picked the first one.” Jeez.
“And how many tries would it have taken?”
“We’ll find out when someone manages to get it through to the end.” The genie disappeared and I never saw him again. If it indeed had been a test it didn’t matter, if I indeed was a phony it didn’t matter – the money stayed. I’m working on furnishing that condo now.

Once in a while I come across someone who asks if the story is true and if it really was a genie who made me a billionaire. I correct them – it’s millionaire due to taxes. I later initiated a fundraiser dedicated to eradicating poverty so both the rich and poor (I maybe a phony but I don’t discriminate) can donate to the cause. Haters still call me selfish, I mean there’s no winning is there?

At least I now have a story of how I almost saved the world. That’s what I tell myself anyway.

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The roads kept diverging in the wood, and at some point I decided to give. Maybe the last fork would have made all the difference, I guess we’ll never know.

Back in ATL – No-Shopping update III

I still haven’t bought myself any clothes and as of now there’s only one unworn piece of clothing in my wardrobe. So long story short, my no-shopping rule has been a success.

I have also started air-drying some of my nicer clothes since I realized the dryer is not too good for them.

On the other hand, over the past few weeks I’ve been obsessing over buying a used typewriter. Before that I was slouched over endless open tabs of couches and accent chairs until I got them for my living room. So I’m not sure if I simply found different sources for the dopamine from an arriving package.

But I have thought of getting a typewriter before, so maybe this is just convenient timing. Currently I’m eyeing Smith Corona 250 which is fondly known as the Toyota Corolla of typewriters 😀 I’ll let you know if I get one.

(Feel free share your thoughts on manual/electric, SC/other brands and models, I’m still learning!)

All the thoughts you don’t share – Em and the Big Hoom

I think of at least 3 bad jokes in a day, a few good ones in a week. Most of them are shared with friends or family, or I at least put it up on insta if I think it’s witty (when is it not? Bwahaha). My current draft tally on my blog is 203, and there’s at least 7 drafts up in my head, I don’t think I’ll ever get to finishing all of them.

I finished Em and the Big Hoom in less than a day. I woke up twice in the middle of sleep, picked up the book lying next to me and continued reading like I never slept. I wept a lot in the last 20 or so pages, the story really throws you in the thick of a family and it gets intense real quick, and stays that way.

I don’t think I’d have read the books that I’m reading now at any previous point in my life either, timing is so crucial. Whenever I’ve found someone who had read a book that I was reading, we’ve discovered a new connection together. East of Eden is a book I recommended to my brothers even while I was reading it (it’s that good). Em and the Big Hoom is something I’m not sure I’ll ever recommend to somebody. It’s a different story that I started reading it thinking it’s a thriller (and was ready to discard it if it didn’t fit that small niche of thrillers I enjoy). It turned out to be about a mother who suffers from bipolar, the narrator son, his sister and father in a 1BHK in Bombay, their lives through her mania and depression, the give and take of hurt and love, the unrelenting, answerless questions of whose pain is more, do these things skip a generation, is it wrong to feel relief along with grief when someone is taken away?

I’m constantly gravitating to stories that immerse you in emotional turmoil, I can leave any time I choose to but I’ve only ever left out of boredom or too much testosterone, never turbulence.

I have friends who read similar books. My brother recommended to me The Eternal Lightness of Being, and Miriam said she had read it. I take her word for it that it’s beautiful, but when I read its blurb I was positive it would break me and I wasn’t ready for it. Yet. But then East of Eden made me whole, wrapped me up in warmth and now Em and the Big Hoom has me plunged deep in emotion again.

So I write about the books I read here, a lot of times I talk about the plots with my friends, because that’s just how I process stuff in life. Just like all the remaining thoughts of my head go into drafts, pickled and forgotten, so do these. Some of them I think I’ll come back to later, yet when I revisit them I’m not ready enough or there are more pressing concerns. I’ve a feeling that’s what all of life is going to be like.

This is a joke Em cracks, and when I read it, all I could think of was – Wait, that sounds like a joke I would make.

Guilt and Unlearning – East of Eden

Last week I met somebody who made me grateful and appreciative of life again. I think all of us meet people who, sometimes even unbeknownst to them, play such roles in our life, in whatever small ways. And of course it’s subjective.

