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I never knew the true meaning of the word “ALLEGIANCE” until a couple of days ago when the depth of the term hit me to my inner core.

It was a very uncharacteristic Floridian winter day. Cold, crisp, drizzly it felt more like another drowsy and wet day in Seattle and with 26th January—India’s Republic day, just a day away, I felt the day had unfolded in irony.

My alarm faithfully woke me up at 7:00 and I immediately rushed to get myself a cup of tea. Ahhh! You can take a Darjeelingey out of Darj but the Darjeeling will never quite get out of you will it? I don’t know about the rest of you, but my love affair with starbucks abruptly ended on a feverous note when I fell victim to a bout of viral fever. Ever since, I have returned to my roots, gone back to good ole tea and am a confirmed tea convert…if ever there was such a thing!!

So, as I sat sipping tea and savoring every bite of the bread my local grocery store had vouched for, I glanced at the notification. “Report promptly at 1:00 p.m. Formal attire is required,” were the exact words that were typed by some clerk I will probably never cross paths with. Indeed, it was meant to be a special day for me and for a thousand other hopeful souls who had in all likelihood undergone a kaleidoscope of events to witness the countenance of this day.

Ensuring that I comply with the description of a “formal attire”, I took pains to at least look presentable. So at the stroke of mid-day, I got into my car, directions in hand and off I was to attend an event that could or has already altered the course of my life in more ways than one.

As I entered the enormous hall of the local convention center, a sea of people representing every nation in the world were there with the same purpose as mine. Black, brown, yellow…..you name it and you could trace a smile in each face. For a moment I felt like I had died and reached the gates of heaven. Indeed, it was an exciting day or so it was made to sound and feel like.

True to its word, the ceremony started at the appointed hour. It was simple and modest but undoubtedly meant to impress and reiterate the decision you had made for yourself. Video clips of local heroes---men and women who had given their life for the country, men and women who had discovered a fortune in the American dream and men and women who had made history for their country were flashed across the screen to further endorse the idea. A message from the President and speeches from the top brass in local and state government, adorned the ceremony to give it the official touché. Up to this point I was taking everything in stride. Then, came the defining moment...... Like sheep that had been herded, the hundreds that were in the room including me, were asked to stand and take the Oath of Allegiance. As we rose to the moment of our transformation, with our right hand on our hearts and the left held steadfastly at par with the crown, we pledged our lives and allegiance to our new (adopted) homeland. We even vowed to take up arms for our new motherland and swore we would leave the past behind and embrace the future like it was our past or like we had no past.

An extreme sense of emptiness suddenly gripped me. I felt betrayed by my country and at the same time, I felt like I was in a way the betrayer too. My country had failed me and hence I was forced to take this step but perhaps in a way I too had failed my motherland by taking this step. I knew I wasn’t supposed to feel what I was feeling and yet as I glanced across the room, I saw tears in the eyes of the other pledgers too. I don’t know if theirs were tears of joy or sorrow, but mine sure were eclipsed by a range of emotions. As I hugged the stranger beside me and congratulated him, I joined the crowd in singing “The Star Spangled Banner” all the while knowing in my heart, “Bandey Mahataram”, for whatever it means or stands for, will forever remain dear within the depths of my soul.

   [ posted by Janice Mukhia @ 10:43 AM ] | Viewed: 1547 times [ Feedback]

The one thing I remember ever since I was a child was my dissimilarity to any children my age. Yes, I was young and impressionable and my mother called me �submissive� but I always thought I was different.

I played with my sisters and helped build their doll houses. Loved the frills and laces on my cousin�s 5th birthday dress and secretly desired the pink shoes she�d worn that day. Oh and my mother�s dressing table was a source of perpetual wonder. The lipstick, the mascara, eye-shadows, the silver plated mirror�..each of them intrigued me much more than the chocolate at the Lindt store. I would strut around my sister�s room with her red tote slung around my shoulder and envision myself as sleek as the Barbie that was displayed at Toys R Us. Occasionally, my mother would find me smeared with color all over my face. �Oh honey, this is not for you� she would say in extreme distress and express her scorn over a ruined $25 Lanc�me lipstick. Yet I was so drawn to these little �girlie� things that they were never quite out of my sight much less my mind.

