Garam Tea Chat

By Padma Shandas 

I am an Indian-American. The advantage of a hyphenated identity is that you can see two sides of an issue, by changing your perspective rather easily. You get used to “seeing double” in everything, be it a question of dating or marriage, education or job, or even the most modern phenomenon of outsourcing babies. 

What is “outsourcing?” What we call “outsourcing” is the common practice of sending various types of skilled labor outside the U.S. for the sake of more economical returns. The precursor of outsourcing was the infamous “Year 2000 bug”, also known as the Y2K problem, which began to scare us all during the late 1990s.  

There appeared to be too few qualified engineers and technology workers in this country to replace the 2-digit year designation with 4 digits in our computers. On the surface, it appeared to be a simple correction, but to change the internal programming of millions of computers before the beginning of the millennium was indeed daunting.  So, we brought qualified workers into the U.S. to fix the bug. In the late 1990s, an influx of engineers and programmers from across the globe, especially from India, pushed open our H1-visa gates.  

When these temporary workers returned home on finishing their assignment, they took other similar jobs with them, thus creating a pool of “cheap” workforce abroad.   On the other side of the globe, they would turn their work schedule upside down. They worked on a sort of permanent night shift, to accommodate our working hours. Eventually, more and more companies discovered this convenient set-up, because there was an enthusiastic workforce in India, willing to redesign their work-life for better pay. Large campuses of “call-centers” were invented in the City of Bangalore and others, where young men and women would go to work after dinner, just in time for our workday to start.  

Those workers acquired American accent, changed their long, traditional names to brief nicknames, such as “Jack”, “Joe” and “Deb.” They learned how to say American phrases: “Have a nice day”, “Take it easy”, “So nice to talk to you”, and “Happy July Fourth.”    

Today there are thousands of men and women in India who stay up all night answering our technical questions, composing our medical transcripts, designing our grocery inventory software, compiling our bank records, testing manufactured goods, and anything else that can be accomplished from a remote site. We have a whole world out there to support us, to give us what we need in silver platters.  

These outsourced workers in India seem happy too. They get better pay, more holidays, even more prestige. I heard parents speak happily about their college graduate children working for American companies as distant programmers and transcribers. A very popular college degree called MCA has emerged, which is a graduate degree in computer applications. Every young man and woman aspires to be an MCA.  

If I were a young Indian graduate living there, I would work through the nights to get that extra salary. But what about my married / family life? What if my husband or neighbor disagrees with the idea of a woman taking on night shift? I may also think, “how does it benefit India if I put all my energy into streamlining American grocery business?”   

From my American perspective, outsourcing is the best idea since the credit card. If I get the support I need, I don’t care if it comes from India or Indonesia. The main worry is about my privacy. Who protects that?  Besides, if I were a qualified-job-seeker, would I have to move to India for a job?

But, do you know you can even get your own babies outsourced to India? Not through adoption, but, real, American, biological baby of your own with your spouse. A young woman in India would carry the baby to full term and deliver it for a fraction of what it would cost you here. Would you go for the baby-outsourcing? 

In a recent Oprah Show, I saw that it really happens today. This clinic in North-western India takes care of the surrogate mother service very well, apparently. Young Indian women come here ready to get pregnant with foreign fetuses for a reward of about $5000, which is a fortune for them. The mother stays at the clinic until the birth of the baby, gives away the baby to the parents, and returns home, richer than her neighbors.  

An Indian woman faces the stigma of having babies for money. And yet, for her, the service may be more than the monetary reward; it is also about offering a life-changing experience to another human being.  

In America, one may think: what if I can’t have babies? Or if I am too busy to go through the ten months of pregnancy and birth? Or the whole process is too difficult for me?  What if I can as well give the job to somebody else?  What’s wrong with that? After all, I am paying her.  

Is this helping a poor woman earn extra income? Or is it exploitation by American capitalist attitude? Do we have the right to ask a woman in dire situation to suffer for us? What happens if something goes wrong? I am baffled. 

What do you think? Please send us your comments.    

Padma Shandas is the author of Spices in the Melting Pot: Life Stories of Exceptional South Asian Immigrant Women.   

By Padma Shandas 

These are turbulent times, no doubt – wars; violence; protests; intolerance; inflation; climate change. We are swamped with problems, and burdened by doubts, perplexity, skepticism, even despair.

Where do I find hope? Then I learned of the Seeds of Compassion Conference in Seattle, the five-day gathering held this April, where His Holiness the 14^th Dalai Lama was a participant. I hoped for hope.

And there is hope.

At the Seattle conference, which I watched over live Webcast, the panelists – educators, scientists, social workers, researchers – entered in a series of direct dialogues with each other and the Dalai Lama. They discussed many issues and experiences relating hope with compassion, and delight with compassion. Researchers talked about their observations of babies with caregivers, how the babies come to the world ready to learn, curious, and how they thrive in a positive, learning environment. How a caring environment fosters compassion in children.

The Dalai Lama praised the efforts of scientists, saying how scientific analysis and critical thinking are even more important than ancient doctrines. He said compassion creates calm mind. At one point he explained, with his disarming smile, that even from a selfish point-of-view, compassion is good. 

The discussion on compassion reminded me of an old story I learned at school in which a victorious king lamented his victory in a war. This king lived in India. His name is Ashoka.

Emperor Ashoka of the Maurya Kingdom ruled from 268-232 BC.

The legend goes like this: When Ashoka returned home jubilant, one hundred thousand of his enemy dead, fifty thousand captured, many more lost to starvation, from the Kalinga War, his daughter, Sanghamitra, confronted him.

“Why, oh, why, Father? So many people are killed, so many children orphaned…” she asked.