Maybe you meet someone who dances like a dream and stretches your imagination, maybe someone by their demeanor evokes a warmth in you like no other, maybe someone is just really kind and restores your faith in humanity after your brief but very personal rift with mankind. My point being, it’s as much about you as it is about them.

And while I’ve been shocked / disappointed / impressed / amused by both people and circumstances during in my time in Atlanta and even in this country, this was the first time I’d met someone like this person. The details are irrelevant. But the fact is everything immutable in our life, we usually accept because we have to. Also because denial doesn’t help and one can only fight reality for so long before you have to move forward with it.

I do not know when it was drilled into my brain that one must be grateful for everything life gives you, that one must be grateful for all parts of life and not just some of it. But I can accept everything and everyone life gives me, sure, but gratefulness I might scrape for at the bottom of my barrel and still not find any for some things. And that’s okay. I wish whoever taught me that lesson years ago knows this, cos otherwise it’s a long, tiring battle with oneself. Uncovering and unlearning old lessons has been my recent pastime. I maybe wrong but life’s hard enough and faith shouldn’t make it harder.

Life’s also too short to fight with oneself, especially if your mind and body are united in the fight and when those are two things to be grateful for everyday. Our loads needn’t be heavier than what we already carry.

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This is put together from East of Eden which I’m reading currently :

“Don’t you see?” he cried. “The American Standard translation ‘Do thou rule over him (sin)’ orders men to triumph over sin, and you can call sin ignorance. The King James translation makes a promise in ‘Thou shalt rule over him,’ meaning that men will surely triumph over sin. But the Hebrew word, the word timshel—‘Thou mayest rule over him’— that gives a choice. It might be the most important word in the world. That says the way is open. That throws it right back on a man. For if ‘Thou mayest’—it is also true that ‘Thou mayest not.’ Don’t you see?

Now, there are many millions in their sects and churches who feel the order, ‘Do thou,’ and throw their weight into obedience. And there are millions more who feel predestination in ‘Thou shalt.’ Nothing they may do can interfere with what will be. But ‘Thou mayest’!

It is easy out of laziness, out of weakness, to throw oneself into the lap of deity, saying, ‘I couldn’t help it; the way was set.’ But think of the glory of the choice! That makes a man a man. A cat has no choice, a bee must make honey. There’s no godliness there. 

East of Eden, John Steinback

I’m not Christian and I haven’t read the Bible to attest to the accuracy of what’s quoted from it or their varied interpretations, but all three of these are lessons I’ve heard from my own people at different times in life – sometimes imparted to me, all of them held in high regard in different contexts. Even the vastly unrealistic Thou shalt rule over sin is a take at least a few people I know still uphold in adulthood, and I myself have battled with them way too many times. If not in these definite terms then surely they’ve been the moral backbone of many a mental strife I’ve had. So it was a joy to read this passage in East of Eden and I had to pause for a bit.

To me, the biggest takeaway from this is that free will exists. I’m sure what you take away from any reading depends on your state of mind and your own internal monologues at the time, but the agency of choice means that while you are allowed to fight to overcome sin, you may also take credit for whatever you do accomplish – it is yours to take and celebrate, for you chose it. On the other hand, the lack of it being an order also means one doesn’t have to be so bogged down by the goal that life becomes too heavy to bear. That life is worth living even if you fail to overcome evil, whatever evil may mean to you.

Like I said I had to stop reading after the chapter, this book has been such a joy to read so far.

NRI and another Sunday

I recently met someone and they said, You’ve lived in the US for 4 years and still don’t have an American accent! when they heard me speak. I’m sure plenty others have noticed but it was the first time somebody said it directly to me. I know folks who’ve been here for decades and still retain their original accents, that’s one of the easier (and more natural) things one can not shed off and still get by in this country.

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I wrote A Tropical Sunday three years ago.* Three years thence I can admit without shame that I wasn’t an enthusiastic co-passenger in my father’s car when we went grocery shopping or to the fish market on Sundays, though I often enjoyed the actual shopping. Everything else in there is true though, pretty much. I carry a lot of that with me still, a lot of it my body carries. So my apartment AC is set to 77°F or 25°C, and the weekend is the one time I simply have to get out to bathe in sun’s heat.