School was a riot with the class bully always picking on me. As a result, I hung around mostly the less attractive girls who merely sulked at their thick glasses and envied Melissa who always had a candy or two from the boy sitting next to her. To add insult to injury, I wasn�t particularly academically inclined but neither was I detained for sub-standard performance. Oh yes I loved my singing and art classes and thought I�d someday visit if not the Musee du Louvre at least an art exhibit of aspiring artists from a neighboring city. I was elated when I landed the part, as one of Cinderella�s ugly sisters in the annual school play, even though Shirley with her golden curls would have suited the part much more than me.

As I grew older, I found myself browsing through piles of Vogue, Elle, Marie Claire�they became my bible of sorts. I would spend hours at the neighborhood bookstore admiring the lovely women who undoubtedly had the �haute couture� physique and looks to boot. �Someday�, I thought, I would buy me that velvet dress and get me those Minnelli shoes. Oh how the boys would swoon at me!!!

By the time I graduated from high school, there was not a feather of doubt in my mind I would major in fashion design. My father the academician could scarcely talk to me in a civilized manner. He thought it was an utter waste of time to invest 4 years to ultimately become a tailor. My mother was at the verge of tears but tried to find solace in the fame of Jean Paul Gaultier and Pierre Cardin. And my brother, we never quite connected�..not with his obsession for those head banging, marijuana maniacs who brutalized music and still called themselves musicians.

When I was 21, I finally moved away from my family. With the money I�d earned working 25 hours at Wal-mart I headed to San Francisco where I met Guy. He was in one word�.Adorable. The friend that I�d never had. He understood me like my own family had never had or tried to. He was so warm, so giving, soooo��.everything that I couldn�t quite explain and express. I wanted to tell the world about him.

My only hesitation---------I was born Tom D. Sherlock, Jr.

   [ posted by Janice Mukhia @ 02:03 PM ] | Viewed: 1946 times [ Feedback]

MY STORY


So here I was��my first footsteps in the land of the free. A place I�d heard, similar in proportion to the biblical land, flowing with milk and honey�only there was no milk, much less the honey.

It was a particularly hot summer day with the sun beating down ever so hard on the bright yellow taxis. Cars honking everywhere, eager to free themselves from a traffic jam. People pushing their way to meet and greet relatives who had perhaps, come under more fortunate circumstances than me. Needless to say I was a little disoriented but I would not allow myself to be disappointed. After all, I was finally here, which made the 3 something crores that my father had borrowed from neighbors, relatives and friends, �That� much more worth the effort.

I managed to cram my suitcase into the two-door, hatchback 1987 Pontiac Grand AM of a friend. The car was a bare minimum�manual, no air conditioning and an audio that reminded me of a hometown radio station of yester-years. Despite the shoddy surroundings, my friend looked upbeat. He had gotten himself a slight pot belly, wore a big golden ring studded with some cheap look alike amber and his shirt flashed a brand name that I wasn�t aware of at the time. But his silver hair showed signs of a tough life that 8 years in the U.S had exposed him to. Perhaps, I was reading too much into it or perhaps I was too �New� to know the nuances of this so called American life.

One week into my stay and I had overstayed my hospitality. �So what are your plans�, spat out my friend over a can of shared coke and a fan that circulated hot air all around. I got the hint�.Do you know if anyone is hiring, is all I could manage to reply.

I met the world over the next 4-5 days. Pedro the taco shop owner said he had a full staff (of illegals) already. Dmitri was irritated by my inability to understand his accent. The Afro thought I was yet another Chinese out to get his slice of bread and butter, and the white guy gave me the looks he�d call the INS, if I took one step closer. So I was left to choose between Chang from the Chinese carry out across town or Mr. Patel from the shop round the corner. I didn�t like either of them, but my weekly rent was due in another week. Not knowing the �intricacies� of having to commute without a car, I refused to be subjected to another Indian in the land of the free. So I chose Chang over Patel, simply because I wanted a change of scene.

My next few months was a scene out of Dante�s Inferno. I didn�t see the big sign that proclaimed the Nutcracker was playing in town; neither did I see crowds of men and women rushing to watch Cats or Cirque du Soliel. All I was focused on, was perfecting my skills to accurately take an order and the much more daunting task of being the cook, the cleaner, delivery guy all wrapped into one. My humor came in the form of Chang�s attempts to speak english (if that was still English) and success was defined by my ability to make a perfect fortune cookie, with some ambiguous message which squared the meal with finesse. The $4.50 an hour didn�t amount to much, but when you have to work round the clock 9-12, 24/27 not knowing when days turned to nights and weeks to months, what good could a few cents up or down do. All it did was fill the pockets of the creditors back home who�d come knocking on my father�s door before the crack of dawn.