“But this is all for you, my daughter! Look at the gold and jewelry I brought,” he gloated.

“Think of our might! Think how great our empire is. Is there anything we can’t do?”

“Well… Father. There is one thing that you can’t do!”

“What? What in the world could that be?”

“Bring one of those men you killed back to life!” Sanghamitra said.

Ashoka’s throat became dry. He stared speechless. He had never thought about war that way.

“No… I’m sorry, but I can’t, my dear daughter,” he said, collapsing into his throne.

It was a life-changing moment for the Emperor. The more he thought about it, the more he realized the emptiness of war. He vowed never to fight another war, and became a Buddhist. The rest of his life he used to spread the nonviolent, compassionate ways of the Buddha. Ashoka and his children, Sanghamitra and brother Mahendra, undertook the task of spreading the word of Buddhism, thus beginning a mission that would change the world forever.

Compassion lets you feel the suffering of another. It helps you ease another’s pain.

Visit http://www.seedsofcompassion.net/ to listen to the archived discussion.

Padma Shandas is the author of Spices in the Melting Pot—Life Stories of Exceptional South Asian Immigrant Women.

By Padma Shandas

They don’t travel the dozens or hundreds of miles for any material gain; they may never imagine their pictures would travel around the world and appear on television, Internet sites, and newspapers; they don’t care if their gathering would be recorded in the Guinness Book of World Records.

But they come – year after year. They perform their annual ritual. What each of the women asks for herself is not known; but they dedicate the day for the memory of an extra-ordinary woman. Perhaps they pray for strength; may be they hope for self-affirmation; after all, the day transforms their daily duty into a sacred ritual; this day, they cook for a Goddess.

It is undoubtedly the most amazing spectacle one can witness; the sheer presence of about 2.5 million women who gather in the city streets of Thiruvanantha Puram, formerly known as Trivandrum, the capital of Kerala, is nothing short of breathtaking. To the casual eye, it may appear as though they are getting ready for a mass picnic. Or, is it some sort of demonstration of female power? But soon, the reality strikes: it is the largest gathering of women who come in pursuit of spiritual fulfillment at a Goddess temple.

Women congregate in the city from the neighborhoods as well as far away places, even foreign countries; they carry mud pots and other cooking paraphernalia with them. As far as the eyes can reach, one sees only women, except for a sprinkling of men, who are either the police or photographers.

The event, known as Attukal Pongala, happens once a year in February or March. The preparations begin days ahead. People talk excitedly about the upcoming gathering. City police gets ready for any eventuality, medical teams arrive, and bus services shape up for running all-women free shuttles from across town and neighboring villages. Private taxis and auto-rickshaws do their share to manage the inflow. Women-only trains run to the city, jammed with the festival-goers.

City streets divert traffic for the day and offer maximum space for the women. Local citizens open their homes, their kitchens, and bathrooms for the out-of-towners. Restaurants offer free lunches.

The women’s needs are simple: a few bricks to create a stove, a bundle of dry kindling, a cooking pot, a ladle, rice, water, ghee, and jaggery (brown molasses). Some use a few cashew nuts and a handful of grated coconut for garnishing. They sit by the side of the roads, as close to the Goddess temple as possible, or in empty lots, or wherever they can find space, and set up the stoves. The ritual cooking begins at the precise time indicated by the temple priest, who brings a sacred flame to light the stoves. The ritual is so well organized that within minutes, the flames catch on and the rice begins to cook. Smoke rises up, engulfing the city.

The millions of pots sizzle with the sweet pongal, or rice pudding, which they offer to the Goddess.

Like all rituals in India, there is a legend behind the event. It commemorates the ordeal of a poor woman named Kannagi, whose burning anger caused the destruction of the city of Madurai.

The story is mesmerizing: Kannagi was a patient, loving, and devoted wife. Once, overcome by poverty, she sends her husband, Kovalan, to pawn one of her gold anklets at the market. But mistaking the jewelry to be the stolen anklet of the queen, he is arrested and put to death without a trial.

Kannagi, angered by the injustice, throws her other anklet to smithereens, exposing the precious gems inside, and proves the authorities wrong. The queen’s anklet has pearls in them. She curses the city and its rulers to burn in a fire. As the fire roars through Madurai, Kannagi, still seething, goes away to neighboring Thiruvanantha Puram. The women of Thiruvanantha Puram pacify her with pots of sweet pongal, and worship her as their Goddess.

Each year, the temple festival attracts more and more women to the spot. As the largest gathering of women, Attukal Pongala has earned mention in the Guinness Book of World Records.

Many women join outside their own homes, away from the crowd; and yet, follow the exact same ritual at the precise time. Participating in this year’s event, I joined my sisters-in-law, who cooked the pongal in their front yards.

“Are the women of India powerful in the society?” asked a white American friend, when I described the festival to her, after my return to the U.S.

Did she mean if they felt powerful doing the ritual? Or if the women are generally powerful?

How would I describe my own experience? The ritual was certainly exciting; from the beginning to the end. It was also empowering to see the smoke and steam from two-and-a-half million stoves mingle and rise to the sky, like a community’s prayer. But it was the quietness of mind that I remember the most – a peaceful feeling of harmony; a genuine joy of togetherness.

“The ritual itself was empowering,” I said. “For the women… Well, they are powerful inside the homes, generally speaking.”

Then I thought to myself: what if the gathering had been a demonstration of power? A protest? If so, would it be supported or celebrated as much?

Suddenly, an uneasiness began to fill inside me. For all its glory and camaraderie, the Pongala festival is a very humble, personal achievement for the woman. Her role in it is still traditional; her duty, a quiet service. 

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Padma Shandas is the author of Spices in the Melting Pot: Life Stories of Exceptional South Asian Immigrant Women.