When I tell people that I love the summer and a 90 degree weather, I add in qualifying by-notes such as It’s just my body though that loves the heat, my friends aren’t like that. I also love driving with my windows down when it’s mid-summer, with my body almost at the verge of breaking a sweat. It’s not a personal torture-device for penance or middle-class rejection of comfort (I thought through all possibilities), it just gives me the feeling post a good workout, or the perpetual sweat-stained life when I was younger and in college. It paints a mirage of an active day and healthy metabolism, all attributes from a good past.

Today I had my windows rolled down on my way to Costco. With free flowing hair, cool pockets of scalp here and there from my shower last night and the uneven coconut oil shine, a slightly warm almost sweat-stained back and a dewy oily face, it felt like a true authentic Sunday from back home. Sans my dad’s car, and honestly it’s so much better this way. Except this kind of a Sunday doesn’t exist back home anymore either. It’s way too hot there for my body and I was sweating profusely the entire time I was there last month. My body seems to be stuck in the tropics from a few years ago, everything and everyone else has moved on including my mind.
I guess this is part of being an NRI?

This was a good weekend for me. Puneeth and I were chilling on our rooftop Saturday evening and I told him that. “You know you still got some time to ruin it.”
You don’t know my potential, Puneeth.
I do, actually.
Okay yeah you’re right, you do.

Everyone who indulges in as much bs as I do needs a friend like him to call us out.

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* I don’t even read similar writeups anymore, it’s almost too much saccharine for me to take, too rosy a picture to paint, and I’m constantly suspicious of all the skipped detail.

Back in ATL – Losing a skillet

I bought my cast-iron skillet back in November last year. I brought it home to my first kitchen-for-me, all mine, only to get lost in transit when I moved to Atlanta. A lot of thought had gone into picking it – it was a pre-seasoned Lodge 12” skillet with rivets. I read brand reviews by chefs I follow to blogs from Google search. I made a list of all the flat bottomed pans I own and their diameters to decide what would make most sense to add to my cookware. I read articles about which size suited a kitchen where you cooked mostly for one but occasionally for more, based on how often you bake, fry, sear and roast. After weeks of research I placed an online order and picked it up on a weekday after work.

I’d been cooking for myself for a while and I have dabbled in cooking here and there before, but somehow I felt elevated to a bonafide homechef with my own skillet. I told my mom it was supposed to last long enough to get passed down generations. Of course she already knew that. I showed it off to my friend’s mom when she visited me, she loved cookware herself, and I showed her the picture of the Dutch oven I wanted to buy next. I truly was a proud skillet mom.

To further season the skillet I “cured” it for an hour in the oven (I remember reading bake the skillet in the oven and wondering – bake with what in it though?), and then ate bacon for breakfast everyday the first week. I jotted down Cast Iron: Wash. Dry. Oil on the whiteboard on my fridge as if I was worried I’d forget the few steps or mix up their order. For the first three months I would towel-dry my skillet after washing so I could oil it immediately after. I treated it like a baby and relished the three-step ritual. Later I started letting it air-dry.

The first time I prepared a baingan bharta in it I didn’t transfer it until a few hours later. There were broken orange wave-stains on the pan so I never let anything sit in it for long after that. Thoran always tasted better when I prepared it in the skillet in low-medium heat, and I didn’t have to add any oil. Pancakes, not one of my favorite things to eat, would turn a perfect brown in that pan. I slowly got the hang of how soon the iron would heat up and how long I had to keep the stove on.

Finally, back in April earlier this year, I wrapped it in brown packing paper, secured it with a thick rubber band and placed it in a Home Depot shipping box. Abhiram helped me load the boxes and we shipped it off at Fedex on a weekday afternoon to Atlanta. The box arrived here but I later found the skillet missing.

Now it’s gone, so today I fried my bacon in my once non-sticky pan (it’s 8”). I don’t own a 10” skillet or a 10” pan anymore. Life goes on, I guess. I still have a kitchen of my own, so maybe I’ll bring home another cast iron skillet soon.