�Man�, as they say adapts to his surroundings and I for sure had come to accept my life as my karma from a past life I had absolutely no recollections of. This was my shot at the American dream and boy was I determined to keep my engines running.

It was 4th of July and Chang had reluctantly closed his shop early (10:00 p.m. as opposed to midnight). So there I was in front of the television listening to the President of the free world, talking about opportunities, freedom and liberty�how America was the champion of human rights, a savior to the down-trodden, all the while slamming the door shut to the possibility of extending that hope over to people like me. Illegal Immigration is what America wanted to cleanse itself of.

Suddenly, the people with the big mansions felt threatened by someone like me, who shared a bathroom with 5 other people. Suddenly, we were a threat to those hunks making obnoxious 6-7 figure salaries and those meek hearted women who�d run to the doc if she sneezed more than once in 2 hours�.whilst I suffered through pneumonia awaiting God�s grace. Suddenly, the America that professed equality for all was in some kind of war with me, who was merely trying to make ends meet��sweating it out to make an earnest buck, working hard, MUCH harder than most people out there. Living a crime free life, and thinking THE WORLD about this �Great Country� which I had dreamt and raved about back in my little hometown.

That night I fell asleep with a broken spirit. I thought about Dr. Martin Luther King and how he�d dreamt about an America where everyone was equal. Yet here I was, 40 something years later�..still unequal in every sense of the word.

I did not dream a thing that night. Perhaps, I wasn�t entitled to one.

   [ posted by Janice Mukhia @ 12:44 PM ] | Viewed: 1997 times [ Feedback]

In a world that is constantly changing, a world where permanence is almost assuming an alien-like figure, women are emerging as a body with a definite entity. It truly is the dawn of a new era -- an era whereby a woman can assert her position amidst a world that is tilted towards chauvinism.

Today we are living in an age where the likes or dislikes of a woman can be influential enough to make or break the career of people as renowned as Pierre Cardin, Christian Dior, Calvin Klein---it is an endless list. This is an affirmation that beauty and the idea to "look good" are gaining a fast momentum. Women are increasingly awakening to a world that prioritizes beauty. Of course, it is something that has surfaced quite recently. Nevertheless, we cannot ignore that beauty, was that aspect of a woman's consciousness which was aflame from times immortal. It occupied a dominant position in many celebrated poems and was the theme of many songs sung in ancient times, and till date etches the corner of our memory.

Let's face it - the beauty of a woman captivated even the hearts of the bravest kings who reeked in valor. If this isn't convincing enough, let's take a journey down the ages till we encounter Homer's epic hero, Odysseus - who for the love of Penelope, battled his way through a sea of suitors. The Trojan War was valiantly fought merely due to a woman, whose beauty could drive anyone to the point of distraction. So, beauty is a concept that has been handed down through generations by our ancestors and it sure isn't a crime to look beautiful. It is infact lawful for every woman to generate the same instinct which was innate in Eve perhaps!

Today, women no longer dress up to look good to fan a man's ego. That's
pass�--the done thing is to look good for oneself. And no, not with
the idea of making the green shades fall, but just because looking good
makes you feel good and that's a big must these days, especially in a woman's life.

It is a great source of pride for a woman of the 20th century to witness her beauty as something that is internationally acclaimed and much sought after. This is exactly the reason why so many beauty pageants are mushrooming around the globe. Countries which would never have imagined to permit their women to exhibit what reiterates the statement "The Fairer Sex" are now more than content to watch them walk away with prestigious titles like Miss Universe and Miss World -- You women out there, isn't this pride contagious?

Then to, the other side of the coin focuses on a new arrival of thought.
It brings to light, what we may in layman�s language "The inner beauty of a woman". Perhaps the intermingling of these two factors i.e., the outward and the inner beauty would be the perfect ingredients contributing to the genesis of a monumental being -- the ideal woman. A being whose existence is relegated only to utopia. An enviable piece of art chiseled and given the breath of life by an artist far more superior to Michael Angelo or Leonardo DaVinci. It truly makes me wonder to think of a man who wouldn't sweat to be the owner of a such prized possession.

Consider the undeniable beauty of those women who have left a deep imprint in our memories. Women who are dead to the world, but have left behind the legacy of their unquenching thirst to serve mankind. The beauty of women like Mother Teresa, Joan of Arc, Indira Ghandhi are hard to gloss over. Their fame will forever light up the annals of accomplished women.

Whatever be the case, with the passage of time, generations will pass away and each new generation will introduce a metamorphosis, a shift in the idea of beauty. In contrast to this transience, the age old saying "beauty lies in the eyes of the beholder" will remain as firm as "Venus"--the goddess of beauty.

   [ posted by Janice Mukhia @ 10:54 AM ] | Viewed: 1240 times [ Feedback]

Shattered Glass--a movie written and directed by Billy Ray, portrays the life of a journalist who is young, ambitious and eager to succeed at all costs. It is the story of Stephen Glass, a reporter for the prestigious, New Republic Magazine--A magazine, which boasts itself as the only magazine for Air Force One.

At one level, the movie attempts to unravel a profession, which is challenging, competitive and is constantly coaxing its professionals to strive for higher excellence. On the other hand it uncovers a deeper aspect of the profession itself. An aspect that is quintessential to the integrity of journalism and journalists around the globe.

Watching this movie, made me realize 2 key aspects of being a journalist. One being Accuracy and the importance of double checking facts, figures and sources. The other being, the importance of Ethics in journalism.

At the out start of the movie it is very easy to identify with the protagonist who fabricated 27 of the 41 articles he wrote for the New Republic magazine during the late 1990s. Here is a man, whose character reeks with charm and an innocence that is almost irresistible�irresistible not only for the audience but also to his colleagues at the New Republic. We find that Stephen provides enthusiasm and zest to his peers. He somehow, always seems working on the most captivating and sensational stories to a point where his editors look forward to hearing what he is working on. He is what every young, aspiring journalist would ever hope to be and what every educational institution would like to behold as a beacon of their pride.

Then too, as the movie progresses there is a subtle yet very definite transition in the tone of the movie. It shifts from the audience initially totally identifying with Stephen Glass to identifying with Chuck Lane, the new editor at the New Republic. It begins to unravel the nuances in Stephen�s personality. His downfall comes with his article named Hack Heaven, which attracts the attention of forbes.com, an online editorial. It is then that the lies under which he had basked in and violated the trust of his coworkers are fully unmasked. The audience is then exposed to a person who is an obsessive, compulsive liar. One who would go to great lengths, just to be admired by his peers. An individual who is immature and more importantly, someone who has a staggeringly low understanding about the impact his lies could have, not only to his career as a journalist but to the institution itself. This is clearly depicted in the movie when he continues to lie and finds ways to offset them. In fact, the first words that normally come out of his mouth whenever questioned is: �Sorry� or �I haven�t done anything wrong�. Knowing he has secured the confidence of his peers, he strives to garner their attention and sympathy when Chuck Lane the new editor, simply wants to check the facts.
Even though the movie does not delve very deep into the question of �Why� he did what he did, we do question the notion of Institutional Ethics and the impact it could have on a person. We find Stephen crushed between two institutions that had an equally commanding effect on his life and its decisions�His family and �the New Republic�

We find that even though the protagonist�s forte lay in fictional writing, there was a hint that his family had high expectations from and of him, to succeed at all costs. Thus, trapping him into a profession where he neither had the interest nor the skill to succeed.
On the other hand, we have the New Republic itself. A magazine flooded with new and hopeful young professionals, who were forced to work hard and settle for low salaries. Nevertheless, a group of people who wanted to succeed at all costs. Therefore, we cannot help but assume that these two factors may have prompted Glass to resort to unethical behavior.

Then too, the movie does teach its audience that journalism is not about fiction, it is rather, about reporting facts and backing it with sufficient evidence. It also brings to the forefront, issues like professional codes of conduct. In that, while an apology may be sufficient to forge ahead in personal relationships, in a professional world an apology is a very inadequate term. It fails to correct and repair the damage it could have on the reputation of an organization and on the institution that it rests itself on. The movie successfully, conveys to its audience the incredible responsibility that rests on the shoulder of each journalist. Responsibility to the organization and also to its readers. It raises important questions about putting premiums on entertaining reporting and producing stories for an audience that is constantly on the lookout for edgier stories.
Just as Stephen Glass put it in his speech: �Journalism is the art of capturing behavior�, he probably was successful in capturing the lifeline of the newsroom, but his excessive effort to do the same, may have contributed to the shattering of his career as a journalist.

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   [ posted by Janice Mukhia @ 10:52 AM ] | Viewed: 1489 times [ Feedback]