Back in ATL – No-Shopping update II

This is turning out to be more interesting than I thought. First things first, I still haven’t bought any clothes and as the days go by I’m progressively more convinced I don’t need any more, and can absolutely go without shopping the rest of this year. (Today I took a never-before-worn corduroy blazer to work, ended up not wearing it cos it wasn’t cold enough).

But I did accessorize differently today. I usually wear gold jewelry or long earrings when I wear shirts to office, but today I wore an oxidized silver choker that I brought back to Atlanta in June. I realize this is of course partly cos I own new jewelry and love accessorizing, but partly because I have to mix and match if I’m going to reuse the pieces in my wardrobe.

Three people at work complimented my necklace today, and so I now have three new acquaintances in my office building (only one of them I had a long conversation with). I’m often told that I have good taste – not a humblebrag but a true brag 😛 – and that’s cos a lot of what I wear is chosen with care cos I enjoy it so, but the novelty of a compliment never wears off.

Apparently this one decision I made is a gift that keeps on giving!

Back in ATL – No-Shopping update

The other day I finally dropped off a bag of clothes (mine and Uma’s) at Goodwill. It was my first time at a thrift store and I was impressed by $6 t-shirts and $4 skirts, similar to ones I’ve paid anywhere from $15 up to $40 for. I scanned the hangers for around 10 minutes but soon fended off all desire to shop, and was out of there with my hands empty.

It’s been exactly a month since I returned from my India trip and since I decided to go no-shopping for clothes and accessories. It feels like a lot longer than 4 weeks due to the sheer volume of ads I’ve seen and scrolled past, exercising the “Nope, can’t do it, won’t do it”. To think all it took was me deciding to do it, who knew we held such freedom or power?

I still have at least 5-6 tops/dresses in my wardrobe I’ve never worn, and I look forward every day to when I would wear them, rather than about another item to add to my shopping list. And it feels so good, to shower that fondness on something I already own.

I don’t know if I’m necessarily saving any or enough creative energy from this decision to redirect to other hobbies, but I do realize how much more time and energy I could be saving if I went the having a clothing schedule route. But I enjoy dressing up according to my mood so that won’t be happening for now!

Women need taming, men need healing

Back in ATL – How Others Live

I was reading The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle the other day. There’s a part where the narrator talks to his wife over the phone while she’s at work. She’s yet to have breakfast so he tells her about the sandwich he prepared for himself. The wife replies “Hmm”, he says there was no jealousy in her response.

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I can’t remember where but I once read that before social media, books used to be the only source to see how others lived. I disagree. What about walking into your friend or neighbor’s house and seeing how they live, their video games and magazine subscriptions? Seeing how your coworkers dress and eat and drink at work? What about simply asking them? The problem books solve for us, I think, is seeing how others think, the voice in their heads.

I too have shared things I’ve wanted to show off, like a meal I cooked myself, and been disheartened by the lack of jealousy in people’s responses. I’ve never articulated it the way Murakami did it nor heard someone say they’ve felt that same emotion, so seeing it on paper felt so good that I paused, looked up and grinned for a bit. It happens a lot with the writers I like. Shame, jealousy, longing and curiosity – I’ve only discussed these with a few of my female friends to the extent that I have seen them represented in books.

I remember writing my first few blogposts and never wondering if someone might relate, I didn’t expect anyone to. Probably because I felt like my life was so different from most people’s, so surely my thoughts must also differ? When I had my first heartbreak and Miriam said to me, Everyone feels this way Paru, you’ll get over it with time, I shot back Don’t say that, that’s not true! How the hell was that supposed to console me anyway? I also didn’t believe that it could hurt everyone or even a lot of people as much as it hurt me, this pain simply couldn’t be universal. I’m older now so I now know there was some truth in what both of us believed.

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I’m glad that social media is changing things and is filled with folks oversharing random and sometimes their most intimate thoughts and emotions, looking to find others to relate with. I hope we live through the phase of validation-hungry, influencer-title seeking users, and that the wholesome habits live on.
I, like other humans, want to see how others live and the most crucial part of it is surely how they feel.